...as are my torso, shoulders, arms and head. The weather in Singapore is fuckin' schizo. And yes, I have a fan. I live however in a roughly 2 by 2.5m box. On the ground floor. And intelligently painted black.
It fits me nicely, and looks...well, used to look nice, but damned if it doesn't seem to turn the ambient temperature up five degrees on horrible nights like these.
It sounds classier in mandarin, this description of the weather:
"Zhe bu shi pu tong de re." - This is no ordinary heat.
Or with a little more zing, in beng:
"GAN PUA DJUA AH." - Err. Broken...intercourse...hot. A lot is lost in translation.
Yes, I still owe a telling of my National Day celebrations experience to you, three people and small yappy-type dog. But in this heat, I just want to curl up into a moist, sticky ball and whimper.
I should tell you what happened the other day, though.
I was T.H.I.S happy the other day when the air conditioning guys came to patch up that hunk of lovin' that loved no more at my window. Took the damned thing apart and scrubbed it to bits. Fan motor's a little shot, but we've fixed it so you can use it for a bit, he says.
And there was COLD AIR flowing into the room. I watched it. Touched it lovingly. Held my cheek against it and kissed it tenderly (the air conditioner, not the dude). After about half a year's inactivity, we could resume our nightly unions once more! Elated, I thanked the air conditioner dudes and tipped them a fair bit. Seventy dollars in all, it was.
The damned thing died again the same night, lah.
Sucks to be me, it does.
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