January 15, 2010 § Leave a comment

I have found an amusing email rant I wrote some 10 years ago, while I was still living in Malaysia:

Dear Me, Queky, Big Boss, Senile-Old-Dino, Hantu, Cacats, Futtuteirus, Suvs, Ahteks, Weng, Kitt, Fooks, Changyen, & Kaipohsan,

limbo (lim/bo), m.,pl. 1. a place or state of oblivion to which persons or things are regarded as being relegated when cast aside, forgotten, past, or out of date. 2. intermediate inactive or neglected state.

The other meaning of it focuses within a region on the border of hell or heaven, but I thought ‘intermediate inactive or neglected state’ seemed more appropriate. Since everyone seems to have crawled into their lil hole of obscurity once again, there’s nothing like some absolute bitchin’ to kickstart the upcoming new month of June.

Seems to me that everyone who is currently in the working world really has gone to a place of oblivion – make that ALMOST everyone, unlike us, G is obviously working hard at pouring his little heart out. Not sharing his enthusiasm, I start my complaining.

First, I work at a crap place. When I step out of my car every morning, I walk through a barren land of filth and used condoms on the uneven surface of the dusty ground. I walk past the corner restaurant, trying not to fall into the grime-filled drain clogged with puke-coloured food ‘pieces and stuff’. I also try not to bump into the friendly neighbourhood madman, who occasionally sits in his wheelchair in the middle of the road waving his hands about and cursing innocent passers-by like myself. Most of all, I try not to get run down by big scary-ass buses who whiz by inches in front of me, forgetting that human life is rampant in that area.

A few doors away from the disease-ridden food stalls (the LOOK disease-ridden), I reach the clinic door, trying not to brush against the red blood-stained white tiled walls, which by now, is a brownish colour. We have to walk through the clinic, because although we have our own door, a group of drug addicts getting their daily fix doesn’t seem very professionally appropriate for anyone who is looking around for an architect’s office. So, our real entrance is locked, sealed and obsolete while we saunter upstairs through the clinic. But of course, we love the nurses downstairs because they occasionally feed us.

Once upstairs, I see our familiar haven’t-been-cleaned-in-ages carpet tiles and I plop my stuff down on the table, dreading the rest of the day, dreading to go to the bathroom through this scary-ass long corridor, dreading to look down the corridor which overlooks this scary-ass burnt-down building which has this scary-ass window with a creepy-looking aloe vera plant plonked in between ragged curtains and broken shutters. I would provide a more detailed story of ‘The Bathroom Light Which Suddenly Came On’, but I shall save the rest (tranvestites and all that) for another day.

Second, although being in this line surrounds me with men 90% of the time, unfortunately half of that come in the form of slimy-looking old pot-bellied contractors or nerdy-looking suppliers. The rest look like Phua Chu Kang.

Last, my mind has been feeling at a limbo. That’s my excuse for not writing. Is everyone else in limbo too? Ok, not so quiet anymore. I crawl back now.


Interestingly, as I read through that email, all the memories of my first job came flooding back to me, and it appears I have not lost any of my charming whinging qualities. Also, I seemed to like the word ‘scary-ass’ very much. I am ace.


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