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This is Samsung G810 and I'm inloved with it. Been so since I first saw it. Had one. Then lost it. Just today. My Globe SIM is gone with it. My number for 9 years; gone, just like that. My Smart number is still active. You can contact me there. To whoever's reading this: help me curse the thief. I hope it figures in an accident. I hope it uses my phone in a gas station, then the phone explodes in its face. I hope it uses the phone while crossing the street then gets ran over by a 10-wheeler truck, instantaneously fusing its molecules with the asphalt.

Bugs

Breathe. You can take it easy now. I haven’t left. You know I won’t stay forever but when you reach out now, you can still grab hold of my shirt. But don’t pull me closer. You don’t wanna tear it up. I’m here and I’m not naked.

Don’t push it.

Yes, I don’t have time for you. I’m buried six feet under deadlines, ad hoc work requests, piles of papers; I hide behind my computer screen, behind megabytes of emails, at the end of my telephone lines… wanting to get away from professional crap. It’s what having a real job means and earning decent money. I know. It’s what most people think they want. They don’t know what they want. I don’t want them. I don’t have time for them. I don’t have time for you, I don’t have time for myself. Was it necessary for you to ask?

If I told you I’m seeing others would it ruin you? If I told you work doesn’t really eat my time and eat me would you tremble in outrage? If I told you I’m leaving would you run after me, or run away? What if I simply didn’t tell you anything? Would you stop asking? Can you stop asking?

I don’t ask questions. Personal questions. They’re cockroaches that impose their presence on personal space. They stink. They look repulsive. They deserve to be crushed. They must be reduced to pulp. I don’t care how people claim they’ve got nothing to hide and say a filthy fcuking cockroach wouldn’t be there in the first place if the insect wasn’t lured with filth. Like an ugly question, it’s there for its own goddamn reason. That in no way lessens the point of fact that it is cockroach. Let’s not justify its existence.

I might have gone out last night and had the greatest fcuk of my life. I might have held hands softer than yours will ever be. For all you know, it might be that the only reason why I can stay in this place is because I’ve got a house here and living with someone who offers to shelter me for as long as I want. Would you believe that? Will you assume that much if I didn’t answer your questions?

I don’t like questions. I will give you answers that I either want to give, or am prepared to give. Do you see now that it doesn’t matter? I don’t like giving answers. I don’t like surrendering sh!t about my personal life. That’s my own sh!t. I’ll deal with it my own way. I wouldn’t deal with it if I didn’t want to. When you stop liking me because of this, run away. You have the right. When it happens, for all your kindness, you deserve someone better. Who am I anyway but bait? Insects will surround me. That speaks for itself.

Now this is who I am. If you’ve got a problem with that, we do have a problem. For the meantime, I’m staying. But don’t take my space for your own. Don’t push your questions. Don’t get used to the comfort that I will answer. Take it easy. You’ve got a life to live apart from living it on my side of the world. The world is bigger than my hellhole. Take that for your own instead.

But we still got air around here. Let’s just both breathe. And drink. Right here. Today.
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Originally written last week | midnight/drunken sentiments

For The Taking

I am tall, tan, medium built with a nice flat tummy. I am 21 years old, I have a boyish appeal and although talent scouts will not buzz excitedly and scamper to capitalize on my looks, I’m tempted to add that I’m charming. This sometimes deposits me right into pleasantly scandalous situations. I’m smart, eloquent, refined and intelligent with an independent mind. You may now gather that I have an attitude. Or ego. Acquisitiveness is a fine virtue.

I ferociously believe I have talent but that sometimes-humorless thing called fate has been pointing its finger at me and looking down its nose on me for quite some time now, having decided that I must remain a useless tissue matter. With mirthless passion, I hereby state the obvious: I am a bum. I couldn’t figure myself into a more productive state and not for lack of trying.

I station my bum-hood in Cavite at my sister’s apartment, which she shares with her husband. My immediate concern is to move out and have my own pad. I’d like to live in the Makati area. Not that I remarkably enjoy breathing poison among other threats to my existence. Only that like most people, it’s more reasonable for me to think that bigger opportunities are in bigger, more urbanized cities. And when I’m finally settled in, I shall set up a command post from which I could hunt for jobs. I do notice that the process looks more realistic when reversed: Paycheck first before the bills. Here again is my knack to play with chance.

I am not being ambitious, at least not at this point. I don’t want a penthouse right away wherefrom I could survey the expanse I might later plan to conquer. I don’t want an entertainment system whose acoustics could blast you off to Mars. A studio-type unit will do so long as it has its own bathroom with walls that I could touch without feeling sick. Of course, I need a cozy bedroom. I’ll bring along my portable stereo and stack of pirated CDs, and then I could live for as long as I have clean clothes to wear. When I run out, I’d have to run back to Cavite. It would be presumptuous of me to think that I’ll have a washing machine as soon as I move out.

