September 26: The day started with the unmistakeable conclusion that we were unlucky. Chemae, my girlfriend, and I woke up at 6:30 in the morning, still groggy from drinks we had the night before with friends. An airplane headed for the beautiful province of Bohol was waiting for us at the airport, ready to fly at 8:30 AM. We had reserved that plane five months in advance. We thought we’d never make it, but we did. It turns out we were lucky after all.
           
Outside, the typhoon that would unload the heaviest rainfall on Metro Manila in four decades, and that would take away hundreds of lives away through raging floods, was approaching…

Bohol: Awe at Every Turn

The plane kept shaking because the weather was bad but we still made it to Tagbilaran Airport after about an hour and 20 minutes of flying. I was still dizzy when Val, our tour guide, fetched us at the airport and drove us through the capital. Val’s service included a complete tour of all the tourist spots in Bohol for just Php 2,000.

First, we went to Baclayon Church , the oldest Catholic church in the country built in the 15th century. Chemae and I went inside the old museum next to it and looked at some intricate antique pieces of church items, such as Bibles, idols, and candle holders. Then, we went to see the longest living python in captivity in the country located at Albuquerque . It was mind-blowing to see more than 23 feet of snake muscle twirled inside a cage.

When lunch time came, we headed to the floating restaurants along Loboc River . The menu aboard the ferry included some seafood consisting of tuna, shellfish and seaweed, pork barbecue, fried chicken, and local delicacies. The seafoody flavor of the food tickled our tongues as the ferry gently cut across the peaceful waters of Loboc River . Musicians aboard beautifully sang local and foreign tunes, making the trip more relaxing.

When we arrived at Chocolate Hills, Bohol ’s main attraction, it was a steep climb to the top of the highest hill. Chemae and I were screaming and shaking as we held on to the steel bars along the stairs at the hill’s side.  The scene at the top blew us away. I remembered reading about the world-famous hills in elementary and being fascinated by the idea that brown mounds of earth could resemble Hershey’s Kisses so much. They didn’t disappoint one bit. The hills make you realize how creative, artistic, and marvelous nature is.

Heading toward the resort, strong winds continued to bend coconut trees. Chemae received a text message that Metro Manila was already submerged in flood.

Beaches in Bohol, Floods in Manila

We stayed in Alona Land Resort in Panglao island. We were surprised to know that we were the only people who were to stay in the resort for the next three days. Alona Land is beautifully arranged, nipa huts and a shaded swimming pool where people can swim anytime of the day. Our room, worth Php 1,700 a night, had cable TV, a mini refrigerator, bed, airconditioning, bathroom, even a terrace. Indeed, everything was perfect – except for the fact that when we turned on the TV, we were horrified at the look of Metro Manila. My family sent a text message that they were all right but many neighborhoods were already deep under muddy floodwaters.

We were still thinking of the submerged homes in Manila as the free shuttle ride took us to Bohol Beach Club the next day where we planned to enjoy the beach. We paid Php 350 each for the consumable ticket, which we used to buy the amazing food at the resort. For Php 600, we were served a tasty lunch of grilled squid with chayote and carrots on the side, and some exquisitely fried crispy pata and rice. Friends had already told us before that meals in Bohol Beach Club were good, but we didn’t expect that they were fantastic. Since grilled squid is one of my most favourite dishes, I’ve eaten lots of it from different places. However, I can say for sure that the Beach Club’s version is the best I’ve ever had. They also served us two glasses of mango juice which really overwhelmed our senses.

While I was still sad about the typhoon in Manila , I couldn’t help but forget everything once Bohol ’s beach came into view behind the tall coconut trees that lined the wide shore.

It was my first time to behold a truly white beach. And, my god, the sand was as white as milk. As my feet walked on the pristine sand, I imagined eating the creamy thing which looked good enough to eat. Chemae and I wasted no time bathing in the salty water which was colder than normal because of the weather. The beach was very safe because the soft shore extended gently a long way into the sea before becoming deep. As the salty water splashed onto my face, I realized Bohol was a blessed place. We were really fortunate to have arrived there as planned, even though so many things could have gone wrong.

Chemae and I will remember our trip to Bohol forever. Perhaps, we were just two lucky lovers whom destiny allowed to have tons of fun that day. Still, we kept thinking of our friends in Manila who were being challenged by nature – the same nature which gave birth to the pleasant wonders of Bohol . As soon as we returned home, we participated in the nationwide effort to restore lives and homes.

