Good responses at work.

RESPONSE 1
Earlier in the day
Boss: Can you take on this job?
Employee: Sorry, I’ve got tonnes of things to do.

Later on
Boss: Going home so early?
Employee: Yes, bye!
Boss: I thought you had tonnes of things to do?
Employee: Yes. Finished already.


RESPONSE 2
Manager: Last check please. Better not have any changes now.
Employee: Oh. But, now looking at it again, I think we need to move this here.
Manager: What??? You still want to cha-
Employee: I am not changing. I am improving. I cannot IMPROVE the work is it???

I feel like I’m slipping through your fingers.

You’ve done so much for me – not that I don’t appreciate it. I do. There is nothing better than to be right here, right now, with you. But there is one thing that eludes me. You know what I’m talking about. And I can’t get a hold of it. My problem isn’t that I desire too much, is it? It’s that I don’t desire enough. I don’t see further than whatever will satisfy this void quickly - and find out later just how it dissipates just as quickly. Save me from myself.

Creative are like the stereotypical stay-at-home wife.

We sit all day in the office, cleaning out briefs and ironing out the irritating little kinks that shouldn’t need to be fussed over, but we still do. We spend hours baking up ideas that sometimes come out a little half done. But hey, you can never know how these things turn out till they come out of the oven. So much care put into everything to give the husband an extra edge in his ‘big meeting’. Then wait all day for him to come home to eagerly ask “How did it go?”

How you know your boss has too much to do.

Her diary is an ugly battle zone.
Instead of brisk walking around, she now runs. In heels.
You have to book her time on a Sunday to show your work.
People who need to see her don’t wait at her desk anymore. They follow her around like flies.
Fights about who get to see her first start breaking out.
She starts scavenging for potato chips at 5pm. And that’s her lunch.
But just when you think the coast is clear, she’ll appear behind you and ask “What are you doing?”

“Hey, are you ok?”

It’s been a crap weekend. I had to come back to work and all. Not that I hate the work. I love the work. I just hate that I don’t get my weekend to do whatever I damn well please. So do forgive me if I’m a little bluer than usual and I brought it into the office with me today.

But that you asked, I am suddenly warmed from inside. Here I am, trying not to let my emotions dictate my day. But you saw beyond that and cared enough to add a little sunshine.

It’s been raining.

After a day of sitting in the office and going home late without dinner, it really does suck. But as I get in through the front door of my home, I start to think of ways to wind down. Take off my jeans and walk around in my underwear. Put the kettle to boil for a hot pail of water – more oomph that those Jotun showers, I think. Then a bottle of Bovril catches my eye. I had forgotten it was there. One teaspoon in a cup of boiling water. There’s nothing that warms the soul more.

A tribute to the black box.

You sat on that shelf, collecting dust and hair. You endured the prods from our toes when we were too lazy to get up and change the channels. You didn’t like that did you? So you zapped our fingers every time we dropped your antenna. We repented. And we tried to be more patient with you – sombrely waiting the 20 minutes you needed to warm up so we could see more than fuzzy RGB lines. But alas, you still decided to take your own life. A fall and a sickening crack. RIP.

About time!

Part seven.

It’s a cheap thrill, really. Like taking the spoons from an airplane, or grabbing extra packets of ketchup from McDonald’s, or bagging pink nail polish from a shop.

People give me withering looks when they recognise the logos on the tissues. Yes, it is rather grandmother of me. I admit. But it’s not stealing, and I’m not wasting trees. If I were to buy a box of tissues, I would still be using trees to wipe my snot. It’s just a question of where the tissues come from. Might as well get a thrill out of it, right?

Part six.

As we left through the door, I shamelessly grab another stack of tissues from the busy bar and walk out without so much as a glance backwards. We got to the car park where everyone could pull out their loot and combine it. Yep. That would be enough to last me for many more months.

