Sunday, May 30, 2010

I'm fragile. I'm breakable. I'm your mother's fucking china.

Wuss. Pussy. Chicken-effing-shit.

I have never been called these words but with the way I've been dealing recently, "I deserve to be" is nothing short of an understatement. That is a huge enough deal coming from me.

Whoever started the saying "When god closes a door, he opens another" is a fucking moron. It's either that or god hates me (and since I'm pretty sure I don't believe in god, I'm sticking with the moron story.) Why? Because that last archetype of a door was kicked shut on face, broke my nose, and left me in a futile search for that promised ajar one. So far, all I have been knocking onto and into are walls. Tall, solid, constricting. Walls.

My head smarts. My eyes are hateful geysers. I am like a chibi manga person with a crestfallen expression that's less cuter and more piercingly real. I'm being followed by this hovering dark cloud and people not only see it but actually feel it, emanating from me, and I hate it because I can't get rid of it, but then I don't wanna get rid of it, and now I'm just ten kinds of depressing.

My friend had advised me to look forward to the future but I can't. I can't find that feeling that would make me want to. I'm too busy wallowing. I like wallowing. Because wallowing is good to me. I'm sorry but I took the liberty of bulleting the reasons of that:

* Wallowing is solitary and draining and does not require a schedule for tomorrow.
* Wallowing lets you miss class for a week and never throws questions that make you squirm in guilt about it.
* It doesn't scold you to quit moping or say that you're only option is to move on with your life.
* It is never gonna ask you if everything's alright because it already knows it isn't. It fucking isn't.

That's why wallowing is my friend.

Lord, I need therapy. More than once I rode the bus and thought that if there ever was a crash and I died - I wouldn't care. I'd not want lots of others to be harmed in the crash so I would prefer it if the impact was on my side of bus. (Oh, fuck. Writing this and just plain thinking about it are two totally different experiences.) Correct me if I'm mistaken but I think that my train of thought reaching the point where I even picked a place to sit on the theoretical bus qualifies me as psychotic bordering on suicidal. I do need a shrink, then. If only my family could afford it. If only I could own up to it. Why do I have to be the person that disintegrates at the first signs of failure? Why must I be him who loses determination when blocked with negativity? Him who gives up the fight as easily as butter to a knife? Yes, I'm fragile, I'm breakable. I'm your mother's fucking china.

Wednesday, May 05, 2010

wag paghinayangan ang slurpeeng natapon

nabili akong slurpee. may computer print-out sign na nakapaskil sa mismong slurpee machine:

Pakiusap. Huwag po ninyong papaapawin ang baso. Please lang.

mukhang rindi na ata ang staff nila sa pagpunas at pag-mop sa mga natatapong makukulay na yelo. dahan-dahn ako sa pagpindot para lumabas ang kulay pink at malagkit na (yum) slurpee at nanigurado na may isang sentimetrong distansya sa pagitan ang dulo ng cup at ang ng slurpee.

nagpunta ako sa counter. people watcher ako kaya ang tatlong tao sa pila sa harapan ko ang napagdiskitahan kong panoorin habang nagbabayad sila. hotdog. napkin. kulay orange na slurpee. at mabenta ang slurpee. mainit nga naman sa labas. nang ibaba ko na ang slurpee sa glass counter para magbayad, ampowtah, overflowing ang pink sa kamay ko, sa lapag, at sa salamin. parang buhay ang slurpee na lumaki bila ng isang pulgada at naungusan ang height ng baso gaya ni erap kay villar sa survey.

anong sabi ko kay kuyang cashier?

"Hala kuya! Hindi yan ganyan kanina! Mag-isang lumalabas yung slurpee nyo sa baso!"

tinginan ang mga tao. defensive?

at bakit nga ba ayaw ng pink na slurpee sa baso nito? dahil ba ito ay kulay blue?