Mindless

An overworked grump I've always been - and possibly always will be. That is unless I finally get my own little House of Dreams complete with sexy workaholic husband and two orphaned Third-World kids - whereupon as you all know by now, I shall quit my low-paying job to morph into a desperately content housefrau who DIY reupholsters the living room sofa, paints the fences and bakes the perfect chocolate chip cookies to the green-eyed envy of his frustrated neighbours.

Till that fateful day when I finally trade in my scrubs, I still have my little pet peeves that number in the hundreds. Tardiness remains at the top of that chart and it's one of the things I find absolutely unforgivable. An unwavering respect for punctuality has been resolutely ingrained in me by my strict mama - hammered into my skull is more like it - and despite the occasional slip-ups ( sometimes due to no fault of mine since critically ill patients never seem to keep to a regular schedule! ), I've always tried my level best to keep my appointments. With all the clocks at home obsessively adjusted to five minutes earlier than the norm, coming late has become as rare an occurrence for me as a midnight fire-sale in Louis Vuitton. Always strikes me as ironic that those who stay the closest frequently arrive last, mouthing inane excuses that only makes me grit my teeth to stop myself from delivering a Five Fingered Fist of Death.

Although I shouldn't judge everyone by the same hellacious depths of anal-retentiveness, impatience has always been one of my besetting sins and the devil in me tends to sprout horns when tardiness makes an appearance. Fortunately for the continued existence of mankind as we know it, the devil's horns are balanced out by my patent inability to speak especially when I'm in a mindless rage. Articulation and speech flees my mind when naked fury possesses me and it's all I can do to string a couple of words together into a complete sentence since my mind's filled to the brim with maniacal Mephistophelian plots for the tardy perpetrator. Quite a relief since otherwise, the world would be full of unwitting victims slashed to ribbons by my careless tongue.


Planning world domination!
Even seemingly invincible Big Bicep Barry wasn't spared from my garbled, unintelligible fury today. Since his aging cellphone was apparently throwing the technological equivalent of a hissy fit ( most likely post menopausal ), he found himself unable to reply to the urgent trio of SMSes that I shot at him when he was unaccountably delayed.

Barry ( breathless ) : Hey, sorry I'm late.
Paul : Grrrr...
Barr : Hope you don't mind but I got caught up with a client and I had to finish up my...
Paul : Grrrr...
Barry : Hey, you okay? I'm terribly sorry.
Paul : I am okay. No worries.
Barry : Well, you look a bit pissed.
Paul : I AM NOT ANGRY. And the smoke rising from my head is just CGI.

I could have sworn I almost bit off my tongue ( and obviously I never said that last line out loud though I could have sworn I mumbled it out ). Fortunately even as I felt the irreversible change descending upon me like some evil malignant cloud, I realized that Barry certainly didn't deserve the wrath of my dark side descending upon him and managed to restrain myself from committing any unforgivable deeds. Still, I really was this close to leaping at him with fangs bared - not sure whether it was to viciously rip out his throat or to gnaw gently on his boner however. Perhaps it was a little bit of both.