Today, I still look at our experience as one of appreciating the two faces of nature: the good and the merciless. As people who are here on this planet only to witness nature’s wonders and innocent cruelties, we should learn to respect its power and take care of it the best way we can.

Typing sleepy. Wanna ponder the world. Pondering is all one can do after a few paychecks. They just soften you. Make you gay. Now you don’t even care if you’re branded a homophobic. It’s just another difference in this stained glass global population of Asians, blacks, men, transsexuals, daughters under 18, daughters over 18, the handicapped, cool, nerd, goth, obese, soccer moms, sucker moms. I’m just one of them. A statistic with beliefs. I rome the Philippines restricted by a foreigner’s table indicating specific allocation of profits. I get his cents, my mother gets part of the cents, so I can eat part of the nutrition-drained meat she cooks. People don’t understand me. They don’t understand a single f*cking thing we’re saying and we’re proud of that. This sets us apart, baseless pride. Pride that has an actual measurable base is uncool, pathetic. Scums only have measurable bases of pride. And usually that means they have a lot of money. But I don’t have any, so I’m cool. I’m not a scum. Still, that doesn’t make me any less slimy. Now with all the negative adjectives you’ve rained on yourself, you wonder who’s the bastard who put this into your head. You can’t think of any because you can’t trace any effect into a single cause today. No God nor science now. Just this random incessant desire to make a difference that’s already there. Like I said, it’s a stained glass window of an existence. My body, my work and my dreams are a huge stained-glass window inside an empty church, glimmering red, blue and yellow on a hot, August night. So we write and take pictures of ourselves and scatter them all over the Internet to feel all right. We gotta make people read the next chapter in our lives. We’re protagonists and they are readers and vice versa. There’s a constant peeping going on and we’re all indecent exhibitionists to some extent. Imagine that, in the Philippines? This place was innocent a hundred years ago. Now, it’s just an extension of the latest Hollywood flick, only grimier because the MMDA is inept. We’re like Americans. Everyone is like Americans, more or less. The Chinese are like Americans except they have a bloody history of Communism and they’re more mysterious. Arabs are like Americans, only they’re learning how to be like them in a very painful way. The North Koreans are also like Americans, fate sees them getting there. And of course, Filipinos are like Americans, only their MMDA is inept. What the flying f*ck are those urinals for? Who’s the big dunce? The head of the MMDA? Yeah, maybe we should blame him. We can always blame the President but everyone’s hatin’ her already so that’ll just make us lame. Let’s just hate the MMDA head. Let’s see ourselves ranting, talking political, putting in our two cents worth a thousand bucks when we’re drunk. ‘Cause when there’s nothing less boring to talk about, politics is a sure bet. Gives us a sense of power. We’re all Filipino citizens, anyway. We wear t-shirts with yellow stars and a sun. We make a lot of money from it, especially the Chinese. Pirates love us.

“Should I tell her I love her in the poem?”

“Yes. You’ve already made the ridiculous decision of writing a poem for her, telling her about your feelings. So why stop short and not say that you love her?”

“Yeah, I realize that. But everyone says ‘I love you’ and this is not a high school kind of poem. Like I’ve told you, this poem is an adult poem, an adult love poem.”

“I somehow have this feeling that all love poems are childish. Ask her out. That’s what adults — men do.”

“But I don’t wanna be just like any other man. I want her to understand that I’m intelligent and creative and deep and I can write good love poems.”

“You can also achieve that by buying her a drink and then talking to her.”

“Yeah, but this is still much more special. If I get lucky and she allows me to date her and we get together, we’ll always have this poem written on a piece of crumpled yellowish paper. And whenever we feel like lying on the bed on idle weekends, cuddling, kissing, she’ll stand up, get it from the drawer and read it to me. It’s so cheesy that we’ll both laugh and remember how good were those first days.”

“…”

“I know I sound creepy, you know?”

“VERY creepy. I’m a little bit ashamed you’re actually my friend.”

“Hey, you were also like this with Jasmine.”

“I wrote her a poem, yeah. But that had, like, five lines and that was in grade 5.”

“Well, you’re not the intelligent, artistic type.”

“Oh, so I’m just one of them ordinary brainless males out there, eh?”

“No, you’re not. I’m not saying that. But things like this, they’re not your forte.”

“They sure ain’t. In case you forgot, I actually have the balls to ask ladies out and talk to them about how I feel.”

