A hearty meal and a full tummy.

At times it hurts to think how alone you are; but perhaps it's about realizing how alone you aren't.

Apple pies, apple chips, apple sauce, apple cider.....

A teacher’s first day will always be somewhat daunting. You never know how they will react to you. To have anywhere between 20-40 pairs of eyes bore down on you, to risk uncontrollable chaos, to risk having those eyes refuse to look at you, to risk having objects thrown at you, tricks and pranks played on you, it takes multiple levels of courage and self-assurance to walk into that classroom for the first time.

 

The kids were in usual humdrum. She persevered. Not too bad, she thought. She couldn’t quite vouch how much they had gained from the lesson, but she felt she had survived it fair enough.

 

Class was dismissed.

 

As the children fell into a stream out the door, a small little girl hung back. She looked at her new little student. The girl had an apple in her hands. She walked up to her teacher and held it out.

 

“Please, teacher” came two careful words from the student. The teacher stared at the girl for a while. Normally the phrase meant a student needed help opening something; like a bag of chips. So what did the girl need her to do to the apple?

 

The little girl somehow knew she had gotten the phrase wrong. She muttered a few words to her friends. It was obvious to the new teacher that English was as far away a language to them as Africa was to Polar Bears.

 

“It’s for too” another voice piped up. Finally the teacher understood. “It’s for you” she corrected them. Then she turned to the apple.

 

Memories want back to childhood cartoons where it was customary for students to come to school and present an apple to the teacher as a gift. Back in those days, teachers’ wages didn’t add up much so students would bring in pickings from their yard for their teachers (or so the story goes). The apple would then be placed at the far left hand corner of the teacher’s table as the morning lessons began.

 

Snap back to reality, the teacher was more than elated at this small gesture. At least, this one girl had accepted her. She had made this gesture to show her welcome. The teacher gave a small cry in delight and took the apple. The little girls were excited that the teacher had accepted their gift. The teacher carefully polished it and placed it in its rightful corner on her table. She promised to eat it at break time.

 

 

 

The next day, she received 40 apples.

When the midnight oil is not the only thing being cracked.

She yawned. It was 1am. With finals around the corner, sleep was for the weak. She looked around the living room. It was pretty much bare, with the exception of eight pairs of legs sprawled in every direction; brooding over notes or a textbook. Two had fallen asleep. Lisa adjusted her seat. She had been glued to the floor for almost three hours. She stretched out and supported her chin with a pillow. The edge of the curtain tickled her feet. It was too short to cover the entire sliding door, and hung about half a foot from the floor. She looked out the tinted glass and started chanting her lessons. The grill outside started to blur from her vision, and then her friends’ voices started drifting further and further away.

 

Tick tock

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tick tock

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tick tock

 

 

 

 

 

Tick tock

 

 

 

 

Lisa woke up abruptly. Her notes at the edge of her fingers had slithered out of their folder. She opened her eyes, allowed her vision to focus. Her housemates were all sound asleep, she thought. There was no sound save for the calming whirr of the ceiling fan and the tick tocks of the clock. Her eyes adjusted to the grill, beyond the curtain. Then she froze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You know that moment when your soul momentarily leaves your body and you can sort of “see” yourself down below? Well, that’s how Lisa felt.

 

 

Outside, right outside the sliding door, there was another pair of eyes staring at her. Staring at her through the crack under the curtains. Eyes that had been watching her sleep.

 

 

She screamed.

 

 

Immediately, her housemates awoke and a commotion started. Then they heard someone jump the fence. They had locked it earlier. Whoever it was, had jumped the fence and lain outside their house watching them. Only God knows for how long he’d been there. Watching them.

 

 

 

Random VIII

WHY??? Just WHY would you do that?

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

Does the change in medium indicate a change in conditions?

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

It is better to earn than to spend. Don't be a baby. You'll have plenty of those to deal with.

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

Again?????

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

Just one more week left.