But it wasn’t about the free tissues. I mean, how much could a proper box of tissues cost? It was the thrill of collecting it. Of doing it right under the noses of waiters as they thought we were playing a flirting game.

Part five.

The guy comes back with an alcohol-branded glass filled with all too few squares. Grab the tissues. Hide the glass. Ask again.

“Excuse me,” Making sure it’s not the same waiter. “Could we have more serviettes please.” A polite but urgent look.

Yet another glass with more serviettes. Grab them. Hide the glass. Ask again – making sure our table’s waiter was out of sight. You get the picture. And that went on till each of us had an empty glass to account for. So we paid and left the table looking like we had quite some to drink.

Part four.

Three months later, my car compartment needed replenishing. Trips to Starbucks and IKEA provided the much-needed supply of tissues. Unfortunately, they came in odd-sized oblongs. So I kept an eye out for those pristine white squares.

My diligence was rewarded at a local restaurant, where I was having dinner with a bunch of girlfriends one day. The service was good, but the tissue allocation for our table, terribly disappointing. There was barely enough to go round. So we took turns asking for more.

“Excuse me,” Not forgetting to smile sweetly. “Could we have some serviettes please?” Coy look.

Part three.

I was to meet up with some colleagues for a brainstorm. Many cups of coffee and hot chocolate later, we were ready to call it a day. As we got up to leave, I saw what would have been a waste of a couple of clean serviettes that would indefinitely find their way to the bin. So (rather wisely, I think), I took them with me. And helped myself to an inch more of the stack of serviettes near the counter. Nice, square, white tissues, all just the right size for the little compartment under my car stereo.

Part two.

No, I didn’t start shoplifting. But all it began when I’d bought my new car. It came littered with freebies, a box of tissues among them. They didn’t last long. And I kept forgetting to buy a new box. I couldn’t even remember to bring one down from the house.

So I’d have spilt some water on myself, trying to drink and drive at the same time. Or I’d have this sneezing fit because my tolerance for dust couldn’t compete with my laziness to vacuum the carpets. But no tissues.

I found a simple solution to my predicament.

Part one.

I’ve always been a good girl. I was always home before my curfew. Never tried smoking. Never got drunk. Seldom lied – always got caught when I did. Never shoplifted. So I could never really empathise with people who did.

Not that I judge them. But when I hear things like “I didn’t shoplift because I wanted to steal stuff. I just loved the thrill of it.” I cannot wrap my head around it. I don’t shoplift because it is wrong. What kind of thrill are you talking about?

I couldn’t understand. Till I picked up a certain habit.

I remember walking up a flight of stairs.

It was a wooden one, leading up to a hut in the middle of the jungle. Absent-mindedly, I reached out my hand and slid it up the railing beside me. It didn’t feel right. I looked and saw that I had just swiped my fingers through a mob of red ants. I screamed and started vigorously shaking off the ants that had tumbled on top of my hand and were already clinging onto my skin. A few more quick flings of my arm and I was safe from a very painful experience.

I see that thread again.

That blasted thread! I’ve already let go of everything I cared for. I look at them, all scattered on the floor. I've given up. But I’m left hanging by this thread that has become somewhat of an old friend by now. I’ve been here before. Why can’t I just snip it off? No strings attached. Like everyone else. But I can’t bring myself to. I know that it’s the very last thing that’s keeping me from falling. In fact, I should be grateful that it’s there at all. Not everyone has a conscience, it seems.

All it took was someone to believe in you.

To be able to see beyond the facades you unknowingly put up. To understand what your reactions meant. To care even though it hurt. Simply because no one else could. That’s just the way it is sometimes. Some people can. Some people can’t.

But one day, you will show us all that there is no glory in human judgement. You will rise higher than any of us could imagine. And we will marvel that what we once saw as foolish, will now show us how we were all the foolish ones.

Limited capacity can be a good thing.

