It’s terminal. So? That’s nothing new. Everything is terminal. Hate dies. Love dies. Friendships die. I’ll die.

My lola died when I was in high school. She was 94. It was my first confrontation with death. She was my refuge. When Dad won’t trust me to drive the car, when Mom decided I didn’t need a bigger allowance, when my siblings insisted on a different TV channel, or drowned Bioman conversations with that blasted stereo in full volume, I had my lola. She died and it was the loneliest time in my wonder years (I so wanted to be Kevin not because I’d swoon just to kiss Winnie but because his life seemed to be the greatest, compared to my dreadfully uncomplicated childhood). Death is such an ugly thing but we have to understand that the moment we were expelled into the world, the countdown already began. We shall die. Even if I were Fred Savage.

To a point, it becomes better to know you're dying. You can actually project your existence on the calendar. You have it finally defined. Other people forget that life too shall pass. When we are reminded and get through the denial phase, we live our lives the way we wanted. We stop doing what our boss wants, what puny things our friends demand, what impossible feats the world asks. We cram, we try to have fun, we stop caring about the mundane truths because we are dying and we have ourselves to think about.

Even people better than us die – people with bigger lives, people who make a dent in this aspect of existence. What are we anyway?

Which is why you have to feel the world revolves around you, without the arrogance. The universe worships you. Don’t grovel at the feet of anyone. You’ve got your own life. You’ve got no business taking life for granted. There’s no afterlife. This is all there is. Don’t assume anything more.

Fuck the boss. Fuck the society. Fuck that insect who ditched you. Live. If you’re not happy with something, burn it. Don’t complain. It’s a rainy day again today but hey, you can’t tell the weather what to do but you can take charge of your life.

Laugh your tonsils out, scream till your throat is sore and cry when it hurts, damnit. Love but don’t live only because of it. If she doesn't love you back, stand up you swine you can't afford to let other people ruin your life. Don’t believe the poets, they talk about love and poetry. That isn’t how things happen. Don’t believe in love songs. Believe what you have right there. That is real. Hang around your friends everyday if that’s what makes your days bearable but don’t let them tell you how to live. Love your parents. In your life, you won’t ever find other people who will be more loyal to you. Love your work to make it easier but get a life. Soar away. No dying man ever said he wished he spent more time in the office.

You’ve got no right to give up because it’s your duty to make the most out of this so that even when fate plays it’s dirty trick and eliminate you tomorrow, you will have the comfort that even as a mere human, you tried to fly.

I don’t talk. I can’t talk. When I speak up, listen. I don’t really say anything. I can’t talk about myself.

I will talk about what others feel. I will talk about the world. It’s a fcukin world. Let’s all fcuk up. It doesn’t matter. We will eventually be forgotten. Even this won’t be remembered. It’s not important. We’re not important.

Tell me what happened. I’ll tell you it didn’t. But in the sh!t of creation, my words won’t matter. Friends will notice but the world wouldn’t. It’s impervious to our little schemes. Who am I anyway? And who are you? I will shut my mouth on this. When I talk it might mean something to people. It won’t mean anything to me.

Don’t ask me to speak up. You can listen but you won’t have to. I will say many things about them, about this, about trash, about lies – but don’t ask questions.

About myself.

I don’t know who I am.

We’re better off not knowing.
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Originally written on Tuesday, 12 August 2008 | midnight/drunken sentiments

Light a fire. Burn me. Sharpen your nails. Scratch my skin off. Grab a bottle. Throw it at me. Hold your bottle tight and just hit me. I know you won’t do it but I present my head. Exsanguinate me.

Would it help?

Laugh. Tell yourself it’s a matter of supreme indifference to you if I bled. Take Rhett Butler’s words. Then laugh again.

But inside, you’re letting your doubts kill you. Then you fight. Then you try to shut it out. Then you forget. Then what?

Then I let you.

How does a lie taste like? Would you want to throw up?

Throw me up. Didn’t the universe send you a warning? I’m poison. Dig that.

Poison. Addiction. Reason.

Assumption. Now you know. It will eat at you. It can kill you though I know you won’t let it. You will fight it. Then what?