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

The truth will come out eventually. Funny when you sort of know when that is. It's like being able to see into the future, but with multiple variable outcomes. Which do I find most favourable? Irrelevant. That is not how it will transpire.

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

And so it begins....

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

I wonder if others will go to lengths to make themselves visibly different after this.

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

No, you have not left my thoughts.

Not the first, and not the last.

Susan rushed home, showered, and changed out of her school uniform. She carefully took out the birthday present she had bought and wrapped. What’s a little pocket money for a friend, right? She gently placed it into her bike’s basket.

 

She hopped onto her bike, cycled away in the dead heat of the afternoon thinking of the snacks and yummies at the party later. Mother was glad. She had a hard time fitting in the new neighborhood, and perhaps this party would change things. Also, it meant that Mother wouldn’t have to prepare lunch for her before she went to work.

 

10 minutes later, she arrived. There were a few others already inside. The whole class was invited. Laughter could be heard. She parked her bike carefully by the curb and went in. She knocked on the door. Her classmate opened it.

 

“What are you doing here?” the girl who opened the door said.

“I…I came for the party” Susan was suddenly aware that she wasn’t welcome there.

“Who asked you to come?” another cold pair of eyes appeared and spoke.

“…..when you said it in class, you said everybody was invited..” she stammered.

 

“Well, not you.” The girl who opened the door retorted. She turned, and to the rest of the people in the back said “hey look, The Grub thought we meant she was invited too” Laughter shot out from within.

 

Susan felt tears well up in her eyes. She turned to go. The wrapping paper made a rustling sound against her frock.

 

“Well, leave that here then.” The girl indicated to the gift.

 

Susan knew she should have said something, or at least refuse to hand over the gift. But she would have to face these people again tomorrow at school; and God knows what they’ll say about her if she refused. She handed it over. The girl clawed at it, then turned to Susan “Now what are you waiting for, do you expect to set your clammy feet in my house?”

 

Susan turned and left. Her stomach was rumbling, and hot tears threatened to burst out at any moment. Her hands were shaking. She thought fourth grade was terrible. Turns out fifth grade is no better.

She had no money with her, and there was nothing at home to eat. Not that she knew where she could buy herself lunch. She made her way home, and tucked herself into bed. She slept away her sadness and hunger. Not the first time.

 

 

Later in the evening, Mother woke her to bathe and get ready for dinner.

 

“So how was the party?” Mother asked.

 

 

 

 

 

Susan kept quiet.

Mother Hen.

She opened the door; I had been to this room before. I took my first test here. I looked at the waist-high tables that surrounded the room. How would the sit at such high tables? And so many of those at that. At least six along the length of the room and three at the end. They formed a familiar U-shape around the room. Looking at the tables, surely their legs would dangle and sway all around. Even at my *cough* adult height, I just reached the floor when seated at these tables. What about little six-year-old legs?

 

“They will sit there.”

 

Her voice broke my daydream. I looked to where she was pointing. There was a baby table in the middle of the U-shape. A safe distance from any of the tall tables. Bright blue. I like blue. But I was starting to feel a lump of dread in my throat.

 

For one, the table (well, tables actually; there were three to be exact.) was very low; which to me indicated just how “tiny” my students would be. I tried to chase away the fidgety feelings that came to my mind. Only for today, I told myself. I patted the two lions I had in my bag. Hopefully that will buy me some time if the need arises.

 

Six-year-olds are difficult enough. But I knew it was all false pretenses. The ones that came in seemed smaller and smaller as they came. I suspect some of them were four. But I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want the answer. Six-year-olds are difficult enough.

 

First up: spelling. The thing about not knowing the capability of a group of children is that you risk them getting scared and shutting down. The last thing I wanted was a child bawling because he/she couldn’t spell the word I wanted. I glanced at the word list that was thrust in my hands a few minutes ago: BOX. Ah, seems like an easy enough word. But wait, they are quite small. Do they know their alphabets yet? Well, at any rate, they wrote their own names fast enough.

