Let me tell you about myself.
I have a sore throat that’s three days old. By now, of course, it is obvious that this is no ordinary sore throat because sore throats do not persist this long. The weirder thing about my sore throat is that it’s just affecting the left side of my throat. Right side’s completely fine but the left side is creating havoc whenever I swallow my own saliva.
Cringed a little?
Yes, humans swallow their own saliva and blog about it sometimes, which is considerably disgusting but you can expect such a thing from us. We are a species that tends to get surprised by our own disgusting daily habits. I sometimes look down when I’m on the tiled throne and I stick my tongue out like I didn’t know the stuff came from the hard work of my own digestive system. Some girls are even scared stiff when shown a mirror reflection of their own labia minora and majora. I know shudders ran through my spine when I saw my shaved balls for the first time.
But back to my sore throat, it’s really weird that it’s just the left side that’s hurting. The hypochondriac in me conjures images of Roger Ebert in my head and I immediately think cancer. I see myself trapped in my house with my chin pasted to my neck because all the meat there is gone.
Don’t we all think like that? When it comes to petty pains and big pains alike, we just cut through all the bullshit and think cancer. “Colds? I got no colds. I’ve been healthy since forever so I must have lung cancer.” “Blood? I don’t get blood this early on my period. I must have ovarian cancer.” We can’t help just self-diagnosing ourselves with cancer because it’s a waste of time and energy to think of any lesser disease. That’s right, even when it comes to worrying about our health, we are efficient. Efficiency means living a life devoid of all bullshit. And if we like to hear or to have bullshit, we want it as soon as possible without any hassles. Bullshit without bullshit is modern efficiency. Continue reading
A few months ago, in this country, the media saw dozens of corpses — stabbed in the eyes, shot in the genitals, swarms of flies having a sumptuous feast — they said it’s “inhuman.”
I went a bit further and read about cannibalism. Apparently, it has existed from time immemorial in almost every part of the world. Asians did it, Africans too, and you bet, even Americans. Today, the Korowai tribe in Papua, New Guinea is believed to be still practicing the gory ritual. While filming a documentary, the crew of a television show attempted to rescue a 6-year-old boy from being ham dinner because he was accused of being a witch doctor. They failed. I have reason to believe the boy’s body now fertilizes the ground that grows all sorts of healthy shrubberies and trees there. It’s hard not to feel sick after you read all of this taboo trivia.
But to me, it all comes down to one thing: We’re meat and we hate it. Continue reading
A bright blue peacock runs in circles in the middle of a busy mall in Quezon City. Big brown eyes reflecting the shocked people all around it, the majestic bird threatens to stretch its wings and fly toward everyone’s dumbfounded faces. It’s a proud male of its species (albeit clearly stressed with the present situation), decorated with brilliant gems and beads of light only nature can so creatively invent in its random biological musings.
People carrying their green shopping bags are cheering, laughing, clapping their hands, whistling, telling spontaneous peacock jokes to each other. An old man celebrating his 75th birthday with his 6-year-old granddaughter heard the commotion from a floor below and told his most favorite person in the world that the Eraserheads are having a show above. The befuddled security guard runs to the scene and starts to crouch to catch the harassed animal. Seven men, 3 of whom wearing moustaches, one’s a stereotypical Jamaican with dreadlocks that seemed to have been dipped in tar, thought that they would like to be heroes of this most curious moment, so they began to crouch too, carefully moving toward the bird, clucking like chickens.
Obviously, they thought what works with runaway chickens also works with bright blue peacocks in the middle of a mall.
Thunder Spike is the “gin runner” of his gang, the Marikina Maniacs. His task is to procure a bottle of gin for his group every night before 10:00 PM or else his scalp risks losing a few more fertile areas of follicle because of angry cigarette butts. It’s 5:00 PM and Thunder, wearing his oversized black shirt with Pacquiao’s sweaty face in front, is strolling through the mall, heading to no particular place as of the moment. Continue reading
How strange is this?
As this massive ball of earth and water spins in the seemingly infinite space of the universe, and as random people talk about new worries and problems in their lives, like random amateur photographers talking about how to score the newest, costliest DSLR camera, I am here in front of the computer screen, staring at it for about an hour now, trying to squeeze out some words to write?
I’m taking a break from my work and writing something personal. The problem is there’s nothing personal to write.
In a way, I’m actually spending large amounts of time, figuring out how best to describe my life.
That’s pretty strange to me. Continue reading