Must be the Nilagang Baka (boiled beef) but there are swirling, sloth-like dark clouds inside my cranium today. I’d be lucky if that means a storm is coming because right now, at this very moment, I want a nerve-wracking thunder storm, a near-life experience as Tyler Durden used to say. Maybe another shot at EK’s Space Shuttle or a chance to dance dirty in the middle of a club — not like I’ve ever done that — but something that will feel real, something that will smell real again.
Of course I’m kidding myself if I attribute all of it to the Nilagang Baka. Obviously, the diagnosis should be what I would call a Pre-loneliness Loneliness (PLL). The root cause is the plunging levels of endorphins as your mind anticipates a gray future approaching slowly but surely. Symptoms include staring blankly at the computer screen, a natural reflex to avoid work, listening to a repetitive playlist that drives home a certain feeling, and a positive revulsion for the future. I am experiencing all of these now. I am suffering from a self-developed, self-diagnosed, and self-perpatuated disease. PLL is killing me.
In about three to five months after that plane carrying Chemae heads for Neverland, people won’t recognise me. I’ll tell them “I’m Marvin” but they would perceive an obvious change in my demeanor, like my upper lip is constantly quivering, or my fingers are twitching too much. They’d look at me suspiciously, like I’m an impostor. I’ll probably be scruffy with thick and oily facial hair reminiscent of Pacquiao when he pummelled Clottey last March. Except unlike Pacquiao, people won’t be delighted to see me at all. They would think I am a good tap on the shoulder away from incurable insanity.
I would want to see my friends and drown myself in alcohol with them but something tells me that I actually have no plans to do that. I just say that because the thought that I can always do something that’s supposedly fun is always comforting. But honestly, it’s all bullshit. The thing that I would really love to do is to pay everyone at home to go away for a week or two, drive everyone away, including the dogs, then turn off all electronics, bolt the gates, lock myself up and lie on the stone-cold floor. That would be perfect — just lying there, looking at our rotting ceiling and letting my imagination travel with a girl in an unreal place called Vancouver.
At work, it would be picture perfect to type away maniacally on the keyboard, inserting sentences like “Life is an Executioner” or “Hey, No One Said Death’s Painful” on the company newsletter. When the editor confronts me, I’d tell them it was just a case of accidentally pasting a random text I somehow picked up from my innumerable sources on the Internet. While everyone’s on break, I’ll switch to XHamster and expose myself to Japanese-style train rape or go to the clinic and collapse face-down on the bed, carefully orchestrating my fall to make the loudest crunch possible. Tiny acts like these would serve as tickles to the foot of the comatosed man that I am. Tell me you’re lonely and I’ll laugh at your face, my drool slapping you everywhere.
Some people would say, “Well, why don’t you apply for a job in Canada now?” or “Apply for a scholarship in Canada now!” It’s easy for these people to give advice. In exchange for their protocol answers, I think I’ll give them my prescription empty smile. “I know what I’m doing, but you don’t how I’m feeling,” I’ll tell them in my head. “He’s such a sissy,” they’ll tell me in their heads. “Yes, I’m a sissy and I want to fire an AK-47 at the sky like an al-Qaida,” I’ll reply to them in my head.
But all of that is still in the gray future slowly but surely creeping nearer and nearer. Right now, at this very moment, I’m merely exhibiting mild oafish behavior by virtue of my PLL. I am scratching parts of my body that aren’t really itchy while listening to the humming of the air-conditioner from cubicles nearby. I am following every website my coworker is visiting because they seem to be far more interesting than my WordPress dashboard. My coworker is also visibly enjoying his freetime, unlike me. Well, he doesn’t have a girlfriend who’s about to turn into smoke. I heard he’s getting married.