There is precisely nothing special about the number nineteen. (Didn’t you know that there are 19 angels guarding hell according to Qur’an?) This is the reason why I’m not exactly ecstatic about my 19th birthday. Yep, again I am commemorating my anniversary of living within this cosmic punishment. I’m lonely not just this day, but these days. This I think is the saddest of all birthdays I had; I’m not even celebrating today. I ate pancit canton for lunch, welcomed a crazy weather, and took a jeepney home for the first time in months. A family merrymaking will happen this weekend but I don’t know which day. I know, I know, I sound too pessimistic and trivial about a supposedly important day in my life. But what else is there in the 19th really? I believe this is the part where a person should rewind his experiences and muse on the existential crises he has undergone in the past. This puts me in the hot seat: Am I worthy of continuing this voyage?
The first week of school wasn’t really that of a blast. It bored me actually, that I didn’t have the pulsing electrolytes to get me workin’ warm. It was so different without actually reprimanded to do something like making anything useful out of nothing. I’ve actually got a group report and acting workshop later in which I didn’t invest proper aura. Well, good luck to me.
To add, I indolently haven’t bought notebooks for school, like I’m stuck with like writing and doodling on any (available) clean sheet of paper stashed in my shoulder bag. I’m a destitute, you know. ( happy birthdays to… )
Yes, it is my birthday, and if you have bothered to forget, aside from the hurt you have punctured on my feelings, what I’ll tell you is that the comment thingum of this blog is fully functional.
Yes, I’m 18. Believe it.
Yes, I’m in a good mood. Don’t even think of sabotaging my day of mirth.
Yes, I’m too reckless to sing in front of a real crowd. I can act too. Again, believe it.
Yes, this WordPress blog has just turned one year. But it appears as if this WordPress is more mature than the author himself. Lol.
No, I’m not expecting a gift from you. I’m too old for that. Don’t venture logging in to Facebook just so you can send me some virtual shit, coz hello, what will I use them for? Patty sent me a virtual gift the feeling was really different. Thanks woodycakes!
No, I’m not making you libre. I don’t live in a missionary house; you’ve bumped on the wrong person.
No, I still don’t smoke. What the hell’s with ye? Yer thinkin weird, dude.
No, I’m not a snub. I’m just conscious of my private space. Make friends with me and I’ll be hospitable. Squint viciously on me and I’ll cast a hex on you. Suggestion: If you keep some angusih against me, play innocent and don’t backstab.
No, I don’t backstab. I stab you directly to your aorta. I like channeling some of Edgar Allan Poe’s dementia.
Yes, I’m typing randomly. Bye.
The countdown ends in…
7 My mom and I jammed into a white cab last Sunday morning. The cabbie asked, “Where to?” Greenhills, the mag-ina chorused.
After a few minutes of travel, the man posed, “Where does this road progress?” indicating a narrow street.
“Uh, Partas station?” I pointed out.
After a few minutes again in EDSA naman, he asked, “Ibabaw o ilalim?” We got confused, “Whichever,” I suggested for my mom.
“Thanks, please point to me later where Greenhills is located,” he oddly requested. Ooh, no sweat, there’s a GPS embedded in my system, I thought,
“I’m sorry po. I’m just five months in this taxi career. That is, I’ve been a jeepney driver for a long time. As a matter of fact, I’m just guessing which street I’m to take,” he explained. ( + )