Carry on, carry on

a small statue at Sonya’s, a heavenly restaurant at Tagaytay

~

1.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore how fast the world can pull the rug from under me. One minute I was having fun, the next I was pulling my hair in frustration.

After a fun weekend at Tagaytay, in which I have probably fed myself enough garbage to last the lives of the children of my children, I have subsequently been ravaged by a strange stomach illness, and then the flu, and then, just last night, I lost my mobile phone, after having prided myself for years for being an excellent keeper of things.

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

2.
People leave me all the time, but I was always careful of things I own. I have kept the same phone number for four years now, and have kept messages from people who left and came back, people whom I will never meet again in this life, people who didn’t mean to stay – I’ve kept messages from them in a span of the last four years, and I just feel horribly bereft now.

3.
I’ve no attachment to the mobile phone, whose name, by the way, is Michelle Pfeifer, because that little darn thing was my Catwoman. And I guess tonight is when I must declare that her nine lives have run their course. Or maybe, to console myself, I’ll say that it was meant to be, as all the things in my life have been; the loss, you know, was meant to be: that cab ride home, just when I was feverish, about to vomit, wanting the ride to be over, just when I was in the moment when all I was concerned about was myself – some things were meant to get lost that way, I guess.

4.
But I can’t say that I didn’t try. When I got home I turned my bag inside out, I called the cab company, Nine Stars, how unnerving, to report the missing thing, of that little darn cat thing phone maybe wedged between the seats, which kept on ringing whenever I called it, but sadly no one can hear, because it was in silent mode, out of all the days, how fucking unbelievable, how fucking exasperating Fate can be.

And I kept on calling it, oh Michelle, ma belle, my poor, poor little thing. And it kept on ringing and ringing and ringing.

5.
Last weekend my friends and I, we gathered beside the pale light coming from the lamp, and we whispered and talked about old loves while playing cards.

We talked about the pain, and the unexplicable frustration, the non-meaning of what-could-have-been, the ability to move on. We talked about the things we kept from Those Who Left Us, why we still hold on to them.

I thought about your messages, you know, I talked about them. I told my friends how you still sit snugly inside my mind (sometimes), how your messages are archived inside my phone, like you were sitting at the backseat all this time, as I go places. Like I was moving forward, but not really.

6.
My friend said, we really have to move on now, with a determination spurned from a battered heart, a tired heart, I think, too old and too exhausted to try to understand and pry into the meaning of Why We Were Left Behind. He was looking at an old’s love face, too, just as I was thinking about your words, when he suddenly got up and said, I will erase everything.

And then it became that: a night for putting things away, of erasing you from the mind.

I was by the window while I held my phone in my hands, looked at your messages for the last time. Should this be a ceremony, I thought? How utterly laughable.

7.
But I did light a cigarette. I did smoke while doing what I had to do.

8.
This morning when I realised how changed this aspect of my life will be, how a mode of communication was abruptly taken away from me, like reflex, I thought of you.

And then I remembered That Weekend, and what relief, to know that I don’t have to pine for that anymore, because there was a choice before the inevitable happened.

9.
So the chance to rebuild something commences. I’m constantly being fucked by Fate but I don’t really give a shit now, do I. Just carry on, carry on, world. It’ll always be a fuck-you gesture from me now, or haven’t you learned anything so far?

The One with The Wet Panties

watching people walk while pretending I’m not taking pictures of their feet

~

There is a certain sadness when you show up to work wet all over – down to your undies.

I have never envisioned myself growing up to be half-woman half-manatee. It might have been acceptable if I was born with whiskers and a somewhat leathery skin, and if I weigh around nine hundred pounds and make strange gurgling noises. However I will always look like I’m in the middle of a constipated spasm, and that means nothing really, except that I am somewhere between shit and epileptic in the looks department. I still have legs, so that qualifies me as a person, in the least. And a vagina. (Meaning, not qualify as a vagina, but add it to the additional qualifications of being a person, female. But what do I know. Vaginas are as common as an iPod these days, even men have one.) Anyway, the fact remains that this half-woman half-manatee has managed to arrive to work with a dripping butt.

But. That’s not all there is in today’s weather report: apart from being sentenced to Brave Floods Until I Die of Random Electrocution or Rat Piss, I was also fortunate enough to be picked as The World’s Luckiest Loser on a Tuesday Night.

