Then came back inside because boredom is exhausting.
When I returned, I heard Susan snoring.
Naturally, I went to check if she was still alive.
She sometimes sleeps like she’s holding a siopao hostage in her mouth. You can never be too careful.
She was fine. Loud, but fine.
As I sat there watching her chest rise and fall, I remembered the first day we met.
It was raining. I had wandered too far and ended up hiding under a tree, soaked and shaking. Then I saw her running toward me — in slow motion, like in the movies. I panicked. Susan is very large when you are small and wet and afraid.
But instead of grabbing me, she opened an umbrella. She dried me. She scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
And she said words I still remember clearly:
“I got you, buddy.”
I didn’t know what buddy meant.
But it sounded safe.
After that, life became loud.
Susan overreacted to everything.
Our kitchen was often covered in flour.
Fish jumped out of pans.
We went on park walks, food trips, Christmas dinners, New Year countdowns, birthdays, and places I couldn’t pronounce but enjoyed anyway.
She laughed. She cried. I stayed.
Today, while she slept, I whispered a prayer.
“God, thank You for giving me this hooman.”
And I made a promise to myself.
I will still protect Sus when we’re old.
We will drink coffee together.
Watch sunsets.
Maybe Boyo will join us.
I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know where I belong.
Somewhere nearby, I felt a calm presence.
I think Jesus was watching us — smiling — like He understood something I didn’t need to.
A burnout comedy about quitting, bills, and God’s very calm “no.”
Oishi narrates, reluctantly.
So my dear readers, I have shocking news.
Susan… has been working hard.
Yes. Hard. Like “new personality unlocked” hard.
She leaves early. Comes home late. She prepares my food like she’s deploying overseas. She kisses my head like she’s going to war. Ma’am, you are going to work. Not Mordor.
For three months, this was our routine:
She drops kibble. She says, “No chicken today, Oishi. It spoils when you leave it on the plate and I’m not home.”
And I’m like… HELLO??? Chicken does not “spoil” on my plate. Chicken does not even survive two minutes on my plate.
But anyway. That’s what she kept saying while she ran around muttering about her “KPI.” I don’t know what that is, but based on how she suffers, it sounds like a disease.
⸻
The part where Susan explains what happened (and blames everyone but herself)
Susan (narrating, rubbing her temples):
Okay. Fine. Yes. I’ve been working hard.
Because last quarter… I missed my KPI. And yes… it was my fault.
I didn’t perform well because I was “preparing for Christmas.”
And when I say preparing, I mean:
binge-watching, eating chips, making holiday plans three months early, and acting like December is a full-time job.
So now, I’m paying for it. My boss, Henson, told me if I don’t pull my performance up, he’ll axe me. And he said it will make him happy because apparently I’m “a melodramatic, overreacting hurricane pain in the—”
Okay. He didn’t say the last word. But his eyes did.
Also, I was working hard because of Oishi.
So I can buy him food and cute bandanas. That smug little shih tzu wants chicken every day like he pays rent.
So I told myself, “Susan, you will not give up. You will act like a good employee.”
Which is why… I did what every responsible employee does.
I tried to bribe my manager.
I bought Henson the juiciest, most glorious four-patty burger with jalapeño cheese melt. Honestly, I could’ve offered siopao, but he’s the type who says “I don’t do carbs” while chewing on stress.
I offered the burger and smiled like an innocent angel.
He stared at it like it was poison.
He refused it.
REFUSED.
Who refuses that burger? It had purpose. It had destiny. It had jalapeño.
Instead, he marched me straight to HR, Horatio T.
Horatio did what Horatio does best: stayed calm, wrote a memo, and told me if I don’t fix my performance and my attitude, I’m out.
So I walked back to my desk confused, offended, and extremely dramatic… and then my heart jumped because…
He was there.
Jesus.
And I was ready.
I told Him everything. Every unfair thing. Every rude customer. Every pressure. Every injustice. I even included the burger tragedy.
Then I said, “Lord… I’m tired. I want to quit.”
Jesus lifted His hand.
I gasped because deep inside, I was thinking:
If He says yes, nobody can stop me. Not my boss. Not HR. Not even the economy.
And then Jesus said:
“Nope.”
⸻
The part where Susan does what Susan does
Oishi (narrating):
After Jesus said “Nope,” you can guess what Susan did.
She quit anyway.
She came home acting like she was a victim of corporate oppression, as if I didn’t witness the last quarter where she said, and I quote:
“Badoodle, it’s holiday month. Christmas is coming. I don’t need to work on those reports.”
Apparently the company did need those reports.
And apparently reports do not magically submit themselves because Christmas lights are blinking.
Anyway.
She barged into HR with conviction.
Imagine Susan storming in like she’s in a courtroom drama, waving her resignation letter like Exhibit A.
Horatio looked at her like a man watching a toddler carry a candle near curtains.
He calmly said we have practical obligations in life and she should think about it.
Susan crossed her arms. Inhaled deeply. Like she was about to deliver a monologue.
Then she exhaled and said, “I QUIT.”
Paw to forehead. Classic Susan.
