Fear creates the believer.

It was late. Really late. Probably about 3 in the morning. I silently groaned and thought of the tiring day I was going to surely have after sleeping at 3am. I always do this to myself. I don’t understand why sleeping at night is so hard. The fan was directed right at me, buzzing a soothing white noise. It was hot, and the blanket was lying as decoration along the length of my body. Blankets are essential in warding of the creepy. There is a decided feeling of vulnerability at not having a splayed out blanket. Its powers aren’t unleashed unless it was splayed out. No folded blanket can vanquish night-spooks.

I turned to my side. Still no sign of the sleepy coming. I refrained from grabbing my phone to see what time it was. Probably near 4am. Great. I pushed my head deep into the pillow. Perhaps remnants of last night’s sleep would come out from the pillow and then I would feel sleepy. I tried to calm myself. Soothing, steady breaths, I told myself. Relax those eyes. Listen to the repetitive drone of the fan. I tried to achieve a state of calm. But there was a noise. Where was it coming from?

I tried not to frown in my “calming” position as my ears strained for the sound. It was a scratching. The moment the realization hit me, the hairs of my arms swept in a flurry of static. Suddenly I couldn’t move. My eyes clenched shut. I tried to ignore the scratching. It wasn’t rough or constant. It was a soft scratching. The nails weren’t gripping properly onto something. Oh God, what was trying to grip what? I tried to move my toe. It refused to obey. Suddenly a sense of heaviness pushed down on my body, I was unable to move.

I consciously reminded myself to keep breathing. Luckily that part of me still obeyed. I tried to brush away the two sentence horror stories I had read..

 

I got used to the scratching noises in my apartment. Until one day I realized they were coming from the mirror; not the window.

 

A chill went up my spine. My senses were super vigilant. The occasional scratches kept coming. My body was tied to the bed. Somehow, I couldn’t move. I was in a state of neither awake nor asleep. It was like the anesthesia was only given to relax my muscles, but not my consciousness. My touch senses were numb, or at least it felt like it. I was suddenly aware of something horrifying:

 

The scratcher was moving.

 

I could barely hear the sound as it was getting further and further away. But it was still under me somehow. But there was no room for anything to be under my bed. There was a storage box underneath. It ran along the length of the bed. But the movement was real. It was clawing its way painfully, slowly, and surely, towards the end of my bed. I tried to pull my feet up. They refused to obey. I was frozen.

 

It felt like hours, and I kept pushing my head deeper into the pillow to hear its whereabouts. By now I had accepted my fate. That I was not alone in my single bedroom. Whatever it was, it was coming for me. I could feel it. I could feel the slight change in vibrations as it tracked its way the end of the bed.

It is at these moments that you find yourself believing in a power greater than you. When you are left with no choice but to at least hope that there is a higher power looking out after you. Suddenly, you are a pious prayer.

My fate was sealed. Not only could I feel it reach the end of the bed, I could also feel it tug gently at the end of my bedsheet. It was coming for me. Ready or not, it was coming. And I was surely not ready. It had claws; whatever it was. That much I had gathered. But it was having trouble gripping with those claws. Or perhaps, it was prolonging my torture. Perhaps the scratching might have been a figment of my imagination, but the tugging was real. I still couldn’t open my eyes no matter what prayers I chanted. Suddenly Sunday classes don’t feel so bothersome anymore. I racked my mind for what to do, what to say, what defenses I had. But it was too late. I felt it catch a grip on the sheets. It was on its way. To me.

By the powers invested in me…..wait, that’s for weddings.

BY the powers of….sh*t, I really don’t know this.

 

I felt the hairs of my leg stand on end. The worst part wasn’t the feeling of fear that froze me beyond movement; it was the thought that it knew. It knew I felt its presence. I could feel each hair on my leg. It felt thicker, somehow. More tickles than usual. I hoped I wouldn’t pee in my bed out of fright. By now even the hair of my arms were standing on end; and they started to feel thicker than usual. Ticklier, if that’s a word.