Allow me to indulge the rare presence of my dignity –

Ladies and Gentlemen, and the People of the Universe Who Are Not Suffering:

I accept this award, dubbed “Uglier than A Barrel Full of Smashed Assholes”, at a moment when 22 million other assholes in this fucking planet are engaged in other recreational activities like a nice, quiet dinner, a long drive home, a good night’s sleep, or an awful lot of sex. Their leisurely acts of humanity to people like me who are stuck at the reality of Working Long Nights While The Typhoon Rages makes me want to douse myself on gasoline and set myself on fire. However, since I am half-woman half-manatee, I think I would only fail with such endeavor, once I breathe through my big nostrils.

I accept this award on behalf of the three women who rode the train today, and, oddly enough, smelled of curry, fart, hamburgers, and just a teeny weensy suggestion of mint. I don’t know what kind of conconction this is, or how they have managed to emit so strong a smell, but after surviving that horrendous, horrendous ride I think I am prepared to accept this award, any award given to me for that matter, if only I can get a moment’s validation that I have just been spared a bolgia in hell, where, possibly, such women reside. I imagine them all naked, standing in a circle, mixing curry powder and ground beef burgers in a big, brick well. They were all farting, of course, and talking in strange tongues. And to add some Rachael URRRRRGGGGHHHBLERRRGGH Ray allure, a dash of mint across the shoulder for garnish.

Ladies and gentlemen, I also accept this award on behalf of all the people waiting at the taxi queue, because in one of my brilliant moments (meaning: stupidest, idiotic, et al) I have managed to score a ride in a cab with a foreign woman, who must have thought she was being kidnapped by a half-woman, half-manatee and a skeleton version of Vincent Van Gogh (hint: missing an ear) who laughed an evil laugh upon learning that the foreign woman does not speak nor understand our native language, and thus, would have to rely on fucking English, the world’s weakness.

I sit here tonight, in front of my lousy computer inside my lousy office, glad to have my life spared by the cab driver, who gave me mischievous winks at the mirror while twisting his mouth to point at the foreigner in front of me. He must have thought I’m also happy to be part of a would-be gang bang, but as I am a half-woman half manatee I don’t think I have the dick to participate in such activity.

Also, I would just like to thank George Harrison, who continues to be my source of sanity (he was able to stand Lennon and McCartney, yeah?) as I lived through the worst ten minutes of my life, when Third-World Van Gogh started making very, very lewd remarks like “Ang laki-laki ng dyoga niya, di ba?” (“Her boobs look massive, no?”) and “Lukaret pala tong babaeng to e!” (“This bitch is hella crazy!”) all the while speaking in a very comic C-3PO voice.

I jumped out of the cab as soon as I saw just a hint of my building, and ran for my life towards the entrance, not really caring if my half-woman half-manatee dripping butt is spraying rainwater all over the bystanders. I arrived at my desk at 7:30 pm, exactly three hours after I Went Out of The House Even When St. Peter and His Drunk Bastard Friends are Pissing in Heaven Because I wanted to Arrived at Work Earlier.

And here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is where my story ends and my evening begins.

Good night and good fuck luck. Er, good bye?

Wednesday Shorts

~

1.
Strong rains have commenced. Have to get out of bed but is held down by dreams of gay porn. Contemplated the dearth of straight men and decided I want a cigarette. Sat up and realized what time it is. Nine in the morning with some nasty downpour outside. Fuck me.

2.
Hopped to the bathroom but not before tripping on bra. Must clean room. This weekend. Untwisted the bra wrapped around my ankle and threw it in the hamper. Looked at my wall. Saw this remnant from my college org – a piece of paper saying,

I saw that.
- God

Cheeky. Stuck my tongue out.

3.
Took a bath and sang some Beatles. Please don’t wake me no don’t shake me leave me where I am. I’m only sleeping. Yeah. Yeah. Brushed my teeth with fucking strawberry toothpaste. Shit. Suddenly wanted a cigarette but summoned inner strength. Got dressed. Tried not to be pissed because of situation.

4.
Out of the house, out of the house. It rains. It floods. I slosh over here, I slosh over there, fucking flood everywhere, and my pants are wet and my socks are wet and my shoes are wet and fuck.

5.
Fuck work. I want to resign. Contemplated resignation letter in my head while waiting for the train. Thought about the lonely Christmas ahead with no money and tried not to vomit thinking about it. Halfway between Makati and work my hyperacidity told me to shove my complaints up my ass. Okay.

