The Slow and Excruciatingly Painful Death of My Stressball

The story began around two very long years ago in another lifetime across the strait of Malacca, in a teeny-weeny little island surrounded by the ocean. There was a school populated by very stressful (arts) students about to face the most important trial so far in their eventful, albeit short-lived, lives: the dreadful, horrible, monstrous A-Levels. Okay, enough intro.

When I was about to face the exams period in junior college, the head of my faculty gave each of us in the arts faculty a bouncy ball. Before we were given the ball they (the faculty) made us watch a movie on a sheep who felt really sad every time after he was shaved but then met a frog (I think it was a frog if I recall correctly) who told him that every time he feels sad he can feel happy again by BOUNCING around. So the sheep started to bounce around following the frog’s lead (ignore for a moment the fact that sheep can’t actually bounce up and down in reality, except in cartoons like this and games like Sven Kommt - but that’s another story altogether), and guess what? The sheep felt HAPPY again!!! So the moral of the story was, you can actually control your state of mind – you can be happy if you want to. Like that famous quote: “If you want to be happy, be”. So every time you feel sad, just remember that you can just BOUNCE BACK and be happy again. Then they gave us the ball to remind us of the message. The ball could bounce around and every time I felt stressed out I used to squeeze it. It was coloured in different shades of orange and it was bouncy and squishy and I couldn’t leave home without it; I carried it everywhere. It was, as they say in the Lord of the Rings, “my precious”. We were supposed to be together forever (sounds like a boyband song lyric).

Even after I returned back across the borders to continue my studies in my shanty little village town, so that I can take care of my family and help support my two little sisters (okay it’s going a bit far...), I still carry my orange stressball around in my pencilcase. It went bounce, bounce, bounce... when I failed a french test... bounce, bounce... when my car got stolen... bounce, bounce... when my grandma passed away... bounce, bounce... when Spain and the Netherlands lost in the World Cup... bounce, bounce... bounce, bounce, bounce it went all the time, helping me recover. I thought we would bounce forever, me and my orange stressball. But, alas, nothing in this world lasts forever (I learned that a long time ago when I lost thousands of mp3s that took years for me to collect because of a single computer virus), and the same thing goes for my poor, poor stressball.

A few days ago, I came back from campus and, as usual, put my bag on the living room table and went to the kitchen to fix myself some supper. It was a tote bag and as it had no zippers in the first place, it was always open. Inside was my black pencilcase and as I was rushing out of my International Relations 101 class to catch the elevator, the pencilcase was unzipped. My orange stressball was inside.

My sister, who is in fifth grade, came into the living room and started to rummage through my bag and my pencilcase, all the time making very serious accusations about how I’ve ruined her life by borrowing her correction pen (tip-x) without asking her first (she does that all the time, she’s totally dramatic; gifted, I’d say). In the process, she managed to pour the entire content of my pencilcase on the living room floor. And the stressball rolled across the living room floor (I can only imagine this happening as I was in the kitchen during this whole episode so this part is a hypothesis) and out the open entrance to the patio, and eventually reached the garden. By this I mean it had entered, how shall I put it, the Sovereign Territory of the Killer Puppies. My half-siberian wolverine, Nero, and my recently adopted beagle (that actually looks like a hamster because of his brown-and-white fur), Bruno, are notorious – despite their young age – for tearing down any interloper who dares enter the garden (they attacked everything from old sandals to my three-year-old cousin). Their powerful and persistent bites are known to destroy everything from elastic rubber bones to sturdy plastic bones to garden rocks and stones, and even, once, bricks.

Hence, the inevitable happened. When I came out of the kitchen, curious of the unusual silent at this hour (the puppies usually make a lot of noise around that time because it was time for their afternoon wallk), I saw it. The Remains a.k.a. whatever was left of my orange stressball a.k.a. shreds of orange plastic scattered across the green grass. Nero and Bruno were already on to their next conquest, a green sponge that we use to clean the cars. I can only imagine the slow and excruciatingly painful death my stressball had to endure; the silent torture as the beasts tore away its skin, little by little, bit by bit, like they did in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I can only imagine it calling at me silently, asking for my help, asking for me to give it salvation, to take it away from the agonizing torment. And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when it needs me most, while it’s been with me through my hardest times, bouncing hard up and down, making me bounce back too. And what was I doing when it was dying?

I was drinking bloody Swiss Miss. With Marshmallows.

I didn’t know what to say. I can’t yell at the puppies, can I? There is no way I can possibly make them understand the extent of moral and psychological damage they have caused me, the history behind the stressball, or how they have taken the most pragmatic tool that provides me instant moral support. And it was ORANGE. My favourite colour. I was shattered.

First, I wanted revenge; I thought (foolishly), maybe I should feed them fish food or something, or tie them for days and bring other dogs (their friends) to watch them being grounded to embarass them (I know, it’s ridiculous, but obviously I wasn’t thinking clearly). But later I came to my senses and realized that indeed, nothing lasts forever. My stressball had had a full life, it had served its creational purpose which is to help keep people happy – and it has, indeed, kept me happy.

Wherever you are now, stressball, I hope you are still bouncing happily... bounce... bounce... bounce.