My breathing was no longer regular. My mouth slightly ajar in a silent scream. Then I felt it. It was right next to my head. I clenched my eyes tight. Maybe if I ignored it, it would move on. Is this how I die? How would the coroners explain it? Did I pay my insurance? Will my family get compensation over my untimely inexplicable demise?

Then I felt it. There was no denying it. A breath in my ear.

“In the name of He who holds the power over you, I command you to BEGONE!!!!!”

 

The breath was still constant and rapid over my ear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly there was a nose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A tiny, moist nose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Triangle, I think.

 

 

Then I felt short, soft whiskers.

 

 

 

 

I turned my body; suddenly I was able to move. I opened my eyes.

 

 

 

 

It was a kitten.

 

 

 

 

Helllllll you four-legged feline, where you come from? I say, where you come from?

 

I DO NOT have a kitten. Neither do any of the occupants of my household. I tried questioning it, but it didn’t answer. I’m pretty glad it didn’t. Imagine holding the thing in your hands and suddenly it starts speaking to you in fluent English. THAT’d be creepy.

 

Poor thing was pretty terrified. I gave it some milk and put it outside. It’s pretty warm out, so I guess it’ll be fine.

 

But that, folks, was one hell of a night.

Moral value: Check under your bed regularly. Who knows WHAT may be down there *cue creepy X-Files music*

Not for the squeemish.

The Anaconda
1. The swamp outside was murky, but clear enough to see the long scaly body slither in the waters. It was jet black. The head alone was as wide as a man's shoulder width.





The Python
2. She had lain eggs, and consumed them so they would hatch within her. My arm was outstretched; she and my arm were somehow one. As the eggs hatched within her, I could feel her regurgitate her young onto my bed, and each little one slithered out safely and awaited us.

Attempt #1.

It was a bit lumpy and too sweet. I wonder if it was the condensed milk...or the yogurt....or maybe I should have strained it.




Hmmmm...

Random VI

It's not just about you not missing them. Consider also that they might miss you.

***********************************

It is becoming culturally acceptable for the unsightly to be within sight, I suppose.

***********************************

Well I suppose with a job like that, whatever small victories to be had, will be revelled in.

***********************************

Does anyone know a good recipe for milk pudding?

***********************************

Getting yellower by the day.

***********************************

A king that must declare his position, is no real king after all.

***********************************

Baked potatoes with sausage bits and cheese inside.

Crafted by angels – Chapter 13

He stood in the hallway, locking the door. She patiently waited outside, staring at the blue garbage bag at his feet. He picked it up.

“Sure you have all the stuff you need?” she asks.

 

He gives himself a general pat-down and nods.

 

“We will throw the garbage first, then we will go.” He tells her.

 

She looks at the door 10 meters to her right. She hadn’t seen a garbage bin on the way in. he had started walking away in the opposite direction. Ah, the garbage room must be that way. She looks around at the bare, uniform walls to occupy the time. He probably won’t take long. It was amazing that all these walls remained so clean; so pristine, so uniform, and there was no noise emitting from anywhere. Total silence. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where noises came from in her home apartment.

She heard a noise.

Oh, it was him. He was a good 20 meters away, and for some reason he had stopped; garbage bag in his hand, and was beckoning to her.

 

“Are you coming?” he asks her.

But I thought…the car is that way, and I…

She caught on that he wanted her to go with him….to the garbage dump?

 

 

She trotted her short little legs over to him as fast as she could

“I thought the car’s that way” she gestured in the opposite direction.

“Yes, but I have to throw the garbage away first” he says.

“Well, couldn’t you have thrown the garbage and then come back here for me?”

 

Why would I do that? He silently asks himself. She really is a bizarre creature, he thinks to himself. He turns down to look at her. She was looking around inquisitively. Indeed, she is easily amused, he concludes to himself.

 

Garbage safely thrown away, he turns to the steps on the way to the car. Out through another door, and there is the car. They get in. He turns to her, she is fumbling with her scarves. So many colors on one person he thinks to himself. And it is not just the clothes!

 

He turns in to a little café where they served food that reminded him of his hometown. Ah, a nice taste of comfort, as he munched on a slice of cake. He looked at her. She was painfully chewing away at her slice. It was probably her toothache getting to her. He tried to make conversation to take her mind off the pain.

