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.