Damn Ceiling Fan

Arggh. I simply dread going to bed at night.

No.

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I am not afraid of the boogeyman.

No.

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There is no horrible troll either on or under my bed. In fact, there is a Playmate handcuffed to the bed post.

It smells funny, my bed, that is. It’s not me. I smell good, like a baby fresh from a bath and sprinkled in Johnson & Johnson’s baby powder. All the time okay?

My bed smells funny, cos my room is like a furnace. It is like standing in the middle of the earth’s core, 1 million degrees centigrade kind of hot.

Thus.

I wake up every morning drenched in sweat. Really, really basah kuyup. T-shirt, shorts, lacy panties everything. Pillows sopping wet. My comforter is starting to grow some strange unidentifiable fungus. My mattress smells like a wet dog. The mattress and pillows are basically soaked through, thus, changing the covers and sheets won’t help with the smell.

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Who needs Richard Simmons when I can get a complete workout as I sleep eh?

On top of all that, my room window lacks grilles, mosquito screens and opens out to the glorious view of my neighbour’s dirty laundry. No breeze to cool or even air the room, then.

All I have to alleviate my misery is one useless cranky ceiling fan. It’s one of those fancy smancy remote controlled silverish thigamajigs that look good but functionally absofuckinglutely useless.

I’d settle for one of those rusty old kopitiam fans.

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2 Responses

  1. We should switch places. I need the ‘workout’.

    anttyk: Genting is heaven, man… Enjoy it.

  2. Hey old man, are u sure its the sweat because of room hot or u basah kuyup because of using your fingers too much… muahahahahaha…..

    cheers mate!

    anttyk: *speechless, shakes head*

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