Winks

Mr. S.O has since returned to the phone lines. And at this point in time, all the Telco companies should rejoice and cheer. Start to orchestrate a grand plan for the company dinner celebrating the return of that cheesy couple. My phone juice now drains at the speed of a raging torpedo and the need for a hands-free home phone kit is becoming to be attractive. Extremely attractive.

Mr. S.O is not that interesting. And I am not that needy. That is the awful honest truth. As a child, I used to look at grown-up couples on the public transport and note that they talk far less than they should. And I did the cross-the-heart-and-hope-to-die thing that when I finally meet someone whom I trust to love me more than I trust myself to love myself, I would do more talking than that. Now that I have achieved the first half, I realize there is no way that the second part can be fulfilled.

Do some math with me. Assuming that a person meets SOMEONE/ANYONE at the age of 20. And with 20 accumulated stories/event per year of life, one is only endowed with a measly 400 stories. And assuming that each story takes a day to tell, that would only be entertainment enough for 400 days, which is essentially a year and 1 month; or 2 years and 2 months if a break was taken every other day. And so on and so on. Effectively, couples may stop talking about the past about 3 years into the relationship because everything there know have been picked out of their brain, dissected, put together and dissected again.

Unless of course there are external events. –winks-

That is by the way not a dirty wink. That is a wink that is reserved specifically for a certain special person. Dear friends and wayward readers, this is the part of the post where I turn into the darker side and metamorphosis into a psycho. Most people bestow upon their housemate(s) glamorous name like X or any of the other 25 alphabets that is deemed fitting but I like to call him the wink.

Wink was the reason I had stories to tell, so I should begin with a respectful bow for wink, the only person who introduced conversation into my otherwise boring life. And it may be amazing enough that I will be saying this (you might feel the urge to suddenly go pee in your pants) but wink can be a very considerate and cautious person. Entertaining and helpful at times; I am, in a way, glad to be sharing a place with my dear wink.

This warm fuzzy gladness that surround the glow of my presence is however fast dissolving. I lose my halo when I am deprived of sleep. I turn into the mother of monsters when I lie in bed, kept awake by insignificant measures of nonsense that can be curbed with a little more effort and consideration. And when wink and winkers (read: friends) do not bother to keep their voices to a minimum while discussing their lofty plans to take over the world at 1am, that is when I lose it.

Because our relationship is not one bound by love or friendship, my mind went into over-drive. I wanted to grab some great big slimy hell-of-a-fish and slap the inside of wink’s thick skull while I scream WINK!!! I fantasize about having one of those large solid steel centrifugational rotors that I may use to take a swing at wink’s face with. I wanted to run wink over with winks’ car, anticipating the headlines that read ‘WINK RAN OVER BY WINKO’.

So I confer with my personal board of Elmos, make constipated expressions that can only be telling of the circumstances that I am in. Speed-dial Mr. S.O at the very next available timeslot and begin telling the whole crazy monster of a story from MY SIDE. Filling in blanks with MY tinted shades. The poor thing of a man had to coax me into restful peaceful sleep, which took him hours and no less. Because, friends and wayward readers, I was still geared up to smear Bolognese sauce on wink’s door because I HAD TO LET HIM KNOW HE IS A BLOODY ASSHOLE.

The haze of today. It follows me. I melt latex gloves onto my hand. Glide around dazed and teary for sleep. Steer away from anything grandly expensive since I cannot afford to break them. Stay at where there is someone to catch my oversights. 2 and 2 become 9. And ‘sorry, what did you say?’ became my pet phrase. Twitter my thumbs and do zone out moments that see me going into a psychedelic world of rainbows.

Damn you wink, you chased away my sleep with your endless platter of nonsense wasting your precious calories that you could otherwise utilize.

So that is the story of wink.

My splendid summary:

1) A wink will forever be a half of a blink.

2) Wink can be turn into a story. Or even stories!

3) And a story; is powerful. It keeps you from becoming that silent couple on the transport system. And it keeps the Telco chugging away and the internet moving. The words coming and the abuse going. It keeps the tiny little globe of the world turning.