WB

This is a test.

A friend dropped a book on my desk to help me with my self-imposed writer’s block. Funny thing about it is that the book is titled “Writer’s Block” and literally looks like a block. It’s composed of different writing exercises to help writers get a move on in their creative pursuit.

Here are some of my handpicked exercises and the pieces I had written to “answer” them.

“Write about the worst driving you’ve ever done.”

I’m a terrible person behind the wheel. My worst driving experience was during one of my father’s birthdays. We started this particular celebration by drinking at around 9 a.m. I excused myself from work, told my boss that I got sick the night before from trying to get a 

gift for my old man. What a piece of shit.

As always when we drink, we drank hard. It was a binge fest. After a couple 3 bottles of liquor, we cleaned up and drove to another spot to meet different people to “celebrate” a bit more. I was the one driving. I passed out on the table after a few beers and only remembered waking up and paying for the tab. I was piss drunk but I insisted that I should be the one to drive. After all, my father was far better at this game than me.

So to finish off, the worst driving I’ve ever done was something I can’t entirely remember. And the worst thing about it is I lived to write about it. What dumb luck.

“Outcast”

Poetry night, every night. Bottles of beer stood proudly on the table. They are inviting in their emptiness. Another night of solitude for Jake. Two women made their way to their spot. He didn’t even blink. They shot down that plane even before it took off. They said they were Jersey boys – two young salesmen peddling their wares on the streets. They didn’t know their product was not currency in this town. The management didn’t allow strangers to hold the mic.

“Valentine’s Day”

These yuppies are hooked. It wasn’t E. Meth was too country for this crowd and besides, who else in their honest mind would want their teeth to fall out? Also, too much stuff is needed to smoke that shit. The bulb looks too messy. Foil is brittle and obvious. Don’t get me started on the smell and the taste. That shit is just nasty. But this, this is the drug of tomorrow. It’s something that you can actually enjoy putting in your mouth. Sweet with a bit of tang. Wait for it. Wait for it. There. It’s a “lay me down” shit is what it is. A sting on the end will pull you back. But remember, look for the brand “SO FINE” to know that you’re getting grade A stuff. You should be able to read it on that heart-shaped candy. If it looks cracked and all brittle, walk away. Get your money’s worth.

“Bad Hair Day”

Fuck it. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Ay yo what’s the hold up? Let’s go! Let’s go!

Shit. This thing is itchy as hell! Fucking fucks.

What you gotta wear that piece of shit thing for huh?

Shut up man. Just let me do my thing and I’ll let you do yours, ayt?! I ain’t messing with 

your do, man.

All I’m saying is why wear a wig when you can just wear a mask?

Yo, people in that joint ain’t gonna complain that Donald Trump hit them.

You have such bad taste.

I wouldn’t go that far to describe your sister, man.

“Voyeur”

The cat lady on 10^th. I wonder how many cans of tuna does she go through a week?

 Mr. Douchebag on the 9^th. It’s not Porsh. It’s Por-shuh. Suck a dick.

  Emily on 8^th. Really? Mr. 9^th Floor?

   7^th. Looks like Ray isn’t home yet.

    6^th. Those two brewers have really good taste in music.

     5^th. Still empty.

      Jesus Christ that brunette on 4^th has a rocking body.

        3^rd floor. Shit. I forgot to turn off the light in the kitchen. Good thing I~~~

                                                                        ...

Maybe

“Maybe? Maybe if we really do become strangers again by some way of magic or a scientific experiment gone wrong, I feel I’d still be drawn to you naturally. And it’d be fun to kiss you again for the first time. I need not be drunk the second time around.”

"Women do things differently. They move beautifully and gracefully. It's as if their charm flows through the objects they lay their hands on. I just love it."

Big night, every night

"Ser, ni-request ka nito. Type ka raw!"

Tinapik ng manager ang balikat ko matapos ibulong sakin yung mga linyang yun. Halos di na nga bulong kasi napakaingay sa loob. Halos di ko rin marinig ang kaluluwa ko. Tumango na lang ako at nag thumbs up sa manager.