⸻
The part where Susan enters her “freedom era” (Delulu Phase)
Susan (narrating, glowing with delusion):
After I resigned, I felt relieved.
No more waking up early. No more rude customers. No more reports. No more cases to monitor.
Last week I even saw a white hair. WHITE. HAIR.
That’s when I knew my job was trying to assassinate me.
So I woke up slow. Took a shower. Scooped Oishi. Went to the park. Ate ice cream. Bought Oishi a cute red bandana with paw prints. Small splurge. Just a little.
And I told myself, “I can find a job quickly. I’m a talented woman.”
Also… I swear my white hair turned black again.
⸻
The part where reality enters like a bill collector with no mercy
Oishi (narrating, ears hurting):
Four weeks later, reality slapped Susan with a receipt.
She splurged. Yes. Like she was sponsored by denial.
Our three-week routine was: park, shopping, binge-watch.
She bought me a gallon of dog cologne. She bought Tupperware she didn’t need. She bought running shoes she never used.
She said, “I need new shoes so I can get motivated and finally look like a supermodel.”
Ma’am. Supermodels do not reward a jog with chips and cake.
Then one day, the living room looked like an elementary school classroom. Papers everywhere. Chips on the floor. Cocoa spilled. Susan sobbing.
And she said:
“Oishi… how am I going to pay for all this? I will sell my blood. It’s worth something, right?”
I stared at her.
I blinked slowly.
And I realized she was not joking.
Later that night, I saw her praying. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind.
Susan (praying):
“Jesus… I didn’t listen. I don’t know how I’ll pay for bills, rent… food… I just wanted a break.”
⸻
The angels arrive (one gentle, one tired)
A bright glow appeared, and Angelusito floated in, chubby and kind.
Behind him was Anghelito, who looked like he hasn’t rested since Genesis.
Angelusito: “Susan, He heard you. He asked you to meet Him at the park. At the swing.”
Susan: “At night?? Can He come here?”
Anghelito: “Sure, let’s make the King of Kings travel like a Grab rider. Just go.”
Angelusito: “Susan, you’re healthy and safe. You can walk.”
Anghelito: “Also, you begged to see Him five minutes ago.”
Rude. Accurate.
So we went.
⸻
The swing scene (heartwarming, not cheesy)
The park was quiet. Peaceful. Jesus was sitting on the swing, smiling gently.
I heard a bark. I turned.
Oishi followed us, tongue out, panting like he ran a marathon, but emotionally he was thriving.
I stood there like a five-year-old who broke something and suddenly remembered consequences exist.
Susan:
“Lord… I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I don’t know how to pay the bills. I’m ashamed to ask my mom. I’m ashamed to borrow from friends. I was just tired. I wanted a break.”
Jesus looked at her like a Father who already knows the whole story, and still chose to come.
Jesus: “Why did you quit?”
Susan: “I was tired, Lord. The work piled up. Customers were rude. I snapped.”
Jesus (gentle, but direct):
“The reports piled up because you avoided them. The customers were hard because they needed help. You needed wisdom, not escape.”
Susan’s lip trembled.
Jesus continued, calm and practical:
Jesus: “Tell Me what was good about your job.”
Susan hesitated, and the angels, of course, did not.
Christmas was a blast! Let’s see—I lost count how many Christmas parties we went to. I ate so much I think I could live off fat reserves until mid-January. I sang, danced, and won games with Badoodle, my smug little shih tzu whose tail couldn’t stop wagging from sheer victory.
We rode the ferris wheel, watched fireworks, walked under the stars, visited the North Pole, met Santa—and Jesus tagged along. He gently reminded me that He is the gift, not the hot pink car I keep putting on vision boards.
Now it’s New Year’s Eve. Oishi and I are preparing to welcome the new year—me, with a resolution list and reheated siopao; him, with a suspicious eye and a belly full of leftover ham.
My New Year’s Resolutions:
Eat less siopao (cutting down from 5 to 4—I call that discipline)
Weekly massage at the spa
Visit the derma to achieve telenovela-level glow
Salon visits, false lashes, and plumped lips (subtle, classy, fierce)
Buy Oishi a luxury dog bed
Work 25 hours a day to fund all of the above
I was about to post this on the fridge like a manifesto, when Anghelito and Angelusito appeared. My personal heavenly CCTV duo. I sighed, sat down, and mumbled, “Alright, here comes the unsolicited divine coaching.” Oishi barked like he was in on it.
Angelusito, the sweet one, started gently: “Susan, your list shows you want to care for yourself, which is good.”
Before he could finish, Anghelito rolled his eyes. “But you’re broke, Sus. No offense, but you work from home and have six potholders shaped like elephants. You don’t need more Shopee.” He nodded toward a pile of unopened packages.
Then the mini-sermon began:
Add fruits and veggies to your diet. They’re not decorations. (Angelusito, gesturing to the rotting apples I bought to impress a guy who never visited.)
Mind your own business. (Anghelito. Of course.)
Only go to the salon if it fits the budget. (Angelusito, lovingly.)
Stop being dramatic. Your neighbor’s toddler crying isn’t a trauma response trigger. (Guess who.)
