Morning athletics pre-Halloween rundown award ceremony.

I woke up this morning and I had a mild freak out session because it felt a little too late to be 8 in the morning. It was only about half a minute later then I realised that it’s the usual “what time is it? It’s late, I’m damn sure of that” feeling that comes from going to sleep at 4 a.m. Maybe it’s my highly attuned sense of guilt or maybe it’s the fact that I’m have to work, whatever it was, it stoked my guilty conscience to an enviable high. Yet, that wasn’t the reason why I freaked out.

Now I pride myself on being quite the proficient fothermucker when it comes to performing the comedic, ‘upright jolt’ manner of waking up. I don’t do it often because firstly, I don’t fancy the subsequent head rush. Secondly, this strange houseffice in which I dwell just doesn’t seem like the type of place where one would nonchalantly segue from post-awakening drunkenness to an early morning display of below average athleticism. Then again, why think of a challenge and turn it down?

In the previous post, I was involved in a similar situation, one which involved me and a bed/mattress. Carrying that out was easy. I was the projectile and the movement involved was fairly academic. One motion; jump upwards in a diagonal direction and let gravity work itself. Icarus never got the memo from his father and I don’t think I ever will unless I decide to unleash my talent in his presence. Even though I could still hear the reverberating thud in my head as a result of my indistinguishable silhouette hitting the floor that night, I still psyched myself into feeling on edge. I can do this, I’m three weeks away from turning 23 and I am fairly in good shape.

I shot upright from the floor, I passed the point of no return, and I was in mid air. I landed perfectly on both feet. The perfect dismount, all the judges gave me a 7, at the lowest. Suddenly I felt a numbness in my left knee and I tumbled down into the wooden backrest of the chair in front of me; chest first. I recoiled in pain and in the midst of a groan and laughter fit; I’ve found that comedy is tough and painful. Needless to say, I will now use beds and mattresses in the conventional manner and for its conventional purposes.

I was in the bathroom doing bathroom related activities which isn’t just limited to cleaning oneself. I happen to strongly advocate soaping as a highly sensual motion, you’re caressed, you’re rubbed with scented liquids all over, you moan and you make cum faces into the mirror. But of course this not being my comfort zone, I decided not to soapsturbate myself this morning. I come out of the bathroom and I let out a girlish yelp and this is the reason why I felt a sense of urgency all morning, I thought I had missed Halloween!

This is the month of October and in my restricted knowledge of this sugar induced dress up fest, I actually thought that Halloween was on the 18th but it was an end of month festival. Why was I so concerned with Halloween? Did I have a specific reason to care about it? Had I a costume prepared for this newfangled, once a year celebration of silliness? Not really. My only immediate concern was that I had missed out on the chance to fully lambast what a painfully ridiculous event Halloween is. Especially in Malaysia and if only in Malaysia.

Around the western world, it’s a highly visible and profitable day, children count their candy revenues, and novelty stores sell record amounts of cosmetics and costumes. That is fine and dandy. But here in Malaysia you have to look at it a wee bit differently, we don’t have a history of ever celebrating Halloween, as far as I know there is no festival that’s remotely parallel to the complex inner workings of Halloween. Then again there are things which I hold dear to my cholesterol filled heart and there’s a certain reward to being fair minded to other people’s beliefs.
So carry on, put on your make up, smear your mother’s lipstick all over yourself and go out there and beg for candy, just stay away from those melamine filled ones. Oh and if you’re above the age of 12, just know that the line that divides childish aloofness and what I like to call “the desperate and shambolic attempt to look acceptable” is a very fine line. Come to think of it, even the age of 12 is pushing it already. Just make sure your mother doesn't know about your selfish plundering of her lipstick...and her undergarments as well. Whoops.

Yesterday I tried to engage in small talk with my colleagues, now I suck at small talk, not because of the stuttering or my uncontrollable drooling. I am terrible at small talk because I don’t stay within the confines of the topic, you ask me about the weather and I’ll tell you of the watery, sour smelling wart I found between my toes.

Speaking of which, I just turned down a free lunch with them. Stupid. I realise that my blogging during office hours is a disreputable use of employment time. Go ahead, say your tsks, scoff at the edge of a cliff, shake your heads and compare me to a civil servant but this is the lunch hour. Sometimes I think of award worthy situations, best sneeze or most enthusiastic fart. I’m a person who is foursquare for melodrama and I always thought that if there is an ever an award for Most Overzealous Reaction, I’d win it in a heartbeat.

Either that or a drill sergeant but I’ve not enlisted, I might, I might not. However the idea of spending copious amounts of time with lots of men doing manly things and engaging in manly talk is something which is hard to refuse.

Yet the one man panel has agreed in unison that the Most Overzealous Reaction award goes to Madam Loud Lady. Old people will lecture us every now and then, old people find it hard not to impart their sagacious advise unto the younger generation. But most old people have the tact and wisdom to engage in one sided repartees within the confines of what they know. You however, Madam Loud Lady are so ruthlessly out of line that we, I, hereby recognize your outstanding contributions to condescension and bestow you with the inaugural Most Overzealous Reaction award.

Two plus two equals five isn’t without its merits.

Have a good morrow y'all.