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Tuesday, June 27
Sexy the suicide monkey.
On the train today I observed a bunch of whom I presume were students from a special school. (A presumption solely based on physical appearance, and not any rogue behaviour on their part.)
And then my surge of sanctimonious pity gave way to an inexplicable wistfulness.
Must be nice to not feel the remote need to be normal. (And here I mean normal in the most relative terms.) Must be nice not to be burdened by the superficial necessities we've all created in life - like Nike dunks and Crumpler bags. It's satisfaction we crave, and I like to think they have it.
So, making my way (amidst the aesthetically-pleasing symmetry of palm trees that line Woodlands Ave 2) through the stream of students in their deliberately faded denims, every one armed with laptops and smiles that convey varying degrees of social consciousness - I can't help but wonder how long each of them spent in the bathroom this morning trying to be normal.