**These are snippets of the consuming speech that finally unhinged all those six years. I'm trying, but it's hard to write this now, because the withdrawal symptoms are surfacing to harass my every effort. And, simultaneously, I'm trying to remember how I delivered this, to him yesterday afternoon. And how he said the words I badly needed to hear. I know the delivery killed me twice in passing, thrice even, come to think of it, but I need to hang on to the littlest detail, however hurtful and masochistic and unkind, because this is all I have left.
That being said, allow me to let slip a most shallow and pathetic defense - See, a man with tattoos has got to have something to demonstrate, otherwise, it's all for show.
And I chose to keep this as a buried post because I can't have this glaring at me. And I really said everything in The Speech, and I never realized until now that reading can be so brave.
START OF SPEECH
ME: Gusto kita, totoo, pero alam mo naman itong lagay ko, at alam ko rin namang hindi puwede. Ilang taon ko rin tong tinago, dineny, at ngayong kausap na kita ulit eh sabihin mo na rin, gusto ko sa yo na manggaling, na hindi talaga puwede at walang mangyayari sa atin talaga. Uulitin mo lang yung sinabi mo nung huling nag-usap tayo sa telepono (that was about three years back in 2007, and that was the first defeat), ulitin mo lang yun kung naalala mo pa, at sabihin mo ng malinaw, para maging klaro sa akin.
(DELETED PART FOLLOWS, I wrote this, true, but I left it out, didn't have to tell him, didn't see the need, all too fucking self-defeating if you ask me)
ME: Pero hindi naman ibig sabihin nun eh wala na tong ganitong nag-uusap tayo. Nasa sa iyo yun. Heto, masaya ko sa ganito, gusto ko malinaw sa yo yun. Ayoko lang ng may inaasahan ako na wala naman talaga dapat. Mayroon akong ulterior motive, oo, pero alam ko namang walang mangyayari doon, at habang wala akong naririnig sa yo eh sa palagay ko hindi mawawala iyon. Kaya heto at pinaghandaan ko na ito, itong SONAng ito, para maging malinaw na at maging klaro na talaga. At nang mahugutan na rin ako ng tinik. Kaya yun, ano masasabi mo?
(HE ANSWERS WITH THE EXPECTED RESPONSE AT THIS POINT. Yeah, I even included the theatric sequence. How drama-queen is that?)
ME: Yaan, yan lang ang gusto ko marinig. Edi tapos, hindi na ako uma-asa, hindi na ako hoping. At least ngayon eh klaro na talaga sa kin ang lagay ko, dapat lang, at puwede ko na tigilan ang mga daydream ko. Haay salamat (sigh). Osha, babay!
(LONG PAUSE for the effect)
ME: Haha! Hoy tanga, andian ka pa? (This was supposed to represent the comic relief that I knew I needed at this point, but I was all too knee deep in all this drama to even try. Which is why this was deleted)
(END OF DELETED PART)
(CONTINUATION OF ACTUAL DELIVERED SPEECH, written on a separate piece of paper because this was further inspired later that same day, 08/10/2010)
ME: Naalala mo ung nag-usap tayo sa phone kailan lang? Yung 9pm to 4am? Na-realize ko na heto na naman ulit ako eh. Hindi ako normal pagdating sa iyo. Kasi kahit papaano, kahit sa tinagal ng pagkakataon na di tayo nagpang-abot eh bumabalik pa rin sa akin ang expectation sa mga pagkakataong andian ka na ulit. Nagiging makulit ako, nawawala ako sa huwisyo, palagi akong may ini-intindi pagdating sa yo. Hindi ako ganito, hindi dapat ganito, ayoko ng ganito ako at wala akong control sa sarili ko. Kaya ang hiling ko eh ang marinig sa yo, in the most final and decisive tone, na tigilan ko na dahil walang mangyayari at ipagpaliban ko na ito ng tuluyan hanggang sa dumating ang pagkakataong mawala na sa akin ang lahat ng mga kababawang to.
ME: Yun ang gusto ko, yun lang, at hangga't maari eh dagdagan mo ng puwersa at conviction ang pagkakasabi mo, please?
(HE DELIVERS THE EXPECTED RESPONSE. And I took it all in, like the man, the defeated man, I have always been, and I tried to conceal the hurt that I knew will be there, but my own heaving sighs betrayed the goddamned charade and I was all too fucked for my own good.)
(CONTINUATION OF ACTUAL DELIVERED SPEECH. This is the height of masochism, the salt that is rubbed with sadistic glee to my self-inflicted wounds. This part, however, was never scripted, unrehearsed, a most damaging improvisation that I know I should be regretting)
ME: And, kung puwede lang, sana huwag mo na kong ine-entertain, sa kahit anong medium pa. Please, para sa akin, para di na ako magka-ganito ulit.
(ALL EXTEMPORANEOUS FROM THIS POINT ON)
HIM: Panong entertain?
ME: Ganito, ganitong nag-uusap tayo.
HIM: Yan ba talaga ang gusto mo? Oo o hindi?
ME: Hindi ko masabing Oo, hindi ko rin masabing hindi, pero sa palagay ko eh mas mabuti kong oo, para na rin sa akin. (I say this in retrospect - Eh?)
HIM: Okay.
(I remember these parts all too vividly. This was unnecessary, but it was the final disintegration I didn't know if I needed.)
The Six-Year Talk that I pursued, persuaded even, culminated in an exchange of Thank Yous and Im Sorrys at this point, and then we promptly hang up. I never heard from him since then, which was good, because it was the sick vision- mission behind this masochistic exercise.
August 11, 2010
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Things I Do With My Different Groups of Friends
**They say that if you lied down with dogs, you get fleas in the morning. I say that you choose your dogs, and then love your fleas. To hell with everybody else.
1. With the kababatas (my childhood friends for more than ten years now), it's a couple of smokes after dinner. And then a few more after that until it proceeds to three hours of chain smoking. Somebody then takes out a pot of hot water, and then it's a coffee party up until breakfast.
Recently, we have been actively interrupting this itinerary with movie reviews. Yup, movie reviews. Turns out everybody is a critic, and though it's different levels of extrospection uncommon to people our age, it's still a barrel of monkeys and all that funny snot.And then when we do get more than the required amount of nicotine in the system, our brains are just soo pumped, we can talk about anything.
Sometimes, a conversation starts with a tsunami. It then mutates into this funny assortment of concerns which also mentions the government, religion, sexuality, and all that jazz nobody ever touches with a ten foot stick. The last time we had a long talk was over a pot of coffee and a couple of packs of lights. This was brewed after a bottle of tequila, and believe me, alcohol plus nicotine plus caffeine made me so eager to admit I was gay all over. If I hadn't done that before, I knew I sure will.
2. With the queers, it's laughing our hearts out, and then getting laid. OR getting laid first, and then laughing out loud. And it also happens too, y'know, laughing out loud while getting laid on account of some people can be such stupid fuck buddies.Here's a piece of unsolicited advice, a great lay isn't really with how your partner looks like. It's not even with the range of his shotgun. It's not EVEN with how he uses it, since there's no OTHER way to appreciate it with. I would describe a good lay as this ONE sex machine who knows how to work his tongue, knows how to move his body and use his hands, and has the best damn timing like a Rolex.
To quote the magnificent Stan Lee, "'nuff sed."
3. With the SnB boys, it's playing pool straight for at least two hours. There was a time when we did this for seven hours straight, but there was a thirty minute interval for dinner, and then six and a half hours of uninterrupted gambling.There are times when a gay guy appreciates the male stink, most especially when it's stink coming from the people you're having fun with. It's so fun, I never did mind getting all sweaty and oily and dirty with my right hand all blued up from the cue chalk. Minus being naked from the waist up, I WAS still one of the guys back then, and I'd revel in my pool brilliance while I trash talked like Tom Sawyer.
Sometimes, me and the girls, the SnB girls, would get set and pull an all nighter over a case or two of beer. Or three, but it doesn't really matter since we'd be laughing at each other in the morning over who looks the most like shit.
