Is it just me, or is the social ROI in this country hitting an all-time low? I hit 30 recently, and the realization hit me like a GrabSurge during a thunderstorm: 90% of the people I spend my waking hours with have the “friendship value” of a wet napkin.
Let’s start with work “friends.” We spend 45+ hours a week together, trauma-bonding over the same micromanaging SME boss or the same “high-level” corporate buzzwords that mean absolutely nothing. We grab lunch at the same Maxwell or Amoy stalls every day, complaining about the same BTO delays. But the moment one of us resigns? Poof. Gone.
You realize you weren’t actually friends; you were just two prisoners sharing a cell. The “value” was purely transactional. You help me with this deck, I cover for you during your MC. Once that LinkedIn “I’m happy to announce” post goes up, you’re basically strangers with 400 shared WhatsApp messages you’ll never read again.
It’s depressing how we mistake proximity for intimacy in this CBD pressure cooker.
Then, there’s the drinking “kakis.” If work friends are low value, the people you meet at Clarke Quay or some overpriced Robertson Quay bistro are in the negatives. We sit there, knocking back $18 pints of Tiger or “craft” IPAs that taste like grass, shouting over the music about nothing. We talk about watches, crypto, who’s getting promoted, or who’s “pau-ing” which girl. It feels like a brotherhood in the moment, but try calling one of them when you’re actually going through a mental health crisis or a family emergency.
They’ll “blue tick” you faster than a scam caller. They aren’t there for you; they’re there for the vibe. Take away the alcohol and the loud music, and there is zero substance. Just empty vessels trying to drown out the Tuesday morning dread.
We’re a lonely island, man. Everyone is so busy “grinding” or “flexing” that we’ve forgotten how to actually connect without a KPI or a glass of booze involved. I’m tired of “networking.” I’m tired of “catching up” just to talk about property prices. Where are the actual friends who give a damn about who you are when the laptop is closed and the bar tab is paid?
End of rant. Going to eat my caifan alone now. At least the auntie calls me “shuaige” and means it.