I feel totally unholy now, ’cause even though I remembered “No Bible, No Breakfast” (self-explanatory) from Rhema, I worked at Thai Express today and promptly felt like killing Bobo today, and the Bible says that if you feel like doing anything it counts as you having DONE it. Oh, I wish.
Bobo (his real name, Steven, has been changed to protect his identity) is one of the guys in the white polo tees, obviously denoting a superiority to that of us lowly minions in unfashionable orange V-necks. And he likes to micro-manage! “Matthew first you take the ice from there *points to the only visible place where ice is kept*, then you pour the water *points to the tap – uh, I mean, well-preserved store of imported distilled water*“. Which would be tolerable if he actually remembered my name, but NO, most of the time it’s “Jeremy” or “boy” or “eh”. Basically it’s really hard to do my job if someone else thinks he can do it better than me, by just shouting out the most obvious instructions ever. And he proceeded to make use of his corporate seniority in every way possible. “Next time go out, must inform manager!” – this after I stepped out for a moment to return a text.
And he can’t pronounce or remember numbers.
Bobo: “Eh, OIL-LIVE RICE WHAT NUMBER?”
Kitchen help: “25!”
Bobo: “Okay.” *proceeds to get sauce for the rice* “Oh crap, I forgot the number. OIL-LIVE RICE WHAT NUMBER? SORRY!”
Wait, I don’t get it. How could anyone pronounce olive as “oil-live” and still have a shred of self-esteem?
Which just proves how hard it is to love someone, I guess. I think ever since I petitioned God for more love I have had more. I’ve been talking to people working in Thai Express more than I probably would have a few years back, because I’m really uncomfortable with talking to people I don’t know, let alone getting their numbers in the hope that I might save some. But no matter what my love is CONDITIONAL. It’s like, I could bring myself to love someone who speaks okay English and carries an okay conversation, but sometimes it feels like instead of praying for Bobo’s soul all I feel like doing is ripping his stupid centre-parting hair out of its sockets and pouring Green Chicken Curry on his ass.
It’s evil, but you have to admit, it sounds fun.