Those were easily some of my best days.
4. Random stuff with officemates from my different companies. But it's usually getting shitfaced for the most part. And kicking the crap out of them over a few games of pool.
One of the scariest things is a yuppy, on a payday, with his office buds, and helluva lot of time to spare.
5. The nerds are gone, but there was a time when it was nothing but video games and CCG's all along. We never knew how to smoke then, but if we did, we could have died already.
This was mostly back in high school where I associated myself with this group of nerds. Yup, nerds. So there goes a confession, and here's another one: I graduated with honors back then thanks to this unlikely motley crew.Do I want to see any one of them sometime soon, sit down and have a cup of hot chocolate? Hell yeah.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Confessions of a Telemarketer
**Or "Why" Spelled in ___ Different Ways.
**Or "Kissing Telemarketing Goodbye."
If, for some reason, you beg to differ with all the hostility you can summon, then leave me alone. Do something else, like polish your sales pitch, or practice speaking faster. I've been there, and I CAN sell. I can probably outsell you ten to one if I'm still interested, but Ben Tumbling has left the building and is now doing a happy job as a technical support personnel.
And don't get offended. You'll get over the effin truth anyway.
Aside from learning how to speak like an American and argue with an American, the other good thing about telemarketing is quitting.
I've been doing a lot of telemarketing for about more than a year now, and for some people, that's just about long enough. I did hardcore telemarketing, phone scamming, and business listings for more than is required, and I figured it's just about time to rinse my brain cells for something fresh. I quit doing it, and since my resignation letter was as honest as it can get, there are still other reasons which strengthened my resolve to go and, as those Americans placed it, "get a better job."
So I did it for the pay, and the pay's excellent. There was a time when my tax alone was another person's income for a full pay period, and that made me feel good. Not because I'm making this much money, but because I'm worth this much dough. And I wasn't even THAT good yet. So I stayed to figure out how far I can go. Turns out that I wouldn't go THAT far, thanks to the various influences I met along the way.
There isn't much room for learning. You can only learn as much, and then your brain proceeds to rot from the same mind numbing telemarketing. I mean, how much brain work does it require for anyone to update a business listing and sell crap after that? See, you can only do so much with your rebuttals, twist them and turn them around for plausible manipulation as you please. But it sometimes verges on scamming, so there isn't much you can really DO with them. It's always the same routine, day after day after day. And then the day after that. You can get to master everything in this much time, but what happens after that? You can get lucky and learn a new product in a span of six months, but that is only if you are lucky enough. And unless that happens, you're stuck to updating online business listings which nobody ever looks up.
I'm smarter than this sonofabitch who's cussing at me over the phone, and I wonder why I can't just cuss him back and get it over with? Damn, I learned the art of cursing assholes early on in grade school, and it's pretty much a secondary nature. But there's somebody listening in to this call and may actually be recording it for posterity. Quality. So I give him the finger while I'm doing my rebuttals, but, for all the wrong reasons, it just doesn't feel right.
Quality in this context simply refers to the quality of the verbal receipt involved in all this telemarketing. We record the agreements over the phone, and we're doing that just to say that we have a tape of them saying YES to the sales pitch. They have no other choice but to pay us since we have them caught on tape. And just to be real sure, the tape's well recorded and the conversation was just as clear as bottled water. Quality, then, makes sure that the receipt's flawless, and that the scam's a work in progress.
I studied mathematics for five years in college, and for the most part, math at my level (as a telemarketer) is basically all about counting sales. The extra mile in this instance would actually involve DIVIDING my daily sales by this much hours, or computing my cash incentives to involve MULTIPLICATION, and that's basically it. I never needed to use what I know in differential equations, operations research, or even linear algebra; it's just addition, division, and multiplication, and I'm all set.
That probably explains why undergraduates overachieve in this field.
The previous reason then gives birth to another question: I finished college for this? And for some of my friends back then: I passed the board for this? I'm beginning to wonder whatever happened to my "edge" in this industry that brags of its fair share of successful undergraduates. I'm getting as much as this telemarketer in my team, and yet I'm the one with the diploma. And then when I go on and think about it, I can always use my diploma and apply as a teacher, or a programmer, or a teller in a sperm bank. But then it's either earning the minimum wage or working as a telemarketer. And there really is no sense in pointing out that you're a telemarketer with a degree in mathematics. We all sound the same to the person we're speaking with over the phone. And we receive the same paycheck as everyone else.
It needed a wake up call to realize all this. One of my most memorable telemarketing calls was with the owner of this bakery. When I introduced myself over the phone, THE verbal handshake as they called it back then, he interrupted me and told me that he needs to close the door. Then I heard a click, and then he started with this enraged litany over harrassment. He said that he's been called by US people more than a dozen times, and he has been polite all along. For some reason, I knew that I'm speaking with a man nearing his breaking point, and that was more that validated when he started screaming: "What have we done to deserve this kind of harrassment? Not buy anything from you guys?"
I received a lot of calls very similar to this one, but for some reason, this was the ONE call I needed. This baker rattled me more than $10,000 threats, the Secretary of state, or the Better Business Bureau. He isn't even cursing, but all of the foulmouthing from a hundred previous assholes does not even begin to compare with this one guy who's had enough.
The common rebuttal to this kind of objection, when the customer's at his breaking point, would go something like, "Sir, I'm terribly sorry you feel that way, so let me just go on ahead and remove your from our calling list." Tough luck, since I knew better. At the back of my head, I was like, "Yes, I might be telling you that we'll be removing your name from our calling list. But I'm just telling you that, since we'll still be calling this number soon, and we'll be wishing like hell that someone else will answer. And then we'll throw him the sales pitch. We can tell you one hundred times that we'll remove your name from our calling list, but that's never going to happen. Your number will still end up as another prospect call. So, come to think of it, we are harrassing you, sir."
I didn't even try pushing the product forward. I just wished him a nice day, went on break, and started thinking. Maybe I've had enough myself?
**Or "Kissing Telemarketing Goodbye."
If, for some reason, you beg to differ with all the hostility you can summon, then leave me alone. Do something else, like polish your sales pitch, or practice speaking faster. I've been there, and I CAN sell. I can probably outsell you ten to one if I'm still interested, but Ben Tumbling has left the building and is now doing a happy job as a technical support personnel.
And don't get offended. You'll get over the effin truth anyway.
Aside from learning how to speak like an American and argue with an American, the other good thing about telemarketing is quitting.I've been doing a lot of telemarketing for about more than a year now, and for some people, that's just about long enough. I did hardcore telemarketing, phone scamming, and business listings for more than is required, and I figured it's just about time to rinse my brain cells for something fresh. I quit doing it, and since my resignation letter was as honest as it can get, there are still other reasons which strengthened my resolve to go and, as those Americans placed it, "get a better job."
So I did it for the pay, and the pay's excellent. There was a time when my tax alone was another person's income for a full pay period, and that made me feel good. Not because I'm making this much money, but because I'm worth this much dough. And I wasn't even THAT good yet. So I stayed to figure out how far I can go. Turns out that I wouldn't go THAT far, thanks to the various influences I met along the way.
There isn't much room for learning. You can only learn as much, and then your brain proceeds to rot from the same mind numbing telemarketing. I mean, how much brain work does it require for anyone to update a business listing and sell crap after that? See, you can only do so much with your rebuttals, twist them and turn them around for plausible manipulation as you please. But it sometimes verges on scamming, so there isn't much you can really DO with them. It's always the same routine, day after day after day. And then the day after that. You can get to master everything in this much time, but what happens after that? You can get lucky and learn a new product in a span of six months, but that is only if you are lucky enough. And unless that happens, you're stuck to updating online business listings which nobody ever looks up.
