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.
For the past few weeks, Susan’s been operating on full-blown Dramatic Mode. I—Oishi, her long-suffering emotional support furball—have reached my limit.
It’s too hot. Then it’s too cold. It’s too noisy. Then too quiet.
The food? Either too salty, too sweet, or “my siopao tastes different.”
Mind you, she’s been buying siopao from the same store for the past five years.
Every day it’s:
“Badoodle, I need a vacation.
A new place. Or a new planet.”
She opens her laptop like she’s searching for a new galaxy. Then suddenly—sparkles.
Cheap flight.
Eyes wide.
Voice dramatic.
“Badoodle, prepare your things. We’re going to an island.”
And then she goes full delulu:
“I’m imagining myself in a swimsuit… hair down, sunglasses on…
Then one Adonis approaches and says,
‘Hey, you look stunning. Can I have your number?’”
She flips her hair like she’s on a shampoo commercial. Meanwhile, I’m internally bleeding.
But okay—an island sounds nice.
Sit by the shore.
Coconut juice.
Chicken on a stick.
Heaven.
Next thing I know, she scoops me up, throws me into a tote bag, and boom—we’re at the airport.
Susan narrating
I was so excited I packed light. Scooped Badoodle. Zipped out the door.
But when we got on the plane… something felt off.
No flight attendants.
All the other passengers were in uniform.
There were literal cargo crates.
Then I gasped.
“Badoodle…
We got on the wrong plane.”
I ran to the pilot—who, by the way, looked very serious—and said,
“Miss Pilot, this is a mistake. I need to get off.”
She looked me dead in the eye:
“We’re airborne.
Sit down.”
“Where is this plane going??”
“10 AM tomorrow. You’ll see.”
It was 7 AM.
Do the math.
I croaked,
“Where… are we going?”
She looked back once and said:
“Tijibuduri Delulu Island.”
Excitement: gone.
What kind of island has “Delulu” in the name?!
We passed through three storms.
There was turbulence that felt like someone was shaking a soda can.
I’ve had smoother rides on roller coasters.
Finally, the plane landed. The doors opened.
And there were people waiting—hundreds of them.
The military team started unloading boxes of food. One sergeant looked at me:
“You. Help.”
So… I helped.
We were taken to a nearby camp.
I found out that the people here had lost everything—to war and typhoons.
They weren’t vacationers.
They were waiting… for relief.
So I cooked. I served.
I lifted boxes. I cleaned up.
I did what I could.
And that night, I was exhausted. But not in a bad way.
The kind of tired that comes after doing something that matters.
Badoodle and I sat by the shore. Quiet.
A soldier walked by and asked,
“Where were you supposed to be going?”
I smiled. Weakly.
“Somewhere with sunsets, piña coladas, barbecue, and dancing.
A vacation to stop complaining about my life…”
But I sighed.
“Lately, all I see are the things that are missing.
So I booked this trip to escape.
And instead
I found perspective.”
He nodded. And then he said:
“I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”
Philippians 4:11–13
Goosebumps.
He walked away.
I scooped Oishi, knelt by the sand, and prayed.
“God… I’m sorry.
For letting petty things blur the bigger picture.
For complaining about things others are still praying for.”
Life is like a pingpong ball.
You get thrown in all directions.
Sometimes up.
Sometimes down.
You can be bitter about it—
Or laugh about it.
Either way…
Life will happen.
And from now on
I choose to live with love, laughter, and gratitude.
Five years ago, I was standing in the middle of my new apartment. Boxes everywhere.
I had just moved because I found a little pup under a tree, soaking wet and crying like a telenovela extra. My old apartment didn’t allow pets.
I rescued him and named him Oishi. My badoodle. He’s cute, but also weird—he refuses to take off the red bandana I put on him, and don’t even get me started on his glasses. But they look good on him, so they stay.
I was happy. Hopeful. This felt like the start of good things finally unfolding.
As I unpacked, I noticed something outside. The postbox was… glowing. My heart did little cartwheels. I scooped Oishi up and whispered, “Maybe there’s a Keanu Reeves out there, like The Lake House, sending me a letter.”
