What is the difference between rest day and day-off?The blatherskite shepherd wannabe, whom I've had the liberty to call the three-year-younger version of me, told me over our EB beer session that day-off is for house maids so I should be using rest day instead - because I'm some Third World corpo creature earning double-digit bucks. Whatever. Typical stereotyping, if you ask me. A rose by any other name would still smell sweet, to quote the great English
So yeah, I'm using the "supposedly maid's term" to mean today's my day-off and I think I'm off to a good start. The weather is pretty gloomy and oddly, I'm sort of liking it. I've always felt at ease with cold, freezing weathers than hot, intimidating sunny days if you ask me. There's a strange thing about humid sunless skies that pulls the attraction in me. Maybe because I can so relate with its loneliness and isolation. Or perchance because it allows me to be closer to my comfort zone - being lost in book realms and being fuckin' inebriatedly philosophical over cold beer bottles.
I've left the hellish dorm yesterday and now I'm a transient over one friend's apartment in Pasig. This was basically where I lived for some time prior to moving to the murky floodwaters of Espana, Manila because of the sudden decision, or lack thereof, to pursue my freakin' CPA dream.
Next week's going to be my last week at the equally hellish call whoring job and I can't say I'm not thrilled at the idea of becoming a slaved yuppie no more. Gawd, the thought of waking up whatever time you want sans the scene of dragging your balls to work to talk in fake American accent gives me that peculiar surge of energy. Imagine a life without calls upon stupid calls of Occidental non-techies who have unfairly deemed it a habit to vent out their frustrations to hapless call center agents over not being able to connect to the Internet.
Fuckin' inglourious basterds (has anyone watched Tarantino's film yet and was it any good?). Like it was our fault they couldn't download their Maria Ozawa porn torrent.
I quit the review as well and that's exactly the reason I've been very productive in churning out shits upon tons of shits in this blog. I've checked the August idiosyncrasy and it pleases-slash-amazes me to no end how I've come to manage a whopping 13 posts in one month. By Lio Loco standards of posting only sensible shitnitz, not merely posting nonsensical what-I-fuckin'-did-today yadda yadda just so I could fit the "productive blogger" description, that's already an understatement.
So I resigned from work and quit the review. What gives?
I can't explain everything in a nutshell but if you're the reader who have religiously followed the fuckin' sentemotional Lio Loco drama over the last couple of posts, you'd surely discern why I quit both. I am, of course, talking to my alter-ago and to the two or three random readers who have come to regard this blog as their three-o'clock habit. Let me just say I've had yet another bout of those infamous quarter-life clusterfucks that suck the fight attitude in you.
That time sucked big time, if you want to know the truth.
Suddenly you feel the isolation, you feel like straying away from the normal course of the crowd and begin to realize there are a lot of things about yourself you find pathetic. You become insecure and worry about what exactly is going to happen five, ten, fifteen years hence but you look at a black, faceless canvas because you don't know what the future holds for you. You live in the now, that familiar territory you've known like the back of your hand but the distant future is vague like some hoax clairvoyant's crystal ball in Quiapo Church.
You look at your job and find yourself in utter dismay for breathing such a fuckin' corpo tag you didn't imagine yourself to work into in the first place. You look at people around you and you become crabby and catty. You tell yourself they can't be trusted and how they are all the same, all freakin' dolled up selfish marionettes in strings, like that kindergarten kid you knew back then who won't even share his lunch box goodies with you.
Fuckin' potpourri memories.
You begin to realize the people you've considered friends all along aren't exactly the greatest people on earth you've ever met in your two-decade existence and you begin to miss those you've willingly lost contact with. You miss high school and college and the familiar sense of security and comfort they bring you and you wish to turn back the hands of time to experience the easy-go-lucky bummer life you've reluctantly parted with.
But then again, you think it's not okay to be lulled up in such false security.
I've once read a very good article in a newspaper back then how we can be at our best and worst times at the same time, about how we try our gawddamn best to figure everything out and discern what life really is all about. There will be cliches and useless figures of speech spewed out by people claiming to be philosophers and those claiming they know a lot about life but I'd like to think there's one idea that could very well fit the bill for all of us.
That while we all want to be winners in the race of our lives, and in the process being shoved with fucked up problems and clusterfuck dilemmas up our gawddamn asses, we feel secure to be good contenders, at the very least, in the here and now.
So yeah, seven days to go before I finally get that well-deserved one-month break from all of these hellish shitnitz. One week to get over and done with before I bid goodbye to this fuckin' polluted Manila brick road. I'm going back to the stress-free, good ol' home in the province and there, in the cold mountain breeze, I will pamper my pollution-soaked penis.
Who's missing me now, eh?
And yes, if you're quite keen to notice, digressions pepper my posts. Too much ideas, too little time. There goes the Holden Caulfield in me again. Tsk.