I'm smarter than this sonofabitch who's cussing at me over the phone, and I wonder why I can't just cuss him back and get it over with? Damn, I learned the art of cursing assholes early on in grade school, and it's pretty much a secondary nature. But there's somebody listening in to this call and may actually be recording it for posterity. Quality. So I give him the finger while I'm doing my rebuttals, but, for all the wrong reasons, it just doesn't feel right.
Quality in this context simply refers to the quality of the verbal receipt involved in all this telemarketing. We record the agreements over the phone, and we're doing that just to say that we have a tape of them saying YES to the sales pitch. They have no other choice but to pay us since we have them caught on tape. And just to be real sure, the tape's well recorded and the conversation was just as clear as bottled water. Quality, then, makes sure that the receipt's flawless, and that the scam's a work in progress.
I studied mathematics for five years in college, and for the most part, math at my level (as a telemarketer) is basically all about counting sales. The extra mile in this instance would actually involve DIVIDING my daily sales by this much hours, or computing my cash incentives to involve MULTIPLICATION, and that's basically it. I never needed to use what I know in differential equations, operations research, or even linear algebra; it's just addition, division, and multiplication, and I'm all set.
That probably explains why undergraduates overachieve in this field.
The previous reason then gives birth to another question: I finished college for this? And for some of my friends back then: I passed the board for this? I'm beginning to wonder whatever happened to my "edge" in this industry that brags of its fair share of successful undergraduates. I'm getting as much as this telemarketer in my team, and yet I'm the one with the diploma. And then when I go on and think about it, I can always use my diploma and apply as a teacher, or a programmer, or a teller in a sperm bank. But then it's either earning the minimum wage or working as a telemarketer. And there really is no sense in pointing out that you're a telemarketer with a degree in mathematics. We all sound the same to the person we're speaking with over the phone. And we receive the same paycheck as everyone else.
It needed a wake up call to realize all this. One of my most memorable telemarketing calls was with the owner of this bakery. When I introduced myself over the phone, THE verbal handshake as they called it back then, he interrupted me and told me that he needs to close the door. Then I heard a click, and then he started with this enraged litany over harrassment. He said that he's been called by US people more than a dozen times, and he has been polite all along. For some reason, I knew that I'm speaking with a man nearing his breaking point, and that was more that validated when he started screaming: "What have we done to deserve this kind of harrassment? Not buy anything from you guys?"
I received a lot of calls very similar to this one, but for some reason, this was the ONE call I needed. This baker rattled me more than $10,000 threats, the Secretary of state, or the Better Business Bureau. He isn't even cursing, but all of the foulmouthing from a hundred previous assholes does not even begin to compare with this one guy who's had enough.
The common rebuttal to this kind of objection, when the customer's at his breaking point, would go something like, "Sir, I'm terribly sorry you feel that way, so let me just go on ahead and remove your from our calling list." Tough luck, since I knew better. At the back of my head, I was like, "Yes, I might be telling you that we'll be removing your name from our calling list. But I'm just telling you that, since we'll still be calling this number soon, and we'll be wishing like hell that someone else will answer. And then we'll throw him the sales pitch. We can tell you one hundred times that we'll remove your name from our calling list, but that's never going to happen. Your number will still end up as another prospect call. So, come to think of it, we are harrassing you, sir."
I didn't even try pushing the product forward. I just wished him a nice day, went on break, and started thinking. Maybe I've had enough myself?
Monday, June 27, 2005
My Favorite Forwarded Messages
Here's a quick list of some of my more inspired posts. Not that the rest of them posts are any less inspired, no sir, its just that these happened to gag the most comments. So there.
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What's a gay guy's blog without gay write ups? No tips for the perfect blowjob, though. Like I said, I'm mostly harmless.
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I have a Page Rank of 3, but I don't get it. I managed to learn me a whole heaven about blogging, and here's pretty much everything.
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I used to be a telemarketer. And I was most thoroughly inspired by the work and the call center agents I'm with. Here's to us. BTW, I'm now doing technical support as some sort of penance.
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There are some things you just can't love in this effing third world country I'm in. Here's some of them. Everything else, well, they're just so positively charming.
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It's a delectable list of random nothingness served to pleasure your varying appetites.Includes my hot Hate List, Blog Rules, and my impromptu Soups. Enjoy!
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You know how it's like when you have this sudden burst of insight, and you have no one to tell it to because its just too stupid for speech? Yeah, this is why I write in the first place.
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These are more of a personal project than silly fillers since I love horror movies as much as I love to write. It's a perfect marriage on the ideal blog.
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I'm the same both online and offline, but I'm mostly more inappropriate in front of a computer. Here's how I am when I'm borderline well-behaved.
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Sometimes, when I'm about to run out of things tos write about, I turn to what I'm holding in my right hand for inspiration. I'm referring to a cigarette.METHOD=POST onSubmit="return dropdown(this.gourl)">
I sometimes channel the spirit of this college girl with a knack for social climbing and insults. I call him Ben. Verily, the poor man's valley girl in all the proper respects.
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Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Blog Soup #1
(Over the phone)MEL: Hello, puwede po kay Jen?
GIRL: Ay si Ate Jen? Ay wala po sha.
MEL: May lakad ba siya?
GIRL: Ay si Ate Jen po? Ay nag-badMENton po.
MEL: Ay. Ganon ba? O sige, pakisabi na lang tumawag si Mel, okay?
GIRL: MEL po? AY opo.
If that ain't too much "AYs" in one short conversation, then I'm a
gay guy swearing on goat eyelashes as a sex toy.
(Video City)
Cashier: Sir, hindi pa po kayo puwede makahiram ng unlimited. Sa ngayon, puwede niyo lang hiramin ay hanggang dalawang titles lang kasi bagong member pa lang kayo.
MEL: So kailan pa kami puwedeng humiram ng unlimited?
Cashier: Kailangan po, makasampung balik kayo rito.
MEL: Tapos, sa isang balik eh maximum of two titles lang?
Cashier: Opo, minimum of two titles, maximum of two titles. (Exactly.)
MEL: So ibig sabihin eh kailangan muna naming humiram ng dalawampung titles bago namin ma-avail yung unlimited?
Cashier: (Pauses, looks at the ceiling). Opo.
**Jesus, lady, it's just ten multiplied by two.
(At a birthday party in Jollibee)
Emcee: Hokay kids, we're going to form two groups. One for boys, one for girls, and etceteras, okay? Let's join us together common. (Nobody stands up except for five kids already in front.) Common kids, common, let's join the jollibee group. Do you want to join yes or no? (Yes, that's one sentence).
**Let us join us together common?
I'm not updating my blog as religiously as I used to. Well, that's a fucking given. But that does not mean that I've given up on what used to be such a devouring passion. For the time being, I had to sacrifice my "blogging time" to give way to my sexy night job as a technical support
representative. But don't you all worry, I'm still kinky, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.
I have so much to write about, and yet I have so little time with which to work with. See, in between technical support, avoiding really stupid people, and having a life of my own, I really can't find just the right space to get busy with my writings. I know it doesn't pay the bills,
but it allows for a satisfaction paralleled maybe by a wicked gangbang with the OC boys. Okay, I'm not punishing myself for a diversion which is as gratifying as it gets. I mean, I'd love to write more and get more of my sick thoughts in this here blog, but I just don't have the time. I'll find a way to work this out, but for the time being, it's another six minutes left to log back in.
I have this new friend, and he was just relentless with his discussions about singing contests. And for some reason, it got me thinking. I mean, How gay is a guy who can differentiate the two contests which Sarah Geronimo and Rachel Ann Go championed? I'm not jumping to conclusions, but yeah. The only thing gayer than that is Erik Santos wearing feathers in his hair. With a dress cut down to there. Is this going to trigger another endless verbal attack towards my "silahistang" gay bashers? Nope. This dude in question's nice, and I was JUST thinking, see?
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Triggering the Dirty Finger
**Have you seen this program on TV? It's called the news, and watching just thirty minutes of it gave me enough inspiration for a tankful of foul retch.