I nearly tripped rushing out.
When I reached the postbox, I prayed:
“Please, God, a letter from my future husband.”
It kept glowing. We just stood there—me and my badoodle—staring at it.
Oishi Narrating – Present
Badoodle? Where are you? Come hug me.
I’m drained. My ears are bleeding from Susan’s dramatics these past weeks.
She keeps asking: “Oishi, is this life? Is this it? We wake up, work, sleep, repeat?”
We still walk in the park, sneak into cinemas, eat siopao at 2 AM, binge The Detective Agency.
But she only sees the routine.
I, Oishi, am actually content.
Then she starts telling me her dreams, like I can make them happen:
“I want to travel, Oishi. Imagine us on a desert safari in Dubai, swimming in the Maldives, watching a Phnom Penh sunset. Snow! Or a coffee shop in Paris where a handsome stranger asks, ‘Is this seat taken?’”
I bark to snap her out of her delusion… but then I notice her teary eyes, wide with longing — like a ten-year-old begging for ice cream before dinner.
I walk over and rest my face on her lap. She hugs me tight.
“I’m so glad I found you,” she whispers. “Remember that day, badoodle?”
Tears slide down her cheeks. “I’m tired, Oishi. It feels like I’m just working to live another day. I have friends, but I have longings too.”
Susan is a lot, but she keeps showing up. I admire that.
Then she stands up, grabs pen and paper.
“I’m writing a letter to my past self—to remind her not to give up.”
She still believes that glowing postbox has magic. So do I.
Susan’s Letter to Her Past Self
To my ever‑dramatic, ever‑beautiful self:
Life will happen. You’ll hurt and you’ll hurt others, even unintentionally.
You’ll stumble and fall. You’ll feel stuck even when you give your best.
You’ll be afraid. Depressed. Anxious.
Longing will hit deep.
One day you’ll say you’ve had enough.
But know this: We. Don’t. Give. Up.
When you’re down, remember your blessings: Oishi, your walks in the park, family, friends.
You can’t travel yet, but you can explore new recipes, try new things, live life while waiting for dreams to come true.
Most of all, remember:
God is with us.
With us when our minds spiral like spaghetti.
With us when pillows are soaked with tears.
With us when we laugh at midnight siopao.
Life isn’t all bad. Learn to count your blessings and work your dreams with God.
Love, Me ❤️.
Susan folds the letter. We walk outside. The postbox glows again.
She breathes—inhale, exhale, like she’s been practicing.
As she extends her arm to drop the letter, an eagle swoops down and snatches it.
We stand there, jaws dropped.
Then she scoops me up: “Badoodle, let’s go to Boyo.”
Poor Boyo. He’ll hear the whole story.
Later, as we’re about to sleep, I see her kneeling with tears in her eyes.
And I know God is listening.
She stays there quietly kneeling, her back slightly hunched as if the weight of everything is finally being offered up.
And I stay close, like I always do. No barking. No judgment. Just stillness.
The night doesn’t answer her out loud.
But the stars don’t leave.
The breeze doesn’t rush.
And somehow, in all the silence,
I feel it too
a presence bigger than pain,
a peace deeper than the questions.
She stands up slowly and wipes her eyes.
Then smiles at me, the real kind.
Like maybe she doesn’t have it all figured out
but she remembered she’s not alone.
We head back inside.
And as she locks the door, she whispers:
“Maybe tomorrow will still be messy… but I think we’re going to be okay.”
Writer’s Note 🐶📓
We’ve all longed like Susan.
We’ve all been hurt, anxious, depressed, stuck, lost.
We ask ourselves: “Is this it? Is this life?”
We chase what we don’t have, live in a future that hasn’t come, or a past that won’t return.
This is your reminder—like Susan’s letter—that no matter what happens:
We don’t give up.
We keep pressing forward.
We keep believing that Someone loves us enough to give His life for us ❤️.
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.
Ember - Fire and Soul 