6.
Came to work all worked up. Have to go zen. Settled on a ditzy session with Vittorio. Watched Mister España 2007 to steady blood flow. And then ice skating competition in the 1984 Olympics. Contemplated getting a couch and placing it in front of our workstation instead of two uncomfortable chairs. Eyed some good-looking men, one particularly, walking around. Licked lips. Suddenly wanted a cigarette. But then changed my mind as I thought am just associating want for fag for want to eat something. Fag for cigarette, not fag for gay men, but that’s good, too.

7.
Had lunch with Jilly while watching slasher film. Thought Jared Leto looked beautiful before he bleached his hair. Watched credits roll for no reason. Was asked why I do it but cannot come up with an answer. Returned to desk to find out was declared AWOL by someone. Apparently shouldn’t have lunch because my lunch hour is about four hours and death by starvation away. Apparently. Thought about resigning again but remembered how forlorn my face would look come December.

8.
Traded messages with Jilly and maybe have learned something new about me today: My dear A, I still believe your wife looks like a horse. And I plan to eat oatmeal forever. And I don’t make much sense, even if I’m really trying hard to.

9.
Got notice from boss. Reading e-mail felt like I’ve been bitchslapped a little. Tried not to get angry, but was not successful. Really wanted a smoke, wondered why I didn’t smoke the whole day when could have done so, wondered why not smoking now. Can’t find self to stand up. Just wanted to bang my head on the desk until I knock my brains out. Replied in a very respectful manner to boss, very respectful manner worthy of do-not-bitchslap status but feel will get bitchslapped later again tonight. Considered resigning again, this time not finding any reason not to.

10.
Resignation document started. Wondered if self was being prissy. Remembered parents droning on and on and on about responsibility. Tried to imagine forlorn face in December. Opened another window. Determined to watch ice skating to forget writing resignation letter. It’s not just about today, say to self. But all days ever since, day after day after day of that. Thought about smoking. And buying peanut butter chocolate cake to forget.

Still in a limbo, little girl, little girl.

Excerpt from My Monday Night

1.
A cigarette, a cab ride home.

2.
Chinese food and banofee pie.

3.
Some random songs that actually make sense:
- I’m Only Sleeping, The Beatles
- Rose Dragon, Javier Navarrete
- Take A Bow, Madonna
- Wild is the Wind, Nina Simone
- Feeling Good, Michael Buble
- Such Great Heights, The Postal Service
- Too Close for Comfort, Frank Sinatra
- Portions of Foxes, Rilo Kiley
- Trouble, Ray LaMontagne
- Nocturne, Fryderyk Chopin
- So What, Miles Davis
- True, Spandau Ballet
- Perfect, Smashing Pumpkins

4.
Some flirting.

5.
A camera, and possibilities.

6.
A poem — but then I changed my mind.

Is all. Good night.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma’am

I’m just fucking knackered. And no, it was not a one night stand I’d care to repeat, thank you.

What it was, was a fucking car crash I swear happens only in the movies:

We were in the highway, I was riding this cab named Princess Erika, like it was specifically meant for me, I should’ve fucking known not to be enticed with this kind of shit Fate throws my way, oh it’s a fucking cab named after my alter ego, a princess for chrissakes, a fucking princess, but no, let’s try it, shall we, let’s ride fucking Princess Erika and see if this pumpkin-cum-coach-cum-third-world-greasy-cab can bring me home before fucking midnight, and so there we were, we were doing 120 on the highway, the fucking highway of Manila, where it’s impossible to do that, but yeah, we were doing exactly that, and it was almost midnight, we were about to turn to that second-to-the-last avenue stretch before home, and then suddenly WHAM! BAM! FUCKINGOHMYFUCKINGFUCKINGSHITWHATTHEFUCKISHAPPENING and then suddenly the cab is careening towards shit knows where, and I can hear screaming tires and I can smell burning tires and I am down to my nose on the seat beside me and I smell something funny and I thought oh fuck is this jizz fuck did someone just jacked off in this cab before I got on oh fuck this is disgusting, and suddenly there’s this big weight, oh fuck it’s fucking godzilla out to crucify me, and everything just w e n t s l o w m o t i o nnnnnnnn

And then we stop.