 

“So who can spell for me the word BOX”

 

What I expected was a torrent eager voices chanting the three letters again and again. What I received, were six serious pairs of eyes looking into the air in front of their noses. Deep in thought, I see. Oh Lord, if BOX gets this response, what will happen when I ask for (I glance at the list and the lump in my throat raises to my eyeballs) ELBOW? I sent silent curses at my colleague. You….what have you done….*dramatic over-the-shoulder with menacing/betrayed look*

 

After much trial and tribulation, I finally manage to coax the spelling for box from the little ones. As a *cough* slightly below average height full grown adult, these little totters stood no higher than my waist. Most of them disappeared if I went on the other side of the tall tables. Silent curses escape my thoughts once again.

 

I realize that they need to see the word, especially if I expected them to write it down. I turned. Again, another silent curse floats in my thoughts. Not only is the whiteboard 3 meters away (a great distance when you are talking about a class of 6 totters), but in the middle of the path there was a large teacher’s table blocking the way. I would have to write high up and in big block letters to make sure the little totters would be able to see them at their little blue island here. Do small children have problems seeing things afar?

 

There was no way around it. The journey had to be made, and I was the one who had to make it. I huffed. Uncapped the marker in my hand. Placed my hands on the edge of the small blue table and pushed myself up.

 

 

 

 

Magic happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The little totters ceremoniously got up as well. Before I understood what was happening, they clumped to my sides. Not a word nor sound from the little totters. They were ready.

 

Together, we journeyed the two meters (many steps when you are traveling with little totters by your side, in front of you, and behind you, trying not to step on any little toes or walk too fast so as to leave any tot behind, or too slow that the tot in front got too far ahead) straight ahead, slight turning to the right to bypass the big teacher’s table, and finally we arrive to the whiteboard. Wanting the word to be in full view later on, I reach up high and write B-O-X in large block letters. The clump of little tots around my ceremoniously looked up to the word. But they could see nothing because of their tot-ness. They turn, take a few steps back. The teacher’s table is blocking the way. They go to the right side of the table, clump formation intact, and look up. They solemnly look up, repeat the word to themselves again and again.

 

Instinctively, I recapped my marker and joined the clump and together, we travelled back to our small blue island. They took their seats. I did not sit, but somehow they knew I was not going to leave them. So they remained seated, ready for the next lesson.

 

It so continued that, each time I stood to go to the board, they would ceremoniously make the journey with me. I wondered if they were afraid of me abandoning them and bolting out the door, or if this was common practice with their previous teacher, or if they just wanted to stretch their little legs, or if they somehow telepathically agreed that this was something they wanted to do with me. Perhaps this was how mother hens felt with her little chicks. Ducklings usually followed in a straight line. These were little chicks right here. Each one wanting a spot near Mother Hen.

 

And so it became, that they would reach the board, watch me write up high, then realize they couldn’t see the word, and have to turn back to the right side of the teacher’s table. Always the right side. Instinctively, I would rejoin the clump to bring them back to safety of our blue island.

 

One time, I felt a little curious and instead of rejoining the clump at the right side, I exited via the left side of the table. The clump, quickly reacting, cut me off at the end of the table, and united, we travelled back to our blue island. They were quite serious about it.

 

 

 

 

 

These are little joys, which make the dread just a little bit bearable. In fact, they make the whole ordeal kind of addictive.

Hate or indifference.

Ask yourself, which hurts more to carry, and which causes more hurt.

Exhaustion.

There is a certain amount of stamina I had forgotten it required. Now it hits me.




They crowded around me, eager noses poking into whatever I touched. Hungry for the day's lessons. They lapped up the stories and took great pleasure in making it their own.




Magical.

All in a Day's Work - Part 1

Scene: Two small children go to a Trusted Adult, carrying a serious complaint. One of them is crying.

 

Child A: (sobbing)He hit me!