"Hi, I'm Maxx."

"Hi, Maxx. Ako si ---."

Petite na babae si Maxx. Layered ang mahabang buhok nya. Itim ang kulay sa pagkakaalala ko. Hindi ko rin gaanong makita dahil malabo na ang mata ko at hindi bababa sa tatlong kulay ang nagsasabay na nagsasayawan sa loob. May strobe light pa nga e.

Maganda rin si Maxx. Halatang bata pa sya. Around 19-22. Pwede rin namang mali ang hula ko at mas matanda sya sakin. Maganda ang hubog ng katawan nya. Mukhang nakakakain naman sya nang tatlong beses sa isang araw.

Nag-alok ng handshake si Maxx. Kinuha ko naman bilang pabigay galang. Hindi nya binitawan ang kamay ko. Firm naman ang handshake nya, halatang madalas nyang ginagawa.

"Bakit Maxx ang pangalan mo? Curious kasi ako. Di ba panlalake yun?"

Hawak nya pa rin ang kamay ko.

Nakakabingi pa rin ang ingay sa loob. Lugi ako at medyo bingi ako.

"Ah. Maxx. Candy kasi ang dati kong pangalan dito. Pinalitan lang ng Maxx."

Unti-unting humina ang hawak nya sa kamay ko.

Maxx - Candy. Aaaaa. Maxx na kendi. Okay. Witty.

"Aaaaaaaaaah. Okay. Ayos a."

Medyo paos na ko ng parteng yun. Mag uumaga na.

"Hindi ba masakit yung ginagawa mo?"

"Yung alin?"

"Sa ano. Dun. Sa split."

"Ha? Split?"

"Doon sa pagsplit mo nang patalikod?"

Nag-demo ako gamit ang daliri ko para makita nya kung sakaling di nya ko marinig.

"Ah. Hindi no. Ba't naman ako masasaktan dun?"

"Wala lang. Mukhang masakit e!"

Parang wala lang sa kanya yung pagsplit. Medyo nakasimangot pa nga nung tinanong ko kasi parang ang weird ng unang tanong ko sa kanya.

"Hindi. Hindi masakit. Kung masakit yun edi sana di ko ginawa."

"Ah okay. Basta bukhang masakit. Kung ako siguro yun wasak na p----- ko."

Di sya sumagot. Maingay pa rin sa loob. Nagbuhos ako ng beer at nagsindi ng isa pang yosi. Mag-uumaga na talaga.

Garlic

Let me tell you a story, and like many other stories, this has a boy, who is a lot like other boys but a lot different too. And it also has a girl who is a lot like other girls but a lot different too.

There were no sparks when they met. Just “Oh there he is” and “Oh here’s another girl.”

But strangely enough, the way strange [things] happen when a child tastes ice cream for the first time, they found their way home together.

And somewhere inside [between] the stone’s throw between their houses, something started. Like a bud blossoming, opening its petals to meet the wind.

And in each day after that [the] first day with no sparks, they had more firsts and seconds and thirds and a lot more.

They had their share of seasons, too. With the coolness of spring giving way to the warmth of summer, and autumn’s leaves falling onto the sheen of winter’s cold earth but at the end of each sunset, they’d be where they began – which is spring.

And now, after living near and living far, the ties that bind them have bloomed, and strangeness has became magic; the kind that grips you at the whiff of sautéed garlic, the kind that signals the start of something good.

###

In one summer time, they didn’t know what was happening. There was no assurance and no hint. Maybe, there was but neither of them nurtured the seed.

In another summer time they were face to face, laughing, smiling but still no water to shower the deeply stuck flower in hiding. They drank, they smoked, they became the young adults they were eager to become. Well, one became that. The other was not ready.

In a different version of summer, rains frequented. They rarely saw each other. They talked less, too. They grew farther than what they were used to. One cared, the other not minded, killing the feeling before any started to happen. They just did not know what was waiting for under the earth.