 

“We are having a very late breakfast” he says.

“But it is a good breakfast” she smiles at him.

 

Their order arrives. She looks up at him and pokes at it…

“What is this?” she looked at him meaningfully.

Then he remembers. He slams his palm into his forehead.

“I forgot. I’ll order another”

She nods “And you’ll eat this one?”

“Yes, I will eat them both.”

 

They chatter away and her order arrives. She is happy with it, but painfully takes small bites. Never had he seen such a chatty person in so much obvious pain. And if there was something he was used to seeing, it was a person who was in pain.

 

“I don’t think I can finish the other half. Will you help me eat it?” she gives the pleading look at him.

He was starting to get used to that look.

 

“Yes, I will eat that.” And he munches it away. “I will get fat!” he says to her.

“Don’t worry, that won’t scare me away” She grins up at him.

They finish their late breakfast, and make their way to the car. It will be a long drive, and he was worried about tomorrow’s parking arrangements. He did not want to be stuck, unable to move. He hated that.

 

“Why are you frowning?” her small voice penetrates his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, it’s a habit of mine. I was thinking of where to put the car.” He continues to rant to her of his troubles, of little irritating things that bothered him; and suddenly he stopped himself. She does not want to hear this, he tells himself.

“…and then?” her voice again pushes through his thoughts.

He stole a glance at her. She was staring at him attentively. Even her nose appeared questioning. Was she paying attention this whole time? He wonders. No one liked it when he ranted like this. Why was she asking him to continue? He looked again at her. She was still waiting for him to continue. And so he did.

How is it that it feels so,..so,..easy to be around her? It felt like she was, and always had been, a part of his life. But she wasn’t. She was a stranger. He kept reminding himself that. She was a stranger. And soon, she will leave him. Soon, that smile will no longer greet him. No more dancing eyes to challenge him. No more puppy eyes for him to be suspicious of. She would leave him. He knew that. She knew that.

 

“You’re frowning again” she turns to him.

He smiles at her. She must never know how much these thoughts pain him. He doesn’t want to scare her that way.

Instead, he hands her his phone.

“Here, choose a song to play” he says.

“Mm? How do I choose?”

‘You search here”

“Ah….” she fumbles with it for a while.

A song starts blasting through the stereo. He smiles at her choice. He turns to her, wanting to say something, but a sudden noise wafted through his ears. She was singing! She turned to him with a slight apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. Am I being annoying?”

“No, it’s fine. You may sing”

 

And to his amazement, she starts belting out wholeheartedly. And she was,….well,….loud. One does not expect such a small creature to produce that much noise and reach those decibels. He turned to her one more time as she was belting out a particular high note.

She stops and gives him that look again.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to sing in weeks. And it’s usually hard for me to sing in front of people I’m not used to; but it seems my voice is coming out for you.”

He smiles “yes, you can sing”.

 

Could it be? Could it be, that two complete strangers, meet purely by chance, and yet fit into each other’s habits so well? It was impossible. This is the thing that happens in movies. Not to real people. They were driving off into the distance, singing together both in and out of tune, together. He was mocking her song choices and she retaliated by singing it out of tune. He told her that she would cause a terrible accident if she didn’t stop. She only returned a cheeky grin at him.

 

It was indeed a long drive, and he ranted petty unhapinesses to her, and she sang to him, and they sang together, and she asked so many questions. It was bizarre to him. She noticed the smallest of things. And they resulted in the most unlikely questions. He tried to answer her each time. Most of the time, he wondered if she would know the difference if he just bluffed her and made up a response.

They drove on, and he told her of his childhood, of his food cravings, of places he had been to. She always seemed so fascinated. There was no quiet in his car that day. It was a long drive, but there was no silence. She either entertained him with stories, or made him tell his stories, or she chose songs to sing, or he chose songs, which at some point he found himself singing. It was impossible. It was like they had grown up together, or at least known each other for years. She was no stranger to him, nor was he to her. It was a dream. One neither of them wanted to wake up from.