“NO! That’s just our difference. You can’t tell a girl how you truly feel. With you, it’s always about getting girls drinks and stuff, then making them your girlfriends. You don’t really speak with them about your true, inner feelings.”

“That’s because guys who do that are freakin’ pussies. Look at you. Do you think she’ll really like the fact that you sat in a dark corner of your room one lonely night and penned your doggerel? She’ll just th–”

“It’s not a doggerel, jackass.”

“Whatever. She’ll just think you’re a sissy and a complete loser.”

“Maybe. But it’s a gamble I would like to make.”

“See? That’s what’s wrong about you. You keep yappin’ about gambles and poems and surprises and inner feelings. What the f*ck is wrong with you? Romance doesn’t work out. In the end, it’s just you and your balls and if you can make her laugh that count.”

“(Sniggering) But that’s the kind of dark, commonplace perspective that I’m trying to avoid when it comes to relationships. Call me a pussy, call me a sissy, but just call me spiritual.”

“F*ck you.”

“F*ck you, too. This girl is special. She deserves something more than alcohol poured on cheap glass.”

“I admire your talent for describing things that aren’t really there. I guess you ARE a good poet.”

“They’re there. You’re just no poet so you can’t see them.”

“So what am I?”

“I don’t know but you’re no poet.”

“I think I’m a basketball player ’cause I love to play basketball.”

“…”

“I like to shoot hoops and do some shake n’ bakes.”

“…”

“You really think I’m boring and ordinary, don’t you?”

“No. Just –”

“I hope you die.”

“Whatever, dude. Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever. Fact is I’ve already had 5 girlfriends. You had 1 and she’s not even sure of it.”

“Look, if you’re annoyed that I’m writing a special, adult poem for this girl, just let me be. I don’t care what you say.”

“(Laughing) You just asked my opinion about it a minute ago.”

“But see, you don’t understand. There are just guys like me who are sentimental and cheesy and there are just guys like you who play basketball.”

“So who’s the better guy?”

“I don’t know. Depends on the girl.”

“Well, like I said, I already had 5 girlfriends, you got –”

“YOU DON’T LOOK AT IT THAT WAY. Maybe I’m just more prone to being trapped by the past and all my feelings and desires, so it’s hard to move on to another girl, you know? You don’t judge a man’s worth by how many girlfriends he’s had. That’s bull–”

“Most men I know will completely judge a man’s worth by how many pussies he’s nailed.”

“Do you always talk like that?

“No (laughing)”

“You sound like a stereotypical asshole.”

“Cool it, bro. I’m just trying to get into your poetic nerves. Of course I care about ladies’ feelings. I’m no hoe.”

“(Shakes his head)”

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You’ve got my full support on this. Write that poem, say I love you, and let’s see what happens.”

“Why are you suddenly supportive?

“Because I wanna see what kind of girl she is.”

“GEEZ, man! So you’re prayin’ on my downfall to confirm your theory that girls just go for drinks and basketball players like you?”

“No… Yeah… Well, probably. (Laughing)”

“You can’t judge her just because she turned down my poem.”

“No, she didn’t just turn down your poem. She rejected you. And why are you preventing me from judging men and women? I’ll judge them whenever I want.”

“Nice talking to you. I wish I hadn’t.”

“You are so serious you’re maniacal. Psycho. Watch it or this girl will be creeped out.”

“Makes you wish you were back in those days when girls blushed and giggled when the mailman dropped perfumed letters in their mailboxes.”

“You kidding? God I’m f*cking thankful I don’t live in those days. Repression. That’s what it is.”

“Love. True, expressive love. The meaningful, rare type. That’s what it is.”

“Sheesh. Love is gay now. Love is something you say when you can’t hop from one girl to another because you’re poor and gay.”

“I’m not poor and gay.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No.”

“Yes. And she’ll dump you ’cause no true poets live in this era. Just — basketball players.”

“…”

“Play some basketball, dude. It’s good for your health, physical and mental. It may cure your weird tendencies. (Laughing) I’m just kidding. Don’t be too serious. She may like you, you know, this girl. But still play some basketball.”

“‘No true poets, just basketball players in this era.’ I kinda like that line.”

“See? Who’s the poet now?”

“Times are sad but romantic.”

“F*ck, you’re homo.”

He got up from the chair and did some jumping jacks. The morning people stood up when he walked briskly in front of them and did the robot dance followed by a slick moonwalk. His boss, cussing, ran outside his office when he stood on his table and did a tapdance, then consequently screamed his name to the blank blue ceiling.

