of clogs, bridges and tasteless Mcdo combos

Munching on honey-drenched pancakes from Jollibee, I realized I have been putting off my blogging for quite some time now. Might be lack of time. Or focus. Or interest. Whatever it is, Sigmund Freud will not bat an eyelash over these excuses but will instead ask me: Why are you holding back?

What am I holding back?

photo by: Mary Whitney Ballen

So to brush off the cobwebs that have formed between us, my dear readers, it is customary to start off with mundane things.

Mcdo will be dead without their fries and pickles. There, I said it. People may dismiss my taste buds as of poor Filipino taste who only relies on pungent fried scents and MSG-flavored delicacies, but you have to admit, everything in Mcdo tastes the same. At least, Jollibee has more menu items to choose from.

That is not to say that Jollibee is the best fast food for me (that distinction goes out to Sbarro and Mr.Kabab – see, I have good taste!) but we need to set the record straight before all hell break loose.

There’s a lot in my mind right now.

I sobbed a few days ago over a silly argument but it was enough to make me feel that the world is using my shoulders as a balance beam. And after one long conversational prayer, there it is – a faucet leaked. No plumber to fix it. I guess sometimes we should keep the water running to clear the clogged pipes.

But there are clogs that no liquidsosa can ever melt. 

 

No one is immune from being causers of corruption. I remember having this discussion with two friends and they were quite adamant that even if they are appointed to public office, they will have their values intact – that they will not be part of any scams happening in the government. I dismissed that as being naïve. I believe that the politicians we have now (not counting those living off nepotisms) started off as idealistic individuals who want the best out of their cities, and eventually their country. Something happened along the way. They were caught in a system that will never be deconstructed. I’m quite sure everything started off as free buffet or free drinks to small incentives then grew into a bank account. Or two. Or five. Who knows where you got the whole sum – might be from an honest venture or a kickback, but combined, it becomes a blemished dot. What is a few hundred thousand to a billion?

And you, my righteous friends, will be deconstructed along the way. We don’t know how mind-bending the pressure is in that setting, so have your conscience intact. That’s what will keep you human. Even the church insists that everyone is a sinner, and call it by another name, but it is the same even for atheists. Everyone makes mistakes because everyone is imperfect so everyone’s a sinner.

One thing to understand: Life is a tedious battle of being the lesser evil.

That brings me to friends who wallow on their own trauma that they cross you out for not appearing sympathetic to their repetitive mistakes. To doubt empathy – what good does it make? I can spit out different personality disorder clusters to classify whatever it is that one is doing wrong, but will it help? I can only pinpoint the instances and give it a name. Only you have the choice to turn it around. Remember the “teaching to how to fish” bit? Tough love, baby.

Patience, yes. I am learning to practice its art so I can be a good friend to all, but I will falter eventually since it is not my nature. Same to everyone who has their tics. But let’s throw out the match, shall we? Burning bridges can also defile the river below it. You might burn yourself in the process without meaning to.

With that thought in mind, someone is playing The Moffatts in the office without irony.

must. practice. patience.

OPTIONS ARE OPTIONAL

Should you ever be an option, don't.

I had my share of demon days where I left a lot of hearts waiting for that call the morning after, and I didn't dial a number, simply because I am not in the mood to be a teddy bear.

It took a real relationship for me to understand how is feels to be a heavy cross to bear.

When the female of the species demands for commitment, I shiver in disgust. Why the need for shackles? 

Then it hit me: Responsibility.

You want someone to be responsible for you.
To choose you. Without any hesitations.

Someone who'll stay after all the glasses are smashed to bits;
After the cruel fingers have been pointed at your direction.

You know those exit lights? They're always there. The panic button in the elevator, it is required to be installed for safety measures. Everything is calculated.

We sometimes forget that life is all about risks.
Can't you see? You only remember those experiences when you did something unimaginable, or went to a distinct place that is worth blogging. or a face worth mentioning and rewinding in your head.

And Love too; a risky business. Not for the faint of heart. 
You are simply putting your sanity in the table, looking up the heavens before throwing your dice. Most came out never the same again.

But hey, as long as your lover will throw the dice with you, will risk her chips for you without a skip of breath or a pause of doubt, then you are in good hands.

