30.11.04; Physical Pains/Birthday blues part 3; 09:45
No. of bazaars visited so far: 2. Commuter of the Week: The girl in black halter top, denim miniskirt, beret and impeccable makeup during the heavy rain. Classy moment of the Week: Sporting vflaire‘s blanket while I surrender my drenched pants and jacket to the hand dryer. This month’s vaginal event: Multiple orgasms. Thank you, Wendell Ramos. The absence of blood flow is normal, folks. Just like what Vhinnie the Pootah exclaimed, “Kailan pa nakabuntis ang kandila?!” EDIT: (01.12.04; 22:07) Hours after I posted this, she finally arrived. Let’s call her Victoria. Impact: Signal # 3.
Sickness comes with age.
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When I was younger, I would brag of an underrated supernatural skill to glare back – without blinking – to the car lights. I find this a vital survival skill, along with jaywalking. This conviction roots from a film sequence (or was it a TV series?) wherein the lead man gropes the floor for the crushed pieces of his eye glasses while the villain rubbed his hands together in Satanic glee (or was it just an off-frame maniacial giggle?). Since then, I associated being bespectacled with vulnerability. I’d only lose my eyes when I’m too dead to change my mind about donating them to a kid, I promised myself.
This Superwoman complex was intensified by the coincidental fact that all of my best friends have poor eyesight even if I read and watch as often as they do. Hence, I felt it’s an unwritten rule that I read the road signs or sign boards aloud (since my sense of direction is as useful as baguio beans in spaghetti) whenever we go out. Sometimes I would announce the words from a distanced TV when we get distracted from our talkathons. Or analyse the lyrics from the song hits (ha ha) even on a moving vehicle. To borrow Elastigirl’s line, I’m a superhero. What else could happen?
Oh yes, I am. Until last week.
I was facing the computer with my vision completely blurred. But isn’t that normal if you had just decided to extend ten hours of exposure to its radiation? So I blinked. It didn’t go away. After 10 counts, I re-opened my eyes to the same indistinct collage of words and images. I shrugged it off. After all, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep for days. The following week, I took calls while suffering from a splitting headache. Imagine my panic when the pain resurfaced after morsels and gulps of solace. Worse, it was coupled by this strong urge to gag until my small intestines exit from my mouth.
“It’s your eyesight,” the company nurse dismissed after I described my crux. It was so convincing my eyes voluntarily prevented itself from rolling when he turned to study my files.
Moment of truth: Last week, I dared to revive an old feat. After four seconds of looking to the headlights, I had to look away.
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I was completely unaware of my stomach’s potential until my dad compared it to a meat grinder. Even my lola noticed it, too. Regardless of her cautionary croons, I always managed to dodge hospitalizations after mixing Indian mangoes and Coke, my notorious fruithatons or consumption of expired goods. Remember how I survived the morning after the gang decided to melt Nips choco candies in brandy? (or was it rhum?) But that’s nothing compared to the heart-stopping moment when mom entered the dining room and ordered the helper to throw the menudo to the kaning baboy can. The attendants of my debut stared from my stunned face to the simut sarap plate back to my face. I could perfectly read their minds: “Oh, shit. She’s dying young,”
My most recent success story would have to be during raven23‘s 3*st beerday party this year. Upon my proclamation that I’m already starving, my babysitters gumpaste and crazybitch left the bottle of tequila rose and lined up for the real food (which we burned during the very competitive golf tournament). Then we were welcomed by eager bottles of beer (what did I substitute to beer again?) and plates of sisig. All that crazy conversation made me crave for sugar so I ordered for banana split. Enough? Not yet. I helped finish off bottles of cognac.
In observance of our November tradition, Shiela and I merged our beerdays. Our lunch (EST) comprised of yang chao, soy chicken, fried spicy squid, and a well-deserved tall glass of green mango shake. (Petiks and Mitchikoy opted for ripe mango shake.) Maybe I rushed my meal, maybe that’s bad when you’re ravenous, maybe this is a distasteful combo or for whatever fucking reasons, I spent the night crawling for the toilet to vomit and crawling back for the nirvana experience. Worse part is, it lasted for days. Hell, my beloved tummy has never gone on a vacation leave even for a half day!
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With all these discomforts giving the tick-tocks a scarier tone comes the growing signs that a writer’s hand is in dire need of a vacation. But you know me well enough, guys. I’m too ambitious and passionate to cease and desist bloghopping, sending resumes, writing, texting and dreaming. If any time of the day is a good time for paralysis, then I’d spend every conscious moment expressing myself.