Summer is the orange ray that watched that flower bloom. From a stray droplet to the shooting stems and leaves, to the dew that collected from early morning mist. It was far too sweet when it all began. Though they just don’t fully know where it will land. Will the wind carry their petals off to other earth, will they wither to the back to the ground that hid them from light, rain and sky?

They just don’t know. Who will? Who does? Will their petals reach the fettered kite the lion saw from a distance?

They know what they want, though they want what they do not know. Maybe, the cards will be greater than it seems now. All that’s certain is that there is that fighting chance.

Let’s not waste the past summers and the coming seasons. Let us not forget that one summer. 

"You freeze and I burn. As I am engulfed, smoke becomes my companion. My whole being seethes with a burning for you and yet you freeze. All I can think about is the biting coldness of your fingertips, the frost in your eyelashes, and the cool mist coming from your breath. Let us collide in a tempest that can make even the most sea-worthy of ships sink. May our kisses make us deaf with only the familiar sounds of our own heartbeats audible only to us. Douse my flames. I’ll thaw your longings. And by the time we’re over, all we’ll have left are our flame-wicked clothes and a rather cool steam from our collision."

350 and a box of macadamia nut chocolates

"I can still see vaguely the scrunching of the sheets we covered ourselves with. I remember the drip, the smoothness of your legs when it came across mine, even the smell of your hands on that fateful day. Who knew it was the last time I was ever going to hold you? I guess you did know. It was a farewell present. It was a send off masquerade. It was a personal tirade of my unconscious wrongdoings.

Now, I realize that the single greatest mistake that I have to live with for the rest of my life is that I could never stop caring about you nor think of you for that matter. I still see you when I close my eyes - the baby hair on your forehead and its semi-swirl of innocent follicles. But I'll try to neatly fold those memories, straighten out the scrunches of the sheets of fragmented moments and keep them away in a cabinet somewhere in the gaping hole that is my chest. I wish I could really say goodbye, although I doubt that you would even wave at me from a distance.

Say something. Anything. I will have it tattooed across my chest as a reminder. Or maybe have them inked on my wrists so I can still feel that I'm still wearing the watch you gave me. It ran out of batteries. I hope I could just replace my memories of you with a fresh pack of someone else's. But that would make me more like you. I hate it and love it at the same time."

9:03

"When I look at your face, I don't even feel mad about what happened. Or his face for that matter. I would still be angry had I cared. I have some bad things running in my head on how to make things right and fair but they would not be... quite legal. Had I still cared  for you, I'd be wallowing in self-pity but the thing of the matter is... I don't. Not anymore. Maybe that's just the way things are. You feel something immensely disturbing one day and wake up the next morning and go about your life as if nothing happened.

If I had cut you off in my life, in my thoughts, and my heart, maybe you had given me the scissors in the first place. I am no longer bound by your fetters and so are you. You are now free to fly. I just hope that one day, when you come flying back home to your nest, you'll find it and know that it is truly home. Because sometimes, the feeling of being free is so appealing to us that we forget that we have always been free. We just pretend to be in some sort of prison just to rationalize."

###

Dialogue

"Da, why didn't things work out for you and Mum?"

"Well, son. Your mother is the most wonderful person in the world."

"That's not a bad thing, is it?"

"No, not at all. That made me love her even more. What we had was splendid."

"Then why didn't it work out?"

"I just couldn't make her feel that she was the stardust of my universe. And, I guess, we just have to accept that we have to walk in the dark when the light finally goes out."

###

Free Fall

"I am writing now with a heavy heart. And the only therapy I can think of is to put all of my emotions and thoughts into words. It’s the only thing I know how to do, now. I just let go of something that I’ve held on to for a lot of years.

I am only now realizing the importance of presence. It is difficult to be far away from the people you love and care for. It is a sickness that just eats at your chest and bores a hole into your being. In the first few months it can be liberating but as time goes on, you just try to convince yourself that it everything is fine. You lie to yourself every time you look at your reflection in the mirror. You try to keep in the emotional vomit that puts a knot in your throat and crashing against your teeth. Although you try your hardest to make them feel that you’re never gone, just far away; it almost always never works out. And it is more painful to think that you’ve been let go without you knowing. That they have cut the tether and that you are drifting away. You really do feel like you’ve drifted away, only, it hits you all at the same time.