Work smart, not nonstop. Hustle culture won’t save you from burnout. (Thank you, Angelusito.)
I burst into tears, siopao still in my mouth. “I’m tired. I’ve waited so long. I just want to feel alive again.”
Oishi, breaking his usual sarcasm, rushed to lick my tears. (Salty. Regretted it. Still loves me.)
Oishi narrates:
In all my days with Susan, this was different. She wasn’t just being melodramatic. She was worn. She always gives, even when people misunderstand her. She says yes when she wants to rest. She takes care of others but forgets herself. I get why she wants something just for her.
Angelusito and Anghelito narrate:
We’ve watched over these two for years. Oishi, despite his side eyes and obsession with chicken, is the most present being on earth. Susan, meanwhile, is a complex emotional lasagna. Layers.
So when she asked:
What’s wrong with taking care of myself?
Why do I feel stuck even if I’ve been good?
Why do I feel invisible?
Why can’t I enjoy life without going broke?
Why does everything feel like a never-ending waiting room?
We didn’t know how to answer. So we went home.
To heaven.
At Heaven’s Gate:
“It’s us!” Angelusito shouted. “We need to speak to the Boss.”
The gates opened. The King of Kings, radiant and humble, walked toward us. “How are my children? Are they safe?”
We told Him everything. He handed us a Bible and a laptop. “Give her answers. But first, remind her: I will never leave nor forsake her.”
Back at Susan’s apartment:
She was washing dishes, still crying. Oishi glared at us like, “Took you long enough.”
We sat Susan down. Here’s what we told her.
1. What’s wrong with taking care of myself?
Nothing. If it’s stewardship, not image control. God calls us to honor the bodies He gave us (1 Corinthians 6:20). Self-care is holy when it’s about preserving what God entrusted. It becomes a trap when it’s about fixing your worth.
2. What’s wrong with wanting my life to get better?
Also nothing. But Jesus defines better as deeper peace, steadier joy, and a heart aligned with heaven. (Matthew 6:33)
3. What’s wrong with wanting to be seen and feel important?
You were made to be known. Psalm 139 says God sees everything about you. But don’t turn life into a stage. Let God see you first. Then applause won’t define your worth.
4. What’s wrong with wanting good things but still have money to eat?
Desiring joy is not sin. But clinging to money like it’s your savior is dangerous. Hebrews 13:5 says, “Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you”
5. I’m tired of waiting. I’m drifting.
Isaiah 40:31 says those who hope in the Lord renew their strength. Waiting is not punishment—it’s formation. And if you feel restless, maybe that’s your soul saying: you’re made for more than this moment.
6. How can I be happy with small, daily irritations?
You don’t have to fake joy. But don’t waste your pain either. James 1 says trials build character. And small irritations can train you toward maturity, not bitterness.
7. I’ve been good. Why is life still hard?
Because goodness is not a currency. Grace is a gift. God’s love is not a salary you earn. You don’t work for it. You walk in it.
8. Oishi is the only constant thing in my life.
Sweet, fluffy Oishi is a comfort. But your real Anchor is Jesus. He says: I will never leave you or forsake you.
Psalm 23 says:
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He restores my soul.”
Even in waiting, even in worry, He restores you.
Susan wiped her tears. We made her hot cocoa. Oishi curled beside her like a weighted blanket with legs. We tucked her in.
“I didn’t sign up to babysit humans,” Anghelito muttered.
That night, right before midnight, there was a soft knock at the gate. Boyo showed up holding a thermos of hot cocoa like it was a peace offering, Brenda arrived with something sweet because she refuses to let anyone end the year empty, and Yohannes came in waving sparklers like he was personally assigned to keep hope alive. Susan laughed—real laugh, not dramatic laugh—and for the first time all day, the house felt roomy. The countdown began, Oishi sat proudly like the host, and when the fireworks finally lit the sky, Susan realized she wasn’t just surviving the year… she was ending it loved.
But as we watched her finally at peace, we knew one thing:
Susan may not know what’s next. But she finally believes God is with her.
And that, dear humans, is the only true resolution you need.
Before I continue, I need you to first read Part 1 of this madness. Please. I am too shaken to summarize it for you. I still haven’t processed the part where we saw a purple demon in a bathrobe holding a toilet plunger. Was he planning to use our bathroom all along? Also, who brings props?!
Anyway—Oishi and I screamed like banshees and chased him across the house, but halfway through I got thirsty. Fear is dehydrating, okay? Oishi too—he chugged that weird apricot juice he kept begging me to buy at the grocery. (Don’t ask.) I opened the fridge for water and just when I started calming down…
CRASH.
In the backyard.
Bright lights.
My first thought? This is it. Jesus has arrived.
So Badoodle and I ran outside to meet Him—and tell on that little purple troublemaker.
Oishi narrating
Unlike Sus, I’m not lazy. Here’s your recap of Part 1:
Two angels were fighting in heaven. Boss sent them here to babysit us. The end.
Now back to this disaster.
