let lemons be angry

Just as there is the Land of the Lost and Found, where lost handphones and maltese puppies named Snowy sit in wait for their masters to fetch them, there is the Land of the Forgotten.

It is a pleasant place, always the unmemorable Tuesday of the third week of the month. The sun never scorches and it never rains. Christmas cards from unfamiliar aunties decorate half the place; the other half is lined with comic strips that flopped in their first seasons. I like the people who live here. They don't expect anything of me, because nobody expects anything from them anymore. Occasionally an inhabitant of the Land of the Lost and Found is transferred here. They are miserable for the first few weeks, but eventually warm up to the pale weather and constant airplay of midi music. Because the forgotten learn to forget. We make friends slowly, like humans taming wild animals. We never talk about the past. I intend to stay here for quite some time, for I honestly do like it here. I am as wild and free as new garbage; no one will be my minder.