13.04.04; Tibetan Tuesday; 13:55
No. of good book buys: 2. Books left behind: Elmore Leonard’s Maximum Bob for PhP25 and Who Wants To Be Me, an autobio, for PhP75. Why: I’m reluctant. Fine, fine. I’m reluctant AND stone-broke. Days before the greatest payday of all time: 2. Days before the thrilling family getaway: 1. No. of swimsuits to be paraded tomorrow: 2. No. of days spent in gym for the past few days: 0.
Morpheus would have to shag somebody else. My dear PC, Jenna, has risen. Hallelujah!
Last week, I found myself wondering why everyone is heading or coming back to Boracay or Puerto Galera. Then I smacked my forehead. It’s fucking summer, fer gawd’s sake! Another thought occurred so I smacked my forehead a lot harder this time. This ‘everyone’ should include me. They are the people whom have no 2-month summer breaks whose vacation leaves should be utilized otherwise half of the cash conversion would go to the National Piggery. I’m officially out of school. Shit, I’m getting older.
Yes, I’m getting older. My music video and short film have no follow ups still. Numerous potential plots (or so I believe) are until now housed in my Alzheimer-prone mind. My book genre is, sadly, obscure by choice and by circumstance. The joint account is currently shelved. Yes, I’m getting older.
The (South) Mall rat was lost in the labyrinth. Gone were the spirit in the air, the energy that propels one’s high-heeled feet, the hypnotic lullaby that makes any wallet greet hello. Too many stupid people were present I had to catch my breath dissing them. The new Story Land signage is an insult to my visual taste. Judy Ann Santos posters accompanied the uninspired apparels in display. Nothing is ripe for the taking anymore. And when I attempted to redeem my day, to conclude my journey with smiles and burps, I was even more shattered. A&W is gone.
Or maybe I just miss him too much.
Before I could finish my greatly interrupted meal, I have come to the realization that I’m the most horrible street anthropologist the world has ever produced. I never manifested enthusiasm towards kids. And senior citizens. And believe it or not, even to those of the same age bracket. Add stinky pets. I scorn the bitterness behind saccharine couples and the optimism of desperate singletons. Give me space since I don’t appreciate argumentative synagogues and atheists. I dislike lifeless brainiacs and been-there-done-that asshats. I hate people. I hate the world. I hate myself.
For sure, the world hates me back. Thus the quality of my life. I must be the victim of my own existence.