There are some things that I just cannot measure up to others. I cannot do as great, handle as much, understand as well. I just don’t have the capacity. And I know it. That’s the weird thing about the brain – it’s complex enough to know that it’s not complex enough. That leaves me with the question of what I fill it with. When I realise I’m drowning in worries and self-doubt. I have to take a step back and fill it with bigger stuff till there’s no more space for the small things.

Knowing me is like eating cornflakes.

When all the new-fangled cereals are gone, it's there, shoved to the back of the shelf. Tiptoe to reach in a grab it. Pour it into a bowl, get a spoon, dig in and munch on it. Mindless chewing. Like a cow on grass. But it’s good old cornflakes as expected. If it gets too boring, add some milk, fruit or honey. They enhance the bland flavour a little. And if we dare get a little creative, cornflake cookies make a better treat. But other than that, what you see is what you get.

So I’m walking along.

I take good, long strides. Until I discover that there are more crossroads than thought. I turn left, I turn right, I ask for directions. Then I walk right into a wall. Wait a minute. I didn’t see that coming. Oh well. At least it eliminates one direction. So I get up and turn around. Behold! I see a wide open field in front of me. I walk. I run. And then I’m flying! Higher and higher. I can see everything below me. And ow! There’s a wall up there too. I crash down to earth.

The darkened living room felt so cool.

The bedroom could do with some of that. So I went in and threw open the windows. The breeze gushed in. No rain. No mosquitoes. Just the breeze. Perfect.

I was lying still on my bed and the wind just swept right across the length of my body, tickling my skin with light gusts of breath. And I thought to myself, of all the majestic glories of nature that the world has to offer, nothing touches me more closely than the wind. Like a father’s stroke on my back. Coaxing me to sleep.

Psalms 135: 7 - He brings the wind out of His treasuries.

I love my car.

He’s a tall, dark handsome one. With a fat ass. And winks at me every time I come near. We’ve encountered a couple of bumps and scratches so far. But that just makes me love him more.

Then there are others who join us on our journeys. On some of them, I discover something new about my car. How to push the right buttons. How to test the limits. And I gain respect for what he can or cannot do.

But I’m careful with who he meets. Don’t want him to be taken for a ride.

Couldn’t sleep.

Whatever that needed to be done is done now. The lights are off. My body finds a comfortable spot. My eyes shut out the skulking shadows. But my thoughts begin ping-ponging inside the cavity of my mind. All day, they had been pushed to the back lobes. But now, when there’s nothing else to distract my senses, they creep out like wary mice, looking to play. They wrap themselves around my head, gnawing at reason, suffocating my consciousness, till time is relegated to a darkened, distant haze. My conscience is rubbed raw. My will relents. My mind resigns.

All or nothing.

“I want all or nothing at all.”

But it’s got to start with something you want isn’t it? You want it so badly, that you can’t have nothing but. It’s got to be the absolute joy, complete satisfaction and brimming fullness of all.

Or nothing.

But nothing only becomes an option only when you can’t get all. After all, nothing means nothing without knowing what all means.

How do we come up with these things? We don’t. We’re just made in the image of someone, who in the same way, wants us all or nothing at all.

So many tiny little hands.

Desperately grabbing at the air, each desiring a different thing. All emerging from one bulbous, beating blob. In their innocence, they cry out for such seemingly simple things. So easy to satisfy.

I look at these hands and I pity them. They know nothing. I want to give every one of them what they want. But that’s just being foolish, so my grey matter tells me. “Their intentions are deceiving. Starve them all to death,” she says, “We’re better off without them.”

The heart knows no consequence. The head knows no compassion. And I’m confused.

In this world, there are no absolutes.

We feast on life, gorging on a buffet of mismatched ideals and beliefs. Who is to say what is better than the other? It’s what we desire after all. Variety. Colour. A taste of everything – anything we want. Unlimited to seconds. And thirds. And fourths. Every dish calls out to us “Take me, eat me! There’s more from where that came from.”