Trusted Adult: (to Child B) Is this true, did you hit him? (points at Child A)

Child B: (looks down at the ground) Yes.

 

 

I am old and haggard because of these things. Age and experience has taught me that this has more to it than meets the eye. Either way, I will not like it. But I must deal with it. I am the Trusted Adult and I must help them deal with it.

 

Trusted Adult: (to Child B)Do you understand that hurting the people around you is wrong?

Child B: (tears start to form) Yes.

Trusted Adult: And why do you think is it not ok to hurt others?

Child B: because then other people can hurt me back.

Trusted Adult: (deep breath) so, now, tell me. What made you hit him?

Child B: He pushed his socks into my face!

 

I am old and haggard because of these things. Age and experience has taught me that this has more to it than meets the eye. Either way, I will not like it. But I must deal with it. I am the Trusted Adult and I must help them deal with it.

 

Trusted Adult: (dramatically turns to Child A, who has now realized that he might have done something wrong) Is this true, that before he punched you, you pushed your socks into his face?

Child A: no…it was because….

Trusted Adult: (cuts off and increases her volume, and draws herself up a couple of inches) Is this true, that before he punched you, you pushed your socks into his face? (raises eyebrows in a you-better-answer-yes-or-no-ONLY-or-else manner)

Child A: (meekly) Yes.

Trusted Adult: And in between the pushing of the socks and the punching of the face, did anything else happen that I should know of?

Child A: No.

Child B: No.

 

 

I am old and haggard because of these things. Age and experience has taught me that this has more to it than meets the eye. Either way, I will not like it. But I must deal with it. I am the Trusted Adult and I must help them deal with it.

 

 

Trusted Adult: So it is hereby agreed by both parties here that (a) One person has punched the other and (b) the person was punched for pushing socks into the first person’s face?

Both children: Yes.

Trusted Adult: (even more dramatically turns to Child A) and please explain to everybody here why is it that you found the need to thrust your socks into his face? Was it an accident?

Child A: No, it wasn’t an accident.

Trusted Adult: So! You purposefully marched up to your friend with your socks in hand, and pushed it into his face. Did you say anything to him before you did that?

Child A: (realizing just how bad things are looking for him) No.

Trusted Adult: So, no “hello, good afternoon”, no “nice day, ol’ chap” or anything of the likes, and you suddenly thrust the socks into his face?

Child A: yes.

Trusted Adult: Did it occur to you that perhaps your friend just might be a little oh, I don’t know,..surprised by this sudden appearance of foot accessory on his face?

Child A: No.

Trusted Adult: So you admit that you forgot to think of your friend’s feelings?

Child A: Yes.

Trusted Adult: And as a result, your friend has given you some extra feelings – of pain, when he hit you.

 

 

I am old and haggard because of these things. Age and experience has taught me that this has more to it than meets the eye. Either way, I will not like it. But I must deal with it. I am the Trusted Adult and I must help them deal with it.

 

 

Trusted Adult: (turns suddenly to Child B) And you, do you understand that despite how understandably upset you might have been, you should not have resorted to violence?

Child B: Yes (looks at Child A apologetically).

 

 

 

How I wish I could have ended the case then and there. But there was a niggling feeling that not all the pus was out just yet. I had to dig deeper. I hated these sort of things, but well, that’s what happens when you are the Trusted Adult.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

…..but that, is for another day…..

A good read.

It's been a while since I've read a book of my own choosing. Also a while since I've read something that made me shake to tears in laughter.




Oh, now I'm missing the days when there were the eager eyes upon me for me to share such a good book with.

When all you want is for them to learn.

Let’s make this clear: Additional Maths is tough.

 

Ordinary maths is tiresome and requires more stamina, concentration, and speed; but I don’t consider it tough. But Add Maths is the real deal. Not only are there alphabets, the numbers float around and it’s supposed to mean something.

It meant a fear of failing for me.