Today's reminder.

Keep as many doors open. But also remember, that standing still in the landing with all those doors wide open will get you nowhere, either. You have to make a move, not just stand there and claim that no one is inviting you in.

Today I am reminded...

That time is relative. You might think it was a short while, but to others it has been an eternity.


Hopes and dreams can be shared; it does not reduce in size, but strengthens your fight towards reaching for it.


Friendship is not a fixed shape.


If I have to justify my worth to someone, then that person is probably not worth it.


No matter how far away it may feel, if it is worth fighting for, then you should fight for it.

If this is you, then I wish upon you a lifetime of endless mosquitoes flying in your ears.

You know when you’re queuing up, and the person behind you starts pushing forward in some bizarre attempt at getting to the front of the line somewhat faster? Like that 2 millimetres would make a whole world of difference in her ultimate goal of reaching the front of the line.

 

Sometimes, it’s just you and this forward-pushing person. Nothing in between. And they are not afraid; nooo….they get real close. So close, that you can feel their breath on you. So close, that you could estimate the size of their nostrils by the amount of exhaled CO2 they were puffing onto you. So close, that without moving your head, you can see the sides of their face and feel the warmth of their bodies against you. So close, that you can smell their most recent meal on their breaths, and the fabric softener brand of their choice.

 

And then, there are those at the supermarket, who push in real tight to you with their shopping cart. You move forward a couple of inches to have some butt-space, but they push forward even more, bumping into your butt every time. If this were target practice, and my butt were the target, then you, lady, would definitely be a high-scorer.

Lady, if I wanted a shopping cart to be pushed into my buttocks, I can assure you, there are plenty of shopping carts outside available for me to repeatedly place my posterior against it. Or did you think you were doing me a favor? Do you think I derive some sort of distorted pleasure in you pushing your groceries towards my butt?? Or do you take pleasure in it? How lovely to know that next week’s chicken has been gently pushed against the butt of an innocent bystander at the checkout.

 

 

Look, no matter what you have to wait. There are three people in front of you. Just wait it out, alright? I get it that you don’t want to be so far that someone might cut into the line (for which I’m sure the 10 people behind us would collectively have something to say about that), but seriously, you don’t have to be grinding up on me. I don’t wish to be feeling you. If I made a list of people I did not wish to feel, let me see…here’s the start of the list:

1.       You

 

I’ve tried giving scornful frowns, to slightly growling, to saying “excuse me, my butt” and a myriad of other attempts at getting these people to understand the concept of personal space. It never works!!!! They just give an annoyed look in return, or the What??? look, or they just look away. Worst still, are those who immediately try to get fellow que-ers on their side by saying things like

“I was just trying to move along the line, you know” and other people will nod in understanding towards these butt-bumpers. Why is it socially acceptable to grind up against a person in the name of making the queue move faster? It’s still the same amount of people!!!! All I ask, is for 3 inches of personal space. If I wanted you up all over me, then I would have asked you out on a date. Did I ask you out on a date? No!!! So get off of my butt!!!!!

 

On one occasion, this lady was getting up real close to me; and this was a non-shopping cart event. Meaning, it was just her face and body ramming into my backside. Lovely. Simply lovely. I tried the initial moving away so I could have something called personal space, but well, she took it as the line moving forward. She keeps pushing into me. I start getting pissed. Really, you could see me start to sizzle. I know the queue is long, but depriving me of 3 inches of personal space will not do you any favors. I try to turn and look at her, but she’s the avoid-eye-contact type. Typical. Eyes glued to the front of the line. All her years has prepared her for this moment where she was going to stand in this line, and she was going to get to the front of it. Never mind that the tickets were already pre-booked and there wasn’t much point in getting to the front five seconds earlier. No. this was what she was born for. She was going for it. At the 7^th contact, I really start to boil. I had a backpack on me, but that didn’t mean it was ok for her to grind up against that. I started swinging left to right. You know, so that it would brush up against her if she was too close. It worked. She backed up a bit. I stopped. She came up in half a millisecond. There she was, grinding up against me once again. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrgh!!!!

