Boy

Had an extended conversation with an old cab driver who kept calling me “boy.”

“What school do you attend boy?”

“The School of Rock uncle.”

“Is that a new school?”

“No, old school.”

He still thought I was a boy when I got off the cab. “4 dollars boy,” he said. He still can’t beat the 7-11 auntie who called me “boy” for a year before she discovered that I’m not a boy. I think it says more about older folks being blind to the nuances of gender than it says about my appearance.

Also, if you think I’m that quick-witted with the school of rock schtick, you are wrong. It’s just that I’ve played back this scenario in my head a million times thinking of all the witty things I could say if it actually happened, and well, IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. My daydreams are all about banal scenarios with me being particularly witty to no one in particular. I have never thought about, for example, negotiating with Donald Trump.

“Donald, a million dollars and you can take all my thick, Asian hair for your one-of-a-kind toupee.”

See, I’m shit at that even when dreaming.

I have a standing dare with Bridget that if Irene Ang ever walks into the store, I’d yell “DA BAI SHA” and blabber about how much Xiao Fei Yu was my favourite show when I was… 5. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you were not sentient 80’s Singapore.

ANYWAY. I just wanted to remind you that providence throws little gifts at us all the time, but you’ll only grab those gifts if you want them badly enough.

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