He ran as fast as he could toward the elevators, pounded the arrows until one of them broke and his palms were raw. The doors opened and he leapt inside to the shock of everyone. There’s a harrassed pretty girl inside and he winked at her saying, “Fuck yeah!”

Off to the other floor where he kicked the first monitor he saw and sent it crashing to the ground. He ruffled every hair with his excited hands. Someone tried to stop him but he turned around and bit his arm. Then he grabbed someone’s bag of chips and poured it into his mouth.

Before the guard could catch him, he escaped by pushing everyone aside, grabbed a colleague’s boob in the process shouting, “Good morning, woman!” A split second before he held the doorknob, he spat on the guard’s record book and slid down the hallway on his knees. His saliva blotted the record books’s cheap blue ink.

His feet went down the fire exit like two cars racing against each other. He tripped, fell down two staircases and busted his lip. Blood gushing out of his mouth, he discovered he left something behind. His yellow tooth was on the dirty cement as well as his troubles.

Behind him 10 people tried to catch up. He burst open the ground floor door and threw some coins at the scandalled receptionist’s head. Through the screams of terror and dread, he let out a joyous laugh, which led him to the door and to the street outside.

So he ran and he ran and he ran and he ran. He ran until he remembered he hasn’t drunk one drop of water since last night. He fell on his back, surprising pedestrians, looked up to the blue sky then wrote the name of his love in the air.

I’ve got a sinking feeling
That I’ve got a really big problem
My eyes made the mistake again
Of falling on the wrong face again.
And now all I do is turn you to
An addiction of sorts, bittersweet food.
Christ, why does this happen
In every new room that I enter?
Now I’ve got to wait ’til you snap and say “Never!”

You might as well have been f*cked from behind and you wouldn’t have done anything about it, as well.That feeling is what I’m talking about. That sinking feeling of silent grieving over your inadequacies morphing into shackles that leave you trapped. You can’t even claw your way outside, act suddenly all ferocious and volatile because, well, you’re not. In the first place, that’s probably why you’re standing there as the world unloads truckloads of cum on your mom. Yes, it’s also that. That typical perspective is what I’m talking about. That typical perspective of malicious, dirty and sick thoughts that forms a crust all over the mind. Bubbling, popping each second, the viscous dark green liquid submerging the brain, turning it into an ugly revolting monster soaked in phlegm. So you begin to talk about moms getting unloaded with cum, fetuses boiled in Chinese soups, bosses’ necks tied with a rope, their backs whipped raw, their big mouths stuffed with anything filled with muck,  youngsters brutally raped and murdered. That’s it. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That kind of perspective which could only come from the most restricted of all beings, the most repressed and compressed. These thoughts are the pieces of garbage, the decaying materials that we just wanna hide and extinguish. But they can’t be extinguished as long as there are people who might as well have been f*cked from behind without ever any fairy nor wizard coming to their rescue. No happy endings to expect, no saviors coming down from the blue heavens which probably scorn our phlegms of existences anyway. It’s all these people can do, watch a freak movie in their heads while other people laugh and spend. Because at times, I think, some of us, we share that tranquil feeling of being run over by a speeding truck, our beautiful guts splattered on the roadside. We share those amusing but disturbing smiles as someone else derives physical sweaty bliss from our tortured state. I’m talking about that because we share that. But few have the time and talent to describe how complex that natural process is, so I did it myself; that complex natural process, a work of genius, of being slapped, tapped, and unloaded on. There’s no solution. You just turn the experience into the myth of the day, and tell every expectant face at home that you’ve had a blast of a time from the moment the alarm clock screamed “Time to live!”

My Vote for the 2009 Bloggers’ Choice Award (National)

I vote for Altanghap
Bloggers’ Choice Award
2009 Philippine Blog Awards

Genuine care for others — I think that’s one of the things people must really have to be more prepared for another disaster like Typhoon Ondoy.

The headline on a local newspaper yesterday said that donations for typhoon victims are overwhelming. That’s great. That’s awesome. That is perfectly how it should be. Many of us feel proud for showing our fellow Filipinos that the spirit of “bayanihan” can still be revived in this modern age. I take my hat off to that.

But it’s easy to get over melodramatic over our present achievements just by watching the endless TV marathons about the typhoon donations and heroic acts many of our fellow Filipinos have done to try to fix the disastrous situation. We are riding a surge of patriotism so powerful that every corner conversation, every TV station, every Facebook update and every tweet is all about volunteering and sending out donations to victims. But we must ask, “Where did all that care come from?”