 

 

 

You dense, dense, human!!!!!!

Ode to the condensed milk.

Oh dear condensed milk
How milky art thou
How thick and sweet
So gooey and sticky

The way you gush out of the can
When the opener runs through
And you slide out
So smooth

That sweet milkiness you give to
Bread, drinks, desserts
How you manage to sneak onto fingers
No matter how careful when handling you

Tea just isn't the same without you.
Thick, 4-minute strong seeped tea
Would bring 4-day constipation
If not for you,
Dear sweet, runny, condensed milk.

I long for that thick texture
When you've been in the fridge
How it holds its form on the spoon
One huge dollop
Into that large mug of strong tea.

Ads adjust.

I am very disturbed. I know I already wrote about this, but seriously...the ads keep popping up. It creates more questions each time I see it. Both on the matter of adding me to pages I do not want to be part of and also the fact that I just don't understand this invention.


Now here I am, past midnight, thinking of old doctor's treatments and remembering that certain medication had to be placed in.... well, where I assume the other end of that invention goes. Seriously, where does it go??? Is that why the people who wear them appear to be, well...erm...



If this were a TV show, too much of it would be bleeped out. There is no tasteful way of talking about it.



I can imagine a certain Nurse's horrified look if I were to ask if those type of meds were still in use. What if they never were?





The horror............

A simple "thank you" would do.

Gentlemen of the Court, I present, Case I for your perusal:-

A: So there was this person I know who selled her house.....
B: Sold.
A: Sorry?
B: Past tense of sell, is sold. Not selled.
A: *sneering look* Well, not everybody can be good at English like you..




I hereby submit this Case to be recorded as exemplary of the stunted mind. "A" has completely ignored the fact that "B" is trying to do "A" a favour by helping his language along the way; which "A" reciprocates by inferring that "B" is attempting to undermine "A". Perhaps tact might have been used by "B" in correcting his comrades tenses; however, as the Case demonstrates, "A" was in the midst of telling a story to "B", and "B" didn't want to cut in too much and interrupt "A"s story. While at the same time, had "B" waited til the end of the story, "A" might have forgotten that he had committed the infraction in the first place.


However, instead of looking at it from "B"s perspective, "A" has taken a small corrective intention to a whole new level of ignorance. Does "A" expect to stay in that range of language capacity? That might explain why he infers to "B" that not everybody can be as good at the language. Does "A" further believe that there is a quota that requires his to stay within his limited language capacity? Hence the usage of "not everybody" in the aforementioned sentence?


There is this breed of society that believes that only in a classroom setting may he learn and be taught. Anyone else trying to do so along the way is considered showing off and out of line. I hope I never become part of that breed. For as far as I am concerned, no matter where the lesson comes from, as long as it carries virtue, truth, and thought, then it is worth at least a gratified word of thanks.

Re: Adding me to groups without my prior consent.

I am aware that I am far from up to date when it comes to social media and technology. But is there a way I can prevent people from adding me into groups? It’s one thing when it’s a group that makes sense, like your family creates a group so you guys can communicate family stuff without the prying eyes of non-family members, or alumni of a school/college. Those sort of make sense, depending on what ends up on your news feed.

 

The problem begins with what ends up on my news feed.

 

Remember when I posted the rant on forwarded messages? Well, this is kind of a similar rant. Just a head’s up, if you didn’t agree with me on the first rant, I’m guessing you won’t agree with me on this one either so you should just probably stop reading.

 

 

So here’s the situation:

Every now and then, I scroll through my news feed, just like everyone else. Wedding photos, baby photos, people showing off the “good” they are doing, marathon runs, frustrated outbursts, the occasional poems by elderly people,….these are the typical things that creep up in my news feed these days. Fine…these are what I know of these people, and if I didn’t like what they were posting, I have the option of unfriending them. Right? So the assumption is that I keep them on my friend list due to one of the following reasons:

(1)    They are my family; who mostly live far from me, and this is my means of keeping in touch with them and knowing (Read: stalking) what sort of things to bring up during festive celebrations; which is pretty much the only time I see them.