 

 

A typical lesson would involve the teacher introducing the topic, demonstrating a few fundamental problems, then giving us exercises to do on our own. We would have to do some in class so that if we had trouble, we could raise our little hands up in the air and declare “I surrender, kill me now; and spare me the pain”

 

Ok, that’s a teensy wee bit exaggerated.

 

 

In my final year of school, I had an equally tough teacher teaching us this very tough subject. Well, she had to be tough in order to be teaching the subject. Then of course, there was us.

 

No, we weren’t evil or bizarrely stupid or anything; we were……well……full of life. Think Mallory Towers in the days of the squeaky biscuit. I was the girl who was found to be acting out Shakespearean plays up in the attic…..err, not quite.

 

So anyway, back to the subject at hand, which is our tough teacher. She was pretty tough, took no nonsense from us girls, and refused to hear our whines and pleas for help. In fact, she reveled in our desperation. The kind of parent who would kick their child into the river in order to teach them to swim. Except this was Additional Maths, and the only water was the tears we silently cried as one exercise after another was flourished upon us.

 

This teacher, well, she wasn’t cruel in any way. In fact, she tried her best to be supportive and encouraging. She would always assure us that we shouldn’t worry about making mistakes in class as long as we didn’t make them during exams.

 

Certain phrases you should take note of:

i.                     Making mistakes in class

ii.                   Don’t make mistakes during exams. (see how a threat is carefully woven here?)

 

Now as for (i), the reason why she always had to assure us of that is because she would write out the sums (is that what it’s called?) on the board, and call out names to go solve them in front. Mind you, this is Add Maths y’awlll!!! She expected us to just saunter up in front and conjure up the necessary answers to the problem. Whoaaaaaa…..

 

It was a point to be made that she would never scold us for getting the stuff wrong, which was a relief for people who got scoldings every half an hour. However, as pubescent females, we were very conscious of screwing up in front of our peers.

 

But to me, the most bizarre effect of this situation was upon the teacher herself. Mind you, it was almost every lesson that she made us do it. And mind you, it was without fail that we would struggle with it. Especially some of us. Some of us who, you know, weren’t so good at the mathematical alphabets and such.

 

Now this teacher, would stand in the middle of the class, which coincidentally was under a fan, and also coincidentally where I sat, so I would have full effect of her reactions.

 

So the scene would go something like this:

i.                     She writes the sums on the board.

ii.                   She walks to her spot in the middle of the class.

iii.                  She “randomly” calls students to go to the board and solve the problems.

iv.                 We groan and protest.

v.                   She ignores us.

vi.                 She waits while each called-upon child frantically tries to solve the sums in their scribble book. Friends usually offer help or support, depending on what the friend is capable of.

vii.                She impatiently clicks her tongue and tells us to just go and do it in front.

viii.              We tell her “Wait, let us get the answers first”

ix.                 She says “Go and get the answers in front. Don’t go about doing the same problem twice”

x.                   She starts counting.

xi.                 The called upon students scramble to the front and start to painfully complete the answers.

 

 

And here’s the interesting bit: Despite the fact that she knows we are struggling with the problems, as we are vocally protesting whilst our reluctant wrists flick away at the board, part of her still expects a miracle to happen each time. And as the seconds tick by, it dawns on her time and again that it would not be that day for the miracle to occur. She would then start to fan herself (remember I told you she would already be standing under the big classroom fan?), then after more minutes pass and she knows she has to admit defeat as the poor scared souls standing in front helplessly claw numbers and symbols onto the board in an attempt to please her, she would raise her hand and cup her forehead. Then, in her most defeated tone, she would mutter under her breath, “God help y’all”

 

None of my other classmates ever heard this, as she was careful of how she worded things to us. But I found it hilarious. Obviously, she took her duties seriously. She was an educator because of the virtue of the profession, not just because it helped to feed her family at home. It was noble of her. But really madam, what do you expects when you ask us to solve those alphabets as though they mean something? Alphabets belong in a soup!

