Sunday, 29 May 2011


His fat little boy hand clutched the stick of gum. It had grown soft and malleable from the combination of sweat and heat radiating forth from his plumpness. He shoved it into his fat little boy mouth as saliva permeated this sweet morsel. Later that day he choked to death. Gum was his demise.

The young gentleman with side swept hair was a layered individual. He wore an unpresuming dress shirt done up to the highest botton. On top of that was a demure sweater. They all hated his many layers and I called him up to tell him so. Maybe if he wasn't so robotic.

Habits formed in him habitually. And he couldn't break them as easily as one would hope. They called him Habit Harry, and rightly so. He was always bogging the rest of us down. He cleared his nose nine times daily. It was a habit of his. I found it got in the way of my quiet time.

Someone once told me to always be prepared in life. How could I? I carried a pink casket of mace everyday and never used it. One night at dinner I realised my meal was lacking a kick. My cupboards were bare. I thought of the spicy liquid that had been sloshing around in its coffin for years, underutilized. I thought maybe the worst thing one could ever be in life was underutilized, and so I donned a mask. I lightly misted the dish and then sprayed a little more. Perhaps it had lost its gusto with time. And with one bite it felt as if I had been punched in the back of the throat by the robust leg of a kangaroo. How should one prepare for that? 

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