Constantly haranguing about the insipidness of humanity, Beatrice Bowers is a self-proclaimed laureate of the Singaporean lowlife. When not channelling her inner ah pek at the neighbourhood coffee shop, you may often find her battling numerous existential crises, or trying to emulate Bukowski (and failing, mostly due to her utter distaste of whiskey and dirty white Y-fronts). Beatrice seeks great comfort in her growing collection of books and felines, or throwing down under her duvet to a music library that consists of angst-ridden screaming men. She strongly believes this constitutes as a social life. Don’t try to tell her otherwise.