I hate the sun.having worked in the Customer Relations Management industry for the past two years has made me sunlight intolerant for some reason.You see, when you primarily cater to the great people of imperialist
I woke up a couple of minutes before eleven o’clock in the morning ; irritating sunlight seeping in through my bedroom window.I made a feeble attempt to sit up but my head feels like it was sodomized by a rhino.Honestly, I don’t recall how I got home but this familiar hangover tells me that I’ve only slept for three hours tops—and it was a totally demented and uncomfortable sleep abounding with incoherent dreams of theme parks, sausages and Jolina Magdangal at that.Strangely, Nisha was also part of that dream.
I sprang out of bed to make a trip to the john but even that was a bad idea.Apparently my legs were no more sober than I am and instead of taking me to the bathroom, they send me crashing straight into a wall.It’s kind of like one of those Looney tunes moments where you half-expect your face to be engraved on the wall or something.My next door neighbor probably loved the loud crashing sound it made but they must’ve enjoyed the louder scuffling noise that went on for a good five minutes more.That was me using the wall to guide me to and fro the bathroom.I hurled, washed my face and tried my best to go back to bed for more sleep and dingy dreams…but…
I’m
not entirely sure when my mom started doing this, but sometime within
the last decade, she started this weird habit of collecting random,
inconsequential things from my childhood for me.I do not want to think
about what her motivation for doing so might be or even delve into
details of the stuff she saves but sometimes I don’t have a choice.You
see, my mom fancies this rather mortifying trip down memory lane as an
opportune activity to bond with me.I don’t get it, I really don’t.I
mean while most parent-son bonding sessions involve full body massages
at spas, drinking beer, shopping, or gardening; here I am looking at
random things that have little to no significance in my life.
Today
we sat down at the decrepit kitchen table, the very same table where I
ate thousands of cholesterol laden meals as a kid, to look at this
week’s dose of nostalgia and weekly heap of junk.Among the items are: A
lock of my baby hair, Flyers for summer swimming lessons, a faded Ogie
Alcacid casette tape, expired SM department store gift certificates, a
picture of myself and my ultimate grade school crush, Jane Sebastian
doing some stupid aerobics shit, three paper clips, old McDonald’s
coupons, grade school test papers and art projects.
Now
those roused my interest a bit.The test paper mom found was actually
one of the first English essays I wrote and the crayola disaster of an
art project was one of my first futile attempts at doing something
creative.I made both of these when I was seven years old; the time when
my scholastic career seriously began to go downhill and never ever
recovered.This is the time when prepubescence was taking its dreadful
toll on me.
I
have taken the liberty of scanning the said papers for public exhibit
with the knowledge that it would seriously damage my reputation, lead
people to doubt my sanity, and ruin any chances of me landing a better
paying job or passing any type of psychiatric evaluation in the
future.I’m a blog whore like that I guess…
I
grabbed my office keys and took a quick glance at the digital clock on
my desk.It reads 11:14pm; 11:00pm onwards is the perfect time to have a
beer in Eastwood City on a Saturday night— the bars aren’t chock-full of Hip-hop wannabes,
cliques of giggly 16 year old girls or dreadlock-sporting poser emo
kids who are the denizens of the
scene.Man, I hate Fridays; all you want is a fucking beer and you can’t
find a place to get a cold one without making your way through hordes
and hordes of idiots who just stand around and try to look
cool.Saturdays, on the other hand, are sort of relaxing considering
that the cool hangout places aren’t brimming and the crowd is generally
limpid for some reason.
I
looked around the office and notice that everybody’s going around doing
their usual drudgeries.Some guy’s talking to this girl about some
stupid waste of time suggestions on how to keep employee absenteeism
low.One manager’s over at the photocopier making copies of boring
productivity reports.I head back to my office and look at the message
on my computer screen again…
