To the BATMOBILE

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

a series of unfortunate (or not) events...

Ever since the onset of the flu, the presence of about a netweight of 4 kilos worth of phlegm in my lungs and/or throat has literally made my every living breathing moment sound like a century-old tractor starting up.

Determined to correct this, I set about using a myriad of methods to help solve my situation, ranging from the proven (religiously taking my medication), to others slightly more controversial (ingesting lozenges every few seconds - I consume about a tube a day). After consuming about the twentieth lozenge in the similar amount of minutes, I decided to resume my occasional jogs around the block to "clear the lungs" - so to speak.

Stripping off my clothes a la Full Monty style (I shall not go into more details), and donning a P.E. tanktop and my faithul, battered pair of rugby shorts, I must confess I did get distracted by the nearby mirror, as it beckoned me closer with alluring images of my biceps (product of the ACS(I) rugby teams new Gym programme). A good 20 minutes later, and 60-odd different poses later, I regained my composure and managed to maneouveur myself down the lift and outside my condominium.

"Clearing the lungs" would be the overstatement of the year, with each breath of supposed "fresh air" I took in being as healthy as sucking in cigarette smoke through a McDonald's straw (I hate McDonald's straws), provoking my mind with images of my lungs curdling and turning black. Swiftly losing hope and motivation, and that bloody voice (oddly enough, it sounded like my bus driver*) at the back of my mind reminding me that it was the Hungry Ghost Festival. Giving the looming shadows behind me a furtive glance, I proceeded to run the fastest 1.6km lap I ever had in my life.

Bursting back into my room, hoarse, and drowning in exhaust, I struggled through a quick prayer, settled into my favourite chair and waited for Death's sweet embrace. Minutes quietly ticked by until I actually noticed I had (Heavens no!) MSN messages waiting for me. Driving a sharp rock in between my ribs to revive myself, my trembling fingers manage to reply to the sweet dear girl who actually wanted to talk to me. That nearly made my day that did, despite narrowly escaping the clutches of several hungry ghosts (I always did say I looked the tasty sort) and surviving severe lung cancer. That was until I just found out through no part of mine, she was "married" (Happiness never lasts long for Butlerman). You win some, you lose some?

*My bus driver is not exactly the decent sort. He looks like someone with unhealthy sexual ambitions, the sort of person your Pastoral Care teacher always warned that you would turn into, if you masturbated too extravantly (in short, becoming your Pastoral Care teacher). Pardon the language, but that is as vivid a description I could sum up. We never did strike it off with each other, ever since I overheard him butchering a Jolin Tsai song/overslept pass the drop off point for the 50th time.

"Lets hope Butlerman gets over this girl now..."
TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 6:02 pm
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