Rebellion before office life, rebellion after office life.

Behold, 2006:

"We raced our engine up and down cliffs and our motorcycle is a quiet one so we had to scream the engine noises instead.
“BURRRRRRRRR!” Nick yelled as we downshifted for a steep climb and passed a pickup full of Papuans*.
“BA-BAP! BA-BAP!” I shrieked with the gearshift as Nick kicked it down, down, down, down, one for each gear, to stop at a stoplight.
‘REOOOOOH! REOOOOOOOOHRHRHRHHHRH! REEeeeeoooooHHEHEHRHRH!” we shouted together at bikers without mufflers as their exhaust pipes shot out blipblipblips of smoke and we went flying past them.
“Hey, QUIT holding onto my shirt!” Nick spat back at me, so I threatened to pull it up and flash passersby his tits. “Do it!” he said, so I did, as we flew around a corner and through a little cluster of warungs and markets screaming girls-gone-wild style all the way.
People don’t stare, or at least they don’t stare anymore than they do already just because we’re bules (Westerners, but slightly more offensive), which is always and hard, so I guess they do stare, but we’re past caring. I pull his shirt back down just as we pass a traffic cop, blowing his whistle in vain at every single driver on the road, because every single driver on the road is doing something illegal.
Road rules here are more like suggestions, anyway. "One Way Street" means "don't go the wrong way on this street, unless of course you're in a big hurry to get somewhere, or you are learning to ride your bike and don't want to make a bunch of right turns unnecessarily, or are going to speed down it so fast the police won't care about catching you." The other day Nick weaved around some blocking cones that were meant to control rush hour traffic and shot down a one way shortcut street the wrong way, and right at the corner was a police campout. One of the policemen yelled 'Hey!' and then went on chewing his betelnut. The others hadn't noticed because they were watching an attractive woman coming out of the marketplace."

(taken from my 10/26/06 entry)

And behold, by contrast, 1/31/08:

Just now I walked to the coffeemaker to fill my teacup with hot water from the side spigot. I have a big mug that officemates are always trying to steal and put their soup in, and the trickle of hot water is always meager, so I had awhile to stand and think as it filled. Suddenly I had this massive inexplicable urge to keep my finger on the tap and take my cup away, watch the boiling water spilling in a perfect line onto the counter, under the coffeemaker, spreading under the disgusting trash can full of spoiled berries and across to the refrigerator that always has someone's moldy old lunch in it. I could picture standing there with my hand on the tap and not moving a muscle if someone were to see me. Standing there acting like this is what's supposed to be happening over here, and how is this your business? Move along. Move along. I'm just drenching the floor here and the water's creeping along the cracks in the countertop and soaking the communal cutting board and the box of free bagels.

I could see myself doing that so clearly that I left with my mug only half full. Unlike flashing a bunch of teenagers a chest not my own while zooming past on a motorcycle, wearing a sorry excuse for a helmet, this would have repercussions.