And by the way, I really don't think much of our local celebrities, and there is more to television than who's fucking who, or who's gay this time, or which local program's attempting another American Idol rip off. It all looks the same to me. I mean, that thing which comes out of your ass smells no different from anybody else's, right? So pardon the reference.
Cesar Montano's leading a lost cause.
If you've ever seen him endorsing that new service by Touch Mobile, then you'll begin to understand my point. He was marching along, flanked and surrounded by the local "masa," and they are advocating a new slogan supposedly empowering the purchasing power of the local currency. If I remember it right, the new catch line screams "Power to the Piso," and for all I care, it might as well be "Power to the People," and it wouldn't make no difference at all. There isn't much substance in what he was campaigning for, most especially with what filth they're reporting in the local news programs.
I was watching the news one time, and I saw a clip of this guy being arrested because he claimed to be a member of the National Bureau of Investigation (NBI).
His line of defense was that he was merely doing that to pacify a near-erupting gangfight between two local groups. He was thinking that posing as a law enforcer would bring people to their senses, and that claiming to be a member of an "elite" bureau would command the cooperation of these local thugs. Anyway, that's not the point. I mean, why in the world would that goddamn fool assume to be an element of the National Bureau of Investigation? I'm not particularly impressed with the kind of magic those badged posers weave, like there was any to begin with, and affiliating with them's not as helpful as it used to be. I'm sure they try, but the impression they're leaving as of the late's not really working for them. See, the NBI doesn't perform well anyway, much like any other office in the government, so he might as well assume to be the President or something and it wouldn't do him wonders.
Who really cares? He still ended up as another dipshit in the already asphyxiating kennels we have here as prison cells.
At this point, I'll be doing something which I rarely do at all. I would like to apologized to all of you kids out there who are in one way or another connected to our local law enforcement agencies. Like as friends, or more importantly, as family. See, you don't have dumb parents. They simply love the job they're doing, but the thing is, the system we have here doesn't give them a real good impression at all. Yes, it sucks, but they're sticking to it just the same. And you just have to adore them for that.
Anyway, after sometime, this news program I was watching cuts into a commercial break. And the first thing I saw was this clip about the selective killing of broadcasters in Mindanao. Of course, this wasn't really surprising at all, I mean, this was the kind of news they serve us over dinner.
Nothing's quite as fantastic as having your appetite disturbed by mugshots of news reporters in bodybags, one after another. I got kind of used to this, and in the long run, this failed to elicit no element of shock at all. Thing is, they're killing media men down south for being media men down south. So much for Power to the People.
Beginning May 26, an additional two pesos (P2.00) will be collected from each passenger riding the local jeepney or buses. Sure. Three commercial breaks later, and it's the senate increasing the value added tax (VAT) to a constant ten percent (10%). Literally speaking, VAT means that they're taxing the value of a product, but I just don't see the point in doing that here. In theory, our local products aren't really worth much at all, if you ask me, so imposing ten percent on something for it's "value" is simply an entertaining concept. See, ten percent of zero is still zero. So, a VAT of zero is really not much at all. But that's just theory speaking. Reality is that sales receipt you're holding in your left hand, or that utility bill in your right.
I can't wait for May 26 to see just how ugly thing's are going to be for the local commuter. It's bad enough that they'll be fishing out more coins from their pockets to get to where they're bound to be. But it gets worse.
Most of our local jeepneys and buses are maneouvered mostly by these sweaty, hotheaded fiends who foulmouth a tad too much. It might also be implied that they drive with a deathwish, in case you've never lived to tell what it's like to be travelling with your life flashing back right before your very eyes.
I remember being in this one bus ride from Makati.
I wasn't even out of the Makati Business District when the bus I was on just started swerving from left to right. It started with this abrupt movement to the left, more like a jolt or something, but then it was followed by a sudden turn to the right. For some reason, the driver's acting fucked up. Real bad. It even came this close to this other bus, so close that we were almost five inches apart! It was near the MRT station in Buendia when things started to really get out of control.
The bus came to a screeching halt, real abrupt, and then these two ugly thugs operating my bus just started erupting in the most fluent expletives. The conductor opened the door, and then went out in the street, obviously infuriated by another bus which happened to be tailing ours. I was three seats away from the driver, and I saw him take out this LARGE KNIFE from his drawer or something, and then he followed his conductor out into the street. My fellow passengers were already halfway to violent, and they were all looking out of the windows, screaming for their money back. Imagine that.
Anyway, our driver and his partner came back in like three minutes flat, apparently appeased and enormously apologetic to all of us. Turns out that they were being assholed by the driver from the other bus, and that they were just giving him his just desserts.
That was an eleven-peso bus ride, but I never had no idea that eleven pesos can be such a pain. I'm paying this much for service which just threatened my physical well being, and now they're upping it to thirteen pesos? I'm not being cheap or nothing, but would you be okay with paying your possible executioner two pesos more?
But that's just icing on the cake. See, riding from point A to point B anywhere in the metro exposes your lungs to the finest polluted air ever. We're talking generous quantities of carbon monoxide, and tar, and nicotine, and all that good jazz. Basically, a trip in one of our local jeepneys is the closest you can get to getting high on carbon monoxide. So, if you're the type of person who usually gets his kicks on dirty air, then you're almost always in you're element when you're commuting in the metro.
But we're not like you. I don't think it's fair to pay two pesos (P2.00) more to get nearer to lung complications. You don't even smoke, and yet you're respiratory system suffers as much as your coin purse.
Power to the Piso? Told you Cesar Montano's leading a lost cause.
And by the way, I really don't think much of our local celebrities, and there is more to television than who's fucking who, or who's gay this time, or which local program's attempting another American Idol rip off. It all looks the same to me. I mean, that thing which comes out of your ass smells no different from anybody else's, right? So pardon the reference.
Cesar Montano's leading a lost cause.
If you've ever seen him endorsing that new service by Touch Mobile, then you'll begin to understand my point. He was marching along, flanked and surrounded by the local "masa," and they are advocating a new slogan supposedly empowering the purchasing power of the local currency. If I remember it right, the new catch line screams "Power to the Piso," and for all I care, it might as well be "Power to the People," and it wouldn't make no difference at all. There isn't much substance in what he was campaigning for, most especially with what filth they're reporting in the local news programs.
I was watching the news one time, and I saw a clip of this guy being arrested because he claimed to be a member of the National Bureau of Investigation (NBI).
His line of defense was that he was merely doing that to pacify a near-erupting gangfight between two local groups. He was thinking that posing as a law enforcer would bring people to their senses, and that claiming to be a member of an "elite" bureau would command the cooperation of these local thugs. Anyway, that's not the point. I mean, why in the world would that goddamn fool assume to be an element of the National Bureau of Investigation? I'm not particularly impressed with the kind of magic those badged posers weave, like there was any to begin with, and affiliating with them's not as helpful as it used to be. I'm sure they try, but the impression they're leaving as of the late's not really working for them. See, the NBI doesn't perform well anyway, much like any other office in the government, so he might as well assume to be the President or something and it wouldn't do him wonders.Who really cares? He still ended up as another dipshit in the already asphyxiating kennels we have here as prison cells.
At this point, I'll be doing something which I rarely do at all. I would like to apologized to all of you kids out there who are in one way or another connected to our local law enforcement agencies. Like as friends, or more importantly, as family. See, you don't have dumb parents. They simply love the job they're doing, but the thing is, the system we have here doesn't give them a real good impression at all. Yes, it sucks, but they're sticking to it just the same. And you just have to adore them for that.
Anyway, after sometime, this news program I was watching cuts into a commercial break. And the first thing I saw was this clip about the selective killing of broadcasters in Mindanao. Of course, this wasn't really surprising at all, I mean, this was the kind of news they serve us over dinner.
Nothing's quite as fantastic as having your appetite disturbed by mugshots of news reporters in bodybags, one after another. I got kind of used to this, and in the long run, this failed to elicit no element of shock at all. Thing is, they're killing media men down south for being media men down south. So much for Power to the People.