And then I can’t fucking breatheohfuckbreatheyoudontwanttodiebreatheyoushithead and I felt something digging in my back and my mind flashed back to this Final Destination scene where an airbag kills some chick and I won’t fucking die like that and I was hyperventilating and on the verge of panic so I gingerly tried to pull myself out the other door and before I could push it someone opened it and helped me out and then I was standing in front of THE FIRST CAR CRASH OF MY LIFE.

Man. It was a fucking surreal feeling. This big-ass bus rammed the cab I was riding, and it fucking rammed my side. The door where I was sitting was completely dented, and it was what was digging in my back, and maybe a quarter of the nose of the freaking bus. I was right, it was Godzilla after all, coming for redemption for all my nastiness. I looked at the driver, he was bleeding with a big gash on his forehead, and all that blood, I SWEAR ALL THAT FUCKING BLOOD, I just had to sit down and get myself a fucking smoke. A paramedic went to me and asked me where I was hurting (A paramedic! So fast! Impossible!) and I stood up and I gestured incoherently with my left hand (was smoking with my right) and found that I can barely move my left arm at all. The paramedic obviously knows what’s going on, because he took my arm, talked to me about the weather (THE FUCKING WEATHER! AND I’VE JUST BEEN IN A CRASH!) and I was pondering over this weird turn of conversation when I suddenly heard – AND FELT! – this fucking LOUD POPPPPPP go in my ears and I suddenly felt weak in the knees and I had to lie down, no, the fucking street is dirty, okay, okay, fucking sit down.

And I realized, fuck, I had a dislocated shoulder. Fuckity fuck. And it just made its way back into the socket. Ohohoho.

And then the police came, in the form of MMDA shitheads, because the police, they say, were, erhm, too busy, and I’ve had enough of this shit, so I hailed another cab home, and I just wanted to go home, because awhile ago I tried calling home, and as usual, nobody’s fucking up, and I had to go home, battered and bruised and almost dead.

HOLY FUCK! I almost died!

That’s what I thought while I was coming home. I almost died. And I happen to be wearing crappy clothes and even crappier underwear. I don’t want to be known as that lady who wore crappy underwear and who rode a cab that’s listening to this program called Dr. Love and whose seats stink of fucking jizz!!! Aaaaaarrrgghhh what a travesty! Thank fuck I’m alive, thank you.

Scene when I came home:

I barge into my parents room, and I found my parents in bed dead asleep:

Me: I got into an accident.
Pa: *Rises from sleep.* Oh. Okay. *Lies back down again. Snores.*
Me: A bus rammed the cab I was riding.
Ma: Do you need to go to the hospital?
Me: I don’t know.
Ma: Well, at least you’re alive.

At least? It’s a fucking tragedy.

The Runner-Up List

This is the sequel to my previous post, The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed to Ride the Train. I had a bit of bad luck today at the station, and I think this is how the karma forces are punishing me for my observation.

Nevertheless, because I had to wait for the train for a long time this morning (take note: this is supposedly an express train, Manila’s rapid transit system) – chalk it up to Filipino Time – I was able to observe more, and this time I have another list, not because they’re less annoying (some of them really take the cake), but because they’re few and far between:

Other People Who Make My Train Rides Interesting:

1. The Announcer – He/She talks loudly on his/her mobile phone. The call may have started even before he/she boarded the train, or during the ride itself. The audience will then be witnesses to his/her business transaction. Conversations are always like this:
   a) A call comes in from a demanding boss asking where he/she is. He/she will consequently reply that “I’m still here in Cubao and the traffic is horrible and there has been an accident on the road and it is raining very hard right now” as the train zips to Ayala.
   b) A call is made to a driver to “Come-pick-me-up-at-so-and-so-and-would-you-please-hurry-up-dammit”. When the driver asks where he/she is already, he/she will say “I’m already here in Ayala” even if the train has just stopped at Cubao.

