Ka-ching

I managed to scrounge a red bicycle frame and handlebars from my cousin over the weekend.

I was passing by their house the other day, and I saw the lad busily tinkering away at his bike. He managed to scrounge a much lighter bike frame from somewhere, and he's transplating the wheels, brakes, plate, and other components to this new one from his old bike. And since he had no use for the old frame, I asked him if I could have it, along with the old chrome handlebars I saw rusting in the corner. A few hours of haggling later, I managed to haul home the bike frame, the handlebars, and a set of pedals to boot. So right now I'm closer to getting a new bike of my own, with only a fraction of the market price.

I can be such a cheap bastard sometimes.

Close

It was already past 10 in the evening when I looked at the clock. Time flies fast when you've got a Playstation 2 joystick on your hands. I pulled at the aluminum door of the rental store, and the cold wind came rushing at my face. I was only wearing a t-shirt, so I shivered a little. I started to rub my arms warm, put my cap on, and started the long walk home.

Last week the woman I love told me she was leaving, where it is she wouldn't tell me. But all I know is that I may never see her again.

I wanted to go straight to her house and beg for her to stay. Or at least see her face one last time. But instead I am standing outside a Playstation rental store on a rainy Monday night, trying to think of other things that are less important. At least the unimportant things don't hurt when you wake up in the morning.

She wants me to move on; to keep my heart whole and wait for the right girl for me to come. I wanted to tell her that I don't know where to start moving on. Because I never went anywhere with her in the first place.

In the end, what probably hurts is not that she's gone and no longer a part of my life, but rather the fact that it's the best thing that's ever happened to me in years.

And that I still love her. Probably for the rest of whatever's left of my life.

I still wanted to keep playing for another hour, but the store was already closing for the night. So quite reluctantly, I had to go home. And as I walked out into the darkness of the alleyway, I wonder if there are other things in this life that have closed.

It’s just hard to let go of something very precious especially when you have accepted that something as part of your being. But letting go is essential. Separation is needed. Just like a seed... it needs to separate from the fruit to grow, become a tree, and produce more.... If the seed stays with the fruit forever, they will both perish...

...life cannot adjust to us; we adjust to fit in it.- Romalyn Casia

Rallying cry for my Work Ethic

If what I feel right now can be summed up in one word, it would be this:


I've been playing a lot of Urban Dead recently. It somewhat has certain parallels with my job (For example: it involves losing brain cells), but nevertheless it is quite engaging and entertaining. That is, if you find clicking text boxes entertaining, of course.

Since it's a casual web browser-based multiplayer online game, Urban Dead does not win any awards in terms of graphics. Here's a screenshot of the game:


But if you can sacrifice the visuals for expansive gameplay, well this game is worth checking out. The game basically dwells on a zombie outbreak in a London-ish suburbia, wherein you can play as a living, breathing human who is stuck in the city or as an undead, rotting zombie preying on the living. It's not really gross though; probably the most graphic description in this game is wherein you stick a syringe up the neck of a zombie. The survivors mostly spend most of their days scrounging for supplies, setting up radios, generators and barricades, and shooting the living (or dying?) daylights out of zombies with a double-barreled shotgun. The zombies, or zeds as they call it, roam the deserted streets searching for "harmanz", "harmanbargahz", and of course, "braiiiiiinzzzzzzz"....

The game can be frustrating at first, as you need to be of a significant level to be able to fully enjoy the game. It can also be boring sometimes, especially when the zombie hordes just passed the suburb you're holed up in. But nevertheless, it's quite a nice diversion on a boring afternoon.

Unlit Cigarettes

When I was younger my grandfather used to send me on errands to buy him cigarettes. Red "More" Luxury Cigarettes; I can still remember them as though it was yesterday. I would walk a few blocks in my sando and oversize flip flops to the nearest store and buy a couple of those weird-smelling sticks. I was always fascinated by those sticks: the odd but eerily fragrant smell, the smooth paper cover, and the fact that most of the men that I considered to be big and tough usually had them clamped between their lips. I would sniff them constantly on the way back, put them in my ear or in my lips just like I saw my father or grandfather did. But when I was in sight of our house, I would put it back in my hands along with the change, for fear that my grandfather would spank the hell outta me for messing with his sweet-smelling cigarettes.

But that was before Grandfather died in 1997. A former cockpit owner and "banig" seller struck down at the age of 86 by heart attack. He left behind 13 children and more than thrice that amount of grandchildren, including this boy who would buy him his cigarettes.

And as I grew older I realized that cigarettes were bad. I learned that they contained harmful chemicals with weird-sounding names like nicotine and formaldehyde which could make you sick. I saw pictures of lungs turned black with soot, of reddish human organs that look like they were taken from the local meat market. They were addictive and bad for you, they said, and that I should stay away.

And so I stayed away from cigarettes. But at that time I also stood away from the rest of the world. I was an outcast, a weird organism who never smoked. I saw other boys of my age who would swagger like those in the movies at the local town cinema, with a burning stick of cigarette in their mouths. I wanted to be like those boys. I wanted to be cool, because I want to be part of the world.

But I still stayed away from them. And as I grew older, I learned more about those burning sticks. I learned that they were made by multinational corporations which made lots of money from those tiny sticks. I learned that there was a lot of people who were fighting against it. I learned about conspiracy, compromise, bribery, bureaucracy, red tape, frame-up, blackmail, and salvage. And that people kept smoking them. They said it calmed the nerves, made them think better. Sometimes I wonder if they were right.

I had my first real puff when I had a bad cough back in college. My roommate gave me a stick of "Hope" Menthol Cigarettes. He said it would make my cough go away, and that it should put some meat on my lungs. I took a drag, inhaling the smoke as it went its way from the filter to the recesses of my throat. A wierd bitter taste grew inside my mouth, and I coughed it out. My roommate laughed in the darkness and took back the stick from my hands.

And more time passed by. My grandfather's body has probably turned to dust now, and my roommate is somewhere basking under the desert sun of the Middle East. I've finished school and found a job, and almost found love. I have died and been reborn so many times, and have learned other more important things to do and to think about.

But until today I still find cigarettes fragrant.

A meaningful conversation seen through a bottle of San Miguel

R: She's HOW OLD!?
A: If my calculations are correct, if she was born in 1987 that would make her 20 years old today.
R: I can't believe this!
A: You can't believe what?
R: That's she's just 20!
A: What's wrong with 20?
R: Dude, I have a poster of her in my closet!
A: And what's wrong with that?
R: It's from that Red Hot Special Lingerie Edition magazine.
A: Oh, THAT poster...
R: And I bought it 2 years ago. Which means she was 18, which in turn makes her a minor...
A: Uhhh, technically you're no longer a minor when you're 18.
R: Really?
A: Yep.
R: But still...ah never mind. Maybe I'm just over-reacting. I mean, she just looks too old for her age...
A: S'Okay. Europeans tend to look older compared to us anyway.
R: Probably...
A: ...
R: ...
A: ...
R: So that means that she's in my age bracket.
A: Oh please. Like that's going to help.
R: I'm just saying...
A: Dude, she's a tennis player. She whacks balls for a living. Doesn't that scare you even a bit?
R: Now that you've mentioned it...
A: ...
R: So does that mean I have to tear her poster down?
A: I dunno. Probably.
R: ...
A: ...
R: But she still looks hot though.
A: Whatever...