As I write this, I feel like shattering into a million shards of glass. Every breath is an effort. Merely focusing my eyes becomes labor. My head is heavy with thoughts that eat at me. My chest is a gruesome hole. I wish it was just physical. I scraped my right elbow last night as I grovelled and pleaded. They were to no avail.

There are different types of love but I’m only going to define two of them. The first one being romantic love – the feeling of a first kiss, the exhilarating rush of meeting someone new and instantly hitting it off from the get-go. It’s the kind of love that is fuelled by passion. You are just spinning and you don’t care if you fall off the edges of the world. It’s the kind of love that makes you high.

And the other is the kind of love that does not make you flutter in excitement but it makes you do things you didn’t think you were capable of doing. It is the kind of love that holds on as long as it takes, endures pain, and trusts wholly. It is the kind of love that does not just think about butterflies in your stomach but wonders at night if you’re doing fine, if you’re sleeping tightly and that if you’re feeling better after a skull-cracking bout of migraine. It is the kind of love that fights for you, fights with you, and shares every drop of blood and tear you’ve shed. It is the kind of love that puts you in a pedestal not as an item but as a human being worth of all admiration and respect. It is the kind of love that lingers even if it’s extinguished again and again. It is the kind of love that dims down to let you shine. It is the kind of love that understands your inner storms and tries to calm them with a touch of their hands and a kiss on the forehead. It is the kind of love that weakens at some point but never truly dies. It is the kind of love that is not perfect but is better than your ideal love since it is real. It is the kind of love that will never look at you and judge you. It is the kind of love that never leaves even if you command it to. It is the kind of love that’s made for the long haul, it will endure even if you’re both gone. It is the kind of love that tells you the truth and teaches you how to see the lies that coat every sweet word and gesture. It is the kind of love that nurtures you. It is the kind of love that refuses to look away even if there’s almost nothing to see. It is the kind of love is with you all the time but doesn’t brag about its presence. It is the kind of love that sticks to you until the end or whenever it feels like it. It is the kind of love that holds your hand while you both imagine a future together. It is the kind of love that sees only a promise of tomorrow if you’re in it. It is the kind of love that loves you not because you are shiny and beautiful but because you are the only person they know how to love and care for. It is the kind of love that reserves only the best for you because you’re the only one they deem worthy of it. It is the kind of love that is reserved, timid, and quiet but goes deeper than what you first imagined. It is the kind of love that lives for you.

Which one would you prefer?

To the world, you want to be someone. But to someone, you are the world. To them, you are stardust - the reason for their existence. Will you return the favor and make their world spin? Will you grow to be their universe? Will you talk to the stars and tell them thank you for making your paths cross? Will you stay until the end – when the fight is over and all you can hear is static? Will you hold the hand that never meant to hurt you and only wished to give you everything? Will you be stardust?

Walking away is the most painful think I imagine myself doing. But what happens then if it’s the only choice? How can you take a step away from the source of your beliefs and hopes? I wonder what that first step will feel like. I imagine it to be a fall off a cliff. At one moment you’ll feel like it’s an infinite plunge and then suddenly it stops. You’ve just taken the first step, how does the idea of falling again and again sound to you as you think about the number of steps you need to take to truly walk away? Or how about, you turn around and just stay?"

We are a beautiful accident

If there ever comes a time that our memories of each other get erased in a freak accident or some sort of cruel science experiment, I’ll freely accept it. If that means meeting you again for the first time, getting lost in your big brown eyes for what seems like an eternity for the first time, getting deaf and blind from our first kiss and knowing you again inside and out for the first time.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I would very much like the prospect of things falling into place once more even if it means having to go through hell and back again.

If we are to collide into each other again, I’d gladly do it even if it crushes me. There is no perfect love and right now as I’m still able to feel you, even just so faintly, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you.