 

 

 

 

Such were the thoughts of a teenaged mind. Now that I have grown up, I catch myself having my own “God help y’all” moments. Each time I do, I tip my hat to my old Add Maths teacher.

This is for you.

 

So, if you happen to bring yourself here, please take note of this. Perhaps you could scribble something onto the orange paper I gave you. Is there space?

 

 

Here goes: If you happen to come here, please DO NOT EAT THE WAFFLES.

 

I repeat, DO NOT EAT THE WAFFLES.

 

 

Unless of course, you would like to find for yourself, a handful of disappointment.

 

I have yet to find a decent waffle place that makes waffles that haven’t disappointed me. Oh, sometimes they have different names for them:

 

Wafer

Wafer Cake

Waffle cake

 

 

 

Bottom line is, if you see the waffle maker thing, DON’T BUY the thing that comes out of it. Like I said, it is a sad handful of disappointment of the founding fathers of waffles.

 

Some of the A&W places have somewhat non-so-disappointing waffles; but why would you make your way here just to eat A&W, right?

 

These pathetic excuses for waffles are abundantly sold in small kiosks; usually found in malls, but sometimes even in roadside stalls. It doesn’t matter. Don’t eat them. Unless you want to be handed the biggest disappointment in your life. Think Asian father not getting a Doctor son. This disappointment is greater. I have no particular prejudice against disappointed Asian fathers, but I do care about your future feeling towards waffles. I tell you, once you have held a disappointing waffle in your hands, you will forever be suspicious of other waffles. Even the good ones. I should know. I lived a whole life of disappointment waffles, and when I finally reached Land of the Good Waffles, it took me forever to convince myself that it would indeed be a good waffle.

 

What’s wrong with our waffles, you ask?

 

Well, for starters, they are almost ALWAYS soggy. Which in turn makes them limp, and soft. If it is by some miracle affect crunchy, that would probably be the burnt bits at the sides. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s because of our climate. But they are ALWAYS soggy. You could hold a fresh one up, and it would flop back onto your hand. Then you would be screaming because it would be steaming hot, and you would’ve hurt your hand. See? I’m not being mean about waffles here, I just care about your well-being.

 

Note that I used the words “steaming hot” just now? Well, that’s because that’s what you’ll see escaping from the waffle when you open the paper bag they’ll probably give you the waffle in. Yes, steam. Steam is produced when water becomes hot, and rises into the air. It probably explains why the waffles are soggy, seeing as there is hot water within it trying to escape. Any water failing to escape results in further soggy-making of the waffles.

 

Do not be fooled by the smell. They smell wonderful. In fact, if there is a kiosk selling these waffles within a 20-meter range, your nose will tell you and your tummy will growl in response. Do not be fooled. The smell is deceivingly good.

 

Some better places have discovered the soggy-inducing conditions the paper bags make for the waffles, so they have moved on to selling them in paper cones. Still, it will flap about in your hand like a bird that will never be able to fly. Unless of course, you throw it into a distant dustbin.

 

 

In a land where good food is abundant, please heed my warning of this one. There are plenty of other good things to be had. Do try them.

Office mugs.

 

So the story goes that this girl had a favorite mug at the office. It was hers. She brought it to the office, used it every day; sometimes more than once. She was used to the idea of using that mug whenever she was in the office. It was a comfort to her to know that every time she wanted something to drink, that mug was hers for the taking. She got used to how the ceramic felt on her lips, how the cartoon character would look back at her when she put down the mug, and how it fit perfectly on the coaster at her work station.

 

Bottom line is, she loved that mug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But then, all was lost when the fire nation attacked….

 

 

 

 

 

Err…..wrong line.

 

 

Ehem…

 

 

 

 

But then, the mug was lost when the fire nation attacked.

 

 

 

 

What fire nation? There was no fire nation. Someone obviously took it. It wasn’t that big of an office and everyone knew that was her mug. When she says everyone, she means everyone!!! Even the boss knew better than to use her mug. It was her mug! Who would take it?

