Delima Kasih

You won’t like me when I’m angry

Warning: This is one of the things that hurt. Children, please stay away: plink is not feeling well right now.

I have lost the plot. It is as if I have chosen to be angry. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep, but I must: in four hours, I will be back at work, training juniors.

Work was a shambles. The new teams, formed six weeks ago, were not working together. Juniors were struggling but not being supported by seniors. My uplines have noticed this, but seniors are still not helping. KNNXYZABC!

Another department asked me to talk to my boss about a matter that had absolutely nothing to do with him. Are these people stupid? Eat too much instant noodle, izzit? McBai, McHai!

When I’d finished work and was ready to go home, my upline gave an extra-complicated bit of work to do, “if you don’t mind.” Mind? Of course not; I only had five hours to eat, clean up and sleep before coming back to train people. After that, I would have to work normal hours summore. I’d be delighted, DELIGHTED YOU HEAR?

You donkey-molesting invader of dead fish! I hope your balls get scraped off in a public incident involving their being dragged behind a sportscar.

And you, who referred a problem to me that was manifestly NOT what you claimed it was. I knew from your description, your sorry excuse for technical fiction, that you were wrong. Either you were stupid or you LIED! Only common courtesy saved you from being branded incompetent with a hot iron. It’s a good thing I did not name you when you were born, or you would be called C.B. Loong a.k.a. J.B. Loong.

Moreover, when your idiocy was revealed, you had the gall to shrug it off as precautionary. A referral ‘just in case,’ you said. JUST IN CASE! You owe common courtesy your life once more: only the thought of the entire office puking their guts up stopped me from kicking your balls out through your nose.

I hope you’re hung up by the tits in some bizarre accident while indulging your many sick, twisted perversions. In public.

And you, who interfere in my love life just to distract yourself from the sorry state of your own: GO DIE! Whom I see is none of your business. Whom I fancy is none of your business. Your love life may be on permanent display, courtesy of your own exhibitionist tendencies, but mine is private. Go to the LRT station and find yourself a platform. Step up to the edge. Step again.

The person who parked your car across two spaces, please thank God we have laws. Otherwise, I would have lost my pen inside your private bits. It is my deepest desire that someone ‘loses' their pen inside you anyway. I also hope that the ink will poison you, leaving your corpse a disgusting blue colour that your undertakers would have to Liquid Paper out before burying you. I hope the mourners at your funeral wee themselves laughing at your unnatural coloration; the heavens know there won’t be much else to celebrate of your miserable life.

To the insensitive door-slammers who don’t care that I happen to work next to the office door, I propose a swap: your desk for mine. I hope your sanity cracks as surely as mine has. Who knows, you may yet work better than I can. On second thought, why bother? It would be easier to run a cheese grater over your private parts, dunk you in seawater, pull you out and grate again.

Wouldn’t that be just ‘grate?’

Lastly, the colleague who ‘wanted to get to know you better,’ kononnya. All you wanted were the resources from my project to start yours. When you got what you wanted, no more conversation. I hope you’re happy. Otherwise, the afternoon would have been a total waste of time. People like you give attractive folk a very bad name. For a moment, just one stinking moment, I believed that you meant what you said. Never again.

You need smacking in the face with a grand piano, until it plays a recognizable tune.

At times like these, I am thankful that I am not God. Inside of a week, I’d be the only person left on the planet….

posted by plink @ 7:02 am