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. Continue reading