You don’t know who I am. You don’t know your poison. You don’t know what you’re puking out. You don’t know what you’re intoxicated of. Do you know why? It’s because you think you know. It’s because you think. And will think.
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Originally written on Monday, 11 August 2008 | midnight/drunken sentiments

Here then is another task: Trinity. I don't have to suck up to it to level the scale. I'm not essentially hedonistic but the other side has been taking charge of most of my thought processes that I just might start shooting cabbies for sheer pleasure. The heavenly master, his human offspring, the holy ghost: I won’t flagellate myself towards expiation, but I have to write something about trinity.

It’s an ongoing thing between friends and I. We trade topics to write about, which I believe is an indication of an unconscious fear of being reduced to plants. The brain has to exercise around issues of the world such as Pitch, Thunder, Draft, Horse, etc. Ultimately, we plan to solve the rice shortage, put order to chaos that is the permutation of the price of gas, scour the Pasig River for a more pleasant commute, and inhale this thick form of matter that is the Metro Manila atmosphere so we could all breathe easier.

Mr. Green wants order. He tests things to make sure they work as intended. He tells you what needs to be done to make things better. He’s interested in cute little things like conversation and he believes it can fix things. He does it over coffee. I do it over vodka. If your life is broken, if you just got dumped, if your friend and S.O. are dating and you need to belt out your rage on someone, I feel like he’s the right guy to talk to. He wrote about Storm. Congratulations for meeting the deadline, and my apologies for being late and this entry’s high nonsense potential. My brains oozed out of my ears because of my neighbor’s scooter. The attached pretentious speakers spewed out torturously loud noise all afternoon. The moment he started playing Tagalog covers of popular English R&B, I went comatose. I’m writing this in this state.

On the other hand, Mr. Blue will whack it in your head that there is no shortage. Run to a resto under a rain of fire called sunshine. Order as much as you want, eat as much as you can. When the glutton in you is itself protesting your excesses, leave the table and watch the games. The Blue Team must win and your leftover is inconsequential. You can’t solve the famine in Somalia by finishing your plate. But if he could, I know he will. He’s supposed to write about Deviant. He hasn’t done it yet.

As for me, Mr. Black, I’ll make sure not to undo their latent contributions to the world. I’ll make sure not to shoot a cabbie with a bullet. There are other means. And this time around, I made sure not to impose the darkness of my previous entries on the world. I feel I can threaten the universe when I write, but not this time.

Cheers to us three. Wait, do I still need to write about Trinity?

Slap

I’m sick.

I remember that certain time in college when chatting was the past time of teens approaching the non-teen years. It was one of the last efforts at frivolity. When you’re 20, you’re supposed to have really grown up. Cute alibis become lame reasons. Crazy antics become dumb moves. Chatting replaced the two-way and “Roger that, control” was kicked out of place.

It was the age before text messages virtually conquered all modes of communication in the Philippines. It was during the advent of network games, but before the emergence of modern online games. (I used to spend 10 times the money I spent on food on those pathetic games and I’d gladly do it again if I had as much time.) It was before those ever-resourceful Filipinas used the Internet as a manifestation of their, well, resourcefulness.

Yahoo! Chat was my weeknight world (weekends were my alternate universe). I derived pleasure in correcting grammar, spelling, slang usage, making romantics look like disgusting ants, playing with psychology and attempting to smash the egos of those that thought they were on top of the food chain, which I was mostly successful at. I got booted out many times but there were plenty of other rooms to be infamous in. Cheap thrill. I attacked behind the cover of a mesh of computer networks. The New Cowardice was born. I’d like to think I’m one of the pioneers.

Prick. Call me creep. Imagine me as a crawling insect. Sink your teeth in and puke. Step on me with your fake Havaianas or with that cheap Old Navy if I deserved it more, because I am that parasite that feeds on your frustrations.

Did it cross your mind that I wouldn’t have tread on your dirty linen and played with what you swept under the rug if you made sure I couldn’t get inside this tiny cubicle you call bedroom? I’m a coward and I hide under the sheets, I stop you from getting a good night sleep, I know what’s in your closet. I hid there too. You don’t hide your dirt good enough. Know this.

Or perhaps what you know is that unlike other men and all the contraptions of the universe, yours is the only presence that can rightfully inflict itself in the world of being. But if you’re an insect like I am, you can try invading my space. I will kill you. Will you do that to me before I get into yours?

One time I was chatting to this sentiment. Someone aptly replied, “Man, you’re sick.”

Remember how lolas in the province ordered you to stay in the house every time you were sick? The draft might get you. You will get worse.

The draft hits me in the face.