I tend to notice the trouble I have to go through just to explain where I live.

As someone who just turned legal last September, clubbing in Clarke Quay eventually became a biweekly routine. After a night of destroying my liver with alkey (alcohol), and wholeheartedly dancing from techno bangers to hip-hop hits, the last thing I want to get asked is, “How are you heading home?”

“I’m walking,” is my go-to response, bracing my drunk self for the predictable reaction.

“Wow! You so rich ah, you stay in condo is it?”

Goddamn it, not this again.

If I’m rich, I wouldn’t have to secretly take a sip of your gin and tonic or steal drinks from random strangers’ tables. But I’m at the lazy-drunk/sleepy time of 3 AM; I prefer to head home now than elaborate on the fact that I stay at an ‘ulu’ HDB area located nearby.

However, there are lucky nights when I am ‘rich’ enough to afford a cab home. Taxi uncles are such a blessing when it comes to navigation, until they start talking to me. I definitely don’t find it an issue, but please, not now. I reek of alcohol and I can barely walk straight, so what makes them think I can keep up a conversation?

“Uncle, Chin Swee Road.”

“Huh? That area still exist ah, I thought en-bloc already?”

Uh, I don’t know la. It hasn’t en-bloc yet so just drive me hooooommmeee.