Demonyito—this purple chaos goblin—seems determined to flood our lives with inconveniences. I will not allow that. It’s already hard enough managing Susan when things are normal. Can you imagine her with extra stress? I’d need dog therapy.
So I barked like my life depended on it. Then passed out. Then drank all the apricot juice. Susan chugged water like a basketball player in overtime.
And then we heard it—the boom, the glow outside… and I knew. It had to be Him. The Lamb. The Lord. I was ready to report everything.
Susan narrating
We rushed to the backyard—and there they were.
Two…boys? Floating. With wings.
I shouted, “HEY! Get down here and stop this cosplay sorcery! Is that purple bathrobe demon yours?! You’re paying for our plumbing bill!”
Oishi started nibbling my pants. I think he realized it too—they were actually floating. No wires. No ropes. And the one on the left looked like a tired uncle. The other? Holding… a barbecue stick?
“Hi! I’m Angelusito. I got hungry so I bought barbecue on the way. I told Anghelito to grab milk tea but he said Boss said no detours. Anyway, wanna bite?”
I almost fainted. But before I hit the floor, Angelusito put something under my nose and said, “You okay, Sus?”
Wait. How did they know my name?!
And Oishi—traitor that he is—was already letting Anghelito pet him like they were childhood friends.
Fast forward a few hours…
They told us the truth.
God really sent them. To look after us.
I asked if maybe someone higher-ranked was available…? But honestly, deep down, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a while—relief. Like maybe, I’m not as alone as I thought.
After all these years, it felt weird—but good—to know someone’s watching out for us. Not just Badoodle and me versus the world anymore. Someone else is in our corner.
(And okay, of course there’s God. But you know what I mean.)
Oishi narrating
At some point, I found myself playing Pictionary with Anghelito. I was drawing Demonyito’s crimes with ketchup on a paper plate.
Susan interrupted, “So… angels huh? That means you’re our new BFFs. Let’s go to the mall! Eat siopao! Karaoke night! And it’s December, you know what that means?”
“Christ’s birth,” the angels said in perfect unison.
“And party!” Susan beamed.
The lights flickered. Then went out.
Susan narrating
Oishi barked like there was no tomorrow. Anghelito gave him a look and whispered, “Quiet, soldier.” Oishi obeyed.
We hid behind the curtains. The angels glowed, so I shoved them inside the cabinet.
Then we heard it—
“Susaaaaan… Oishiiii… yuhhooooo…”
It was Demonyito.
“Come out, I won’t bite. I brought siopao. I can help you clap back at that annoying coworker. I can get you a car loan for that hot pink car you’ve been eyeing. And Oishiiii… I can give you chicken every day. I’ll even let you pee on all the garden gnomes.”
I was tempted.
But Anghelito appeared out of nowhere and declared,
“Susan doesn’t need a clapback. The Lord said ‘Turn the other cheek.’”
Angelusito added,
“She doesn’t need the hot pink car. She works from home 4 days a week. And given your financial situation, you’ll be in debt until the next Jubilee year.”
They turned to Oishi.
“Chicken every day is not healthy. And it’s unhygienic to pee on gnomes.”
We stood our ground. I told Demonyito, “We don’t need your offers. Leave our home. And don’t come back.”
Oishi barked like a furry warrior.
Later that night…
I cooked dinner.
Boyo dropped by to fix the faucet. He asked if we were okay. I told him Oishi had a hyperactive episode and wrecked the house.
He didn’t believe me.
I packed his dinner to-go anyway. I’m not ready to explain angels and demons. Not yet.
At the table, the angels said, “We’re proud of you, Sus. And Badoodle—you didn’t give in.”
I smiled and joked, “So when you guys go back to heaven, can you tell Jesus to give me a raise so I won’t need that car loan?”
“She’s not joking,” Oishi mumbled.
Anghelito’s Epilogue
Susan and Oishi will still face life’s chaos—annoying things, tempting shortcuts, moments of loneliness.
But as long as they stay anchored in the Lord, they’ll be fine.
It was Thursday night, 8:53 PM, and Susan wasn’t home yet. Your local Philosufurr was panicking. I called Sashimi, our bark-comm specialist, and Bulgogi the chaos intern, to track her location. Was she in danger? At the hospital? Had the Siopao finally done her in?
Turns out she was at the park. Sitting. Wailing. Asking strangers things like,
“Do I matter?”
“Am I valuable?”
“Is what she said about me true?”
One passerby answered, “Ma’am, I don’t even know you.”
Helpful.
When she saw me, her face lit up like I was the second coming of carbs. She scooped me up and whispered, “I’m sorry, my badoodle. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
And look—I’ve seen Susan at her most dramatic. But this time? This was different. She was shaken. So she told me everything.
Flashback, a few weeks ago…
Enter Dinah.
Short black hair. Fierce eyeliner. Heels sharp enough to slice confidence.
Jezzie B’s bestie. Signal Co.’s Gossip Kween™.
Unlike our resident gossip analyst Yohanes—whose intel rarely ruins reputations—Dinah was surgical. She didn’t just talk. She targeted.
She once appeared behind Susan so quietly I thought she was summoned by dark sorcery. She’s also the reason Horatio T. issued an official memo quoting Leviticus 19:16:
“Do not go about spreading slander among your people… I am the Lord.”