(2)    They are friends, who I definitely know in person, and wish to maintain some sort of tie to; despite the fact that I hardly interact directly with them.

 

I seriously do not add on random strangers. I find it disturbing and distasteful. Unless I have met you in person, you do not go on the friend list. Comprende?

 

 

As of late, some of these people within my list have taken liberty at including me into groups. The problem is that these groups then link to God-knows-what and people posting idiotic stuff (similar irritation as to the content of the forwarded stuff) into the groups which then floods my news feed.

 

 

AND

 

 

IT’S

 

 

THE

 

 

SAME

 

 

 

GOD

 

 

 

 

DAMN

 

 

 

 

 

STUFF

 

 

 

 

AGAIN

 

 

 

 

 

AGAIN

 

 

 

 

AND AGAIN!!!

 

 

 

 

And it’s not even intelligent stuff. Mostly the stuff that butt-hurt people consider to be important enough to be posted into groups. Yes, I know those sexy pics of that celebrity with a judgmental caption will garner you the attention your mother never gave you as a child, but do I want to read about it? 15 times a day? Let me give you a clue. It starts with an “N” and ends with a “HELL NOOOOO!!!!”

 

 

Mostly I’m added to these groups by people trying to get their share in the booming online businesses. And in order for them to enter their ads into those groups they have to add like, 50 members or something like that. Lucky me. And then when I try to tell them nicely that I don’t like the content of those groups to creep up in my news feed and to please stop adding me to random groups, I get the following responses:

 

(1)    Well, you say that now, but we’ll see when you want to start your own business. Huff.

(2)    I’m sharing a good thing with you. How ungrateful!

(3)    If you needed my help I wouldn’t think twice about doing the same favor for you.

(4)    You can turn off the notifications if they bother you so much.

(5)    Hmmph. This goes to show how supportive “our people” are of small new businesses.

 

 

*Blood starts boiling*

 

Here’s my reply:

(1)    Well thanks to you, I know how damn irritating it is to be randomly added to groups is, so I know not to do it to someone else. Thank you for showing me what NOT to do if and when I should have my own business.

(2)    All that comes up are light-core celebrity porn/gossip and the SAME DAMN ADS!!! Thank you for spreading gossip? Yeah, sure, I should totally be grateful.

(3)    You didn’t ask!!!! You just straight away added me there. I wasn’t given the opportunity to think. You undermined my ability to think rationally and put me somewhere I did not want to be. How would you like it if one day I swooped into your office Superman-style and dumped you in the middle of Kathmandu and said I’m doing you a favor by giving you a free trip to Kathmandu?? Huh? Would’ya like dat??

(4)    If you didn’t put me there I wouldn’t have to do that!!! You are inconveniencing me with the very act of having to do something about being in a group for which I did not choose to be in!!!! It’s like you waltzing into my house, turning on all the taps, leaving, then saying to me “well, you have the option of turning off the taps if the running water bothered you so much” If I was going to the trouble of turning off the notifications, I might as well leave the group and make sure you don’t re-add me to it!!! But oh no, you just add me to a different group!!!! HOoooooooooOOOooooo!!!!!!

(5)    So you’re going to play the race-card and play right into the ugly side of our stereotype eh? Tell me again how this is supposed to bring your business forward?

 

 

 

So I have resorted to being a social grouch. If the person falls under the following category, not only do I remove myself from the group, but I also carefully remove myself from their friend list as well.

(1)    Acquaintances who I hardly knew “back in the day” anyway

(2)    People who ONLY talk about their business (beats the purpose of me keeping them in my friend list anyway-which is to keep in touch with people personally)

(3)    People who have done so repeatedly. I don’t care how close you think we are. You do that one too many times, you’re OUT!!!!!

It's here!!!

There is a certain charm; a particular magic, of holding something in your hands. And to have that thing entirely tangible, unchanged; except with the power of your mind... that is another type of enchanting endeavour.


It's in the difference between a text message and a love letter,
A hand-painted piece of artwork and a printed one,
A weblog and physical journal.....

