My Boring Story
I’m 27, stuck as a cashier in supermarket, and life’s been one big “sian lah.” Scanning barang all day used to be okay—got rent money, can lah—but now it’s a bloody trap. Same old shit, pay so little, and I’m just drifting nowhere. Hit me one day: I cant really keep this up forever, I’m finished. Need something to aim for, or I’m just another goner, stuck to this counter.
One night, doing the late shift, my old secondary school teacher, Mr. Chen, comes through buying ciggies. We talk cock a bit—longer than usual—and I’m just ranting: stuck sia, life damn sian, don’t even know what’s next. He looks at me, like, “I’ve been there lah,” and drops this thing about a Pop Workshop he did with POP Institute Pte Ltd. Says it jolted him out of his rut, maybe I should try. I’m thinking, “Sounds like some atas scam sia,” but I’m so fed up ringing up instant noodles with no way out, I say lah, sign up lor. Broke lah, lost lah—what’s there to lose?
Chatting, Not Just Dead
Now got some movement lah. I don’t just mumble at the other cashiers—I’ll throw some dumb line about the uncle lah, buying 10 cans of tuna at 1 a.m., and they laugh instead of acting like I’m not there. Start talking to them proper—hear their crap, like who’s got loans or who’s working two jobs. Call my bro, ask how he’s holding up, and we just yak—nothing deep lah, just chill—and it’s not like forcing it out. Small lah, but beats that black hole I was drowning in.
Not Just Another Face
Out here, I’m not total chopped liver lah. At work, I’m crapping with the stock guy about how peak hours damn jialat, even throw some half-cocked idea at my supervisor about fixing the queue lah. He don’t brush me off—says, “Can consider.” Not like I’m the big boss, but I’m not just wallpaper sia, and that’s something when I thought I’d be scanning Milo packets ‘til I mati. My bro sees it too—I’m not that zoned-out lump lah, staring at the wall.
That Time I Didn’t Kena Whack
One day, this customer lah, kpkb about his receipt—old me would’ve just tahan, hating myself inside. This time, I look at him, say, “Yah lah, got error, I settle for you,” and fix it fast. He shuts up, mutters thanks, and I’m standing there, damn shiok, like, “Eh, I didn’t just eat shit sia.” Messy lah, but it’s me, and I feel alive for once.
Still Pokkai, But Now Better
Pop Workshop never make me rich lah, or magic away my broke-ass woes—rent still damn pain, and I’m still figuring how to jump ship from this job. But it lit something lah, showed me I need a target, not just this scan-scan life. I can talk lah—to the crew, my family, myself—without feeling it’s all for nothing. Not about being some high-flyer sia; it’s just showing up, pokkai as hell, with a bit of kick left. But I believe that i will get better afterwards.