   For those who don’t know, the stops of the MRT are as follows (in order):

   - North Edsa
   - Quezon Avenue
   - GMA-Kamuning
   - Araneta Center-Cubao
   - Santolan-Annapolis
   - Ortigas
   - Shaw Boulevard
   - Boni Avenue
   - Guadalupe
   - Buendia
   - Ayala
   - Magallanes
   - Taft Avenue

2. The GIANT BUTT That Could – Usually a woman, she will try and insert her own ass among those who are seated, believing that she can still get a seat and be comfortable. Even if the space constraints are OBVIOUS, and that it’s very evident that not even half a butt cheek of Nicole Richie can fit into that space anymore, she will plop down nonchalantly, wiggle her butt, and trust that what she’s doing is not criminal. At all.
3. Your Neighbors From Hell – What neighbors are infamously known for: loud everything. These are groups of people, or maybe even just two of them, who talk and gab away in the manner that will give Oprah a run for her money. Sometimes the conversations are interesting enough to listen to, like how to remove the black spot at the bottom of cooking pans using a trusted brand of dishwashing liquid and a certain amount of scrubbing. Other times you wish you could just shut them off, because no, I did not just hear you say that your husband has an acne growing under his balls.
4. Sadako – Women who have obviously long long long loooooooooooooooooooooong hair. And they don’t tie it. They let it tangle along with other people. Personally it scares me. I don’t have an ambition of dying by strangulation.
5. Steve Jobs’ Illegitimate Children – Cool kids who look bored, stare out the window listening to whatever it is playing in their iPod. I’ve nothing against them. I just realize that they’re multiplying. Personally I’d rather leave the iPod in my bag, as I need all my senses alert to the outside world: commuting is a very dangerous activity, and I’ve had my fair share of knives being held to my throat to know that it’s better to hear the traffic than listen to some damn Gwen Stefani song. Really.
6. The Saleslady – I like looking at them. They gave me some sort of inner peace. I would like to have a chance to tell them, or her: Lady, I’m glad you have a job. I’m glad that you are going to work and have a source of income. I would like to tell you to not mind crabby customers and keep on doing what you do – you may have runs all over your stockings but you really, really, really have good legs. Have a nice day.
7. The Bookworm – Classic! I really really like observing people read in trains. I like observing people who read period. They give this whole technology thing a sense of normalcy.
8. The Gentleman – Yes! Chivalry still exists.
9. The Photo Session – People who take pictures of themselves in every position and angle possible. Hmm. I never knew the MRT is a tourist attraction now. Or maybe the blurred background is what they are aiming for. But have you ever thought of taking pictures with strangers caught in the background? I think that’s kinda interesting. I’d like to be the stranger in your picture, of course, just so I can fuck with that moment.
10. That Fat Lady Who Won’t Stop Staring – Probably me. Yeah.

The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed To Ride the Train

I ride the train to work every day. It’s a never-ending circus. I used to love it, the train rides, because I love observing people, and riding the tube, cascading past the main streets of Manila, I feel the height of progress of this country. On a good day, a ride from the north to the financial capital of the metro takes only about twenty minutes. On a bad, bad, bad day, it is better to take a cab and be stuck in traffic. Trust me.

Lately I’ve realised that these trains bring out the worst in people. Try taking the train at seven in the morning, or around six in the evening, I tell you, if it’s your first time, YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE. If it has taken your fancy to ride the train during these hours, abandon those plans now. YOU WILL DIE. Yes.

Because during these hours, the whole population of the Philippines is on the platform, waiting to get on the train. They will push and jostle and shove and worm their way in that damn train, and unless you’ve got the chops to fight back, it’s a losing battle, man. Better take the bus and risk being held up, rather than die a horrible death through a bone-crushing slosh at the train station.

And it doesn’t even help that the management has now separated the men from the women, children and the elderly. The only thing that changed was that I won’t get off the train smelling like an armpit anymore. And I won’t have to stare at a hairy armpit all the way to Makati. I won’t have an arm jostle my boobs and worry if that man enjoyed what happened. I won’t have to think whether I should face the man sitting in front of me while I’m standing and hanging onto the banister, or turn around (It’s always a hard choice, whether to give them my cunt or my ass – technically). I can tie my hair without being conscious of someone breathing down my nape.

But I can deal with all those gross moments, compared to what the women are capable of, when it’s all just us. Oh, how vicious are the women! Vicious, I tell you. They have no mercy. They will elbow their way into the train even if it costs somebody else’s life. Once the door opens, everybody will rush in like flies on shit. If you are unfortunate enough to be in the position of going out of the train, good luck. You will also have to fight your way out, ninja style. I’m not kidding.

Sometimes I think, if only it wasn’t illegal to throw people off the platform, women will have done it. 7 o’clock in the morning is the perfect example for “Every man for himself”, except that these are not men, but women, vile women who will not stop until they get on that fucking train. If you look at the men’s side of the train cars, they are perfectly civil and humane. No stampedes whatsoever. And yeah of course they all can stand their own smell.