To my future self

About a year (or was it two) ago, we were reading a book about a nineteen-year-old girl who was kidnapped from college and kept prisoner for many years. So many years, that she had born a stillborn child, and then another one who grew up to be five at the start of the book. My kids were far away from 19, and I felt that any advice I gave them would either fall on deaf ears or it would be forgotten by the time college comes rolling around. So instead, I had them write a letter to their future selves. To be opened on their 19th birthday. The wrote the letters, handed them to me to be sealed, and I returned them the letters for safe keeping. It was entirely up to them whether or not they waited until they were 19, but if they did, it would bring a magic that the wouldn't experience unless they were patient.


A few moments ago, I saw one of those posts about "If you could go back and tell your 18-year-old self something, what would it be?" and it got me thinking. What would I tell myself? Was there an alternative available to me at the time, or something that I had let go in exchange for what I actually did?

Well, I can't change the past, so the most I can do is to shape today so it forms a great tomorrow. My journey continues. It has been one of great adventures, and I wish to continue having even greater ones. But I am an adult now. Not all dreams can be realized the was my recent one has. Even that one took months to put into action. This one will take years.


Perhaps it might do me good to write a letter to my future self, to be opened at intervals, to keep me on this path that I have chosen...

You, me, and these sweet indulgences....

 

 

May you have good company, and may they be just as sweet.

Anybody willing to explain?

I don’t get it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it or anything; I just don’t get it. I’m not talking from a gender-biased, culture-driven, religious-enlightenment viewpoint here. I’m just confused. How do you put it on? What if it slips off? Is it meant to slip off? Do you go into the water with it? What if you fart? Like, those explosive, 30-second gassy puffers. Will it pop out? I don’t get it! I tried searching for “how to put ___________ on” but no search results have turned up. I don’t want to search for video tutorials lest I be bombarded with flaccid body parts that I have no intention of seeing. I still have the episode at the bank to erase from memory. And it doesn’t help that the fella that comes up in the image searches is hunched over in this growl/glare straight at the camera. I imagine that would be my face as well if I showed up at work and discovered that was what I had to put on. But seriously, how do you put it on?????

Amazed

I can't believe I actually did that. Me. I did it. ......and I hope to continue.

Ode to the procrastinator.

I have a dream.
That SOMEday, I will clean my room.
I will filter through the piles of clutter, and sort through them.
I will buy racks and cupboards to suit my needs.
I will place those racks in those places that I have predetermined during my clearing process.
I will throw out what I do not need,
or give them away should anyone want them.
I will arrange my stuff so that it is easily accessible, yet the dust will not get to them.
I will dust off dusty stuff.
I will sweep my floor.
Mop it, if need be.
I will find a suitable home for my comforter,
And that bag full of bags,
And I will find out what on earth I am storing in the large suitcase above my cupboard.
I will rearrange my drawers.
I will dispose of those receipts from 2012.
I will wash the tops of those roller containers that are filmed in dust.




Someday.....

Chickens should not be kept in schools.

 

For one, I highly respect those teachers that actually tried to …..confront? Fix? Deal with…ah! Those teachers that actually tried to deal with me. You know, instead of just letting me get away with the various unspeakable things I did in school. To those teachers, some of which who are dead, I salute you. Now that I sometimes have to deal with such things myself, and during those few times that things go horribly haywire, I take a moment to reflect on the various sins I have committed against those teachers. Perhaps that is why I am blessed with the most askew of children. This is how I atone for my past sins.

 

Sometimes things are going particularly bad, I just take a moment to cower in the corner and pray for a moment….”I repent…..I repent….whatever it is that I did, I repent….”

 

 

What is it that I did? Well, I once threw a chicken at my teacher’s head.

In my defense, he was chasing me. So I threw the chicken.

 

The story goes that I was in for my third infraction of the week…and it was only Tuesday! My father was surely to hear of this. Let us not dwell on the infraction and focus on the fact that I was gonna get it. And I didn’t want to get it. Who ever wants to get it? No one. That’s who.

