Hushbreaker

Speaking of minor yet quite significant crushes, I am vacillating between Ann Curtis and Sid Lucero. I’ll give further details about this if planets align and some insane urge to blog hits me. Meantime, you, loyal voyeur, are getting these three grand sentences.

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Walking Home, Stirred

Movies reveal more than we really care to admit. Cloaked with blanket of darkness we see our forgotten, secret sadness, nervous relief, joys, humanity and aspirations staring back at us like mirrors that glimmer of omnipresent recognition. We root for the star-crossed, deeply flawed heroes flickering onscreen and a portion of us depart our private selves and leap towards the scene to participate, to toss out lines we are too familiar to recite—heartaches and absolute pining for instance, are said, in different words, phrases, idioms, expressions and nuances, all talking about the same deep, throbbing wound that we carry in silence, only now, following the movements onscreen we are reminded, like intimate echoes, and we nod with tender, awakened consent.

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Daydreams are Non Tax Deductible, Are They?

Facebook’s all fired up with updates 10.10.10. Impressionable idiots propagated this like it’s the most clever thing than splitting the atom itself.

I kid you, of course.

10.10.10 is supposed to be a perfect day. Since I’m the undisputed grumpmaster I’d say upfront that ‘perfection’ is the word that scares the daylight out of any rational man. Why do humans flog themselves with a delusion that there is such thing as perfect? Perfection is invented by deeply insecure people. The wise ones laugh at such folly.

But that got me into thinking. If I may leap right smack into this herd-like breed of thinking, how would I imagine a “perfect day” without boring people interminably with 10.10.10 memes?

What on God’s decaying earth is a perfect day? Let’s see.

A perfect day is when your ipod dock randomly picks U2’s Beautiful Day or Lighthouse Family’s High as wakeup alarm tune and you refuse to slam the snooze button.

You groggily drag yourself to the shower and the heater temperature doesn’t scald you to medium rare.

You pick up the shampoo/soap/body scrub and it doesn’t slip out of your clutch like an uncooperative eel.

You pick up the toothbrush and notice how your teeth gleams, making you make a mental note to cancel the exorbitantly priced whitening appointment from your smug orthodontist.

You gargle on your first caffeine fix of the day and feel happy as a pup, the warmth sliding down your throat makes you contented and calm.

You nail your day’s wardrobe at first try.

You exit your flat and the downward elevator opens at the exact same time.
There are no pesky kids, smelly people, and grumpy occupants in the lift. Also someone’s wearing your favorite scent.

Traffic was a breeze and you find yourself humming a tune instead of cursing under your breath or waving at other drivers with four fingers bent.

Attractive, sophisticated people share the lift with you instead of rowdy call center agents loudly displaying their recently acquired accent which makes you guess what part of Pluto is the provenance of such twaddle.

Your phone doesn’t ring.

There is a fight among your colleagues/friends over insisting to pay for your lunch.
You happily fork over heart-clutching dessert without mentally calculating the number of minutes of atonement on the treadmill.

Your superior had a bright epiphany and decided to do the smart thing instead of being an insufferable knucklehead.

The top priority tray is mysteriously depleted.

You pass by an ATM and there’s no queue.

You get inside the bank and the teller puts the “next teller/breaktime” countertop/tent card right after serving you.

Nobody emails asking you things that can be answered by life forms with five functioning brain cells.

Over dinner the waiter's not only attentive and polite but s/he places your orders right and has dimples that can put the Middle Eastern conflicts into a grinding halt.

Over drinks your favorite humans try and set you up with someone you’d actually bone at first glance.

You bone the one you’re set up with and it restores your faith in the universe.

Cosy flat greets you like a loyal pet.

You slide into bed, wishing there is such a thing as a perfect day.

You realize there is none so you let out a soft chuckle as you click off the lights and surrender to the kindness of dreams.

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Oh, Hello, I Forgot My Keys, Bye

Visitors, most especially the untreatable neatniks, would glance at my office desk and elicit a low groan of disbelief. Their eyes would torpedo on the mounting mess of office priorities (what priorities? Everything’s stamped “the world will end this nanosecond, finish this fucking work!”) and their minds would whirr with high and mighty judgments about my abysmal lack of tidying skills while trying out of politeness not to imitate the rapid eyeball rolling trademarked by Linda Blair. The hell I care; I love my desk—it has a “lived in” resemblance of King Tutankhamen’s crypt after the looters trashed it and the mere fact that I’m making a vain parallel to mummified royals tombs and the rubbles of my working space is proof enough that I’m still trying to have a semblance of a busy, productive professional life. Ergo, blogging duties be damned. Pesky inquiries about my whereabouts, or the state of my well-being (no, I’m not decomposing unmourned in some remote landfill, though I know of some people who wish I am), this compact entry should be answer enough for now. I miss Manila and my favorite haunts, the mindless movies and the smart banters with smartass online friends who long ago threw the proverbial towel of defeat from waiting for a semi-coherent update.

Also, hello Xienahgirl and DencioPadilla.

There. Now I’m back to semi-silence.

ALSO: hello misterhubs and doc ian!

There. Hahaha

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