Beginning May 26, an additional two pesos (P2.00) will be collected from each passenger riding the local jeepney or buses. Sure. Three commercial breaks later, and it's the senate increasing the value added tax (VAT) to a constant ten percent (10%). Literally speaking, VAT means that they're taxing the value of a product, but I just don't see the point in doing that here. In theory, our local products aren't really worth much at all, if you ask me, so imposing ten percent on something for it's "value" is simply an entertaining concept. See, ten percent of zero is still zero. So, a VAT of zero is really not much at all. But that's just theory speaking. Reality is that sales receipt you're holding in your left hand, or that utility bill in your right.
I can't wait for May 26 to see just how ugly thing's are going to be for the local commuter. It's bad enough that they'll be fishing out more coins from their pockets to get to where they're bound to be. But it gets worse.
Most of our local jeepneys and buses are maneouvered mostly by these sweaty, hotheaded fiends who foulmouth a tad too much. It might also be implied that they drive with a deathwish, in case you've never lived to tell what it's like to be travelling with your life flashing back right before your very eyes.
I remember being in this one bus ride from Makati.
I wasn't even out of the Makati Business District when the bus I was on just started swerving from left to right. It started with this abrupt movement to the left, more like a jolt or something, but then it was followed by a sudden turn to the right. For some reason, the driver's acting fucked up. Real bad. It even came this close to this other bus, so close that we were almost five inches apart! It was near the MRT station in Buendia when things started to really get out of control.
The bus came to a screeching halt, real abrupt, and then these two ugly thugs operating my bus just started erupting in the most fluent expletives. The conductor opened the door, and then went out in the street, obviously infuriated by another bus which happened to be tailing ours. I was three seats away from the driver, and I saw him take out this LARGE KNIFE from his drawer or something, and then he followed his conductor out into the street. My fellow passengers were already halfway to violent, and they were all looking out of the windows, screaming for their money back. Imagine that.
Anyway, our driver and his partner came back in like three minutes flat, apparently appeased and enormously apologetic to all of us. Turns out that they were being assholed by the driver from the other bus, and that they were just giving him his just desserts.
That was an eleven-peso bus ride, but I never had no idea that eleven pesos can be such a pain. I'm paying this much for service which just threatened my physical well being, and now they're upping it to thirteen pesos? I'm not being cheap or nothing, but would you be okay with paying your possible executioner two pesos more?
But that's just icing on the cake. See, riding from point A to point B anywhere in the metro exposes your lungs to the finest polluted air ever. We're talking generous quantities of carbon monoxide, and tar, and nicotine, and all that good jazz. Basically, a trip in one of our local jeepneys is the closest you can get to getting high on carbon monoxide. So, if you're the type of person who usually gets his kicks on dirty air, then you're almost always in you're element when you're commuting in the metro.
But we're not like you. I don't think it's fair to pay two pesos (P2.00) more to get nearer to lung complications. You don't even smoke, and yet you're respiratory system suffers as much as your coin purse.
Power to the Piso? Told you Cesar Montano's leading a lost cause.
Friday, May 06, 2005
The Bible's No Fun
**Was this in one of them commandments?
I am a non-practicing Christian, and I practice with religious fervor.
I don't go to the Midnight Mass on account of I don't even go to the morning mass. The last confession I had was mostly a requirement in a Religion class in high school, and I lied for the most part behind that cubicle. I have oily skin, and I ain't having none of that Wednesday ash on my forehead on account of I dread pimples more than the Horsemen of Apocalypse.
I mean, pimples are real. And that's just about all the reason you need for preventive measures. I mean, they leave a scar you can actually put a finger on.
We have this bible at home, and we've had that for half a decade already. I didn't want to ask for a new one; I already have this buttload of fiction in my reading desk. See, I've always been a Christian all my life, and I've gotten tired of talking snakes, wives turned to salt, bodies of water miraculously halved, and all that magic.I've grown too old for all that fairy tailing, and I ain't buying that story with the talking burning bush. For all I know, that bush in question might have been a whole buttload of marijuana, and the dude might have been high or something. It's the bible, for crying out loud, sliced bread wasn't even invented yet. The most they'd accomplished with bread was to multiply it to feed thousands.
And how Christian is removing the foreskin?
I gather that God and the devil speak the same tongue. So if there was anything I realized from the bible, then that has got to be it. I mean, Eve listened to both of them.
And don't you think that choosing an apple as the forbidden fruit's just too damn convenient, right? If He was actually as omnipotent as the rest of us holds Him to be, then He'd have the wisdom to choose a more difficult fruit to forbid. Like a coconut, for instance. Those old testament rednecks Adam and Eve would know nothing on how to make it work, and the serpent could only tell the bitch so much. Hell, they'd be bashing each other's skulls in with the coconut, but they'd still be living in paradise. I mean, they can do it forever. Apples are just so easy.
And since we're talking "forever," I see heaven as this pretty green place where everybody eats fruit and plays the harp. Forever and ever. I remember reading a book by George Burns in which he mentioned the comedian's hell. Imagine yourself as this comedian, and then you get ahold of this routine, or a script in which every joke is just more hilarious than the last one. But the thing is, you have no audience to tell the jokes to. I mean, so you died and went to heaven, and you'd be like a champion harper in no time at all, maybe halfway through forever. But since everybody else is harping like it's nobody else's business, who would appreciate your heavenly strumming?
Speaking of heaven, I don't even see how decapitated heads with golden locks of hair are angels. They float around on little clouds with birds wings, and that's just sick.
Making fun of my religion is not as bad as attacking it. I mean, I own it, so I might as well laugh at it. But here's a little confession: I don't believe in a God who created the world in seven days. He doesn't speak to His people in a booming voice. He doesn't cause plagues, and His "working in mysterious ways" is simply rabid Christian propaganda.
However, I believe in a higher power which holds the universe together. I can brag of a selective absorption of thought, but this is just too perfect to challenge. If there wasn't something, someONE responsible for maintaining the balance, then we'd all be heading for the hills. We could be colliding with Jupiter at this very moment, but no. We could be getting sucked into another black hole anytime this week, but no. We could be plummeting straight to the burning sun, but no. We have someone to thank for not letting these happen, and I shudder at that terrifying power.
I am a non-practicing Christian, and I practice with religious fervor.
I don't go to the Midnight Mass on account of I don't even go to the morning mass. The last confession I had was mostly a requirement in a Religion class in high school, and I lied for the most part behind that cubicle. I have oily skin, and I ain't having none of that Wednesday ash on my forehead on account of I dread pimples more than the Horsemen of Apocalypse.
I mean, pimples are real. And that's just about all the reason you need for preventive measures. I mean, they leave a scar you can actually put a finger on.
We have this bible at home, and we've had that for half a decade already. I didn't want to ask for a new one; I already have this buttload of fiction in my reading desk. See, I've always been a Christian all my life, and I've gotten tired of talking snakes, wives turned to salt, bodies of water miraculously halved, and all that magic.I've grown too old for all that fairy tailing, and I ain't buying that story with the talking burning bush. For all I know, that bush in question might have been a whole buttload of marijuana, and the dude might have been high or something. It's the bible, for crying out loud, sliced bread wasn't even invented yet. The most they'd accomplished with bread was to multiply it to feed thousands.
And how Christian is removing the foreskin?
I gather that God and the devil speak the same tongue. So if there was anything I realized from the bible, then that has got to be it. I mean, Eve listened to both of them.
And don't you think that choosing an apple as the forbidden fruit's just too damn convenient, right? If He was actually as omnipotent as the rest of us holds Him to be, then He'd have the wisdom to choose a more difficult fruit to forbid. Like a coconut, for instance. Those old testament rednecks Adam and Eve would know nothing on how to make it work, and the serpent could only tell the bitch so much. Hell, they'd be bashing each other's skulls in with the coconut, but they'd still be living in paradise. I mean, they can do it forever. Apples are just so easy.