Dinah had been nitpicking Susan’s life like it was her day job:
Her siopao intake.
Her walk.
Her top bun.
Even said Susan walked like a penguin — in front of people.
Susan tried to laugh it off. But it chipped away at her. Especially the day Dinah crossed a line.
She caught Susan sneaking a glance at Macchismo (yes, the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing prince of jawlines, now married), and said—loudly:
“No matter what you do, Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner. Have you seen his wife?”
To which Susan replied, “Duh. I was at the wedding,” trying to hide her tears.
Macchismo heard it. He said,
“Okay, Dinah. That’s enough.”
But Dinah pushed further:
“If you were single, Macchismo, would you ask Susan out on a date?”
He didn’t answer.
And in that silence, Susan’s heart shattered.
But then…
Philip stepped in:
“Dinah, I don’t remember Macchismo ever asking you out either.”
Yohanes and Brenda joined in:
“Beauty’s nothing if your attitude is toxic.”
“Susan may stumble, but she never hurts anyone—unlike you.”
Macchismo, guilty and speechless, reported everything to HR.
Ten minutes later, Horatio T. called an emergency meeting.
The Conference Room.
Horatio stood in the center.
Susan, Philip, Dinah sat.
Macchismo and Pete crossed their arms like protective uncles.
Yohanes and Brenda were flanking Susan like bodyguards.
Then, Dinah spoke.
“What makes a person bitter?”
The room went quiet.
“My parents are doctors. Always on call. We lived in a big house that echoed with silence. I was the only child. I had everything—clothes, travel, comfort—but no connection.
I did everything to make them proud. Languages. Medals. Grades. Nothing worked. And slowly, that absence turned into bitterness.
I started hating people who seemed happy. Who looked… content. Like Susan. She messes up. She eats too much siopao. But people like her. She has friends. She has that smug little shih tzu.”
(I accept this compliment.)
“And Pete—you and your wife. That street food moment? It looked like a scene from an underrated K-drama. It made me angry.”
“Over the years, my heart got harder. I told myself—if I can’t be happy, no one should be.”
She paused. Then added:
“I don’t know how to undo it.”
And from the back of the room, Ishmael—the janitor with a soul full of sermons—spoke:
“Forgiveness.”
He stepped forward.
“Bitterness poisons the heart. But forgiveness—*even if undeserved—*heals it.”
He quoted Ephesians 4:31–32:
“Let all bitterness and wrath and anger be put away from you…
Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ forgave you.”
Then Dinah said something that jolted half the room:
“It was November 12, 2015. My dad called me. He was overseas…”
Philip and Ishmael exchanged a glance.
Yohanes froze.
The date meant something. More than one person in that room had scars from that day.
“He said a patient had died. The man’s younger sister—about my age—was sobbing. My dad remembered me. He told me, ‘No one gets used to death.’ Then he admitted he regretted not being present for our family.
I brushed it off. I never called him back.”
Susan interrupted softly,
“Boyo was a nurse overseas…”
Dinah nodded.
“Maybe I’ll give healing a try.”
She stood up, walked to Susan and said:
“I used to envy your joy. I mocked it. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”
She turned to Pete and apologized. And this time—it was real.
Susan and Pete forgave her.
Back to the park.
So why was Susan still dramatically crying hours later?
Because one line wouldn’t leave her head:
“Macchismo will never see you as a romantic partner.”
Even if it was true.
Even if he was married.
What if every guy only saw her as the funny friend? Or a siopao buddy?
Then came Boyo.
Holding an umbrella.
Susan refused it.
So he scooped me up and said:
“Fine. I’ll take Oishi then.”
Susan ran after us:
“Wait! I was kidding! I’m not that dramatic!”
We went home.
Boyo made soup and meatballs (yes, I tasted both).
Susan told him the whole saga—cinematic-style, with hand gestures and reenactments.
As she ranted, Boyo leaned by the door and whispered:
“Your time will come, Sus. Just… pay attention to what’s already in front of you.”
She didn’t hear him.
She was listening to a podcast titled: How to Attract a Man With a Jawline.
I put my paw on my forehead.
Classic Sus.
Writer’s Note 📜
Bitterness doesn’t always look evil.
Sometimes it wears heels, carries pain, and covers a wound that’s been ignored too long.
We all feel it.
When we’re overlooked.
When we’re hurt again and again.
When what we do is never enough.
And the Bible’s call to forgive? It feels almost unfair when we’re still bleeding.
But bitterness is a slow poison.
Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s letting Jesus carry what’s crushing us.
It won’t happen overnight.
🧡But when we finally give Him what’s been weighing us down,
Yes, I’m the narrator. For those who don’t know me, I’m Yohanes Abimbola, gossip analyst of The Signal Co., certified Libra, and BFF to Susan and Brenda. And no, I didn’t want Susan narrating this because she’d botch my story with her dramatic side comments.
I’ve carried this question since childhood: why do we compare ourselves to others? Back then, I didn’t understand it. Now, as an adult, I know exactly how it feels.