I love you even when I hate you. I love you even when I hurt. I love you even when I cry. I love you even if I’m the meanest person in the world to you at some times. We are not perfect, accidents are not perfect. Accidents are nowhere near good.

But us, as this sort of cosmic display of fuck-ups and heartbreaks is good, as I believe and think it to be. You are lost as I am. Only that I have known what it’s like to lose you. Will you cry if you lose me, too? Probably not. But you know what? That’s okay. Since I can’t unlove you even if I tried. I can’t even get to make myself think of not having you in my world.

So if ever, just in case, you forget me in that freak accident or science experiment, remember the day when we had nothing but ourselves. And that we had no fear, we had not a single doubt, and that we loved each other to the core of our bones – the souls of our existence. For even if that accident kills me, I think I would have died in great happiness.

And I pledge to myself everyday until I forget you – or until my brain does not function properly anymore to recognize your face – I love you. Some accidents can do that, make the mind forget what the heart has been fighting all its life for.

Undoing our past may lighten my heart a thousand times more than it is now but it would be empty. And I wouldn’t want that. Not in this lifetime, maybe not even the next if there is a next lifetime for me. All I know is I love you. This run-in we had is something I can’t recreate with someone else.

But there is one thing that I hope will still happen when we forget each other completely – I still wish to dream of you. I know that dreams are real but somehow, I think that dreams about you will make me believe them even if I hadn’t seen you yet in my blank slate of a world. And who knows, we might be in another accident together.

Dreams are meant for those who sleep. I hope I still crash into you there. Although, you are real. And accidents leave a mark. Maybe I’ll wake up one day and not wonder how I got all these scars.

Kiss me hard before you go

"Sometimes when I'm face to face with an awful truth and a harsh slap of reality hits me on the cheek, I just close my eyes till I feel the sides of my eyes scrunch into a crease that it starts to hurt. It's with that white knuckling feeling that I let myself remember that I'd rather accept the idea that it is actually real. It's not a sign of giving up, indifference or apathy. I do that because I'd rather not have someone else's blood on my hands and shirt. Don't push my hand any further. A man can only take so much."

###

Clinical D Post no. 1

" "I'm just dying a little bit on the inside each day. Though, I don't really mind taking someone with me to that grave." He said as he wiped a bulbous bead of sweat from his brow. He was frail but strong. I looked on as he let out a small whimper - he looked like an old dog who's nursing and licking his wounds in a corner. I wanted to help him kick that guy's teeth in. I wanted to watch the flecks of teeth fly in a grisly spray of red and white. He's not really sure how he'd do it but he sure knew he wanted to release that usurping feeling of passive rage. "

This is my stop, kid. You've a long way to go.

"Sometimes, you have to trade in your pride into something more wearable. Something like comfort and stability. It won't mean you lost fight in whatever you believe in, it just means you grew wiser and was handed a bigger pair of balls. You sweat for the right things, no matter how much you pride yourself in something that can't bring food to the table or a smile in your workplace. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Learning to step down from your own pedestal will be one of the least noticed lessons in life."

The old man gave him a pat on the back before he alighted the bus.

"Everything will get better. Remember, you're still young. You have a long list of fuck-ups to do."

...

mutti

There is something that irks me.

 “We are a line of men raised by women. Suckled in softness and indecisiveness. They wear the pants in the relationship. Most of us don’t even know how to use a necktie. I think it’s better if we use it as a noose, around the neck and pushed off a ledge fashioned from our deficiencies. We are scared shitless in the face of confrontation. The more reason that our necks deserve the hangman’s touch. The gallows wait.”

...

