Nothing

Phillip and Toi complained to me yesterday that they are very sick of reading my zen shit. After all, they know that I am a cuckoo alibaba freak in real life so nothing zen that comes out of me resonates with them.

So now I am under pressure to write some lame stuffs just to appeal that mass. Yeah, mass is the right word. Mass makes me think of Phillip and Toi’s bellies. They even have their own names. Phillip’s one is called Polly just because Polly sounds like a very fat irritating old lady (like him). Toi’s is called Wilson. Have you watched Cast Away when Tom Hanks was stranded on an island and his only friend is Wilson the Volleyball? Well, we were at a beach a couple of years ago when Choon came running towards me ala David Hasselhoff style and as he ran, he lifted his shirt to take it off. I found myself suddenly face to face with a large, white, firm round ball where his mid-section is supposed to be. I screamed, “OH MY GAWD. IT’S WILSON!” and ran the other way.

So Phillip, Polly, Toi and Wilson all think that I should write about something less zzz. True. That explains why sometimes I fall asleep typing. So today I am going to write about – nothing. I will not think about sentence formation, structuring or making sense. Uh-ah. Girlfriends, this will be as raw as it gets. (Who's Zzzz-ing?)

Lets start with the fact that I am quarantined by the alibaba doctor I saw this afternoon who thinks I should be socially responsible and stay at home even though I am fine and bouncing off walls. I let off a string of hokkein when I saw what the quack wrote on my MC. Now that it is on record, I cannot feign ignorant and go back to work. So I rang The Boss and told her the news. Minutes later, she sent me a work email where she referred to me as Miss Quarantine. At least she has a sense of humor.

I called Dailytoe shortly after to announce that since I have to work from home, I need a chair. Because the one I was sitting on is rickety and it feels like I am going to end up on my ass on the floor if I so happen to hit the keyboard just any slightly harder. I was wailing into the phone at her. So, she said she is bringing over a chair.

Next, Toi called. I decided to answer it and he went on and on and on and on about how I didn’t pick up his calls for the past week. I said I didn’t feel like it. He called me a biatch and then asks if I am still alive. I croaked that Toe is bringing over a chair and that I think she has some drama stories to share because she just got a new tattoo and she didn’t feel any pain so obviously the pain within must have been stronger. Because he is a queen who cannot resist sob stories, he insists that he is coming over too.

I sms Toe to say that Toi is coming over for gossips sake and that she should buy food for us while she entertain us with her sob stories. So she came with 1 chair, 1 box of mushroom, 1 box of caprese, 2 lasagnas and 1 bottle of wine. She lugged it all up the stairs by herself. And she whined, “Why everytime I come over here I am bringing so much shit for you?!!?”

Long suffering friend, that one.

Her stories are actually rather entertaining. And tragic of course. When Toi and me finish rolling on the floor, I wanted to high-five Toi over something quite clever that I said. (Really quite clever wan!) I raised my palm at him but he recoiled in horror. “I don’t want to touch you! You sick!!” he squealed.

TMD. Potong steam.

Next, it was Toi’s turn to regale us with tales of his new lover who wanted to buy him an oven so that Toi can eat roast beef.

“I ask for roast beef and he wants to give me oven! What the fuck!!??”

Toe said her ex boyfriend also bought her an oven once. Costs $800. She used it 5 times. Which means each use costs $800 divided by 5. And it can’t be used anymore because everytime she turns it on, it trips the power supply in her alibaba house.

Nobody bought me an oven before. But somebody bought me a coffee machine which worked for about 10 cups of coffee before it died. That is about $50 per cup.

I don’t know why Toi felt it was necessary to tell us, but he told us that when he was in high school, he took part in one of those talent competition and won first place. He performed Smooth Criminal. The Toe and I got curious and we ask him whether he can moonwalk. He said can, but he needs a pair of socks. So I got him a pair. His moonwalk cannot make it. Looks like MJ got drunk and is stumbling home.

So he danced and sang Dirty Diana instead. And he proceeded to clutch his crotch and yowled.

And you wonder why I can’t sleep now….