Time and again, I have always professed my extreme loathing on people. Not people per se but people who more than deserve to be annihilated because of breathing the stereotypical shit. People who emanate toxic stupidity and whose dreams are as dead as their ragged testicles. I become easily annoyed with people around me, more so when they wallow in imbecilic pleasantries and dimwit conversations.
Yeah, I can be a fuckin’ smartass if I want to. And yes, I am hard to please.
Granted, I am an introvert oozing with braggadocio but that does not mean I was born one. I have this theory that people are born good and they still grow up with that boxed up moral ascendancy in them. However, society shitnitz and the travails you encounter in life will change this ideal perspective in the long run.
Which is what seems to have happened to me, if you want to know the truth.
Perhaps this is the reason I grew up being icky socializing with others. Don’t get me wrong though. I do engage in meaningful discourses with other people albeit only with those who are within my wavelength and this we do over cold beer bottles. Nothing beats throwing philosophical shit and thought-provoking bubbles over this hot Manila pollution-inhaled flair while submerging yourself in extra-strong malt inebriation.
If I don’t get this amazing liquor banters, then I’d rather settle for a sweet feast of crisp paper scribbles and paperback stories. I’d rather be lost in the land of make-believe with these “real people” – every word they penned being judiciously devoured, every sentence, paragraph being breathed without haste. I’ve always loved the odd scent of printed papers, whose every page lays the children of letters and words and sentences dancing madly in the wind, orgasmically moaning my escape from stagnancy and oh-so-sickeningly-fucked-up social incarceration.
It is in this light then that I threw my allergic stance to people off the window for a night – never mind if I was not in my best Lio Loco coy what with all the shitty unfortunate events that occurred just recently in my yuppie existence, and never mind as well if I had to hide my crappy half-baked Jjampong hair trim under a sweaty Bench cap – just to meet up with a certain blogger I’ve straightforwardly called the three-year younger version of myself.
Funny how far blog-hopping can do. A link. A comment. A perusal of one’s mind. And then a forged connection.
In a world where almost seven billion people are in limbo – earning a living instead of earning a life, performing perfunctory steps instead of meaningful strides – it is a wonder to find someone close, if not exactly identical, to your guarded idiosyncrasies. It is even more remarkable if that person happens to come across your idiosyncrasy in print without you knowing it.
And so it was that in a swirling maelstrom of quenched thirsts and fuckin’ loud music, of flirting girls in tight mini’s and hapless boys mistaken for M2M pop culture chains, of deeply heated religion debates and shallow LOL tirades, of Marlboro smoke circles and two buckets of beer bottles, two young men – one struggling to chase a fuckin’ CPA dream, the other fraught with the ambition of becoming a boom-box shepherd of lost faith; both burdened by a filial responsibility to their families – shared the dream to be the best people that they could be, to reach their personal ambitions without compromises, to live young lives that won’t conform to a shitty society’s entanglement, to dance under stardust sprinkles.
I used to say I am unique and in a society full of neurotic tendencies and scumbag morons, I’ve claimed since time immemorial that there can only be one Me, that there can only be one Lio Loco idiosyncrasy. That at the risk of sounding too self-absorbed, my thoughts are king and the others' paupers. I thought wrong, of course. That night proved it. That night saw all of it. It was like Holden Caulfield meeting The Little Prince. Well, sort of.
If this is the kind of blogger meet-ups that awaits me over and beyond the blogosphere realm, then let me tell you this: I’d be more than willing to accept the invitation, with or without the RSVP.
Just be wary about my tendency to be a fucked up egotistical bastard. I’m telling you so.
Of course, there has to be cold beer bottles.
*First -ber month, first English post after a very long time. Fresh start.
Yeah, I can be a fuckin’ smartass if I want to. And yes, I am hard to please.
Granted, I am an introvert oozing with braggadocio but that does not mean I was born one. I have this theory that people are born good and they still grow up with that boxed up moral ascendancy in them. However, society shitnitz and the travails you encounter in life will change this ideal perspective in the long run.
Which is what seems to have happened to me, if you want to know the truth.
Perhaps this is the reason I grew up being icky socializing with others. Don’t get me wrong though. I do engage in meaningful discourses with other people albeit only with those who are within my wavelength and this we do over cold beer bottles. Nothing beats throwing philosophical shit and thought-provoking bubbles over this hot Manila pollution-inhaled flair while submerging yourself in extra-strong malt inebriation.
If I don’t get this amazing liquor banters, then I’d rather settle for a sweet feast of crisp paper scribbles and paperback stories. I’d rather be lost in the land of make-believe with these “real people” – every word they penned being judiciously devoured, every sentence, paragraph being breathed without haste. I’ve always loved the odd scent of printed papers, whose every page lays the children of letters and words and sentences dancing madly in the wind, orgasmically moaning my escape from stagnancy and oh-so-sickeningly-fucked-up social incarceration.
It is in this light then that I threw my allergic stance to people off the window for a night – never mind if I was not in my best Lio Loco coy what with all the shitty unfortunate events that occurred just recently in my yuppie existence, and never mind as well if I had to hide my crappy half-baked Jjampong hair trim under a sweaty Bench cap – just to meet up with a certain blogger I’ve straightforwardly called the three-year younger version of myself.
Funny how far blog-hopping can do. A link. A comment. A perusal of one’s mind. And then a forged connection.
In a world where almost seven billion people are in limbo – earning a living instead of earning a life, performing perfunctory steps instead of meaningful strides – it is a wonder to find someone close, if not exactly identical, to your guarded idiosyncrasies. It is even more remarkable if that person happens to come across your idiosyncrasy in print without you knowing it.
And so it was that in a swirling maelstrom of quenched thirsts and fuckin’ loud music, of flirting girls in tight mini’s and hapless boys mistaken for M2M pop culture chains, of deeply heated religion debates and shallow LOL tirades, of Marlboro smoke circles and two buckets of beer bottles, two young men – one struggling to chase a fuckin’ CPA dream, the other fraught with the ambition of becoming a boom-box shepherd of lost faith; both burdened by a filial responsibility to their families – shared the dream to be the best people that they could be, to reach their personal ambitions without compromises, to live young lives that won’t conform to a shitty society’s entanglement, to dance under stardust sprinkles.
I used to say I am unique and in a society full of neurotic tendencies and scumbag morons, I’ve claimed since time immemorial that there can only be one Me, that there can only be one Lio Loco idiosyncrasy. That at the risk of sounding too self-absorbed, my thoughts are king and the others' paupers. I thought wrong, of course. That night proved it. That night saw all of it. It was like Holden Caulfield meeting The Little Prince. Well, sort of.
If this is the kind of blogger meet-ups that awaits me over and beyond the blogosphere realm, then let me tell you this: I’d be more than willing to accept the invitation, with or without the RSVP.
Just be wary about my tendency to be a fucked up egotistical bastard. I’m telling you so.
Of course, there has to be cold beer bottles.
*First -ber month, first English post after a very long time. Fresh start.