Sneak peek

"My dad crushes the last of the temporary cage he bought with the last bills from his pawned watch – it was a gift from a daughter outside of his second wedlock. He put the crystalline serving on a roughly used sliver of tin foil, deliberate amount to taste. The eyeballs roll back into the back of his head like a billiard ball in a counter-revolution. It hits with a wick thud as it sinks into the corner pocket. Well-sighted and carefully positioned. He wakes up only to discover he slept like homeless person on the concrete. The bed was just a few steps away. His greatest success is that his children never saw him do that. This is just a dramatization. He lives a highlight reel written for him by his frustrations and disgust. It was the perfect script. He could have been a far better writer than I – he’d have had a ton of material to work on. I write this in good faith that my imagination may chip his reality even with just a slight tink. I hate myself for judging his apparent “weak character.” 

 ...

just polish the blood and the bruise

"She misses the lips that were the warm reminder of home. She cannot forget, she could only try to. It was just a near distant memory that is a clutch in the heart and a knot in her throat. He could not do anything about it now, she thought. They both thought wrong."

...

There are lots of things that I am itching to write about but can't get enough push to actually scratch for it. Again. It is a recurring thing with me. I'm looking for getting much of my Reality Bites series since people I know are a'buzzing. They make such great character references.

Breathe in the music, it's all you got for now. Jake Smith, Matt Lynott and Tommy Andrews are the men behind the name. They make such great music that I feel is unappreciated and don't get much attention that they should have. They have that integrity that make the songs so personal for each listener. Even the faintest melody of their songs pluck at the emotions and stir them up for ya good, like old mountain liquor.

Go for a listen.

rationalize

We sat and lounged all day. It was a dark afternoon, it was raining but the day felt like it was beset with burning coals, raining on the aluminum roof. It was a lazy day but the smoke kept coming. The long streaks of immeasurable physical symbols of after sex rituals. 

She gon' do you so good that other tenants will want to have a smoke after she's done with you. 

Motherfucking lines that are so fucking cheesy that you can't help but to smile tightly. Then release the air trapped in your nose to complete a scoffing effect. Wiseguy motherfuckers.

She lay motionless in the bed. It was a mess. Really. It almost feels like an understatement to me. Her clothes line the floor in a familiar way. More like a trail of islands in a vast surrounding of sea and waves. The sheets were the ones who took the beating, they caught the brunt. They are an old gift from a failed lover and I made sure it became the witness of the many things I swore I'd do to get back at her. It was a canvass for me. I was the brush and the this girl was one of my palettes. It was redemption in the most physical way possible. Violence is too easy, though I can't say for sure that what just happened this morning could not be classified into that area. It was a haze of controlled anger.

The sooner I let go of that feeling, the faster it burnt. White knuckles are a common thing these days. No, it is a necessity. The way that each tendon tightens into a burning white sensation that translates to a euphoric but abrasive state is something I pride myself with. I wear it like a crown, they, on the other hand, are not aware of this laud they give me.

It's nothing personal. Though I feel that it is some kind of vindication for me. This is some narcissistic shit but who else can talk to me about me but me? They are too busy making schedules, keeping up with meetings, memorizing the points on their reports. Let's get busy.

We were okay, not happy, just okay. She hates bearing all the decorations of pre-made love I get her as gifts. She didn't want gifts. She just wanted me. And I wanted her. It is in that simple mechanism of a relationship I should have remained. But fuck me, I wanted to make things detailed with my OCD and self-loathing. There should have been none. I am angry and that makes it worse. Rambling was a way that I did to open up a dialogue that should've happened. I dwell on the "what could haves" and the "what ifs." They are piling up like the dirty laundry. It engulfed the hamper of my self-loathing.

She loved lazy afternoons like this one. I hate myself for remembering it. I'm just wondering, does she think about me as much as I still do about her? I fucking hate her to the point that this resurrected vow for vengeance is channeled through things other than her just to show her I don't care. But it kinda gets old. Drugs and relapses are always in business. Actually, they are a growing partnership. You'll find branches everywhere. Look at the time, I have another appointment by 5. I better wake her up.

sound proof boards, i tell ya

I.
I rarely go to the movies. It's something that is hard enough to do when you've got a hundred fucking things to juggle with such little time in your hands. I wish I had the weird ability to create a clone that could help me with all this shit that I've got to do. But that would make nothing our of everything.