 

So, there I was, brought forward to face this poor, balding old man who was often subject to my various blasphemous acts. He was heaving and turning into his usual unusual hue of red. I think he reserved that special ability for me and for me alone. Who knew a person could change color so rapidly? He was explaining the repercussions of my present conduct, or something like that. I was busy. I had to plan an escape route. There was no denying this one. I was caught red-handed. Or rather, blue-handed. Literally. I had blue paint dripping off of me and because it was the watery type of paint it just would not dry. I looked up at him to see if this might be the day that I am finally guilty of making a grown man implode just by irritating him. Would I be sent to jail if that happened? But I never touched him…..

 

I then realized he was about to reach the part where he was going to declare the sentence for my crime. Oh no….this won’t do. It was one thing to take a scolding, but to endure another punishment,..well, I did what any other reasonable, paint-soaked, about-to-be-punished person would do.

 

 

I ran for it.

 

 

 

It had worked a few times before; they just let me run off then hours later I would sneak back into class and pretend nothing happened. It was a good practice of skills. You know, the “what? What are you talking about?” face. I have used it countless times in my adult life.

 

 

Unfortunately, this was not the usual circumstance. For one, I was dripping in paint. This meant that I left a trail of slime wherever I ran. Going into my typical hiding spots wouldn’t do because that would give them away. I needed those places to remain top secret..you know, for research purposes. An on-going research I was doing.

 

 

Another reason this was not the usual scene is because for the first time in my life, the teacher actually gave chase. Oh God! I was not in good shape, and usually all I needed was a short sprint out of sight and out to one of my handy research facilities. But he started to give chase. This balding, huffing, reddening, fuming old man was giving chase.

I had to run.

So I ran.

Across the lawn

Over the bush

Through the hedge

Into an add-maths class and out the other door

Up the bridge

Down the bridge

 

 

 

 

And he was still hot on my tail!

 

I ran around the pond and stopped to look. He was on the other side of the pond. Would he risk jumping into the pond to get at me? He looked very much like an over-boiled whistling kettle by now. We stared at each other for a while, gathering our breaths. Then I sprint off again. He roared. He actually roared. Have you ever heard an old, balding, huffing, fuming, panting, furious man roar? Well, it sure was enough to make me run faster.

 

Across the field

To the rabbit mound

The rabbits scattered to make way for my heavy steps.

Up the steps

And then…….

 

 

 

 

 

There it was. In front of me.

 

 

 

 

 

The chicken.

 

 

 

It was one of the school’s free-range chickens that wandered around the school grounds. They have a coop, but there’s a small door they can freely go in or out of; you know, it’s all kind of casual. No obligation to stay.

 

So now, in front of me, was this live piece of poultry, pecking away at invisible seeds.

Behind me, was the balding, huffing, fuming, highly-aggravated old man.

In front of me, an obstacle.

Behind me, death in the most gruesome manner known to any blue-painted person.

 

 

I had no choice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You have to understand…. I had no choice!!!

 

I picked up the chicken,

 

 

 

Turned around,

 

 

 

 

And threw it towards the poor old man.

 

 

 

 

 

The paint still hadn’t dried, and I had plenty of it on me that it got on the chicken as well. And the chicken, surprised at suddenly being lifted, an activity not usually partaken in by other fellow birds, was even more surprised that it was now also smeared in blue paint. It was also quite alarmed that it was apparently flying towards what appears to be a very angry looking old man. With all its might, the chicken tried to “brake” mid-air using its two feet. In all its effort, it also tried to flap its wings to try to perhaps fly away to safety. However, impact was inevitable.

 

 

The poor teacher, caught by surprise at suddenly having a very large live bird heading towards his face, also tried to quickly change course and avoid matrix-style the impact of the forward feet aimed directly at him.

 

I’ll leave their faces up to your imagination. Both the chicken and the poor teacher.

 

 

So the chicken smacks into his face, and he had multiple scars all over his head for a couple of weeks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My father made me spend all my pocket money buying my teacher a new shirt, creams for his head, and a few anti-stress games.

And I had to write an apology letter.

And read it out in front of the whole school.

And apologize to the chicken as well.

And clean up all the paint stains.

And the chicken.

 

 

 

 

And that wasn’t yet for the paint thing!