Today is supposedly my rest day and if I get it right, rest days are meant for relaxation, calmness and all that Zen shit. You take it easy, wind down from the week’s events, and free yourself from the corporate incarceration of your cliched young, urban professional lfe. You lie down and become a Greek bummer god eating the best-tasting ambrosia in the mountains of Olympus.
Curiously enough, after rudely being interrupted from a deep slumber by the fuckin’ road drilling of those DSWD worker bastards just outside the window (a clear indication that, along with the way-too-commercialized Christmas spirit, 2010 national elections has finally arrived) and having a little fuckarow with my dear bitchy sister over money (dear Gawd, could you skip days 26 and 27 and go straight ahead with 28) and job prospects (yes, Virginia, my sister, in spite of her impressive credentials and her glossy PRC ECE professional badge, still remains to be a job hunter up to this day), I am tempted to dump the occurrences of my sleazy life today into the recycle bin real quick. The world’s weight appears to be on my shoulder and I just can’t feel like my usual self today. All the bubbly mantra gone down the drain. The intoxicating cheerfulness and zest to live finally ceasing to work. Angst…just angst with the world and all its narcissistic, pathetic, couldn’t-care inhabitants.
Shame.
I don’t like to be lost in the usual crowd because I’m afraid I won’t find my way back. All the people I care for look up to me like an adulated pop icon. My friends who had bouts of weakening problems say some of the strength and will to live they get from one piece of bloody fighting warrior that is me. A close pal, whom I have cutely called my “baby”, lost her father last year from a disease whose cure still remains to be in enigma up to this very age and she confessed it helped that I was there to ease the pain. Although I remain to be horizontally-challenged and thus, appearing to be willow, yielding and weak in character, people I know say otherwise. That, in their Google search of a person who refuses to be conquered with the wicked ways of the world, results of the humdrum engine points to the very personification of my existence.
Geez! What a pathetic way to boost my slowly-decaying morale! Maybe they were not looking far enough. Perhaps they were blind to see my flaws. I’m a mortal, not a freakin’ immortal god.
And so I rant. And rant with all the angst that I could muster. I am about to succumb to the abyss of despair and solitary insanity and I don’t care if I lose this shallow “heroic” title accorded by some friends. All these fuckin’ probs are slowly eating up my system. Several times I have tried to fight back, to resist defeat, to make an enormous effort to turn the ugly tides, and several times, I have been successful in my campaign. But the world has this ugly, hideous way of rubbing all the bad luck in you, I guess.
You know, when a person is bent on displaying a “king-of-the-world” mantra, fate curiously always finds a way to dump all the trashbins in your revolting face. Is this the wicked way of the world? You resist, it desists. You become optimistic, it makes you pessimistic instead. You fight back, it stabs you at the back.
I hate this fucked up life. Makes me morose and defenseless. So life’s a bitch and you have to be more bitchy to win. Welcome to SSDD, welcome to my life!
