Saturday Morning

I don't have much of a social life. It's a beautiful Saturday morning, where the clouds in the sky are fluffy enough to absorb most of the Sun's heat, allowing only the golden hues to shine through. Yet, here I am, alone in bed, listening to the flow of water filling up the toilet's flush tank and the sounds of unnecessary construction works nearby.

Get dressed, go out, stretch, and go about town in search of breakfast! If I were the kind of positively charged individual who would bother stretching my feet beyond the threshold of my cheap mattress, I would gladly do so and look forward to a productive day ahead where I'd also hear the voices of other people. As much as this bed is terrible for my back, I don't have anything else to laze on in this narrow student accommodation. There's a yoga mat under the table, somewhere.

What's a slothful lump of fat to do on a Saturday? Melt, in the heat of this tropical country. I said I would read Endo's The Girl I Left Behind, but I wonder if I could bring myself to reach the table it's lying on. Am I also someone who is left behind? I think so. If I read it, maybe it'd tell me something about the kind of woman, or girl, that men will undoubtedly kick off the boat. They say that if you throw someone or something into the sea, it'll be difficult to find them again.

Back Number is my number one go-to band recently. Can't the karaoke parlours here provide more than two of their songs? I'm grateful that they at least have two of their greatest hits, whereas they don't even bother with Spitz. Perhaps I should spend this day YouTubing Ayumi Hamasaki's songs in preparation for the next time I visit the karaoke parlour.

After a good six months or so since being with my Huawei Mate10, I still don't know whether I hate it, or love it. I've got no qualms about its overall performance, however, its lack of attention to the music and sound performance sector is a thorough disappointment. Such a huge phone, one that I can barley hold with one hand, one which I use as a stretching exercise for my thumbs in hopes that I can reach beyond an octave when playing the piano, its speakers, its lowly speakers, tiny and inadequate, sound like those RM10 ones they sell at the pasar malam. How now do I enjoy some quality time snuggling up with the lovely voices of my favourite vocalists? The sound quality makes my hair stand, in a bad way like that of a screech, where the longer I hear it, the higher my blood pressure rises. Having left my portable speakers at home, I suppose I should just listen to construction work instead of Back Number.

Why leave the portable speakers? Well, they're called portable speakers, but they're still bulky and weigh as much as my arm, probably. It's already been known that I make terrible decisions anyway.

So much complaints on a Saturday morning; tsk, tsk tsk! My eyes are starting to grow heavy again.