And since we're talking "forever," I see heaven as this pretty green place where everybody eats fruit and plays the harp. Forever and ever. I remember reading a book by George Burns in which he mentioned the comedian's hell. Imagine yourself as this comedian, and then you get ahold of this routine, or a script in which every joke is just more hilarious than the last one. But the thing is, you have no audience to tell the jokes to. I mean, so you died and went to heaven, and you'd be like a champion harper in no time at all, maybe halfway through forever. But since everybody else is harping like it's nobody else's business, who would appreciate your heavenly strumming?
Speaking of heaven, I don't even see how decapitated heads with golden locks of hair are angels. They float around on little clouds with birds wings, and that's just sick.
Making fun of my religion is not as bad as attacking it. I mean, I own it, so I might as well laugh at it. But here's a little confession: I don't believe in a God who created the world in seven days. He doesn't speak to His people in a booming voice. He doesn't cause plagues, and His "working in mysterious ways" is simply rabid Christian propaganda.
However, I believe in a higher power which holds the universe together. I can brag of a selective absorption of thought, but this is just too perfect to challenge. If there wasn't something, someONE responsible for maintaining the balance, then we'd all be heading for the hills. We could be colliding with Jupiter at this very moment, but no. We could be getting sucked into another black hole anytime this week, but no. We could be plummeting straight to the burning sun, but no. We have someone to thank for not letting these happen, and I shudder at that terrifying power.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
The First Week
**For a change, allow me to write a post a la Ginger Foutley. You know, diary-esque. You know, different. And this would be a short narration of what transpired during my first week at work. DAY 1
A funny thing happened on my way to work. I was on the terminal at 6:30 in the morning, and I was waiting for the MRT to buendia, which'll take me there in ten minutes flat. I was in no hurry, really, and I was hopping like a happy fucking princess when I boarded the bus once it stopped in front of me. Anyway, our office was located in Makati, so imagine my surprise when I saw the Araneta Coliseum along the way to the office. Madre de dios, it dawned on me like blood in my stool, I took the wrong bus!
Commuting in the morning is basically greek to me. See, I have always worked nights, so getting to the office IN the morning is a different experience. I've heard of the nightmarish morning rush from time to time, but I'm always too cool to care anyway. I was in Quezon City at quarter to seven in the morning, so I thought of just waiting for the next bus to get me to Makati. Sounds real easy, but then, I had to experience first hand what a cruel nightmare the morning rush was.
It was so friggin' bad, those damn buses looked like sardine cans on wheels.
DAY 2
I left home early to do training, real early, and I listened to BeeGees songs all the way to Makati. Yup, this was going to be a great day.
And I am getting along well with my co-trainees. I never doubted that I would have problems getting along anyway. I just hope that they wouldn't confuse my confidence with something else.
I hate that impression.
DAY 3
All went well until I was on this bus going home. I wasn't even out of the Makati Business District when the bus I was on just started swerving from left to right. It started with this abrupt movement to the left, more like a jolt or something, but then it was followed by a sudden turn to the right. For some reason, the driver's acting fucked up. Real bad. It even came this close to this other bus, so close that we were almost five inches apart! It was near the MRT station in Buendia when things started to really get out of control.
The bus came to a screeching halt, real abrupt, and then these two ugly thugs operating my bus just started erupting in most fluent expletives. The conductor opened the door, and then went out in the street, obviously infuriated by another bus which happened to be tailing ours. I was three seats away from the driver, and I saw him take out this LARGE KNIFE from his drawer or something, and then he followed his conductor out into the street. My fellow passengers were already halfway to violent, and they were all looking out of the windows, screaming for their money back. Imagine that.
Anyway, our driver and his partner came back in like three minutes flat, apparently appeased and enormously apologetic to all of us. Turns out that they were being assholed by the driver from the other bus, and that they were just giving him his just desserts.The drive was uneventful after the confrontation, and it returned to becoming another hot and sweaty afternoon. Nobody died.
Crap, I was only interested in seeing someone get killed or something. We were already parked in the middle of Buendia, and I can always get another bus home after seeing somebody break skin and bleed.
DAY 4
What of my day? Well, as Randy Jackson used to say on American Idol: "It was a-aight," but I had to dismiss myself earlier on account of I need to be in the bank before it closes at three. Something about encashing my final pay and all that. Resigning has too much complications, if you ask me, I mean, I'd be happier if I could just say "Thank You," and then go on my way.
For some reason, the Philippines during summer is where hell and the sun meet.
DAY 5
You know you're doing accent training when they're discussing those chinovelas in English. But it isn't to laugh, you know, when they're making sense out of the situation, and you just have to adore the effort. I am beginning to like this group more, and I just wish to my tits that we all get to pass. You know, all of us.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Don't Call Me Pokpok!
**It's all that, and uncontrollable bowel movement.
For the first time, I knew how it felt like to be "picked up" by a complete motherfucking stranger. Me and my group of friends went to one of the more promiscuous areas in Pasig because we wanted to know how it felt like to be a prostitute for the night. Nobody dared us to do so, and it was in no way, shape, or form a dirty fantasy. I did it because I wanted to know, and nobody's stopping me anyway. But before we got there, we went to the nearest 7-11 for cigarettes and pineapple juice. You know, nourishment.
Imagine me as a prostitute, and you're helping me big time. Hell, I can't even do it on my own. As a matter of fact, I don't think that I even dress the part well. I mean, I was there, and I had this simple white cotton shirt on and a pair of crisp jeans. I have a slight goatee, and the sleeve of my shirt was just enough to show half of my red tattoo. Take away the leather jacket and the harley, and I was more of a biker and less like a prostitute. However, that obviously didn't bother this guy in a red car who parked right in front of us and let the window down.
The least attractive of us was to play the pimp, and did he know what he was doing! My dear ugly bastard of a friend marched directly to this red car, and talked with the guy with the natural ease of a fuck buddy. I wasn't really impressed with this display of skillful pimping, and I made a mental note to warn him against watching all that Magandang Gabi Bayan and Imbestigador. I was watching him "do business" with that dude in the red car, and he got me to thinking. If there was a pimp school, he'd graduate "bugaw" cum laude.And after about three minutes of the "talk," he then returned with what has got to be the worst news of the hour.
"Momel, type ka nung nasa kotse. Gusto mo ba?"
I didn't need to say it, but my mouth was wide open in an unsightly gap that says "Whoa." Oh shit, I knew that I was here simply to know how it felt like to be a prostitute, but actually agreeing to THE act for ANY amount of money was simply out of the fucking question. Excuse the bad pun, but all I needed to know was how it FELT like, and there is no way that I'd further THE experience. For some reason, my heart just began pounding like a bad headache, and it took me a while to select the best cussword I can use. I guess I was never this off guard before, and I badly needed to foulmouth.
I was so shocked to notice that I can be, and that I am somebody's object of sexual attention. I am not unattractive, but somebody who's willing to pay to have sex with me is not the kind of validation I need. I don't remember giving anyone the finger that night, but I was anything BUT polite when I violently disagreed to the proposal. I do customer service by the nature of my job, but this was the kind of service that's on the other side of my equator. And I'm not being cute when I said "Putangina, hindi oi!" I just received more than what I bargained for. Turns out I bargained for something that's more like a bad joke in the first place.
It isn't funny to begin with.
For the first time, I knew how it felt like to be "picked up" by a complete motherfucking stranger. Me and my group of friends went to one of the more promiscuous areas in Pasig because we wanted to know how it felt like to be a prostitute for the night. Nobody dared us to do so, and it was in no way, shape, or form a dirty fantasy. I did it because I wanted to know, and nobody's stopping me anyway. But before we got there, we went to the nearest 7-11 for cigarettes and pineapple juice. You know, nourishment.
