Yesterday’s function at the raffles hotel ballroom was a celebration for the promotion of some armee boys organised by SAF. Participants are all gin nahs and ahsia kias.
Everything was easy breezy japaneasy except when I had a tumultuous time balancing martini glasses on my tray. Martini glasses have erm high centre of gravity and a small base, so you get the drift.
Those armee boys brought their gfs over and oh my all of them were exquisite beauties and were well-endowed. They had hour-glass bodies that ticked like a clock.
All the guys were brimming good health of taut figure and tanned rosy cheeks too. Oh my, I developed inferiority complex directly on the spot. I felt like burrowing a hole on the ground and stuff my head inside. I felt like the ugliest person in the ballroom.
Everyone was acute and discerning, they spoke perfect English and could understand words more than two syllabus. They are cream of the crop, or more specifically, elites. I was eavesdropping and most of them come from top colleges, father own two companies, house own three maids wtf.
Good-looking, filthy-rich, inflated with the conceit of education and had high status.
This is but the pecking order of society, sigh. Oh god how can I lament. Oh mother mary why are some people born more privileged. Oh tua pek gong why am I not born the Prince of England wtf.
There are mysterious currents that circulate at parties, sweeping inexorably together - or apart. Skilled socialites know how to ride them, while some like me gets stuck in the boring little eddies around the edge.
The camera flashes almost blinded me. *kaching* *kaching* wtf
The thought of armee dreads me too. I cant even carry 50 plates using one hand.
Okay, here’s an aged-old debate.
Will you rather menstruate until you reach menopause or go to armee for two years?
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