I grew up with my sister, Sergeant Mekena Abimbola — a combat medic. She’s brave, brilliant, and the family’s unofficial superhero. My dad, Dakarai, is a platoon leader, so of course Mekena got the “chosen one” treatment.
When we were kids, Mekena loved rescuing strays. Our house looked like a veterinary clinic — cats, dogs, turtles, you name it. One time, we were walking down the road and this giant beast appeared. I was about to sprint, but Mekena held me back. “Don’t run,” she said. Okay… maybe it wasn’t a lion. Maybe it was just a very big cat. But in that moment? I swore it was Simba’s uncle.
Since then, she was always “the brave one.” In college, she was top of her class. Me? I was “Mekena’s brother.” Relatives never helped: “Yohanes, be brave like Mekena. Be smart like Mekena.” Even Susan once blurted out, “Why aren’t you like her?” (She still denies it. Classic Susan.)
Eventually, Dad asked Mekena if she wanted to be a medic. She didn’t hesitate. My parents were bursting with pride. And me? I was proud too… but jealous. Relatives whispered: “Be like her, Yohanes. Save someone too.” And all I could think was, I’m the one who needs saving.
That’s the poison of comparison. The more you try to ignore it, the louder it gets. I loved my sister, but it felt like she excelled without even trying, while I worked twice as hard and still came up short.
Then came November 12, 2015. My sister called late at night, crying. She had lost a patient in the field. She’d lost others before, but this one — Joseph — was different. Before he died, he looked at his comrade and whispered, “Truly live.”
Through tears, Mekena said, “Yohanes, you’ve been comparing yourself to me since we were kids. That’s not living. Comparison makes you a prisoner. People see me rescuing lives, but they don’t see you rescuing me when I was drowning in sadness. They don’t see the cards you never forget to send, or the way you keep Mom and Dad smiling. Heroes don’t always wear uniforms. Sometimes they’re silly, gossiping little brothers who keep showing up. You may not save strangers, Yohanes, but you’ve saved me more times than I can count. And that’s enough.”
At that point, Susan was blowing her nose like a trumpet, hugging Oishi and sobbing, “That is sooo touching, BFF!” Oishi looked trapped in her arms, and if he could talk, he’d probably say: “Put me down, hooman.”
Oishi escaped, grabbed a Bible from Susan’s room, and dropped it on my lap like an annoyed librarian. It flipped open to Psalm 139:14:
“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”
It hit me. If God Himself thinks I am wonderfully made, why do I keep selling myself short? Why compare my story to anyone else’s?
So why do we compare ourselves to others? Because we doubt our worth. Because we want applause, hoping it will fill the emptiness inside. Because we think life is a competition when it’s really a calling. But comparison is a thief — it robs us of joy, peace, and even gratitude for what God already placed in our hands. If my Creator thinks I’m wonderful, why would I argue with Him? Why would I trade His “well done” for anyone else’s opinion?
Susan, being Susan, ruined the tender moment by blurting out: “When you’re dead, BFF, comparing yourself to Beyoncé won’t matter — you’re six feet undah!” Harsh… but true.
And so, from your local philosofurr:
I don’t get humans. They sell themselves short without realizing how lucky they are. Not lucky — chosen. God created them with purpose. If they saw themselves through His eyes, they would know: they are unique, fearfully and wonderfully made.
For the past few weeks Susan has been ignoring me. She’s hooked on this little book and can’t put it down. The other day she even poured milk on my head without noticing! She cooks without looking—left hand holding the book, right hand stirring the pot. Guess what happened? My chicken got burnt. And then she had the audacity to say, “Oishi, just eat your dog food!”
Excuse me? Dog food?! She has always called me badoodle or baby fur. Now suddenly I’m dog? The nerve. And those kibbles taste like sand, thank you very much.
The laundry is piling up, the house is a mess, and she hasn’t taken me to the park in two weeks. Two. Weeks! But the last straw wasn’t even that—it was when she kept giggling at night, flipping her hair, whispering that she felt like Madeleine. Who the heck is Madeleine?
Last night I couldn’t take it anymore. I bit the book and ran. Susan yelled, “Oishi, give that back!” But I stood my ground, clutching it in my teeth like a hostage situation. She finally surrendered, scooped me up, and said, “Okay badoodle, I’ll tell you the story.” She was flipping her hair like she was in a dog shampoo commercial.
She began “This is called a pocketbook, badoodle. Mostly romance.”
(Like I care—but fine, maybe this will get her back to normal.)
Then she added with a dramatic hair flip:
“This book—The Tower, the River, and the Jawline—is a romance masterpiece.”
She continued: “Paris, 1950. Madeleine, with long wavy hair, luscious lips, lashes for days…” She glanced at me and whispered, “Like me.” I gave her a blank stare.
Madeleine, apparently, was waiting for a man—steady, brave, confident, godly. (Susan sighed loudly at this part. Dramatic much?)
Then came François. Crisp white shirt, suspenders, broad shoulders, jawline sharp enough to cut siopao. Susan was floating as she described him. I barked to break the spell.
