Conversations with Grey

She doesn’t think very often.

“Where is the CN you asked me to type just now ar?”
“It’s with me. Why?”
“Oh, is it signed?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, okay. Can I have it?”
“Uh, I need it to refer for an invoice I’m typing later.”
“But I need it too.”
“For what?”
“I want to do filing and send it to the customer his copy.”
“Do it after CNY lah. You do the filing now also no point, it won’t be posted till a week later.”
“But I need to do the filing and others now.”
“But I need to refer the details for the invoice. Filing is not important cause you need to send out the invoice that I’ll be typing, with the CN next week.”
“I need to do it now. I don’t want to come back after CNY and think.”

Ms. Dimwitt seldom thinks. She confessed herself. She doesn’t want to think after CNY. Not like she thinks very often even before CNY lah. Good for her. After she said the last line, I actually gave her the benefit of doubt, that she hasn’t finished her sentence. Maybe she wanted to say, “I don’t want to come back after CNY and think…

… about this frustrating customer because he’s an ass.”
… what to do next because the filing of CN is quite tedious.”
… what I’m gonna have for dinner later.”

But nope. She just didn’t want to think. Period.

My dad already said to me in a very direct manner, although without meaning it, to tell her not to show up anymore. I wished so bad he meant it. It’ll make my life easier. It’ll save me precious time not having to listen to her recite the notes that she’s written in front of me, each and every word like I have ADD. And she writes a LOT of notes. Her notes all end up in my dustbin after one recital from her and one glance from me. She expects me to keep her notes for reference because she’ll come running to me again sometime later, asking me if I still have her notes. I usually just look at her and with a straight face, tell her that anything given to me by her, that is smaller than five by five inches will end up in paper heaven, i.e. my dustbin, or worse, paper hell i.e the shredder.

She came running to me earlier, with a piece of paper with a note attached, telling me what she’s going to do with the piece of paper (i.e. post it out), and the note says that the paper need to be posted out. I asked what does that (the paper and note and her job of posting it) has got to do with me. She said she needed to tell me so I won’t throw that paper with the note away when I see the paper on her table tray. I told her, I’m not an idiot and I don’t throw papers on her table tray. If I did, I would have thrown away the entire tray, not just one paper with a note on it that says “Need to be posted, do not throw.” Besides, I don’t go near her place unless I really REALLY have to.

Fuck shit. She’s fucking 40 years old for fucks sake. She’d be better off in a nursing home with prescribed medicine for mild dementia. Dammit.