Hi-res pic of butterfly genocide

Hi-res pic of butterfly genocide

Man, Changi airport is huge.

A 12 hour layover is a daunting endeavour, especially when you have less sense of direction and common sense than a Roomba. After arriving and promptly spilling out onto the streets of Singapore accidentally, I sheepishly reentered Changi and so begun my mission of trying to work out where the hell everything is in the self-toted "Most Interesting Airport in the World."

My first shuttle bus ride resulted in me immediately nonchalantly boarding the same shuttle bus as it left again. Trying to get rid of my bag was a monumental effort but I managed to convince the check-in counter I was, in fact, stupid enough to book a 12 hour layover and was not going to carry my bag for the whole time like some nomad. I headed to the main strip which, while well-signed, can be difficult locate anything apart from designer stores and cafes without wandering aimlessly in circles.

Wander aimlessly I did, until I stumbled across a "sleep zone" where I dozed into an armchair amid my own sobbing for 3 hours. 
Waking up decidedly less than rejuvenated, I located a masseur by sheer dumb luck. While the elderly asian man sensually massaged my bosom I began to forget the ridiculous amount of time I still had to kill in this airport.

After a hilarious incident where I accidentally brushed his penis with my sleeve three times in a row I left, limber and relaxed. I next headed into the world's tiniest butterfly park where butterflies looked at me with faint disgust until I stopped trying to catch them in my hat. I was starting to get hungry, but for reasons known only to the Changi gods half of the restaurants were closed for maintenance. I settled for Singaporean subway, which is like Australian subway only the chicken tastes like it was 3D printed. (So, I guess, exactly like Australian subway).

I was beginning to get sick of Mad Men which I'd now watched almost 5 hours of so I began to look elsewhere for entertainment. Seeing a sign for an airport cinema, I followed the arrows in disbelief and soon found out I'd missed the screening for everything except RIPD, which wasn't worth a second viewing even if it was free.
It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I had largely avoided the "planning" stage of this holiday.

After many "la's" and "aiyos" I ordered a delicious soft shell crab arrabiata from Spageddy's, a hilariously named faux-Italian restaurant. I immediately regret my decision of a beer as I have the bladder of a small child who has been fed nothing but espressos and creaming soda. Several trips to the urinal later, I checked in with friends and family on Facebook on what can only be described as a potato running Windows 98 and a 28k dial up modem (hyperbole) then sat down amongst a sea of sleeping asians to start an impromptu travel blog. There's one guy behind me pretending to watch TV but I'm convinced he's watching me type. I hope he can't read english. Yeah, fuck you, guy. Guess not.