Where did all that care come from? Was it there before the typhoon unloaded record rainfall on Metro Manila? Was it there when other provinces were crushed during past typhoons, landslides and other catastrophes? Was it there even before any natural disaster occurred?

Thousands of Filipinos, both rich and poor, have lost their homes due to the raging floods of Ondoy. Many poor people, especially, lost their houses totally, swept away by the merciless floodwaters. They have no bank accounts to dig into, no other homes to live in, nothing whatsoever to start with.

These people weren’t helped before. The enormous income gap which is continuously widening ensures that shanties will be built along rivers and creeks for years to come despite what recently happened. There’s no way for these people to build houses of better material. They will build shanties which will be destroyed by floods, and they will build shanties again as long as the status quo exists.

In the same way, if the present state of affairs goes on, greedy and corrupt government officials will still spend public funds in the most ridiculous ways, and probably pay for their tasty New York restaurant meals with them. No disaster preparation plan will be successfully implemented, no infrastructure will be built to better equip the nation against the extreme weather clearly brought about by climate change. Some of the richest will still control wealth so that the bloody income pyramid remains. Meanwhile, most of us would still choose to not give a flying f*ck about our fellowmen.

And then on an ominous, dark, windy day, another Ondoy will hit us again. The same tragic videos will be replayed over and over again on our TV screens, as once again, we raise our national flag and roll our sleeves to proudly pack the survival packs for the next victims.

It’s a crazy vicious cycle.

The thing is, we are not prepared for Ondoy because we are poor. Our poverty definitely has many causes. Still, I would go on the record to say that one of its primary causes is that we don’t genuinely care for each other.

We only care when the scenarios before our eyes become too extreme. At that point, a lot of damage has already been done. It’s like a man who only cares about his health when he gets sick. Then he goes for remedies, waits until he recuperates just enough to get back to his vices again.

Somebody told me politicians who are running for public offices are putting their names on the donation packages sent to victims. I’ve heard people talk about volunteering as if it’s the “in” thing. Where were all these people before Ondoy? Where was their care before more than 200 people have died?

This spectacle of bayanihan is sometimes really awe-inspiring to watch. But sometimes I think that Metro Manila falling before a cruel and blind enemy just provided us with a mirror of ourselves. Metro Manila represents the ego of our nation. It is our ego. Our egos fell before an overwhelming enemy.

And the donations rained down like record rainfall. It’s almost as if we’re trying to correct ourselves, clumsily bury our guilt over our own inadequacies as fellow citizens by helping others to just survive the next day, so our eyes can get rid of them once again.

But what about other disasters, natural and man-made, in other parts of the country? Don’t we care about them? There are no lines for volunteers for those events. No drop-off points for donations. We watch them boredly in the evening news.

Where will all the helpers be after all the donations are given away?

So while I give due credit to all the people who are helping to fix the damage dealt to the country, I’ve decided to be more cautious than hyped up. Somehow, I see in these “selfless” and “brave” actions a desire to just patch things up for the next opportunity for emergency patriotism.

Genuine care for others — that’s what we truly need.

——————————————————————————————-

This article is dedicated to Chemae  who cried last night because no one seemed to take her desire to help typhoon victims seriously. For me, tears are more valuable than bags of goods because they indicate genuine care.

When you’re young and you’re fiery and you have tanks full of excess energy, you can’t help but be idealistic. Especially if you come from a prestigious university, you are automatically led to think that you have a great background and you have a great mission before you. Everything you see is great and therefore everything you do is perceived by your eyes as having tremendous effects in the society you live in (if you’re philosophical, even the universe). You’re big. You think gargantuan ideas. You live mammoth dreams.

But time has taught me the importance of seeing the value in the tiny, everyday stuff that occur to us.

Everyday stuff are simple, point-blank realities that don’t need long and unfamiliar words for explaining. Examples of it are endless: the morning I woke up with my drool on somebody else’s shoulder, the inconvenience of having to walk along roads under construction, annoyance with the honking of buses, amusement with a stranger, work complaints, fights with the girlfriend. These are the everyday stuff that make up the detailed novels of our lives.

The everyday stuff is different from the big, intellectual stuff many of us try to tackle each day. While they are not completely unrelated to each other, dealing with the everyday stuff definitely takes different strategies as compared to dealing with the big, intellectual stuff.

