When Adulting Hits You (Literally)
So I went out for a simple grocery trip today. First item? A humble 2.5 kg bottle of detergent. Solid start. Of course, I brought my trusty reusable bag because, you know, saving the planet one detergent bottle at a time. Naturally, I declined the plastic bag offer — because I’m responsible and dramatic like that.
Then, I strolled into NTUC like a grocery gladiator, ready to conquer dinner. I picked up 3 dragon fruits, a box of cherry tomatoes, and 5 bananas — because health is wealth and potassium is queen. All of it went into my recycle bag, which now weighed about 3 kg, give or take a fruit.
Now, because I’m right-handed and society says that’s how it should be, I slung that bag over my right shoulder like a casual warrior returning from battle. Except… just a few steps in, I felt it. The weight. The numbness. The sheer betrayal of my own shoulder. I had to stop and drop the bag like it was filled with emotional baggage instead of groceries.
Luckily, home was just around the corner — so the torture only lasted a mere half-hour (which, in grocery years, feels like a decade).
On the bright side, I picked up lunch from my fave Yong Tau Fu stall before heading home. Priorities: pain, but make it tasty.
After devouring lunch like I hadn’t been physically attacked by fruit and detergent, I headed to the shower. And that’s when I saw it. The mark. The bruise. The battlefield scar across my poor, naked shoulder — the exact spot that carried all my life choices (and groceries). It didn’t hurt yet, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, I will be muscle-sore and emotionally fragile.
But the real villain of the day? The ulcer on the side of my tongue. It’s small, but it’s loud. It’s giving “I’m in your mouth and ruining your whole vibe.” It hurts so much it echoes through my neck. It’s not just physical pain — it’s a spiritual trial.
So now, all I want is to lie down like a Victorian damsel with a mysterious illness and do absolutely nothing until it heals itself through divine intervention.
But tomorrow holds hope — I’m meeting my friend K, and she found a Japanese place known for its unagi rice. I don’t think I’ve ever had the real deal, but I’ve dreamed of it ever since Genta from Detective Conan wouldn’t shut up about it. That kid made unagi rice sound like a Michelin experience, and I need to know if he was right.
This one’s the Singapore version, though. One day, I’ll try the real thing in Japan — maybe even dramatically stare out a window while it rains and say, “So this is what Genta was talking about.”
Until then, I’ll nurse my bruises and my tongue like the battle-worn grocery warrior I am.
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