Rat-routes …

When you think about it, most of the good inventions and innovations come along to make sin a whole lot easier, fun and faster. Rat routes must have been evolved by people who wake up late and have to dash to work to lie to their bosses how they were stuck in traffic. Smokers too. Let me narrow the scopes down to ‘weed smokers’. The rest have nothing to hide. Funny though; we short cut users know each other by name; at least a false one. … More Rat-routes …

Sit in a park

Is there a queue anywhere? Like at a soft drinks booth? Good! Join the queue. You don’t really have to buy anything. When you reach the end of the queue, just plonk to it’s tail and help elongate it. Sometimes just watching the world burn is what you need after all. I have a penchant for queuing and apologizing, especially when fueled by coffee from a hawker. I’m sorry. … More Sit in a park

Organ donation … and broken hearts

I’ve just eavesdropped a dialogue from the kitchen between Kelly and a visitor who’s left green crocs at the doormat. I’m not making this up. Fashion sense. Why green, though? Because green is the color of money, grass, oak leaves, and alien bombs. How the hell would I know why it was green? Anyway, she’s sobbing uncontrollably. She’s told Kelly, amid her spasms, that she’d given her heart to someone. The whole of it. And as if I haven’t heard enough, this dude broke it.

What? Heart. So people do that? Yes. Organ donation. … More Organ donation … and broken hearts

On being 25 …

Just two weeks ago, on Thursday, my clock ticked a quarter century old. I remember looking at the mirror expecting 25 to stare back; or traces of man-wrinkles beneath my eyelids and other fragile pieces of me. So it’s no fairy tale after all? Being 25? We all feel this way in our early twenties; … More On being 25 …

Goals …

  Cat: Where are you going? Alice: Which way should I go? Cat: That depends on where you are going. Alice: I don’t know. Cat: Then it doesn’t matter which way you go. Lewis Carroll,  Alice in Wonderland.

Tragedy at House No. 352

That’s why I’ll miss Otis. I’m sure his wifey never discovered our numerous escapades through breathalyzer checkpoints, completely unscathed by the law. Mark you, Otis was rarely home. I’ll long for the inebriated attempts to sing some golden country music such as “country road, take me home” that Otis did at the wheel; having arrived at the gate in one piece at 1 a.m. Most times he’d visit my quarters at the top-most floor the following day-break before wifey got up and leave me with the remnant oranges, lemons, gum and other chewables that were myriads attempts to drown the smell of alcohol that she loathed. “Mrs. Otis didn’t entertain edible paraphernalia in the house unless brought by her,” Otis often claimed. … More Tragedy at House No. 352