 

She would not take this quietly. She conducted investigations. Questioned suspects. Interviewed potential witnesses. No person was left un-spoken to, no stone nor file left unturned. She was going to find her mug. It was her mug!

 

When she said no person left unspoken to, she meant it. The cleaning lady, the man who occasionally came in to spray for termites, the computer technician who came in twice a year also got a call from her. She even asked That Woman.

 

They had never gotten along, those two. For some reason, they could not find a co-existential equilibrium. There was never a particular outburst or outright argument, but they had a sort of cold spat going on.

 

I’ll spare you the suspense. She never found that mug. Try as she did, she never found that mug; and soon she found herself (in no particular relation acknowledgeable to her conscious self) moving on to a different company; sans-mug.

 

She had other mugs, but they never quite meant to her what that first mug did. It was her first workplace, and that mug came to be a symbol of her landing her first job. But it was gone. She had to move on. Eventually, she found herself changing jobs yet again. Whether or not this was a result of her not having that mug in her possession, no one will ever know. Fact is, mug wasn’t with her anymore. Fact also is, she had changed jobs twice afterwards. Whether those two fact had any correlation to each other is entirely for the assuming mind to concoct.

 

Fast forward to the present day, she is at work, scrolling through her News Feed.

 

 

 

And she sees it.

 

 

 

 

Her mug.

 

 

 

 

THAT mug.

 

 

 

 

HER MUG!!!!

 

 

 

 

It was right there, in the hands of…………………………………………

 

 

 

 

 

 

……………………………….

 

 

 

 

 

……………………………….

 

 

 

 

……………………………….

 

 

 

 

 

That Woman.

 

 

 

 

But how?

 

 

 

 

She had asked, and That Woman had said no, she didn’t know anything about the disappearing mug. But here it was, That Woman was holding it, smiling at the camera as she took the selfie with her mug.

 

 

 

 

 

They weren’t even friends! As in, Facebook friends. They had initially been friends, but after cold-spatting each other on social media whilst they were colleagues made some sort of distorted sense, she felt that after she quit that job she had best remove That Woman from her friend list; and she did! So how did this atrocious selfie with that incriminating piece of evidence creep up onto her Facebook?

 

 

 

 

Some say it was the stars aligned.

 

 

 

 

Some say it is the hand of truth and justice.

 

 

 

 

Some say it is an act of God.

 

 

 

 

Some say, it is Facebook’s shitty privacy settings that put your pictures onto unfriended people’s News Feeds just because a mutual friend commented on it.

 

 

 

 

 

Choose to believe whichever you wish.

 

 

 

 

Easily said, she was quite pissed to see her beloved mug in the hands of all people, That Woman. What was she, taunting her with that picture?

 

 

 

 

Imagine that all these years, That Woman had kept away that mug, waited for her to quit, then when she least expected it, posted this taunting photo of herself with that stolen mug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Evil?

 

 

 

Attempt #2

Too much lemon essence (perhaps shouldn't have put in any at all)
Not enough corn starch.
Still a bit too sweet.

Random VII

....and what makes you think it is acceptable for you to stand behind me and watch?

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No, I'll pass on the cup-full of drama; thank you very much.

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Please don't ask me of these things. There are certain responsibilities that I choose not to hold.

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Oh, so to the man you can smile, eh?

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They were soggy. I don't like them soggy.

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It's hard not to be judging when I observe so many people who dress such as yourself to have children who misbehave such as your child is right now.

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.....and those fathers who take pride in having wives that "keep the children out of their hair"....

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When people offer you food, either politely decline (if the condition permits) or say thank you. DO NOT mention that "oh, it's not X Brand? Hmmm...".

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The dog that was shoved under the seat and subsequently covered in vegetables.

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....and the trigger was some mention of Portugal in the World Cup...

My favorite color is blue.

In the distance, I know you are there. Maybe not now, but I haven't written it off just yet. No, I will not dismiss it. Have faith that it is possible. Please don't give up.