License to Vent
DISCLAIMER: The following scrappy monologue is a general review lane of UP-D students’ eternal quest for that (trendy) limited edition LANYARD. This is not a protest, however, to the sales of the said product and the people behind it.
As the faceless crowds pass and converge along the AS halls, you find yourself alienated. That no matter how eager you may be, the sheer fabulous lanyard will never find its way to hang on your neck. You raise your brow and say, “So what?!” to spur your inner complacence only to notice that almost all your Speech111 classmates already have their worth of 100 bucks.
After getting dismissed in class, you bump into some friend of yours who has the same feeling of alluded desperation. You both theorize that you’re the “only” UP students WITHOUT that relatively expensive thick strap. You could’ve gone to the previous sales where wearing one could label you as a heaven-sent prophet. Scholars and religious believers could have imprinted you in history. But everything fades out: The same illusions fritter as you grope over your chest and realize that the lanyard- there is no lanyard!!!
Then you go solo to CMC as the security guard anticipates your arrival not because he has seen you earlier in a soap opera but because you weren’t wearing your ID. You hardly grab it from your pocket in your messenger bag only to gain thorough entry. You then stay in skywalk only to hang out with a bunch of friends whose lanyards are silently screaming at you, “LOSER!”
You go home feeling slightly delusional. With a pinch of hope, you SMS your phonebook on queries on whether they have information on its next sale or they have their extra stock. For a while, no one replies and you almost think of impersonating Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind: Go wacko instead. But all of a sudden, someone SMSs back and reports to you that indeed he purveys lanyards, and you immediately ask him to reserve one for you.
The next day, you finally earn IT. Then for twenty minutes you parade in the corridors of CMC to show it off, as if it’ll help you achieve a dot of respect. Sooner, you meet a few classmates who incidentally don’t have theirs so you mull over, “They’re a part of the minority.” And so they ask how much it was. After you mouth, “One hundred pesos,” their faces wrinkle as they lecture you about its non-affordability. You leave pestered. Later, you contemplate if the lanyard was worth all your earnest efforts. Or was it even worth a purple bill?
And swiftly, you feel like throwing it away.
THIS IS arguably the STATUS QUO.