I just celebrated the Christmas that fuckin’ sucked the most last night. Fuckin’ sucked like I could jump on top of a three-storey building and no fuck-me-Freddy soul would even care if my gory innards got splattered and my slimy cranial juices oozed on the gawddamn floor. Pretty typical case of SSDD, I’d tell.
Last night was spent with a great deal of soberness and pondering. Much to my chagrin, almost all of the people I was expecting to bump with were either in unproclaimed hiatus or were far away from home. What I foresaw as a Christmas at least filled with reunion chats and beer overdose turned out to be just a hoax prediction of some cheap clairvoyant in Quiapo. The high school buddies I wished to see spent Christmas leaving the town. My Baguio brothers are not in Baguio anymore and just as I have feared, the forged fellowship is now meant to broken. Worse, I tried calling HER only to be greeted by some automated drone telling me that the subscriber cannot be reached so could I please try my call later. Geez, so much effort about filing for vacation leaves this Christmas.
Save for Fred, the high school buddy who has considered me his eternal pal, everyone else was nowhere to be seen. No Hacel nor Sheena nor other high school potpourri folks to while the night with after the mass. Yes, Virginia, you read that right. As much as I despise this overrated holiday with a high dose of unadulterated revulsion, I have dragged my ass to the refuge of sinners and dopes not so much as to hear the father’s recycled homily but more so as a result of my closest high school friend’s unnerving nagging. Allow me to repost my Christmas Scrooge litany:
In the middle of the reverend’s give-love-on-Christmas-day litanies that only a few of the multitude pseudo-pious-slash-genuine blatherskites have the resolve not to bore through, we had snippets of conversations of what’s ups and what-nots. He told me I changed, not only because I had the Zack clone do that I have loathed since its creation but more so because blatantly, I was speaking in an unrestrained tongue that spoke of failed dreams and bitchy life and hopes becoming hoaxes. I told him I was becoming tired, that being a “call boy” is slowly getting the nerve out of me. I confided life in Manila is already dragging me to death and I thought I deserved something better and I had no choice but to live with the same shit every different day. He felt the drudgery, the boredom that stabs and replied back, “At least you are still out there, trying to live out your dreams, not incarcerated here. Unlike me who has always liked to escape from this provincial stagnancy but being kept enchained still.”
Such horrendous truth. Sharp-stabbing truth that had me speechless for awhile. Truth, as they say, will set us free. I believe that it will. But at certain points, this fuckin’ truth is what has been imprisoning us behind bars of absurdity and pitch-black void. Queer, isn’t it? There we were, two young men in random musings about our how our lives are taking shape so far, oblivious of wasted spits and mutual post-Christmas mass coitus, and I could not help but be serious and ponder. The fact that life is a bitch had ruptured me in such unawareness that I had to think hard where the fuck exactly was I heading. Quite exactly, I ask my alter-ego, where do you think you’re going, you double douche bag friggin’ bastard?
I’m already in my early twenties and this fact just makes me all the more unsure of myself. My youth is my recluse and I am using it as an excuse to living this life as immaturely as I deem it to be. I rant about life being such a clusterfuck bitch because that is the only way I know to deal it with. I have dreams, big dreams that no sooner will become ashes forgotten if I let it happen. Reminds me of Stephen King and his indirect allusion to such stark truth. Dreams are for kids and once you become an adult it shrinks. And you can never go back to pursuing it anymore.
So I have to move, to be always on the run, grinding, seizing to halt, because time is not on my side. If I want to realize my dreams, then I should do something to make them a reality. If I don’t want to be part of the fuckin’ statistics of lifeless drones and braggart bastards, then I have to learn the trick of life’s trade. This is not how I would want my life to end up being. And this is not how I thought this Christmas post would turn out. But then again, there’s always you who molds it, and directs it, until it becomes something that is oddly reflective of you.
Someday, somehow, I will read this post with either eventual maturity over petty youth rants and whining verbal diarrheas or with a destitute defeat forever in search of life’s fucked up significance, forever a vagabond of perished dreams and hopes gone hoaxes.
Sheesh! I’m becoming a tad deep, I see. Oh well, so much fuss about this fuckin’ Christmas tragedy. In the mean time, excuse my Plato idiosyncrasy. I deserve a friggin’ cold Stallion bottle – with or without company.
Last night was spent with a great deal of soberness and pondering. Much to my chagrin, almost all of the people I was expecting to bump with were either in unproclaimed hiatus or were far away from home. What I foresaw as a Christmas at least filled with reunion chats and beer overdose turned out to be just a hoax prediction of some cheap clairvoyant in Quiapo. The high school buddies I wished to see spent Christmas leaving the town. My Baguio brothers are not in Baguio anymore and just as I have feared, the forged fellowship is now meant to broken. Worse, I tried calling HER only to be greeted by some automated drone telling me that the subscriber cannot be reached so could I please try my call later. Geez, so much effort about filing for vacation leaves this Christmas.