Which is why before I can get on the train, I usually let one or two rides pass before I fall in line. By that time most of the women will have suffocated themselves in those obviously full-to-the-brim cars. Some may have suffered already from a mild concussion (happened to me once), or may have been involved in their first fight of the day.

Nevertheless, even if my commute has been crazy women-free for the past few weeks after I’ve devised said strategy, there are some whom I would call the Regulars – the same irritating people over and over, riding the trains, and I happen to be in the same shithole with them.

And so here is a list I’ve mulled over in my head on way to the office:

The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed To Ride the Train:

1. The Dirty Old Man - He pretends to be handicapped so he can sit and stare at women’s asses the whole ride long.
2. The Baby, no, scratch that – THE CRYING BABY, who is carried in the arms of a stupid mother who thought riding on a train with a little monster is some sort of statement of motherhood.
3. The Stupid Mother – She boards the train with a crying baby, and just when everybody is looking, suddenly opens her blouse to breastfeed. And out comes that blouse a seriously big boob, with a seriously lactating nipple. Disturbing.
4. The Evangelist – He/She may be old and insane, or old and high on drugs. He/She will be holding some sort of a tattered holy book, clutching it with one hand while holding onto a rail with the other hand, and preaches to everyone who bothers to listen (read: no one) about the fucking end of the world. It must be noted that the people have been very good at ignoring these disciples of God.
5. The Brokenhearted – She tells a friend about her heartbreaking story, from the illicit affair to the death of the much older, foreigner boyfriend to the phone calls of the obssessed wife. The whole time, the volume of her voice is at 70 decibels – the sound level of a vacuum cleaner.
6. The Cast of Friends – A bunch of highschool girls and boys who might be riding the train for the very first time. Can be very noisy and giggly.
7. The Centerfold Shrimps – Skanky people who wear skanky outfits. They can have a good body, but oh my goodness, such hideous, hideous faces. If we can take off their heads and have that body alone, the world would be a better place (hence the term, shrimp). Oh, hello, is that your vagina up my nose? You look like you forgot to wear your pants. Would you like a paper bag over your head? I’d rather look at the veins running down your legs.
8. The Lecher – A man who has escaped from the evil eyes of the security, and has freeballed his way into the car full of women. See #1 for a more apt description.
9. The Tonguesuckers – Couples who suck face in public places. Even if it’s crowded. With all of us looking.
10. The Imitation – A yuppie who wears faux-branded everything, and adjusts his/her clothes so as not to cover the tags. Get off the fucking train, asshole.

For the record, I have once been one of the people represented in this list, and have repented my ways since.

Under the Armpits of Strangers

1.
So it was raining very hard the other night, raining so hard it was like a million drunken men out on a pissing contest: everything stinks, and you feel like it can’t get any pisser than this. For the most part of the day, it was okay. I like rain in general. I like the feeling of being washed clean. Just don’t add to the equation the frequent problems of a third world country when it comes to rain – the lack of it means the agricultural sector is down in the pits again, with rice being a commodity; the surge of it means flooded streets everywhere, and I mean fucking everywhere.

It was nasty going to work, and then barely making it on time: when it comes to the streets of Manila, never expect to get ahead in traffic when you’re dealing with an afternoon onslaught of rain. A single drop falls from the sky, and every vehicle simply stops in the middle of the highway. I don’t know why this happens. But it does happen every time.

Anyway, night shift seriously fucks everything up, and my lack of hello sunshine fuels my brooding almost every night. I am just really really thankful that my officemates are fun to be with. I was really prepared in hamming it all up and pretending that I’m having fun, at first. Every time I go out of the house, I bend down to tie my shoelaces and pray (don’t ask me why is this, I just do it because I’m crazy that way) that I’ll have fun at work because I seriously can’t fucking stand sitting on a chair, chained to my desk for nine hours, waiting for something to do.

But, as luck would have it, I’ve met people who are real people. An observation very different from when I was still doing my one-week training in the south, where it’s all I could do not to slug my immediate supervisor’s face with my hands, and I do mean slug her for all I’m worth (because she’s worth very little, apparently — meeeh, how nasty!). But we will save that story for another day. For now, just this.

2.
Anyway, I was ecstatic to learn that I’ll be seeing two of my friends at work because I haven’t seen them in a long time. After my disappearing extravaganza from college friends I never really saw any one of them because, well, that’s the point of disappearing. After my one week of hell from the south, I happily skipped my way to work one Monday morning because because because I’m going to see my friends! If that’s not enough motivation I don’t know what is.

