It rained heavily after the end of the Champions League final outside my office. It was 5.50am, the first MRT train wasn’t due to arrive until 6.26am, and I was absolutely dead tired after organising a Melty Blood tournament the entire day. I just wanted to go home ASAP to get some sleep.
Except that the three taxis that I had flagged in a row all refused to stop for me. All of them were available and not “On Call”. My sandals were drenched, my clothes were wet, and I was starting to get really pissed off. After the third cab ignored me, I was on the verge of unleashing an angry, blood-curdling scream into the early morning air. I just wanted to fucking sleep, but forces were conspiring to prevent me from doing so.
It was as if Andrea Pirlo’s tears, those tears that he shed immediately after the final whistle, had opened up the heavens and I was forced to endure it to experience his anguish. Three cabs, representing three Barcelona goals. The first one from Rakitic was a surprise, its quickness catching everyone unawares. The second one was a burden, a sign that it was going to be a really rough night for Juventus. The third one was the killer blow, the cruel ultimatum that sealed their fate.
Why the fuck do taxi drivers refuse to stop for a pedestrian who is flagging for their attention in plain sight? I’m a paying customer you know, I WANT to give you money. The fourth cab finally came aeons later and what a coincidence, the driver actually stays around the Serangoon area near my home.
But the rage had already been built up and I returned home with lots of latent anger and a boiling fury underneath. Very fitting day to end one of the longest and most tiring days of my life. Rage, rage, rage.