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

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

I miss being six!

Diary entry 12th Feb, 2015 : Just happy I miss being six. Don’t you all guys? Then we had real friends, real toys (we didn’t play around with ladies’ emotions), real presents on NewYear’s and X-Mas (these days I just accept the gifts you peeps tag me on B’Days on FaceBook) and wait, we could … More I miss being six!

Where do all the missing socks go?

I think human memory is quirky, complicated, and unreliable. I have a problem with socks. I never remember what, where, why and how. They’re always an odd number; meaning there’s always a pair that misplaced the wifey or hubby. Yet, where do all the missing socks go? Sometimes, in my life, I have this feeling that I’d like to go there and stay there forever. I … More Where do all the missing socks go?