And then surprisingly, aside from old friends I was able to meet new ones, people whom my guts tell me I will really like, thank fuck. First day at work (or first night – because I was immediately put on the fucking night shift) went well enough. Better than expected. And then fast forward to today, which is to say that I’ve adjusted at the place much more nicely because, well, the people were nice.

And oh, we’re carpooling now, and I swear, it’s one of the things I’ve enjoyed in a long time. It’s nice to be able to sit in the car and talk and listen to good music and smoke! And smoke! Oh, the beauty of it.

3.
But the other night was really the fucking pits. It started raining in Manila again, and that meant I had to get ready for the freaking floods. On our way home I was felt this coat of dread, well, coat me, and I knew, I freaking knew I will have to brave the floods or suffer dire consequences.

The streets of the metro were slick, the ride fast. We flew down the highway, and if only we had a top-down whateveryoucallit car, I would have sat on my knees, raised my arms and do the frigging \m/ fingeration just because I think that is the only cool moment to do it evarrr. But thank fuck we had our windows closed, and were just jamming to some random music, because this big-ass truck just suddenly cruised past us and splashed road/flood/muck water all over the car. Thrice. And I flinched every time that happened (loser!).

When it was time to drop me off my officemate offered to let me stay in her house til the rain stops, but since I have the blood of Stupid, I graciously declined and hopped out. What happened next was just terrible, terrible, terrible.

4.
I waited outside the convenience store, standing between a sleeping ragman and (I think) a secret assassin (with all the big burly and hairy arms), waiting for the rain to stop. I bargained with God: if you make the rain stop now, I will stop cursing for five minutes. But. But but but but but. I think God was in the pissing contest party to care, and for all I know, it’s his piss running down the wall of 7-Eleven, because the said convenience store can’t afford to fix one of their fucking spouts.

So. There I was standing, watching buses pass by, hoping to catch a cab when I had this nifty idea of eating congee at the restaurant beside 7-Eleven. I sauntered over there, ordered a bowl of hot yummy congee, and crossed my fingers. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. Say it with me.

5.
By the time I finished my food the rain didn’t stop. In fact, it only rained harder.

6.
I went to 7-Eleven, hoping I can make a quick call on their service telephone, because my mobile phone decided that it was time to play dead. OH, THE MOTHER OF ALL FRUSTRATIONS! I was hoping I can call home and ask somebody to fetch me, anywhere close, because nobody wanted to give me a ride, not the jeepney drivers, not the cab drivers, no one. BECAUSE THE PLACE WHERE I LIVE IS FLOODED. Hello, misery.

But. As luck would have it, the 7-Eleven does not allow strangers to use their phones, even if said stranger is willing to pay fifty bucks (no really just five, but they wouldn’t know anyway now, would they?). The guard directed me outside to a payphone, where five burly men stand, seeking for shade. As I walk towards them, I was debating whether they came from the nearby wet market or maybe from the buslines I’ve seen farther down the road. The closer I get, the more I realize that three of them were bare-chested. Now this is the moment where I should have walked the other direction and just prayed for divine intervention. But. Because my spine is also made of little bones named Dumb 1, 2, 3,…33, I continued walking towards them. I reached the payphone and was barely able to lift the phone from the receiver when a lady-like voice told me, “Darling, it’s broken.”

This information came from one bare-chested burly man with lipstick. Yes.

I put the phone down and stared at all five men dumbly. And because I know I looked exactly how I felt, they didn’t take much interest in me. Instead, they raised their arms, all of them, until I was brought back to reality by the sight of five pairs of armpits above my face. Apparently they were trying to catch the attention of one jeepney driver. The jeepney stopped. They all moved towards it, and one burly man motioned for me to follow them. And I did.

7.
But only because the destination is headed towards a place closer to home. So yeah. One step forward to the moon, one huge leap for mankind.

One thing led to another, and soon, the burly men were forgotten, and I was faced now with knee-deep flood. It was all I needed to cross in order to get home. Crappola to the nth power. There was nothing I could do. I looked at a dead rat floating past me, at a garbage bag puking garbage, at the flickering stoplight, and I hiked up my pants and walked sloshed home.

Good morning starshine, the earth this woman says fucking hello.