Imagine me as a prostitute, and you're helping me big time. Hell, I can't even do it on my own. As a matter of fact, I don't think that I even dress the part well. I mean, I was there, and I had this simple white cotton shirt on and a pair of crisp jeans. I have a slight goatee, and the sleeve of my shirt was just enough to show half of my red tattoo. Take away the leather jacket and the harley, and I was more of a biker and less like a prostitute. However, that obviously didn't bother this guy in a red car who parked right in front of us and let the window down.
The least attractive of us was to play the pimp, and did he know what he was doing! My dear ugly bastard of a friend marched directly to this red car, and talked with the guy with the natural ease of a fuck buddy. I wasn't really impressed with this display of skillful pimping, and I made a mental note to warn him against watching all that Magandang Gabi Bayan and Imbestigador. I was watching him "do business" with that dude in the red car, and he got me to thinking. If there was a pimp school, he'd graduate "bugaw" cum laude.And after about three minutes of the "talk," he then returned with what has got to be the worst news of the hour.
"Momel, type ka nung nasa kotse. Gusto mo ba?"
I didn't need to say it, but my mouth was wide open in an unsightly gap that says "Whoa." Oh shit, I knew that I was here simply to know how it felt like to be a prostitute, but actually agreeing to THE act for ANY amount of money was simply out of the fucking question. Excuse the bad pun, but all I needed to know was how it FELT like, and there is no way that I'd further THE experience. For some reason, my heart just began pounding like a bad headache, and it took me a while to select the best cussword I can use. I guess I was never this off guard before, and I badly needed to foulmouth.
I was so shocked to notice that I can be, and that I am somebody's object of sexual attention. I am not unattractive, but somebody who's willing to pay to have sex with me is not the kind of validation I need. I don't remember giving anyone the finger that night, but I was anything BUT polite when I violently disagreed to the proposal. I do customer service by the nature of my job, but this was the kind of service that's on the other side of my equator. And I'm not being cute when I said "Putangina, hindi oi!" I just received more than what I bargained for. Turns out I bargained for something that's more like a bad joke in the first place.
It isn't funny to begin with.
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Finger to the Surgeon General
**Did you know that I went to the same memorial chapel twice in just three months? See, that's two deaths three months apart.
I was playing a video game at around 12:30 in the afternoon when Loida, our domestic friend from the province, barged in and delivered some piping bad news. "Patay na si Tito Boy!" Tito Boy was one of the more infamous characters in the neighborhood. He was, well, one of the least favorable role models around on account of he smoked a lot, he drank a lot, and his complexion was tainted by all that rum. Incidentally, he smelled like he was distilled. He never left home without a cigarette in one hand and then the other nineteen in the pack in his pocket. He was almost always walking in zigzags, and he was the universal poster boy for eau de Tanduay Rum. He was the perfect candidate for the so-called "sakit sa bopis," i.e. "sakit sa baga, sakit sa atay," but enough of the eulogy.
Just two days ago, he was sentenced to a maximum of thirty days under complete life support. See, he had an issue with his lungs, and the cancer has already corrupted just about half of it. What he had left was but half of what he was born with, and sources say, it wasn't even the size of his fists. Of his curled fists. Anyway, this wasn't something that's totally unexpected, I mean, he DID smoke too much. It was at least a pack of the cancer sticks in a day, and that was during the better part of his life. His smoking habit, at the height of his nicotine dependency, was the stuff legends are made of. It was at least three packs a day, and then there came a time when he'd wake up during the early hours of the morning just to get a cup of coffee and then two sticks. He was basically another fatality waiting to happen, and it happened around 12 in the afternoon. This afternoon.
It was when Loida added that "kamamatay lang niya kaninang mga twelve," that I had this sudden urge to remain calm.
Remain calm with a cigarette, that is.
Somebody died of smoking-induced cancer just thirty minutes ago, and I was with a cigarette in between my lips. Of course you'd understand how I received the news with much apprehension, but I was ironically seeking comfort in something that killed someone just thirty minutes ago. It's not something that I did on purpose. I never did like the guy, but I'm not spiting or mocking his memory with a cigarette between my lips. I'm doing that out of habit. See, I smoke with an unbridled lack of discipline. And I am aware of the detriments that my chosen vice is capable of inducing, but I don't hate the surgeon general not one bit for he has been very consistent with his warnings.
Tobacco companies try to be discreet with their health warnings, hopefully attempting to wash their hands clean of this bad habit that's making them millions of dollars in profit. So what they do is they print out surgeon general warnings on each pack of cigarette, effectuating a propaganda that defeats the point of smoking in the first place. I'm not buying cigarettes to be reminded of how unhealthy they are in the first place.
I know that cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health, smoking is harmful to children and pregnant women, and smoking kills, but do I care? It's probably out of my mind as soon as that first stick fresh out of the pack hits my lips, and is compeletely forgotten after the second one. And then there's another warning on my second pack, but these words of advice goes out in smokes in this viciously nonterminating cycle.
But am I even threatened, let alone intimidated by such horror stories, however factual? What is it with us smokers; we are well aware of the different malignancies introduced by this habit, and yet we still find ourselves taking a drag on that Marlboro Lights.
Arsenic makes for a healthy lunch, and smoking is good for the lungs. A reliable source once told me that there are about four hundred different chemicals slash poisons in a single cigarette stick. Some of these chemicals include ammonia (used as a household cleaning agent), acetone (nail polish remover), naphthalene (mothballs), methanol (rocket fuel), phenol (disinfectant), hydrogen cyanide, toluene (industrial solvent), and of course, pesticides. Of course I was slightly taken aback by the realization that I was smoking mothballs all along, but then it doesn't stop there. The list goes on to include those used in embalming fluids like arsenic and formaldehyde.
Call me paranoid, but something tells me to kick the habit altogether. But the thing is, I can never seem to get off of this smoking thing, or I'm almost always with a cigarette in between my lips. I reckon that I can always quit later, and when "later" happens to be a little too late, then I might as well go to hell with the poison of my choice.
I have always tried to lessen the sticks I've been consuming, or rather puffing on, hoping that I will be able to gradually kick the habit in the long run, but hell no. The more I promise to refrain from smoking, the more difficult it becomes.
There was a time when I tried to, excuse my French, "quit" the habit altogether. The plan was to gradually decrease the number of cigarettes I've been smoking in a day until it concludes in smoking zero cigarettes at all. It all went well in the beginning. I mean, I had no problem going from ten sticks a day, to eight sticks in three days. And then six sticks a few days after that. It was going so well that in just two weeks, I was very happy with my five stick a day quota. But then, somebody invited me to get shitfaced over a couple of beers, and then I was back to doing twelve sticks in no time at all.
I know what the possible advantages are if I was to completely refrain from embracing the habit altogether, but it seems that quitting's a welcome change that can always take place after the last stick. A person sentenced to death always has his last wish, but to us smokers, it's the last stick. Ironically enough, the last stick is a symbolism for change that'll never happen anyway, for there's bound to be another one in three hours. And then three hours after that, or maybe after a full meal, or while taking a dump, whichever comes first.
I've grown so used to smoking at any given time that swearing on the last stick becomes swearing on the last pack, until the strength of resolve has conceded into an addiction that kills. In the long run, the promise to refrain from smoking becomes a promise to refrain from smoking "too much."
Honestly, all this talk about smoking is making me much too tense. Has anyone seen my lighter?
I was playing a video game at around 12:30 in the afternoon when Loida, our domestic friend from the province, barged in and delivered some piping bad news. "Patay na si Tito Boy!" Tito Boy was one of the more infamous characters in the neighborhood. He was, well, one of the least favorable role models around on account of he smoked a lot, he drank a lot, and his complexion was tainted by all that rum. Incidentally, he smelled like he was distilled. He never left home without a cigarette in one hand and then the other nineteen in the pack in his pocket. He was almost always walking in zigzags, and he was the universal poster boy for eau de Tanduay Rum. He was the perfect candidate for the so-called "sakit sa bopis," i.e. "sakit sa baga, sakit sa atay," but enough of the eulogy.
