Scrambled eggs are made when you’re scrambling to flip your sunny side up and ended up bursting the yolk

Some days begin in a scramble, some days begin with scrambled eggs, and scrumptious bacon.

I started the day lugging my bags down to the bus station as shifty eyes looked, sneering and pointing.

“I expect to see his silly mug and his ridiculously large backpack right beside the entry for overpacking in a dictionary ”

was what they were wondering about whenever they stole a glance at me. They’ll then pretend to mind their own business whenever I glared back at them, expecting me to believe that they had been staring at the ground all along.

The buses didn’t help, neither did my idiocy for deciding to go to the airport during peak traffic hours. Lumbering suitcase in hand, towering backpack on tow, and laptop bag that kept sliding down my shoulder barely secured, shuttle bus drivers sniffed my presence and shook their heads, flailed their arms and wagged their torso simultaneously even before they open the hissy bus doors.

Then as I perked up upon hearing the familiar screeching of bus brakes, my phone rang,

“Hi, Mr. Lee, this is OCBC calling”

“I’m calling to confirm your new address, is there a 30 in front of Nanyang Link?”

“So there is a 30 in front of Nanyang Link?”

“Can you confirm that?”

“So are you a poly student or uni. student?”

“So is it at Nanyang Polytechnic?”

“Oh, so your school is NTU?”

“The NTU at Jurong West?”

“So it’s NTU not Nanyang Polytechnic?”

“Thank you very much, have a nice day, bye.”

The empty buses came by when I was on the phone, in plural because that’s what they always do when you don’t need them or when you can’t board them even though you’re fifteen minutes late and had been waiting for the past thirty minutes since it was impossible to lift a heavy suitcase while propping up a laptop bag which keeps sliding down your shoulder while reaching for your backpocket to get your ezlink card while holding the phone and straining your ears amidst the rumbling bus engines and its hissing doors.

Then a taxi came by,

“Ah-hah” I thought “Why hadn’t I thought of that?” as I flagged it and asked the driver to take me to Boonlay.

Thirty minutes, one wildride on a unfamiliar and very long traffic evading route that ended up splat into a mash of automobiles, and TEN FUCKING DOLLARS later, I ended up quite a distance away from Boonlay station and tugged my luggage pass hordes of indian laborers that reeks of coconut and macho, tanned musclemen who whispered to their even more tanned girlfriends,

“I bet you that dork is a foreigner, any man worth his testicles that went through National Service wouldn’t be lugging at his luggage, he’ll stare at them and will them to move.”

“Indeed dear, and I bet you that his stupid mug and oversized luggage would appear right next to the dictionary entry for overpacking.”

My mood was so foul then, I was convinced that everyone on the streets were conspiring to make things worse for me.

Some way to begin a day.

And when I got to the station, I found out that my friends were plotting to send me off, and we ate Popeye’s Fried Chicken with Biscuits together, and I even got a pink monkey plushy necktie thingy, and the horrible day became a lot less horrible.

The next morning, I woke up to scrumptious bacon and scrambled eggs for breakfast during my flight, and suddenly the world seems like a wonderful place as I peer out of the window and see the nightlights of Kiev sprawling across, forming a cobweb of yellowish tungsten hue, with Scarlett Johansson and Penelope Cruz providing hawt girl on girl action as Vicky Cristiana Barcelona played on the plane’s entertainment system.

Woody Allen is a fucking bastard, he probably gets a kick from directing hawt ladies to make out in front of me, and despite looking woodern and wrinkled, the fact that he probably banged Scarlett Johansson depresses me to no end.