I am hoping for a spacious enough pad where I could put some divisions between the bedroom and the living room and the kitchen. It might turn out to accommodate a maximum of just three people at a time. Nevertheless, how I will afford it, I do not know. We live in a place where the reward for hard work is insultingly, outrageously, and despairingly meager. It was a constant wonder how slum people could buy washing machines, TV sets, VCD players, etc. Middle class people in the province don’t even have washing machines. And yet, slum people still have money to spare. They periodically play lotto and drink beer and buy cigarettes and play tong-its and all the while wailing about and passionately complaining regarding how expensive living costs and blaming it all on the government. Aside from realizing that they don’t pay for the land they built their shanties on, I was belatedly enlightened by a news program, that the honest members of the population are the ones who shoulder the electric bills of some squatter areas as their unscrupulous consumption remains unmetered (I use the adjective Honest comparatively). No wonder. But grudgingly, I’ll say I don’t blame the poor entirely. The power company is inefficient and the government snails its way in addressing the housing problem. I don’t have to say that I’m relegating the blame in fear of a homemade explosive and a rusted ice pick.

And then there are the migrants from provinces far away, hoping to find opportunities, as if by magic, in the metropolis. When their hopes get crushed, they say it’s the President’s fault. May I ask: Who decided to leave the province in the first place? These people are crazy blaming the consequences of their discontent on someone else, much like activists who know no other leisure except whining and wailing and causing traffic jam. They’re not helping any. If you don’t have a solution, shut the fcuk up. When you’re in the province, what you need is diskarte then you could eat talbos ng kamote and tuyo everyday without having to worry about steak or caviar. It’s healthy. And if you had even just a bit of land and an honest resolve, you cannot really go hungry. If you want more than that, decide to take the risk of migrating to the city but knock some sense into your head and face the challenge you so wanted to take, but were too fatalistic to comprehend.

I definitely plan to stay away from places where disgruntled migrants build boxes they call home. I’m sure discontent isn’t contagious but I’d rather play it safe. Then, for as long as I have my clothes and my music, I’d be fine. Talking about music, I used to listen only to R&B, disco, hip-hop and rap back in college. I went through college in a place where no one is allowed to listen to anything else. It was universal: Girl/Boy bands must be hated, clothing apparels must be imported, everyone must have a lighter skin tone. Everybody looked the same. Everybody smelled the same. Everybody felt cool. If I wasn’t listening to Eraserheads or Martin or Barry Manilow, it wasn’t because I had to be just as cool and hate everything local or old. I was deprived the embarrassment of being different since no store would sell a CD that couldn’t be patronized by everybody.

Cavite isn’t at all like that to a point where the most degraded form of vocalization may be worshipped. At least it’s a free country down here. There are people who formulate their own standard by which music is judged, just by looking at a singer’s face as if her eyes, nose, ears and mouth were shaped like note symbols arranged into a divine melody having the entire face as the G-clef (no offense to the long-chinned). And then there is this case where just because of her outstanding acting career, this artist’s album was awarded a platinum recognition. Her fans pay no respect about the distinction between Do and Re. Hell, everybody sings because our leaders sing specifically because of the ardent determination to be liked and get reelected.

I sing better. I wake up late and when there appears to be a concert inside my sister’s bedroom, you’d know I’m up. I love being challenged by high notes. In my relentless attempt to reach my third octave, I’m excitedly surprised that the mic is still working. When I grab the mic, you’d have to pray for reprieve. When I get my own place, I’m going to have it soundproofed. Don’t take this to mean that my voice is a torture to the ears. I’m now a sucker for ballads because I just realized that I could do good vocals. I’m annoyed that my friends invariably find this claim comical. Wait till I’m confident enough to exhibit myself onstage. I mean as a singer.

In the meantime, I’ll do my singing in my sister’s bedroom, bum around and eat. Chronic insomnia has again taken its grip on me. Now, before hitting the sheets at 4AM, whereupon I hibernate until the same time in the afternoon, I eat. Thank heavens I have good metabolism. My tummy is still flat unlike my male contemporaries who seem to grow mountainous over the midsection every year. Even so, I suspect that if you ran a scalpel over my wrist, a murky substance would gush forth: masticated rice. If you know of a job that fits someone with an overly healthy appetite, please approach me.

What else is there for me to do? I guess I’ll just point a finger back at fate. Not the index but the middle. I get jaded just thinking about life sometimes but I’m young. The world awaits me. I’ll move that damn mountain. For now, it’s in the form of my laundry.

I have what it takes to succeed. And hey, I’m a good citizen, okay? How can I still be jobless? I hear about evil people and con artists, hopelessly stupid people and unscrupulous politicians who are successful and filthy rich. I am more than commensurately enraged. Such knowledge in the face of my benign existence begets a more bitter appreciation. I’m not sure I’m complaining. Just angry, I guess. Life is unfair. I sing, eat and fantasize about my own place and a job for I wouldn’t wallow in an idealist’s agony knowing very well that in the first place, and I’ll say this over and over, nobody ever said that life is fair. Won’t waste time imagining that it is.
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Originally written in May 2002 | taken from my Essay Portfolio

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.