When I was in UP, I used to dream of being a teacher, a really famous one. I want to teach my students sociology, philosophy but particularly the value of applying social theories to their lives. I know a professor who spectacularly excels in that and I used to want to emulate him. I dreamed of inspiring people to think deeply and move decisively. I wanted to have an army of intellectuals before me who will think big for the big problems we face.

Wanting to be a teacher was definitely the solution I came up with for the huge issues that bugged me. It was easy. You just have to read a pile of books, tell your students what you got from them, and leave the classroom feeling good that you probably injured the monster of a problem that sleeps under your bed.

Even when I graduated from the university, I despised little, average talk from ordinary people. Salary complaints? Bullsh*t! Don’t these people realize that the real problem lies in the fact they agree to this system of exchange in the first place? Millions of people don’t have a single grain of rice on their tables and these mall addicts whine about their insufficient salaries? How shallow and unenlightened these people are! Some of them even explicitly say that they don’t care about the street rallies, they just want to go to work. And then there are those who are vocal about their support for the current regime which is definitely the congregation of all the evil in the universe! Uninformed, cold, heartless slaves!

But I saw people lose their jobs, I saw officemates with helpless, hopeless smiles on their faces as their last days drew near. I saw myself grinning when my supervisors took my first job away from me. I saw the desperation on everyone’s face, in the office and at home.

And with every relatively “tiny” misfortune that nicked me, my defenses were gradually eroded. I attributed the change in me to age, to my position as an employee, to the lack of a library to read in and a classroom to shine in. I attributed it to every little thing I could and couldn’t see. Then I realized the giant monster that I faced was not named “capitalism” or “inequality” or “government.” The monster, in fact, is my ego.

It became clear to me that before you can move to bigger problems, you have to meet the challenge of the tiny problems first. You cannot aim to demolish capitalists if you’re sucking at their tits, milking them every way possible. You cannot destroy inequality when you yourself is vocal about your prejudices. As long as you have dirty secrets, you can bet that all the people around you will have dirty secrets. The problem that we face is definitely gigantic but it is made of minute parts that can only be tackled if we only become humble.

So I worried about my salary. I worried about my job. I learned to sympathize with call center agents. I faced the fact that what I lacked was proper employment and a proper love life. Instead of dreaming to become a teacher in UP, I just dreamed of surviving the next day. Instead of fighting the government, I admitted to myself that the biggest enemy in front of me was my self-image.

Eventually, the fire slowly turned to soft embers. The cold spread. Curiously, the colder I got, the more I felt that I was closer to the truth. These little everyday stuff were my real problems, and they hurt like hell.

I can’t say that I am a much better person now than I was before. However, I know for sure that I am more truthful now than ever. I don’t hide behind the big, intellectual stuff to hide the small employee that I am. I don’t talk about the big stuff to cover up the hideous critters in my character. The everyday stuff is what really matters to me now. I know that if someday I succeed and deliver something great, it would be because I learned to focus on what really matters to myself.

The everyday stuff is what’s beautiful to hear for me now. I want to talk about how to tie my shoelaces properly, how come I can’t get rid of my dandruff, and how come you’ve never made your girlfriend feel satisfied given how big you are.

Bed Bug
by Interpol*

Everytime
It gets me
Everytime

Everytime
It gets me
Everytime

Now I think about a lot and I do a lot of acts
But I really can’t know what goes on in this
Show
Cause it

Gets

Me

Everytime.
Yes, it gets me
Everytime

You’re over there, I’m underneath, it’s incomplete
I’m completely
Silly
Silly
Silly.

So what is worse? Go get a nurse
And rub some salt against these wounds
To—

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Everytime
I feel it. Anytime we’ll kill it.

We’re waking up the other day, we couldn’t guess
What’s waiting for us
When the rain doesn’t show up.

‘Cause when we plan we write things down
On biodegradable sheets of paper
We just found on sticky tables.

Yes, we write things down, and we talk things over
There’s a plan to carry this over and under
The sheets. Our mouths going

Blah, blah, blah. Ba-blah-ba-blah

Then I turn away, and I pull my hair
And I think of a girl who will knock me out
For tomorrow.

There’s a need to catch up
Let us all play catch-up
There’s a need to botch up
This fake blood of ketchup

Three minutes ’til five, a thousand steps to home
Why I can’t I leave this chair and slip out of my bones
Oh baby

Everytime
It gets me
Everytime

Everytime

It gets me
Everytime

_____________________________________________________

* This is not a real song by Interpol. I just made it up because I like Interpol and I think they’ll sing the song in my head perfectly. LOL.