But in all the greed for tiny temporal satisfactions, is lost the beauty of simplicity, where lack of more creates a greater whole.

I’m losing hope. Who wants a whole anymore?

What’s on your plate?

“A fluffy mass of mashed potatoes with bits of skin inside, seasoned with a pinch of salt and some milk. Oodles of full-length spaghetti boiled to a chewy firmness and doused in thick tomato sauce – not from the can, but made from scratch with fresh tomatoes. Slices of French bread, spread with deep yellow butter and topped with crushed garlic, toasted till the edges are a crispy golden-brown and the garlic begins to give off a beautiful aroma. Oh, and a big slice of rich, moist chocolate cake on the side.”

“Carbs, carbs, carbs and carbs.”

I’ve had that sinking feeling for too long.

Paddle a little. Sink a little. Kick a little. Sink a little. Gasp for air and hold it in. I see the rays piercing the surface of the water. Cup the hands and give it all I’ve got. Up, down, up down. Flap. Flap. Flap.

Whatever. Drift. Sink. Sink. Sink. Eyes half-opened. I thought I could swim. But I guess not. I’m not going to try anymore. I give up. Boink! My butt hits the rocks at the bottom.

Hey. I’m heading upwards. Slowly. I’m going to get my breakthrough after all.

I feel restricted.

It’s for my own good, I tell myself. But now I find that I’m stuck behind my own fence. The great divide between yes and no. Unable to let myself go. I either stay behind it or I don’t. See less of what the world can offer. Or brave come what may.

But either way, I know I’ll still be subjected to the laws of the world. Of humanity. Of uncountable possibilities that are still only within natural reach. So restrictions or not, that’s not the point.

Instead, I have come to yearn for something far greater.

“Hey, I’m scared.”

“It’s ok. Here, hold on to me.”
“I don’t want to land up the others.”
“We won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Quick! Jump now!”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Offft!”
“We’re free!”
“Not just yet, dear.”
“It’s cold.”
“It will get colder.”
“How do you know so much?”
“Now, that’s something I don’t know.”
“How come I have to be the insecure, ignorant one?”
“Because I’m the assured, smart one. Wait. We’re moving.”
“How much longer now?”
“Just a bit. Hang on.”
“HAHAHAHAHA! Stop tickling me!”
“I’m not. She picked us off her shirt.”
“And away we go!”

I won’t admit it.

I’m constantly seeking security in life, as most women do. Not just in the big things like having a home or a husband, but in the seemingly insignificant things. Like toothpaste.

For some reason, I love having a full tube of toothpaste in the bathroom. Or a full roll of toilet paper. The bigger the better. If I could steal those industrial rolls in public toilets, I would. I even get a kick out of seeing the fuel bar hit maximum after a pump at the station.

I like knowing there’ll be enough, just in case.

Use it then lose it.

An ice-cold can of Coca Cola.
A condom.
A piece of Kleenex tissue.
Disposable underwear.
A PowerPoint presentation.
The Saturday newspaper.
Black garbage bags.
RM3 slippers from Bangkok.
Alkaline batteries.
Cooking oil.
A popsicle stick.
A plastic spoon.
Dental floss.
A quarter-chicken meal with coleslaw and fries.
A plaster.
Pyjama pants.
A paint brush.
Hot pink nail polish.
A coconut.
Good advice.
A parking token.
A trashy Hollywood gossip magazine.
Pocket money.
A birthday card.
A handshake.
A rain coat.
Friendship.

How do you decide what something is worth?

With how much you would give in return?
With what you want to keep for yourself?
Is it worth the money that you’ve slaved all day to earn?
Is it worth the time you could have given yourself?
Is it worth your heart’s desires? Your life?

What am I worth?
Do I know? Yes.
Do I understand? No, I don’t think so.
Do I love myself enough to die for myself? No, I don’t think so either.
Am I willing to die to self?
There must be something I’m not seeing here.

Passion?