Just two days ago, he was sentenced to a maximum of thirty days under complete life support. See, he had an issue with his lungs, and the cancer has already corrupted just about half of it. What he had left was but half of what he was born with, and sources say, it wasn't even the size of his fists. Of his curled fists. Anyway, this wasn't something that's totally unexpected, I mean, he DID smoke too much. It was at least a pack of the cancer sticks in a day, and that was during the better part of his life. His smoking habit, at the height of his nicotine dependency, was the stuff legends are made of. It was at least three packs a day, and then there came a time when he'd wake up during the early hours of the morning just to get a cup of coffee and then two sticks. He was basically another fatality waiting to happen, and it happened around 12 in the afternoon. This afternoon.
It was when Loida added that "kamamatay lang niya kaninang mga twelve," that I had this sudden urge to remain calm.
Remain calm with a cigarette, that is.
Somebody died of smoking-induced cancer just thirty minutes ago, and I was with a cigarette in between my lips. Of course you'd understand how I received the news with much apprehension, but I was ironically seeking comfort in something that killed someone just thirty minutes ago. It's not something that I did on purpose. I never did like the guy, but I'm not spiting or mocking his memory with a cigarette between my lips. I'm doing that out of habit. See, I smoke with an unbridled lack of discipline. And I am aware of the detriments that my chosen vice is capable of inducing, but I don't hate the surgeon general not one bit for he has been very consistent with his warnings.
Tobacco companies try to be discreet with their health warnings, hopefully attempting to wash their hands clean of this bad habit that's making them millions of dollars in profit. So what they do is they print out surgeon general warnings on each pack of cigarette, effectuating a propaganda that defeats the point of smoking in the first place. I'm not buying cigarettes to be reminded of how unhealthy they are in the first place.
I know that cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health, smoking is harmful to children and pregnant women, and smoking kills, but do I care? It's probably out of my mind as soon as that first stick fresh out of the pack hits my lips, and is compeletely forgotten after the second one. And then there's another warning on my second pack, but these words of advice goes out in smokes in this viciously nonterminating cycle.
But am I even threatened, let alone intimidated by such horror stories, however factual? What is it with us smokers; we are well aware of the different malignancies introduced by this habit, and yet we still find ourselves taking a drag on that Marlboro Lights.
Arsenic makes for a healthy lunch, and smoking is good for the lungs. A reliable source once told me that there are about four hundred different chemicals slash poisons in a single cigarette stick. Some of these chemicals include ammonia (used as a household cleaning agent), acetone (nail polish remover), naphthalene (mothballs), methanol (rocket fuel), phenol (disinfectant), hydrogen cyanide, toluene (industrial solvent), and of course, pesticides. Of course I was slightly taken aback by the realization that I was smoking mothballs all along, but then it doesn't stop there. The list goes on to include those used in embalming fluids like arsenic and formaldehyde.
Call me paranoid, but something tells me to kick the habit altogether. But the thing is, I can never seem to get off of this smoking thing, or I'm almost always with a cigarette in between my lips. I reckon that I can always quit later, and when "later" happens to be a little too late, then I might as well go to hell with the poison of my choice.
I have always tried to lessen the sticks I've been consuming, or rather puffing on, hoping that I will be able to gradually kick the habit in the long run, but hell no. The more I promise to refrain from smoking, the more difficult it becomes.
There was a time when I tried to, excuse my French, "quit" the habit altogether. The plan was to gradually decrease the number of cigarettes I've been smoking in a day until it concludes in smoking zero cigarettes at all. It all went well in the beginning. I mean, I had no problem going from ten sticks a day, to eight sticks in three days. And then six sticks a few days after that. It was going so well that in just two weeks, I was very happy with my five stick a day quota. But then, somebody invited me to get shitfaced over a couple of beers, and then I was back to doing twelve sticks in no time at all.
I know what the possible advantages are if I was to completely refrain from embracing the habit altogether, but it seems that quitting's a welcome change that can always take place after the last stick. A person sentenced to death always has his last wish, but to us smokers, it's the last stick. Ironically enough, the last stick is a symbolism for change that'll never happen anyway, for there's bound to be another one in three hours. And then three hours after that, or maybe after a full meal, or while taking a dump, whichever comes first.
I've grown so used to smoking at any given time that swearing on the last stick becomes swearing on the last pack, until the strength of resolve has conceded into an addiction that kills. In the long run, the promise to refrain from smoking becomes a promise to refrain from smoking "too much."
Honestly, all this talk about smoking is making me much too tense. Has anyone seen my lighter?
Monday, March 07, 2005
Here's a List of My Posted Articles According to Categories
**This used to be in my sidebar
My Better Work
Here's a quick list of some of my more inspired posts. Not that the rest of them posts are any less inspired, no sir, its just that these happened to gag the most comments. So there.
My Gay Posts
What's a gay guy's blog without gay write ups? No tips for the perfect blowjob, though. Like I said, I'm mostly harmless.
My Horror Movie Reviews
These are more of a personal project than silly fillers since I love horror movies as much as I love to write. It's a perfect marriage on the ideal blog.
My Posts on Blogging
I have a Page Rank of 3, but I don't get it. I managed to learn me a whole heaven about blogging, and here's pretty much everything.
Call Centers
I used to be a telemarketer. And I was most thoroughly inspired by the work and the call center agents I'm with. Here's to us. BTW, I'm now doing technical support as some sort of penance.
Life in the Third World
There are some things you just can't love in this effing third world country I'm in. Here's some of them. Everything else, well, they're just so positively charming.
Lists and Soups
It's a delectable list of random nothingness served to pleasure your varying appetites.Includes my hot Hate List, Blog Rules, and my impromptu Soups. Enjoy!
Bullshitting
You know how it's like when you have this sudden burst of insight, and you have no one to tell it to because its just too stupid for speech? Yeah, this is why I write in the first place.
Offline
I'm the same both online and offline, but I'm mostly more inappropriate in front of a computer. Here's how I am when I'm borderline well-behaved.
Smoking
Sometimes, when I'm about to run out of things tos write about, I turn to what I'm holding in my right hand for inspiration. I'm referring to a cigarette.
Ben Tumbling
I sometimes channel the spirit of this college girl with a knack for social climbing and insults. I call him Ben. Verily, the poor man's valley girl in all the proper respects.
My Better WorkHere's a quick list of some of my more inspired posts. Not that the rest of them posts are any less inspired, no sir, its just that these happened to gag the most comments. So there.
My Gay PostsWhat's a gay guy's blog without gay write ups? No tips for the perfect blowjob, though. Like I said, I'm mostly harmless.
My Horror Movie ReviewsThese are more of a personal project than silly fillers since I love horror movies as much as I love to write. It's a perfect marriage on the ideal blog.
My Posts on BloggingI have a Page Rank of 3, but I don't get it. I managed to learn me a whole heaven about blogging, and here's pretty much everything.
Call CentersI used to be a telemarketer. And I was most thoroughly inspired by the work and the call center agents I'm with. Here's to us. BTW, I'm now doing technical support as some sort of penance.
Life in the Third WorldThere are some things you just can't love in this effing third world country I'm in. Here's some of them. Everything else, well, they're just so positively charming.
Lists and SoupsIt's a delectable list of random nothingness served to pleasure your varying appetites.Includes my hot Hate List, Blog Rules, and my impromptu Soups. Enjoy!
BullshittingYou know how it's like when you have this sudden burst of insight, and you have no one to tell it to because its just too stupid for speech? Yeah, this is why I write in the first place.
OfflineI'm the same both online and offline, but I'm mostly more inappropriate in front of a computer. Here's how I am when I'm borderline well-behaved.
SmokingSometimes, when I'm about to run out of things tos write about, I turn to what I'm holding in my right hand for inspiration. I'm referring to a cigarette.
Ben TumblingI sometimes channel the spirit of this college girl with a knack for social climbing and insults. I call him Ben. Verily, the poor man's valley girl in all the proper respects.
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