Don't fucking leave home without it.

When I was in first grade, we were asked to write a letter to our best friend.
I wrote this poem for a classmate whom I really liked, but guess what. A dozen other classmates wrote about her.
And I. I received nothing. Nobody wrote anything for me.

Growing up, I didn't have a best friend. But that didn't mean I never came close to having a couple of ones.
Somewhere between grade school and college, though, our differences in taste in boys and religious beliefs drove us apart. It's kinda sad, when before, we swapped gossip as quickly as we traded crushes; we tried smoking, and smoking up, and drinking, yeah, drinking till we did something we regretted later on, but back then, it was perfectly okay because we had each other to bawl on and rant on, no matter what happened. Of course, come graduation, all the corny cliche's we promised each other never amounted to anything. It just kind of bothers me sometimes, chancing upon their Friendster profiles from and seeing their pictures, smiling and posing happily, finding out that they stuck together and kept in touch all those years and didn't even think about contacting me.

==`*

As of last week, I've been leaving the house at 10 am, to do part-time work in a women's NGO somewhere in Quezon Ave.
And I commute. I commute alone.
And I like it.
It gives me the opportunity to think and reflect and rationalize away as much as I want to, without being disturbed. Well, at least until I reach my stop.

Lately, because it's been raining like fucking hell, I've had the worst time-- going to and home from work.
And yesterday, walking gingerly across the intersection, braving the ever-insistent drizzle, convinced that one of these days I'd surely get killed by some drunk arrogant driver who cannot respect the fucking pedestrian lane,
it hit me:

That it's a fucking pity indeed, that nowadays, the closest thing I have to a best friend

is a freaking umbrella.






mood: cold, and sorry.

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour
But heaven knows I'm miserable now

I was looking for a job, and then I found a job
And heaven knows I'm miserable now

In my life
Why do I give valuable time
To people who don't care if I live or die?

Two lovers entwined pass me by
And heaven knows I'm miserable now

I was looking for a job, and then I found a job
And heaven knows I'm miserable now

In my life
Why do I give valuable time
To people who don't care if I live or die?

What she asked me at the end of the day
Caligula would have blushed

"You've been in the house too long" she said
And I (naturally) fled

In my life
Why do I smile
At people who I'd much rather kick in the eye?

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour
But heaven knows I'm miserable now

"You've been in the house too long" she said
And I (naturally) fled

In my life
Why do I give valuable time
To people who don't care if I live or die?

>_<

You idiot. You bloody fucking dense idiot.

Fuck this. Alcohol is for fucking idiots.

Where's oblivion when you need it?

long cutie syndrome

It would be so much easier to just revert to old patterns, so much easier to do things the same way like the last time, then just sit back, relax, and watch complacently as history repeated itself.
No mindfuck, no digression; you know what's going to happen anyway.

Now, predictability.
While it denotes a certain element of consistency (which is normally considered a good thing), it is also the one sure road leading to Dullsville. And we all know that boredom is teh devil, yes?

So I won't.

Screw you old patterns, I'm cutting all ties with you! Let's do things a bit differently this time around, why don't we.

I think I want to put this little penchant I have for surprises to the test.

Limutin siya, limutin siya ...

... marami pang iba.

Here's your goddamn Charlemange

Welcome (Back) To The Jungle

If this were 10,000 years ago, a predator would now be singling me out from my little ragtag group of primates. "There", it'd think, "that particular ape thing looks rather dazed. There's a stunned quality to him. He doesn't seem to be quite in control of his limbs yet." And then it'll pounce. Sure enough, as the rest of the pack scrambles away in a frenzy of hoots and hollers, I'd be wheeling about nauseauted and dehydrated, right out of the gene pool.

But no. This is the 21st century. Civilization and the development of society has ensured that I can blast my mind with psychoactives until it tries to flee my body and not have to worry about getting eaten by a smilodon while nursing my hangover the morning after.

No worries. I'm doing a pretty good job of taking myself out of the gene pool, thank you very much. It's just taking a bit longer than usual. Indeed, while life may not be nasty, brutish, and short, it's now tedious, annoying, and meandering.

I need a goddamn joint.