Wednesday, November 26, 2008

On Reunions

I never liked reunions in any shape or form. I compare them to prom nights where people simply meet up and brag about how pretty or hot their partners are and the fucking that will ensue later than evening. In reunions, people talk about how they've spread their wings and soared after parting ways with others. Of course, reunions would probably end up on a sour note when everybody's realized that their former classmates, friends, and colleagues have drastically changed from before, as their life experiences during the period of estrangement have destroyed the synergy that a certain group of people once had. It's a sad epiphany, I tell you.

My former college buddy messaged and told me that one of our classmates will be arriving soon after a full two years into his religious vocation and a reunion will take place by that time. Even if the event called for us to wear formal attire (!), I simply could not say no.

So why flinch and put my anti-reunion stance into doubt? I don't really know. Add to the fact that I never really enjoyed my college years and oftentimes preferred to sulk and be alone rather than bask and take it easy with my classmates, and now I really don't have any clue why I went. Only when I was there when I realized how I missed those fuckers.

A lot of things have happened throughout the course of not seeing each other for quite some time. Most of them are taking up law school in Rockwell and Diliman, which is definitely good. The person who just arrived from its vocation is planning to take his MBA in Business Administration, if I'm not mistaken. One is a seminarian who is currently teaching CLA in an all-girls school. Now that's news. And me, well, let's forget about me.

From the outset, all of us present in the reunion may have undergone changes of different sorts, but the core that binds us, the sheer and sacred stupidity that we usually put ourselves into, has soldiered on and seems to be going stronger than ever. We reminisced our follies, trials, and misdemeanors, and we all just laughed at them. Now that I've thought about how I got lost going to the reunion, it's actually funny. Apparently, Manila Peninsula and Manila Intercontinental are two different hotels altogether. Hey, at least by wearing my stylish black long sleeves, I just made stupid look good. Quote me on that one.

After much laughter and cussing, we went our separate ways, only to find ourselves back in the grind of things. Slowly the realization of us (meaning I in particular) returning back to hours of cramming a thousand page worth of legal document and the times of losing our minds in front of the computer of your cubicle, cursing yourself why in the blue hell we're employed in the first place. But you know what, if another opportunity for us to meet again in the distant future, count me in. I won't get lost this time. I promise.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

On Degeneration

It's one of those times in a day where I don't have anything to do, and instead of reading a good book or watching a good movie, I browsed through some of the old entries I've written for the past two years. You see, the blog was meant to be an outlet to medicate the bad taste left by my final years in college, as well as being part of the unemployment line. True, those days were bawful (bad+awful), but they helped me produce some of the most inspired shit I have written throughout the years, save for the tons of adult video descriptions I did way back in the time (like, a couple of months ago).

Not to be sentimental, but damnit, there's something magical when reading even the most lamest of entries of what happened when you were down and out while listening to Slowdive in Hong Kong, or was having a blast playing with Koreans in Zambales, just before I pulled out my CD player and listened to Slowdive again. Ah, the CD player. Anybody remember that?

Seriously though, I was lame back then. And I loved every minute of it. Another thing: I liked how I was able to capture the bravura of being there at that moment, absorbing the positive vibe as it careens me to different sensations of the emotional spectrum. There was life in the words I wrote that, by reading them slowly like a retarded chimp, made me say, "Holy shit, that day was awesome," or , "That day sucked so much ass, it's awesome!"

Now, reading the entries I have left scattered in my blog like expired pancit bihon, I don't get everything from them. Sure, the emotions are there (anger, idleness, bordering on happy, happy but not quite), but I can't connect with 'em. All I see are a bunch of words piled up trying to say something and I can't seem to make out anything! Maybe I've regressed into a meandering, miserable dick who's a corporate slave, takes up his MA when there's time, and then...I don't know anymore. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy like a slut who's had a buck worth of fuck, but...huh. I lost myself.

Shit. I really didn't know where to go with this. I was supposed to allude to my degeneration as a person who was deflowered and made numb by the corporate hell that I work for, but now that I've reached where I am, that's not gonna happen now. Oh well, it's never really good when I don't have anything to do.

Friday, November 7, 2008

On Brothertime

T'was a regular afternoon in the office as I was sitting half-asleep in front of my computer, navigating the screen with my mouse and doing copy and paste work, when suddenly I smelt a burning odor coming from below our cubicles. I stopped working and exerted all effort in verifying whether the smell had characteristics of something charred and where the smell is coming from. It looks like the smell was coming from my CPU so I freaked out a bit. My instinct told me to turn off the unit but when I reached for the power switch I felt an electric sting at the tip of my fingers. (Must be due to the fact that I have clammy hands.)

With my slight fear of electrocution, I pulled my hand away and didn't know what to do while my seatmates were flocking my burnt-smelling CPU. Luckily, somebody without clammy hands calmly turned off the unit, making me look like an as in the process. However, that's besides the point. Actually, it was not my CPU that produced the burning smell, but it came from the unit of the person across my cubicle, who I personally did not know. Going back a little bit further, while the commotion was going on, she asked me, "Kuya, sa yo po ba nanggagaling yun amoy na yun?" And it was that moment when it hit me: I'm getting old.

Months later, I went down with my co-worker, who was about to leave from work, to watch him smoke. (For all intents and purposes, let's just put how things happened as I say it, shall we?) After venting out the trials and tribulations of working for our current employer and comparing it to our previous employer (both of us worked at the same office before), his smoke reached the filter in no time and we headed back the building. Before parting ways, he said, "Trabaho ka na naman, sir!" And it again struck me, I'm old.

Staring into the mirror, I think I am about to form crow's feet at the side of my eyes. Every time I smile or squint, the skin seems to fold comfortably in the corners of my eyes. In only a matter of years, I will have crow's feet that resembles that of Luke Perry's during his amazing run as the high school heartthrob (at the age of 34, no less) in Beverly Hills 90210. Just the crow's feet part.

God, I feel ooooooooold.

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