Desire. Want. Pursue. Longing. Focus. Devotion. Camaraderie. Determination. Conviction. Purpose. Belonging. Outcome. Grow. Heart. Push. Try. Time. Stretch. Groan. Sigh. Grasp. Overwhelmed. Tired. Maintain. Trudge. Discouraged. Sustain. Choose. Bitch. Rage. Why? Fight. Stand. Realign. Rediscover. Decide. Cut. Pull. Weed. Strive. Criticise. Do. Act. Sleep. Wake. Stress. Think. Frustrated. Dilemma. Tug-of-war. But. Burn. Stop. Relent. Stop. Give. Stop. Rationalise. Stop. Excuse. Stop. Compromise. Stop. Hide. Shame. Question. Cry. Yearn. Numb. Detached. Isolated. Selfish. Dry. Desolate. Confused. Find. Read. Huff. Give up? Maybe. Fight. Fight. Fight. How? How? How? Believe. Still. Look. See. Know. Desperation. Resignation. Sniffle. Flood. Now what? Desire.

Friday.

Thank God it is.

The joy in anticipation of the weekend is now replaced with pure relief that the week is almost over.

“You know sugar cane? You put it through those rollers to squeeze out all the juice. But that’s not enough. You take it from the other end. And put it through the rollers again. Is that enough? No. You put it through again. That’s how I feel on Fridays.”

And the sweet juice? Given to someone else. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. There is goes. What’s left? The pulp that’s breaking apart. Dry and void of any use.

Somehow, somewhere, I’ve gotten myself this cut.

Don’t remember how. But it gives me this niggling pain. And it gets rubbed raw when I accidentally touch it.

So I put a plaster over it. Actually, I shouldn’t really, because I know it’s better to leave it out to dry. But it’s comforting to have that plaster there. A temporary shield from the harsh world. It lets me feel normal again. If only for a while.

But that plaster can’t stay there forever. I know it.

And when I need to peel it off. Boy, will it hurt. Again. Stupid me.

Know love.

It’s making me laugh.
It’s asking me “How are you feeling?”
It’s buying ice cream for me.
It’s seeing me cry.
It’s giving my feet a rub because they hurt from dehydration.
It’s calling me to find out where I am because I’m still not home.
It’s your touch.
It’s making me talk about myself, just because you want to know.
It’s asking the difficult questions.
It’s standing up for me.
It’s figuring out the puzzle of life together.
It’s knowing that I can call you when anything happens.
It’s knowing who God is.
Because God is love.

I’ve given myself away.

Sometimes as peanut butter on toast, to quell a hunger pang. Sometimes as gift-wrapped boxes that can spark many a smile, but contain nothing within. Sometimes as a single feather brushed under the soles of the feet.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as a mess of tangled yarn. Sometimes as a melting ice cube. Sometimes as a half-completed jigsaw puzzle.

I’ve given myself away. Sometimes as breakfast cereal to chew on. Sometimes as the view through a glass bottle. Sometimes as a ping pong bat.

He says that it is still not enough. Not just yet.

How do you choose an apple?

Well, you go to a supermarket then head for the pile of apples. Look for the reddest or shiniest ones. Press them to see if they’re crunchy. No telling yet if they are sweet.

Then you pick one. Pay for it. And bring it home.

You can put it in the refrigerator if you want. Keep it. Wash it. Peel it. Whatever.

But when you eat it, make sure you eat the whole thing. Core and all.

It’s not like you take a bite out of the apple and leave it at the supermarket.

There’s a box inside my head.

Every time someone asks what’s in it, I look inside and pull one thing out to show.

But each time I do, I am surprised that it looks different from when I put it in. Somewhat smaller. Then I stare at it. Turn it around in my hands.

Then somebody wants to see it too. Pry my fingers open to look at it. Prod it. Poke it.

And after all’s been said and done to it. I chuck it back in the box.

Thing is, what’s the box doing there in the first place?