It's not like something could be said about one's childhood that would matter to one's old age. What am I saying?
Wednesday, August 23. Oriental Gardens, Makati. I want to cry, I want to laugh. But I can't do both all at the same time. So I blog.
I can feel your ovation, my throng of two reading fans! I hear you clamouring for wisdom that has nothing to do with real life. So here I am again, helpless in the midst of your demands for sound teaching that matters to no one, save the uncanny. I blog for you so you will learn the most inane of issues. I believe these shall serve as food for your deprived minds.
Look back. Re-examine your unworthy lives. Look at what you have become in listening (reading) to manipulative bloggers like me. Begin by asking yourselves this question: “Have you ever lived a childhood?” (sic) When you do, don’t look for a mirror. I am not Boy Abunda.
I’m serious. Have you ever looked back into your childhood and see a direct correlation between that barrio lass and today’s raving queen? Because I don’t. I recently scrutinized my insignificant childhood and I came to realize, beyond intelligent guess, that I am indeed, err, celestial. That, like Venus and Athena, I sprang to life fully grown and ravishing. That emaciated boy running across the beach in Negros Occidental with his baconed (Don’t try looking for that word in the dictionary. Just don’t.) underwear sliding off to his knees wasn’t me. The last time I remember my underwear falling was when somebody was pulling it down with gusto.
That effeminate grade-schooler dancing among girls for loosing Chinese Garter wasn’t me. Surely one who now gyrates shirtless in the midst of sweating male bodies could never be embarrassed for having such a history. No, Sir! That same boy who loves to hang out with girls could never be this grown-up who would only revel at going out with boys.
I just lately started a job editing ancient Latin texts for internet download. I still do writing and English instruction on the sides. I am what one could say in protest as a man of letters. Me not being able to read until Grade 2? That’s a myth.
You’ve heard of the kid who once sported a thin haircut in honour of the Divine. No, I am not that kid. Not that I have a choice, but I am one who prides a thin hair for looking fashionably divine.
Now, before I can no longer take hold of my humility with your groundless accusations, ask this next question: “Were you born this way?”
Do you think I was born clutching a bottle of Red Horse? Do you ever have a one-tracked mind to think it intelligible that this blogger hated writing way back grade school? Do you ever think that somebody who hated smokers would turn out to be a chain smoker? People change. That’s crap. That’s the excuse of the uninitiated.
We are capable of massacre in Texas Chainsaw proportion. Only we are not in Texas. We can be Imelda if we can buy those shoes. We can be her husband if we had Ramos as a relative. We can be as comfortable with casual sex as we are with rosaries dangling around our necks in our fanatic attempt to declare our religious fervour. Somewhere along the way, we’ve just gotten tired of what we are doing. So we shift to some other ritual. But then we got stuck. Because maybe in doing something new and different, we found our calling. What we are now is blamed on our childhood? Now that’s an archaic theory. I would rather believe that nobody was born this or any other way. We simply chose the way. Don’t be a hypocrite. Yukk!
Hey, don’t even tell me you are what you are right now because mom told you so or dad molested you. If you only listened to your mom, you wouldn’t be reading this. O, yes. Why are you still reading this?! Go to sleep. Because I am.
***Jenny, this is my birthday gift to you. The other one is a bag of earthworms. Mamili ka.***
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