my search for the perfect boozeground

It has been four useless months of waiting for my plane to take off, and yet I'm still standing on the same stupid ground I have been standing on since the day my legs are strong enough to dry hump my pillow. Day after day and even month after month, the same thing happens. All I have are plans that are solidly carved on the walls of my temple and constantly painted with new thoughts of an either extremely impossible shitload of hopes or an empty and mindless concept of what to do the day after I pass gas on my employers face.


What do you do when you are stuck in a moment? How do you get out of a four-month old hiatus if one of your foot is comfortably nailed on your couch? What will Jesus do when the only thing that can keep your boat afloat is a good TV show and a dose of aimless conversation? I say, two things: A widely-known cure for the depressed and big weepers that comes in a bottle of icy and dripping beer, coupled with a long and hard puff on that white stick of heaven called yosi! There are times though when after a long day of of hardthinking, hardwork, and hard fuck (with boredom that is), even knocking down bottles of booze and inflating my lungs with unwanted air, I still cannot find a certain place interesting enough to execute my a drinking stunt. If I want to chug down bottle after bottle 'til I literally speak drunken hindi, I would need a hotspot, hot enough to make me explode into a vomit of insane frustrations.

After unloading all the baggages stuffed in my nose, I finally got it -- the perfect place to pass around shots or sweep a bottle of horse-esque ecstasy. It's a small room, that fits four to five (if one of you is a nugget) persons. It has 3 holes on one side where the light comes in, and the wall is painted with graffiti and dry puke. The smell is remotely similar to what you imagine when watching Jessica Alba bathe in a foamy tub, but good enough to arouse your thoughts. Ah! I feel like getting the best deal from a mafia trade off. Do you want to know where it is? Do you? Really?

(to be continued)

litte fat nugget

you wish to have the longest break and take all the rest you can get. a week is acceptable but an almost 3 months extended sabbatical is really dangerous. right now, as i write this post, im slouching and i literally cannot see my foot because my belly is blocking my view. i hate my life these days! thank god i"d be going back to work next month and i wish to burn all these fats until i can feel my spinal cord jutting out of my back! of course im exaggerating. lol.

back to basics

A quick post before I go back to my hometown in Laguna. I decided to finally sell my new mobile phone to a dear friend because I am in desperate need of cash for my flight to the other side of the atlantic. It has not been easy for me to decide whether to lose it or keep it but in the end-- I made my decision. Sold. For a good 8 thousand pesos (more than half of how much I bought it for). That's a little sad, but I have to lose some to gain some.

In exchange for the kindness that people has been giving me, I would immediately quit whining about things that could have been, and throw out my window all the non-substantial crap that I keep on talking about. Besides, I have a lot to be thankful for these past few days. I'm grining from ear to ear while I write this.

Watch out for my next blog. Gotta hit the road!

I am taking a long haitus by the way.

The day I committed suicide

The worst feeling that one has to endure during a carcrash is having all unresolved issues spin while your car is on its roof turned turtle and out of control on the middle of a freeway. Hell wouldn't even match up to what you have to go through while you are completely undecided about a lot of things while in vain hope that someone could rescue you from possible death--or limbo. You see from below how people are so eager to help you out but yet they won't because they too are part of the carcrash. Necks craning, heads are turned on you while you scream and try to decide whether to protect your heart or your brain. Painful. Awfully painful.
Then you remember what you learned when you were a kid, to always give happinnes a chance and never surrender when things get tough.
Never surrender is what your parents have slapped to your head. Don't quit is what your friends had kept on singing everytime you go out together and discuss your pathetic little world. But still, something traces from the bottom of your spinal cord up to the core of your brain and tell you that you have to some times call it quit. Some things just won't work, and at some degree, waving the white flag seems more logical than changing guns.
So one night, after your ceremonial "goodnight text messages" and saying your chain of prayers, you pulled out a gun. Funny, because this time, you still have to decide whether to shoot your heart or your brain. If I kill my heart, I would put to rest all the weird emotions and regrets than I'm nursing. Point the gun to your head, and bury all the indecisions and immeasurable amount of complicated lifelong questions that will remain unanswered. This is not an easy decision.
I imagined lying on my coffin with a hole in my heart or head.
Then I pulled the trigger. Twice. One shot goes through my heart, and I survived it. In desperate move to kill myself, I shot my temple, but I just won't die.
No blood. No pain. Just more questions.
I realized, I just bore holes on my heart and head. Now, the only problem that I have to deal with is filling this holes so that the world won't find me weird.


..............

I tossed my pillows on the floor and put myself to bed. The one particular thing that I know I am not good at is making decisions. Even when I decide to rest and feel my bed six feet under, I still am breathing and my blood seems to flow even rapidly on my veins. My feet are now even eager to walk gazillion miles and my head, my head and my heart, they just won't quit.
I am now acutely aware, that the only thing you can do to kill yourself and end your worries is to never ever quit. Because even death repulses my indecisions. So, I'll play the hand I'd been given, and hope that I could get out of my car in one piece.

splat!

There are a lot of important things in this world that were painted on walls in bold colors and big letters. Great ideas and even cool thoughts are horribly doodled on the back of a cubicle of almost every public restroom (or on the backrest of a bus).
Someone once told me, that the world should be my classroom, and now I should add, walls, doors, backrests and even table napkins should become our blackboards.
In an effort to make sense of the reason why vandalism seemingly became the new platform for hungry artist, I decided to write this blog in favor of the underestimated talents of people who chose to remain anonymous despite the vivid fact that they potentially hold the end to ignorance.
I am not going to cite examples or even post pictures of some that I've scene. To be able to understand the thrill of reading and looking at some bizarre work of art, one must take a closer look and examine it. But if you are one of those pretentious socialite wannabes and the I-am-intelligent-there-is-no-one-else-beside-me type of person, I suggest that you stick a chalkboard to your rectum and go some place else, say, your friends anus? I'm pretty sure you can have a great discussion of how much shit should be dropped on other people to put them down.

(Stop imagining, and.... come back!)

Tomorrow when you ride a bus or use a public bathroom or walk along a squatters' area, you'll realize how big of an artist most of the underprivileged people are. Truly, talent is something that is gifted and not learned. Ideas written below a "Don't write on the wall" sign holds more meaning than those published on the newspaper. Colors and images that stain some public walls invites a refreshing thought and welcomes some weird yet hot concept. This is hyperbolically true.