You know you are in the right arms when she feels that way about you.
Not a heavy cross.  Not a good mood hobby. Not a mind-bending sacrifice.


For you are not an option.
You should be the only letter box in that multiple choice. 
Her faith for what you have never wavers
and can't be convinced by relationship advice columns and pesky conservative hypocrites.
No room for debates.

Just you - the sure thought of you as the only.

31 (what happened after the blues attack)

It has been a hell of a weekend. 

But I meant that in a sparsely Waldo-There-You-Are kind of way.

After whining about the blues that was creeping into my system brought by the annual dread of existentialism (read the last blog), I was treated to a good birthday night (or early morn – tardiness it seems is a way of life in the Philippines) by a few friends and my bandmates. Prepared my signature spicy Italian tuna spag while Em (our bassist) gladly assisted with the preparation. I forgave her for spoiling 1 kilo of expensive pasta, but she made up for it by taking care of the steamed potatoes with mustard (which I ate for lunch today. the fridge is a wonderful invention.) She got me a cake too!

Though I am trying to be as sober as I can, how can I resist the mini Hip Flask bought by my bro Khalid and his sweet GF Valerie as a birthday gift. Unexpectedly nice, and that's from someone who doesn't appreciate surprises. 
Now, where did I put my vodka?

There were lots of food to go around, and a Black Label was given the royal treatment as the main course of the party. But the pleasantries of the loud evening did not end there.

Speaking of surprises, My better half has been keeping hers all wrapped up and somehow failing because of my paranoid streak. She knows better to keep secrets, but she managed to somehow control my urge to let her spill (I tried my best to no avail).

But oh boy, was she forgiven. That’s all I can say.

let me present to you: Mr.Smith

Finally, the Memoryhouse record (that a good friend from NYC has given me as a gift) has finally resonated against the four walls of my dusty wooden apartment.

With a hip flask, slim fit jeans and now, a record player, I’m on my way to becoming the first bellied Arab hipster in this side of town. Don't laugh.

P.S.

To decapitate the mood, Zestair conspired with MMDA to let us miss our flight to Bicol the next day. Life is a wheel huh? And didn't I just mention that tardiness is...nevermind.

 

Well, it did cost a few tears and we were 5 thousand pesos poorer, but the drive to be home was stronger. 15 hours later, we found ourselves in the quiet breathing of Old Albay.

 

Happy to announce that the meet-the-parents/children ordeal was a happy and momentous one.

 

31 years old and feeling like a blushing child for these great blessings.

31

As a child, we learn to define occasions in terms of gifts. Christmas was bombarded with reminders about giving and of course, the reaction was inevitable: expectations and anticipation. Not that it is a bad thing.  Gift-giving became a symbol of sacrifice, apology and appreciation. We want to make someone feel good.

Altruism is human nature. Selfish even. The receiver feels heavenly; BUT the giver, in that moment feels like God.  It’s a win-win situation, if you ask me.

Two nights ago, in a very uncharacteristic move, my mom admitted to her inability to provide us with what we want while I was growing up.  Broken promises were a common theme. That explains a lot why I would go berserk over the tiniest detail about cancelling plans and breaking promises. I shrugged off her admission like it was a tiny thing. But it was generally a heavy cross. When you are a kid, you only expect the best things, without much reason.  But such is the story of my life:

I always get what I don’t want.

I am adult enough to accept that gifts don’t define happiness, but it does give you the needed sense of importance. You won’t see people crying over you in your funeral so this is the closest to a statistic (about people who cares) that you can get.

Why am I whining?

I have been blessed with a beautiful girlfriend, a newly-released album and a new job that I enjoy doing.  This year started well, more than I have expected and I am thankful. I honestly am.

But that advice about counting my blessings has been exhausted and over-used.

I have been trying to verbalize what drives people to experience birthday blues. I am not an exception, and friends know it. Is it just about gifts? I think it may have something to do with existential questions but that’s me trying to be deep. 

But to feed your curiosity my dear readers, these are the usual queries: Why am I still here? Do I deserve another year? Why stay when people don’t care?

I honestly don’t know how to end this blog.

Maybe just an admission of my shallowness.

But are you really righteous enough to point that out without looking at your own expectations and wants?

My blues remains. 31 years and counting.