What's in the bag?

27 November 2008

Thursday tomorrow. Another day at work and I've decided it will be fun. The day after isn't going to be another Ice Age as long as I'm alive. Friday - cannot damn wait.

I always bring my backpack when I head to work on Fridays.

Unlike gym-goers or those who grew up right about two hours outside the city, I don't bring my backpack because I spend my weekends at home where Mom is. Home is wherever my apartment is and I've had a few since I was 16. Right now that happens to be Makati. I bring my backpack every Friday because I expect to be back two days after. That's weekend. A roller-spaceship ride to everywhere, away from home for a couple of nights. That compartmentalizes my weekend.

This here is my Saturday, that over there is work, this little locked box is for feelings whatever that means, this sling bag is where I keep ammunition, and that caricature over there is who I am to others. This is who I am when I'm writing and that guy on the 26th floor office by the window this afternoon is who I am during work.

Someone asked me once if I was angry after some office bull!shit. It was a Saturday. I said I haven't decided on feeling angry yet. Or feeling anything at all. Which is mostly the case. Unlike with office tactics, I do not decide to be angry or to be romantic or to be volatile or to be mental. I'm mostly too lazy to exert that kind of effort. And I'm mostly lazy to answer questions honestly anyhow - so don't ask. If you think I'm making this up then call it fiction. What isn't?

But don't call me a liar. If this is what you see now, then this is my truth now. If this is what you hear me say, then this is what there is. If I'm hiding something from you, whatever it is is not me when you're around. Don't go searching because then, when you find whatever the fcuk it is, it will not be the me you're dealing with now. No matter how you convince yourself that's the hidden truth, it will be the lie you asked to see.

So what's in the bag? Apart from a change of undies, a couple of packs of Marlboros, my cellphones, some music, gum, a pack of condoms and crumpled paper towels, what else is in there? Do not take a look. Take my word for it. If the bag's gonna tell you who I am, you will be disappointed. Blink twice, hit your head hard here's a brown bottle, then snap out of it.

There is nothing else in there.

Loaded Xmas

Jack Daniel's, Pringles, ham, French toasts..

..and I think I want spring rolls, too.. hmmm. Need an early 2011 strategy to counteract the holiday weight gain.

..but while it's still 2010, bring it on - food & drinks! Hohoho.

Nearly Overcooked

"...time is the fire in which we burn" _Dr Soran, Star Trek: The Next Generation

Tell me how to extinguish it.

i did not beg for you to feel this. i did not call for your sacrifices. i just wanted it to be cool. it was supposed to be fun.....

February

--- I own this month.

-------- Party everyday.

--------------- http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2025714&id=1515293816&l=f60bfe3864

Nurse Me

7 Nursing students in Starbucks occupying 2 tables, sharing 2 orders of iced latte, 6 cups of complimentary water, and a pack of chips brought by someone who looks like the leader of the group.

Student1: (Reading from textbook) "The client was bleeding but when given the prescribed medicine, the bleeding was lessened to spotting."

Leader of the group: (Adjusting her glasses in an authoritative gesture) Ibig shabihin, yung client nagblibleeding sha, pero dahil sha medishin naging lesh na lang. At shpotting na.. OK?

Group: OK.

Me: (Thud, thud, swoosh, kablargzxh ... yes, I fell off of my seat and landed head-first on the floor.)

I am utterly blown away by the sheer deductive power of the nursing population. I think I just cracked my skull.

Since I don't go and casually tell people my date of birth, I don't suppose anyone will greet me here. So Borge happy birthday in advance man. Have too much fun that you'll choke and pass out. You'll come to in exactly five seconds to take another swig at that bottle and smile. You don't look as good as that 18yo guy you once were but hey, you turned out better than you thought. And guess what... you're still alive. Crap, what am I saying,,

Semantic Valentine

“Make love” has become an acceptable phrase among grown-ups. To younger people it’s “make out.” Well, how exactly do you make it? Do you end up with a corporeal, tangible, physical evidence of the process?

When you make potteries, you produce pots, decorative vases or ashtrays. Make a mess out of your life and you create wrinkles and grow gray hair. If making love equally means producing something and that something is an offspring, we must seriously consider colonizing Mars.

Thank heavens there are contraceptives. Inter-planetary travel hasn’t been perfected yet. However, if we must align ourselves with the church, we better be not so thankful.

Anyways, if population growth is not the idea, what is the point of having sex? Is it the ingestion of enough lipstick to clog the esophagus? Is it the inhalation of face powder, enough to cause respiratory failure? Or is it the tedious job of extracting those twin, semi-circle, sturdy set of wires from around the woman’s upper body, and the sliding off of a girdle from around the midsection, which could, if fitted around the neck, cause a serious case of asphyxia? The things a guy has to go through (Face it: You just don’t bump into perfect bodied females and those you see in FHM aren’t real). In retaliation, a guy sprays on enough perfume and deodorant to trigger gustatory allergy, so much so that when the woman kisses him on the cheek, neck, chest, tummy and down some more, she will almost have a gruesome seizure - or at least, a case of suffocation from the resulting inflammation of the tongue.

Aside from the perils (not to mention the sound produced when two sweaty bodies push against each other, which reminds you of toilet noise), what else is there about having sex? Is having sex the same as making love? If the answer is No and that making love is simply it, what are we to do with this critical over-production? (I doubt this presumed abundance, what with all the wars being waged in the name of gender, religion, and politics).

I propose to change the deceptive term “make love” to “develop love.” As in, “C’mon, bhe, let’s develop love.” The former connotes that in a relationship, love is initially absent and that it has to be created by swapping fluids or passion secretions; or, that love is created out of that bestial ritual called mating. On the other hand, “develop love” transforms sex into a process by which emotions are driven just a bit deeper, beyond the surface that mainly consists of a fashion wardrobe and accessories. Mostly fake. Of course, the substitution will take some getting used to.

But, if we were to accept “develop love” in place of “make love,” every time it happens, there must be an increase of concern, devotion, affection, passion … Essentially, the premise demands that an improvement in the relationship must ensue.

Well, we know for a fact that arguments happen. The man usually avoids an argument till it turns into neglect. Then, neglect itself becomes neglected. The woman recognizes the perceived cause of the argument. She acknowledges it inordinately, emotionally, mentally, and most of all, verbally. She hammers it on the man’s head gratuitously. It breaks the man’s head whereby she succeeds in making the mess three times messier. The damage becomes irreversible. The relationship becomes irreparable. The proposed term-shift then becomes inapplicable.

You fcuk because mating has become so casual. You have sex because it’s fun. You make love when you want to go beyond affectionate kissing. The terms are understandable enough, though I find the last one inappropriate. But with Valentine in mind, that should be beside the point. The affair through which two genitals interact does not decide whether a relationship will or will not work, no matter what term you use to describe it. Neither do the gifts that are scattered all over the malls this Valentine. What does is up to you to find out. If you aren’t so inclined, you have no business celebrating the 14th with whomever your unfortunate date may be. Very kindly throw those concert tickets in my direction, and cancel your hotel and restaurant reservations in consideration of the more deserving. As for the rest, have a lovely month. Happy Valentine.
---------------
Originally written in January 2002 | taken from my Essay Portfolio