Little house of savages.

My neck is itching from rashes and my hands are covered with sandfly bites which I discovered - to my horror - leave scars. I am still suffering from facial outbreaks (Screw you camoucreme.) and I think I am having foot rot.

Basically my skin is falling apart.

Anyhow, I was telling my bunkmates about this quirky habit of mine and I realise there seem to be a sexual connotation to it. I love digging my ears. It is extremely therapeutic and satisfying. Not that you know your ears are now clean from waxes (The larger it is, the better it feels!) but I think it is the general comfort you recieve from doing it. The day is not complete without cleaning my ears. When I'm back in my bunk, the first thing I do is reach out for the cotton bud. When I'm back at home, waiting for the laptop to start, I will always have my prized four-for-two-dollars bought-from-pasar-malam eardigger on my hand. (I have all four eardiggers at all four corners of my house. My room, living room, toilet, mum's room. For easy access. Anytime.) It is like an addiction of some warped sort.

People crave for a smoke, a can of Coke, Double Turkey Bacon or getting laid while they are outfield. I crave for a eardigger. The sensation, I believe, is similar to scratching one's back. And when I finally put it into my ear, I swear it is almost orgasmic. Sometimes when I digged too hard, it bleeds. That's when I know I must stop. Of course that hardly ever happens. I can control thyself.

I love biting my pens, too. But let's not go into that.

So last Sunday, I met the scariest taxi driver ever. With my acute sense of punctuality, I knew I was late bound for book in. Dropping off at Woodlands MRT, I decided to cab down to camp at Yew Tee area, near Kranji. The extremely senile driver (Who was learning Conversational English via some Mandarin radio station, by the way.) drove me to Khatib.
After I told him he heard me wrong, he went completely berserk. He then sped through the roads, impressively spewing Hokkien expletives and scaring me to bits. I was clutching to the seat belt and calling my superior to tell him I'd be late because the driver went to the wrong place. ("NO NEED NO NEED GIMME FIVE MEE-NEET! NABEH-FEMALEGENITAL-DAD-MUM!") By then we were in the ulu-est of places in Kranji Loop where all the factories are. Johor was clearly visible. After two rounds, we finally got out to proper civilisation. And I found out if I hadn't dropped off at Woodlands, I could still make it in time. Normally a ride down to camp from Woodlands fetch up to only 5 bucks. It was almost 4 times more that night.

I only paid him 10. Excluding the emotional trauma, and such of.

Note to self: there is officially no public transport I can be happy with. Henceforth I shall travel to destination by foot.

[Earwax]: Shuggie Otis - Inspiration Information; Natalie Merchant - San Andreas Fault.