Save for Fred, the high school buddy who has considered me his eternal pal, everyone else was nowhere to be seen. No Hacel nor Sheena nor other high school potpourri folks to while the night with after the mass. Yes, Virginia, you read that right. As much as I despise this overrated holiday with a high dose of unadulterated revulsion, I have dragged my ass to the refuge of sinners and dopes not so much as to hear the father’s recycled homily but more so as a result of my closest high school friend’s unnerving nagging. Allow me to repost my Christmas Scrooge litany:
"I have grown to become the most fucked up shrinking Scrooge this side of the archipelago and to be honest, I don’t celebrate Christmas with much gaiety; I just actually sleep after eating whatever has been served in the Noche Buena table (save, of course, if there are any drinking marathon to attend to). I’ve learned early on that the beer-bellied Santa every stupid child adores is nothing but a pumping pedophile marketing ploy for capitalists to earn more moolah.So there we were, Fred and I, sitting in one of the porches situated on the left wing of the church amidst a throng of rumor-mongers’ unending yadda yadda yadda. Stereotypical people who are far worse than the mecha’s of A.I. for being contented with a monotonous life without progress. Piteous folks who’d rather be still and not move while slowly being swallowed by the sinking quagmire of dreamless thoughts and vapid social norms.
For this narcissistic fuck-me-Freddy bastard, Christmas (like the friggin’ Twilight saga) is overrated. I mean, really now folks, we’re fooling ourselves if this is the only time of the year that we practice our selfless I’m-giving-you-this-gift grandstanding. If you really are that proverbial Good Samaritan, you can choose to be selfless and caring and giving and whatever positive adjective is usually being over-used during this season any time of the year and not only when the advent of Christmas arrives. But fuck you and all your smooching clan if you’re one of those who think they’re gawd-sent goodie-goodie creatures of society giving their piece of wealth and spreading pseudo-humanitarian good cause and good words to the poor and destitute only when December marks your calendars."
In the middle of the reverend’s give-love-on-Christmas-day litanies that only a few of the multitude pseudo-pious-slash-genuine blatherskites have the resolve not to bore through, we had snippets of conversations of what’s ups and what-nots. He told me I changed, not only because I had the Zack clone do that I have loathed since its creation but more so because blatantly, I was speaking in an unrestrained tongue that spoke of failed dreams and bitchy life and hopes becoming hoaxes. I told him I was becoming tired, that being a “call boy” is slowly getting the nerve out of me. I confided life in Manila is already dragging me to death and I thought I deserved something better and I had no choice but to live with the same shit every different day. He felt the drudgery, the boredom that stabs and replied back, “At least you are still out there, trying to live out your dreams, not incarcerated here. Unlike me who has always liked to escape from this provincial stagnancy but being kept enchained still.”
Such horrendous truth. Sharp-stabbing truth that had me speechless for awhile. Truth, as they say, will set us free. I believe that it will. But at certain points, this fuckin’ truth is what has been imprisoning us behind bars of absurdity and pitch-black void. Queer, isn’t it? There we were, two young men in random musings about our how our lives are taking shape so far, oblivious of wasted spits and mutual post-Christmas mass coitus, and I could not help but be serious and ponder. The fact that life is a bitch had ruptured me in such unawareness that I had to think hard where the fuck exactly was I heading. Quite exactly, I ask my alter-ego, where do you think you’re going, you double douche bag friggin’ bastard?
I’m already in my early twenties and this fact just makes me all the more unsure of myself. My youth is my recluse and I am using it as an excuse to living this life as immaturely as I deem it to be. I rant about life being such a clusterfuck bitch because that is the only way I know to deal it with. I have dreams, big dreams that no sooner will become ashes forgotten if I let it happen. Reminds me of Stephen King and his indirect allusion to such stark truth. Dreams are for kids and once you become an adult it shrinks. And you can never go back to pursuing it anymore.
So I have to move, to be always on the run, grinding, seizing to halt, because time is not on my side. If I want to realize my dreams, then I should do something to make them a reality. If I don’t want to be part of the fuckin’ statistics of lifeless drones and braggart bastards, then I have to learn the trick of life’s trade. This is not how I would want my life to end up being. And this is not how I thought this Christmas post would turn out. But then again, there’s always you who molds it, and directs it, until it becomes something that is oddly reflective of you.
Someday, somehow, I will read this post with either eventual maturity over petty youth rants and whining verbal diarrheas or with a destitute defeat forever in search of life’s fucked up significance, forever a vagabond of perished dreams and hopes gone hoaxes.
Sheesh! I’m becoming a tad deep, I see. Oh well, so much fuss about this fuckin’ Christmas tragedy. In the mean time, excuse my Plato idiosyncrasy. I deserve a friggin’ cold Stallion bottle – with or without company.