“He sat by the Seine River, gray eyes brooding, and said, ‘Somewhere between the silence and the stars I will find you.’”
Susan jumped, checked the mirror, picked me up, put me down, paced to the toilet like she was possessed.
Then she whispered, “And badoodle, Madeleine met François mid-road and he said, ‘Every step through silence led me to you.’”
Susan clutched her chest and sighed: “How I wish I could meet a man like that. Someone who treats me like a princess.”
I thought: Exaggerated princess, sure.
Just then, Boyo barged in with siopao, milk tea, and chicken (finally, someone useful). My ears perked up—chicken trumps romance any day. Boyo spotted the book and asked, “Love story? Any good?”
Susan retold the whole thing while Boyo nodded and yawned. I didn’t care. I was busy demolishing chicken. At least Susan snapped back to reality. She started cleaning again, Boyo helped with dishes, and she tucked me into bed later, whispering, “Even if I don’t have a companion just yet, badoodle, I’m happy because I have you.” Then she glanced at Boyo and muttered, “…Fine. And Boyo too.”
But then Boyo said:
“Sus, find a man who’ll cherish you no matter what, who stays through happy and hard times, who gives as much as he receives. A relationship is a partnership. Your ride or die.”
To my surprise, Sus nodded. She even asked, “Anything else?” Paw-to-forehead!
Later that night, she tucked me in and whispered, “Don’t tell Boyo, but I agree with him. Oh Oishi, how I wish I could find someone like François…”
She prayed that night, asking God for her ride or die. A man steady in faith, someone who would cherish her and keep God at the center. And, of course, she asked for a sign—like flickering my toy lamp three times.
What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?
Susan Narrating
It was an ordinary Wednesday — that “meh” middle of the week. Not the chaos of Monday, not the slow fade-out of Friday. Just… Wednesday.
Well, ordinary for everyone else.
For me, the morning started with Oishi giving me those puppy eyes as I was leaving for work. Tail wagging, looking up at me like he’d just been abandoned by the entire cast of a soap opera. Obviously, I caved and took him with me.
At my desk, Oishi curled up under the table with his squeaky toy. Then Yohanes barged in, dramatic as ever, announcing there was chaos in the customer service lounge — customers fighting over who should be served first. One claimed she was a doctor, the other a lawyer. Dinah, our resident gossip, just said, “Let them fight it out, see who wins.” I chimed in, “The lawyer, duh.”
Pete — our by-the-book accountant (and unsolicited tax adviser) — picked up Oishi and calmly told Yohanes to defuse the situation by figuring out whose need was more urgent. Yohanes agreed and left.
For those who don’t know Pete, he’s our accountant — a good one. He even lectures me on filing taxes. I pretend not to care, but I remember every tip when it’s time to file. If it weren’t for him, your girl’s butt would’ve been in trouble last year.
Pete sat across from me, Oishi still in his lap, and suddenly asked: “What makes someone believe they have the right to stand above others?”
I froze mid-siopao bite. “What made you ask that?”
Pete’s Story
November 12, 2015. Pete said he’d never forget that day.
We didn’t know he was a volunteer worker. That day, he was in El Shur — a small, beautiful country with its share of darker realities.
He was assigned to distribute relief goods. As soon as the chopper touched down, people ran toward them. He told them to line up, assuring there was enough for everyone. But desperation overpowered order. People shouted, cried, begged to be served first.
Pete understood. Hunger does that.
But then, someone approached him privately, offering money — a bribe — to get their goods first.
“Why not buy food instead?” Pete asked.
The answer hit him hard. They couldn’t. Their area was on lockdown, boundaries guarded so insurgents wouldn’t cross over. They were stuck in the crossfire. Still, relief goods had been delivered regularly — they had enough for months.
But this person said, “We’re prominent. We should be served first.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, they added, “Besides… you don’t want trouble with the K.N.A.V.E.S.” Pete didn’t know who or what that was. But the way they said it — calm, low, like a warning — stuck with him.
“That’s what made me ask,” Pete said quietly. “No matter how much you have, no matter who you are, that’s not the right perspective. We should help each other up. Respect authority, yes — laws exist to protect us. But some people use their position to lift themselves higher, not to lift others. Not all of them. Some leaders genuinely serve. Others… they make the people serve them.”
Ishmael’s Answer
That’s when Ishmael, our prophetic janitor, glided in with his mop.
“People think they’re above others for many reasons,” he began. “Pride, fear, insecurity — even upbringing. Some were taught from childhood that status equals worth. Others hide their own sense of smallness by making others feel smaller. And there are those who genuinely believe their achievements or titles make them more valuable than the next person. But Christ showed us another way.”
He set the mop aside. “Christ washed the feet of His disciples. An act of humility and service. Imagine — a Master washing His followers’ feet.”
John 13:16-17 — Truly, truly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor a messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.
I leaned in. “Pete, you said the place was chaotic. They were in survival mode. Of course they’d put themselves first.”
Ishmael looked at me. “Susan, imagine the building is on fire. What’s the first thing you’d grab?”
“Oishi Badoodle!” I said instantly.
