I Watched With Teeth In My Sockets

Under Freudian standard, everyone is fucked in the head one way or another.

The difference is how fucked are you inside?

I'm guilty of a conscious mixed of voyeur and sadism.

Does that meant that I enjoyed watching people changing clothes, or that I grabbed every opportunity to sneak a peek at people's panties or beat up my girlfriend for sexual pleasure?

No.

That I would have to disagree with Freud that every emotion deviates and character breakdown have to be sexual fueled.

My conscious mixed of voyeur and sadism have to do with the everyday observation of the common people around me.

Everyone observe people too. Yeah, that's correct.

But I feel the wrong emotions at the wrong circumstances. That's where I'm guilty.

Working in hospital, there are lots of chances to see tired family members crying along the corridors.

Every time when I see them, I feel something else inside. My inside didn't soften, instead it is something curiously intense. It'll make me grateful and guilty at the same time.

It is wrong and I can't help it.

We went drinking on friday night, at this uncle uncle pub at Tanjong Pagar. It was the Chinese pub setting; with crowding round tables, cards playing, several hanging televisions for karaoke, a large pool table in the background and busy hostesses around to serve the customers. The crowd was made up of men in their forties and late thirties, which made us felt like sixteen year olds.

The young hostesses' job scope was to engage the customers, playing cards with them or chatting with them at expense of an order of a drink. The customers were allowed to interact with them in intimate distance, and occasionally touch them with a hug or their hands by the ladies' hip/shoulder. It was all sensual, nothing sexual.

Watching them hop around tables to interact closely with the middle aged uncles, Marx raised, 'How do they do that?'

Me: 'It's a job. It's all for the money. That's how you straighten your thoughts. It's a job that requires you to have fun with dirty old men. That's that.'

We looked at each other and emptied our drinks in silence.

I have a weak bladder and that condition will always remind me whenever I'm having fun. I got to the toilet and it was locked. While waiting outside, an hostess hurried over to the sink outside the toilet. She was plump and unpleasantly looking. She looked at herself in the mirror and tried to wipe the tears along her mascara. She was crying by the dirty sink by the red piece of cracked wall, the dark hued lightscape and her mascara smearing.

She tried to calm herself down but uncontrollably she broke into more tears. Her tired shoulder shrugged as she couldn't stop bawling in desperate silent. She noticed that I was looking at her. She whispered a sorry, she tried to collect herself together but the tears just couldn't stop brimming out from her reddish face.

To avoid further embarrassment, she walked off.

That night, I couldn't stop thinking of the image of the hostess weeping by the sink in the red background of dim lightscape and smeared mascara.

That imagery was so soulfully beautiful and curiously captivating.

I'm such a jerk.