Incoming and Ongoing

I seat myself on the couch with a steaming hot cup of coffee on my hand, my eyes following the vapour rolling out to keep my head from exploding as my brain fires away a plethora of exuberant thoughts.

He’s not wrong for calling you nuts.

I set my lips in a thin line and mutter to myself, “Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.”

Up until today, he thought you had a few screws loose but now he’s certain that most of your screws have fallen off or been discarded.

I roll my eyes at my overenthusiastic thought process.

It isn’t a lie.

I do have a few screws loose but that has nothing to do with my most recent breakup.

I just. . . . I didn’t find him endearing anymore.

The little habits that I used to adore has begun driving me crazy with annoyance.

The way he likes to call me “Boo” makes me feel like “poo” instead. His watchful eyes following my each move, which I once found extremely attractive, only rattles my nerves now. The insistence in his voice to try out things like oyester –of all things– makes me want to stab his eye out because I believe like he’s trying to change me.

He had to go before I ended up going along with my homicidal urges.

I open up my phone to see a picture of myself looking away from the camera with a cup of green tea.

I look down at my warm coffee and have another thought.

Green tea streak over, huh? Are we starting a coffee streak now? I thought it lowered blood pressure, caused anxiety and disrupted your sleep schedule? No longer care about that?

I huff and sip my cup of caffeine before hissing as it burns my tongue.

At least, now a few taste buds will be spared from the misery of your ever-changing food habits.

I sneer at my phone before deciding to scroll through my images to scour for a new wallpaper.

This was a huge mistake, I find myself later realising.

The first burst of white that entered my vision was the cluster of images taken during my ski trip to Courchevel. The blinding white snow left me blinking before my eyes adjusted to the light blue ski suit that I sported in most of the selfies that whole month.

Another short-lived interest, huh?

I scroll down, not wanting to entertain my depressing train of thoughts.

The next bunch was of the animal rescue I worked at for three weeks in Central London. I remember putting a stop to my volunteering after a puppy I helped rescue died from an irrevocable infection.

Because all the animals apart from him weren’t worth it. . .

I reminisce the smile, coated heavily in grief and sorrow, that one of my work colleagues gave me when telling me of his passing away.

“I can’t go through this again,” I recall muttering when I walked out of the shelter.

I shake my head before the puppy’s face is revived from my memory where it has been embedded forever.

My finger moves the screen down just to present to me the multitude of screenshots that I took of this interior design board on Pinterest.

Involuntarily, my head moves up for my vision to settle on the half gold-painted wall on my right.

The idea was to completely cover it in gold before drawing the outline of a phoenix on whose wings would be hammered golden planks dubbed as shelves.

Unfortunately, I had initially bought too small a bucket of paint to cover the entire wall.

When the paint finished, I, like the amateur I was, discarded the bucket without taking an image of the code it came with. When I revisited the shop, I realised there were way too many shades of gold for me to choose from.

Harsh epiphany, huh?

“Why on Earth are there so many versions of the same colour?” I remember asking the shop keeper who stared at me like I was some sort of a lunatic on loose.

Not too far from the truth.

I ended up buying the wrong shade which didn’t blend correctly with the already painted bit of the wall.

The idea of one half being one shade and the other half being another didn’t bode well with me.

So, you quit.

So, I quit.

I almost hear an exasperated sigh in my head as I decide to discard the memory to the “Irrelevant Pile” and move on.

In the next litter of pictures, I come across my sister’s wedding pictures that got synced into my gallery.

The pictures that I took.

At that month, my ongoing hobby was photography.

I had convinced my engaged sister to allow me to take her wedding photographs. It took a while to get her onboard but her resolve was diluted when she saw the pictures that I took during my visit to France that month.

As expected, the wedding pictures were effortlessly breathtaking.

To be fair, it wasn’t just my mad photography skills but also the married couple’s photogenic-ity.

When my sister saw the photos, she was undoubtedly amazed.

I like to believe it was because they clicked one another’s pictures and they were exceptionally horrible with a camera, making her accustomed to grotesque images that hurt my eyes.

But, of course, being the caring older sister that she is, Ellie took an interest in my lack of stability in professional life and attempted to coerce me into making a career out of photography.

Maybe, that was what got you to abandon the camera all along.

I scoff to myself.

I know that is untrue.

My sister’s advice had little to do with my hobby-switch.

Finally! Acceptance!

I roll my eyes.

It was just my Borderline Personality Disorder again, making me swap my interests quicker than my womaniser of a brother could swap lovers.

I sigh into my caffeinated drink, noticing how it has gone cold. I drop my phone on the couch and turn on the television.

The first channel that pops up is featuring an artist painting a mermaid on a canvas.

I lean forward on my seat.

I watch the smooth brush strokes that appear each time his hand stops for his eyes to admire the work.

Another incoming hobby?

My thoughts begin whirring inside my skull.

The nearest paint shop was Mrs. Perkins’, a ten minutes walk from my apartment. Two shops from that is another that sells the best canvases in the neighborhood. I received my monthly paycheck two days ago so I can get them all at once and pay for a cab to bring all my newly acquired equipments home.

I slap my palms together in excitement.

I think I just found myself a new hobby.