He smiled. “Okay. But imagine Oishi’s in the other room. As you rush to him, you hear a baby crying — Melinda’s son. You can’t save them both.”
The tears came before I could stop them. I hugged Oishi tight.
“I know your answer, Susan,” Ishmael said gently. “You’d give up what you love most to save a life.”
I sniffled. “Why did you have to make it a baby? Couldn’t it be a unicorn? Or Chad?” But deep down, I understood. God made us to help and protect one another — not to think we’re above anyone.
Closing
Right then, Yohanes stormed back in, panting and sweaty. “After two hours, the customers and I reached an agreement.”
Pete patted his back. “Good job. You diffused it.”
That evening, Pete treated us to a park-side meal. Oishi was over the moon.
Oishi Narrating
When we got home, Susan went straight to the bedroom and knelt to pray.
“God, thank You for this beautiful life — for waking up each day safe and sound. Thank You for the kindness we’ve received. I pray for those who live day by day just trying to survive. Help us understand that we’re not above one another, but created to bless each other, inspire, and lift one another up. And God… please don’t ever make me choose between saving Oishi and saving a life. You know I’d do it, but with a heavy heart.”
Her voice broke. I understood why.
I know you’d pick the baby, Sus. And that’s okay. I get it. Life is precious. I’m happy, I’m content, and I hope you are too.
It was no ordinary Saturday morning. That sounds dramatic, but I mean it.
Usually, Oishi wakes me up by nibbling the edge of my pajama pants, then stares into my soul until I give him breakfast and take him for a walk. It’s our sacred ritual. But today? Nothing. Nada. Radio silence.
I sat up groggily and thought, Huh, that’s weird. Then I heard voices from the kitchen. Plural.
So naturally, I dragged my half-conscious self into the kitchen—and immediately questioned my entire grip on reality.
There was a blue horse holding a carton of oat milk, awkwardly smiling like he was trying to impress a Tinder date. His teeth were dazzling.
Next to him, a green elephant was holding my cereal like it was his birthright.
An orange chihuahua sat in the corner wearing noise-canceling headphones, probably listening to a TED Talk.
There was a cat with its face fully smushed against the window—just vibing.
And a K9 dog in a tactical vest was stationed at the door like he was guarding a presidential parade. I mean… who’s trying to shoot us?
Then there was Meutang—a purple aquatic creature we once rescued from the Great Fishnap. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a tiny inflatable pool ring. Why? Who knows.
And finally… my Oishi.
Sitting at the head of the table. On a cushion. Eating roast chicken. Drinking something that suspiciously looked like wine.
He saw my face—the face of a woman emotionally spiraling before her caffeine—and calmly slid a stack of laminated ID cards toward me. Like this was normal.
I blinked at him. He blinked back. He knew I had questions.
Narrated by: Oishi (Your Local Philosofurr)
Every Friday night and Saturday morning, Susan and I do our sacred park walk. It’s our bonding moment. We talk (well, she talks), eat snacks, and reflect on life like unpaid therapists.
But during these walks… I met others.
There was the blue horse. The green elephant. Budd the K9. We sniffed once, and now we’re brothers.
Don’t even get me started on Budd’s music taste—Dancing Queen. He claims it calms his nerves. I get it. The beat slaps.
Anyway—today’s different. I didn’t wake Susan up. Why?
Because at exactly 3:27 AM, I got a call from Sashmi, our communications pug. She said Budd witnessed a group of humans trying to dynamite Meutang’s hometown: The Fishball Sea.
Unacceptable.
So I barked the alert. The Barkimony Delegates assembled.
There was stomping, growling, some dramatic slow-motion leaps. Budd might’ve bitten someone.
Eventually, the bad guys ran off.
We were tired. Starving. Emotionally wrecked.
So I brought everyone back to our place. Mi casa es su casa, I told them. Which is Spanish for: “Susan’s going to freak out, but it’s fine.”
And yeah… she froze in the doorway.
So I did what any noble leader would do: I handed her our official ID cards.
Now meet the team.
🐾 Budd — Security Chief
A K9 with nerves of steel and paws of thunder. His hobbies include tail surveillance and ABBA.
🩵 Bulgogi — Head of Logistics
Tiny horse. Big plans. Possibly dramatic. Once cried because of gravel.
💚 Bibimbap — Admin Officer
Baby green elephant. Runs everything. Also panics when the printer jams.
🧡 Sashmi — Comms Manager
Orange chihuahua. Talks faster than she thinks. Barks in Morse code.
🐟 Meautang — Marine Relations/Sea Affairs
Purple fish in a Hawaiian shirt. Vacation-ready, always suspicious.
Favorite phrase: “It’s a trap.”
Never proven right, but never wrong either.
🐱 Fippo — Freelance Delegate (a.k.a. The Cat Who Won’t Leave)
Wasn’t invited. Still came. Claims he’s here for “diplomacy.” Eats all the fish crackers.
—
Next summit topic: Climate Change.
Susan’s probably going to ask if that’s a new salad dressing. But I love her anyway.
Signed,
Still Barking. Still Rising. Still Living with Susan.
Ember - Fire and Soul 