People have been flooding my Multiply message board with their wish lists for the past few days. I was about to click that link to post a new blog entry for my own, but then I remembered my sense of non-conformity and sullenness. Yeah, how ironic.
I have issues regarding wish lists, really. It's not that I'm being bitter about the fact that when I make one, I'm sure as hell that my parents wouldn't really grant any of those things I really want. I mean, I doubt it. Having me as their daughter is a sneak preview of hell already, for Christ's sake. No one would treat Satan's prodigy in a good way.
In fact, I don't really know why I have this strong grudge against wish lists. Ha.
---------------------------
Do you know what else is weird?
Christmas.
Christmas used to be so fun when I was still an innocent little girl, with a brain so clean its impulses are squeaking and medulla oblangata shining like hell. I would look for any material capable of making a beat, then I would go out and go caroling or wassailing on my own. A block of wood and a small metal tube boosted my self-confidence, and my croaking voice made people realize that I'm no Aretha Franklin. I did that for three freakin' years before I realized that there is no point in singing Christmas carols for people who don't fucking care whatever you sing. Old people are an exception. They are so kind, they will still surely bake you some cookies even if you perform a rendition of Britney's Gimme More with their crippled legs as your pole. No offense, but I wish all people would act like that and be so civilized around kids.
I've never received a girly girl gift ever since I was born. There was this one time when I saw a big gift with my name written on it under our Christmas tree. I rummaged through the piles of gifts, in search for my sister's gift. And ha. There it was. a rectangular box that is a 75% smaller than my big gift, all wrapped in an artsy-fartsy gift wrapper. My lips suddenly curved itself into a sharp grin, as if I'm impersonating Grinch. Even as a kid, I'm already full of arrogance. No wonder I grew up into a selfish pig.
Christmas day came, and as usual, my sister and I raced to the Christmas tree with our mom and dad beaming behind us. I grabbed my big gift and my sister acquired hers too. I quickly teared the wrapper and my eyes bored to my gift. Damn. An automatic magic slate again? I looked behind me and saw that my sister's gift is a Barbie doll. I rapidly grabbed the pink box and gave my big gift to my sister. I don't know what kind of evil possessed me at that time, but everytime I think about it, I cringe like hell. I can't believe there was this instance in my life where I wanted to be a female-something so badly, I exchanged an educational machine for a blond doll that is probably dumber than my dog.
But now, Christmas is just a word.
------------------------------------
I commuted yesterday in a very conventional way. You see, the conventional way is fighting that gravitational force exerted by the slope by climbing all the way up from my school to the DepEd building. Then from there, you have to ride an FX routed to the nearby mall. When you get to the nearby mall, you have to ride another FX coursed to the city wet market. Then you can drop off at any point in downtown where you can ride a tricycle that will take you directly to you house situated in a fancy-schmancy village that is probably 20-30 meters away.
I liked it, actually. I used to just ride a taxi and tell the driver my destination and off we go. There will be no adventure in this kind of trip except if the driver is coincidentally drunk and crashed the car into something massive, or if you're just tad too unfortunate because your driver is horny and decides to rape you, or whatever.
But of course, something awkward just have to happen.
The FX I have ridden is definitely a love shack in disguise. I mean, come on. The only person not coupled in the ride is me, the person beside me, and the driver. It was a very tormenting trip, probably because all of them are PDA-ing right in our faces. Of course I was anguished. Who wouldn't be? That time would probably the greatest epitome of when and where you have to shout 'Get a room!' before anybody starts licking somebody's throat in front of your eyes to let out the bitterness in you. Ah, how anguishing.
I'm no bitter pill, excuse me. Displays of affection just reminds me of how stupid love per se made me for quite some time. Dopamine and norepinephine be damned. I'll never be so dense again to let fucking butterflies fly in my large stomach again. My stomach is thus reserved for carbonate reserves only. Those butterflies has to find a sanctuary of their own.
Love did not teach me nor made me realize anything except for the followong facts:
- College boys are simply horny. They think that being in love with somebody can get their way in a chick's body.
- Infatuation is the worst thing that can happen to you. It makes you so paranoid and psychotic that even your dignity will be very ashamed of you, and thus will leave you dumbass alone. Being a druggie is way better. Trust me.
- Nobody will ever ever EVER love you for who you are. It's always either you have big mammary glands, or he is just damn introverted to look for any other girls he can trick into sleeping with him. No matter how smarty-pantsy you'll get, your parents are the only ones who will love you for that.
All I'm saying is, love is non-existent. If it does, then why do we have to get hurt? Problems and challenges are enough to develop us as intellectual persons. Why do we still need to be tormented by love?
I just lost my pride by bringing up a sappy topic again. WTF.
-----------------------------
This week is a shitload of catharsis. We were all jogging down in memory lane, and reminiscing high school moments we shall all cherish before we go to different colleges and universities in roughly 3 months' time.
No more strict school rules.
No more greasy canteen food.
No more homeroom.
No more nuns.
No more school buses.
No more intimidating classmates.
No more class presentations.
No more surprise inspections.
No more bisexuals.
No more jogging pants.
No more red tiles.
No more PCH.
No more CL.
No more high school.
Mark your calendars, people. On the 17th of March, we will all bid goodbye to our hellhole that suddenly became our second home; a home that is a better version of our own households, because no matter what we have to go through, there will always be people behind our backs and supporting us until the end. People I will surely not forget who went through all cramming thinga-majigs for my 4-year stay in SPCP (oops. I mentioned that shit.).
HIGH SCHOOL FRIENDS.
After 10 years, Monica will be Dra. Canta.
After 10 years, Nina will be Dra. Meily.
After 4 years, Rachell, Jacque, Juella, and Patti will all be nurses.
After 5 years, Alyssa will be Engr. Flores.
After 4 years, Charlene will be a businesswoman.
After n years, my batchmates will all be professionals in their own respective fields.
What about me? I'll be the crankiest engineer the world has yet to discover and truly love.
I'll miss high school.
Really.
I can't believe I'll be graduating from high school already.
No comments:
Post a Comment