“…Deck the halls I’m young again, I’m you again, racing turtles, the grapefruit is winning, seems I keep getting this story twisted so where’s Neil when you need him? ”

Space Dog, Tori Amos

The blood supply of me will never refuel unless it chooses to squander with the little wickedness of life like perverted sex, an unhealthy fight with a lover or something insanely profound like eating eight green apples until my stomach becomes a solid vinegar.

Today, I spent almost thirty minutes going around Panda, supposedly to buy grocery, but went around doing nothing but to roam around and retrieve the memory of sorts that always helps in neutralizing the dread that rules my gray matter. I didn’t know how I felt then. In my sanguine, phony/corporate/reveling/vile/take-me-I’m-wholesome and loves kids McDonald’s uniform, I trudged along the long lanes seizing my life through rows of tuna fish, the diabetic regions of laundry tang and through the messages of Buy One Take Ones. God bless me in my catechizes I knew I was on riot grounds after a hard day perfecting burgers. I knew I was mixing yearning with being destitute nowadays. I knew I miss talking with the Spawn these days being on conflicting shifts. I knew I wanted to listen to Incubus’ Stellar but can’t find the tape a massive slob as I am.

Anyway, there I was in my empty grocery basket and a basketful of thoughts to sun my fettered head.


I spent time with two of my best friends in Saudi Arabia; Miss SpaceGirl and my Prozac god last Thursday. It was a packed lunch of daing (dried fish), adobong sitaw (string beans sautéed in vinegar and soy sauce) and tofu. Packed in a sense that conversations plunged from anal sex preparations to the defining of the three of us being believers of preeminence or in more conferred terms, embers of love. Prozac god recycling lovers and having that strength of placing them in categories; a. the husband, b. the regular, c. the toy, d. the returnee and e. some torso. Miss SpaceGirl being fine when the word FINE can mean I am a mom now and I can’t discern smoking because I had the need to give up smoking for good (methinks I melted, envious of such triumph!) and me, oh me, getting by their stories as a reliever since I am working that night and didn’t sleep yet until I transformed from analytical gadget to their merry deposit. I started rambling about the Spawn and how we dissipated our Marilyn Mansons and endeavored the most likely: sex. Of course I didn’t want the conversation to be turned up from my wireless microphone but as it always does, it did. I became the porno partisan that I didn’t thought that I was. I wanted to glow and reproduce the great Marilyn Manson-romantica week I had with the Spawn and not to synthesize how I spent time with the Spawn in my newly improvised honeymoon bed! I believe I got carried away again. But that’s friendship I guess. You spew the unspeakable. After we separated ways I decided that the Prozac god and SpaceGirl are lucky for being both sexually self-assured. Prozac god and his tasteful apparel and glittering streetsmart rhetoric. SpaceGirl and her composure and analytical cosmos while I, oh I, remains to be the ruffles girl in leather, even after marking my number 30 in my pervert list of unsolicited one night stands and starry nights of passion and intensity with misfortuned lovers who has managed to survive me. For a time.


Sweet Prince, part ex-flame, part time penumbra to my devastation recently moved to the villa where I live. I helped him with boxes and all and tried to set up his stuff. Well we ended up nudging the old spirits and syllabicating our individual new-sprung flames over water and prunes. Sweet Prince somehow discovered that prunes matched his taste buds for the same reason that I did with chocolate candy bars, diabetic as I am and him, holding a very demented blood pressure. The prunes didn’t get in the way of things but we both overdosed ourselves with what we have accounted for being both invaded by matters of the heart these days. Actually, he is one of my closest friends and although we’re both cohered to the belief of getting what we want, we’re still stuck within the plains of not knowing what we want. You know the story: you find love and things get shitty, even so when both are already very much into each other. Ahh the killer bee of the breast! The more you get older the more confusing it gets. I mean look at my friend, the Sweet Prince. He deserves happiness being basically good. Being somebody who understands respect, somebody who knows classical music and addicted to it and somebody who is really comely but uninterested in his looks. He is the only person who says the word simple and is not irritating and yet, he is enduring a crazy affair because he loved. That he had to stop loving because some people do not approve of it. It’s so unfair. It makes me want to call all you women out there to save this angel from closing in. I can stomach me getting his entire ache because I know I belong there but Sweet Prince? No. He is the last of his kind. He needs YOU to remind him that YOU are better than those prunes. That you see him the way I see him. That I think I am matching you with him whoever the fuck you are (I just hope you like Tom Clancy and Beethoven) so you can save my friend from disesteem. Contact me if you’re interested.


Some ten years ago, when things get really bad, I usually bike around town, the last stop being the beach where 90 per cent of its scanty populace always ends up in varied hours of byronic breakdowns or mainly booting those lazy provincial asses for a splash. Whatever. I guess during those days all it took were my hyperlegs to paddle, the old cemetery a few blocks from our house, a pack of local Marlboros and the wind, the beach. It was all innocent. After college, odd jobs and finally getting all the tangibles you selfishly required, bad times become murky and between the cigs, the disc changes, drugs, alcohol, friends, non-friends who becomes the hero of the day and the association of balancing your lack with everything around you – empathy – everything warps and I always return to the same road that I’ve been. They say it’s the cycle. I say it’s bullshit. In Paulo Coelho’s Veronika Decides To Die, the protagonist hounded pills after realizing that she can’t go back experiencing the same things over and over again because the magic of things only happens once as happiness cannot be resuscitated to regain the same subterranean feel, the same carnality. The book gave me a unfailing tingle having that theme of taking your life when you’re in your happiest rather than the popular in your shittiest but when you really get down to it, that’s phobia in a grander scale. How can you possibly take your life claiming you are happy? Besides happiness is an encounter more than an attainment. It’s a feather that falls softly from your hair to your eyes and then the wind blows and it’s gone. I clearly remember dropping Calculus and Economics that one daft semester when life was the theatre and shabu. I was so pissed I cried all afternoon. Then I went to the bathroom, sat on the throne and felt everything shimmering around me. It may have been the relief of having it all cried down but I knew it was something else. I sensed God with all that air that went straight to my lungs. There was beauty and peace and it was shapeless. Two minutes of bliss then it was gone.


After walking around Panda with my empty grocery basket and these thoughts to clear my head, I grabbed me a yoghurt and a bar of Milky Way. After an hour I was writing this.

God bless Saudi Arabia!


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