II.
A friend and colleague always told me "Go big or go home." What a fucking loser but I love him for telling me that. He was always just drifting away in his own shit and smoke, a fetid smell that stank and felt like crusty grains of orange speckled rust always came to mind when I think of him. Much like the razor that was used to cut him right open. Poor bastard, too proud to ask for help. I could've helped him that afternoon. Instead he chose to be gutted like raw fish.

III.
Being a moviehouse mainstay is not easy. You never really know who to hit unless you see them in the transient light before they enter the dark corners of the cinema. I can't really make out what they carry or if they did, will those things make a pretty penny. Heck, it's a dying business really. I don't really know what keeps me from coming back to this old dead-end job. Sure beats trying to make deliveries, I'd tell you that.

IV.
Some dudes really just want to get up even after you get at them real hard. Ya'know? It's like they're looking for a worse time than what you've already given them. It's a familiar taste in my mouth, seeping blood into my tongue after an elbow clipped me in the lip, I returned the favor with a hard overhand smack on his right ear. That sure will make his drums buzz. Now, if I could just find that wallet of his. Here it is. Cheap fuck. But not bad for his taste in lighters. I used to have a Zippo that looked like this. I used to.

V.
Business is hard, just like any other business. On a good day, I can make a few runs and not get hit or caught. This scarf is a handy mask. It keeps them guessing. My favorite spot will have to be the comfort room stalls. I can get real sneaky in those. Pop a monkey mask and most just freak out though I still get to use my iron knuckles once in a while. It gets messy when I get myself a bleeder. Chips of bone and teeth are not a pretty sight for your date, it looks troubling and disturbing. Imagine having to put up with that thing in front of you and still trying to make small talk. I couldn't eat a spaghetti bolognese with that, thank you.

VI.
I get to see a lot of creeps in movie houses. The dark room perfect for their choice of creepery. Fucking assholes waiting for justice on their faces. I wish I could get a baseball bat in when I hit a place. It would be awesome to just bust out of a stall and go all ape shit on his face, then his legs from the shin down to the ankle. It will break like a twig snaps as you step on it. It'll get stepped on real hard. Then, I'll get the loot to make it a mugging. Fucking amateur.

VII.
I remember this one time, this asshole kept on trying to score a grab on this girl's breast. She kept saying no and that she wasn't comfortable with the whole idea of groping inside the cinema. He insisted. She still said no and hit his hand with the blade of her hand. He flinched. What a bitch, he must've thought. He went down for a piss. I followed. His date wondered where he'd gone to after that.

VIII.
Sometimes it just gets tiring. I just want to quit while I'm ahead but who would keep at it if I stop now?

IX.
I read too much fiction. I used all of those to wipe my wares after. They soak up good but I still have to use rags to make sure they're clean to the nooks. I hate this part. It makes me feel dirty all of a sudden. If only girls could just stop going into movie houses just to get violated. But where's the fun in being clean? If only dudes would just stop being total dicks and secret rapists. That would be more boring. I'll have plenty of time to kill.

X.
The afternoon my friend got sliced into ribbons was the first time I had a slow day. I was kinda feeling that he'll get done real good but I hadn't imagined it to be that way. He picked the wrong catch that day. I still have that rusty razor.

Side Mirror

On the way to work, I saw a portrait of a father and son. 

It was on the jeepney and it sat on the the right side mirror. They were sitting on the front passenger seat. At first it was awkward, the way the two sat side by side. The father was scolding the kid, he was sort of angry for things that needed context for me to fully understand and comprehend.

He was being angry for a lot of different things, really. I couldn't hear exactly what it is but the tone of the father's voice was enough to tell me that he took it seriously. He had an expression of wrinkled anger. The lines on his old and sun-burnt skin showed and creased as he continued to scold his kid. The son was about 14. He had a cheap haircut and he looked like he didn't even take a bath just to go with his father. The simple distress in his face was enough to tell anyone that he was sorry and that it was not fun to be scolded at. More so inside a jeepney where more people, strangers can hear it. He had a creased face, too. Not out of old age but from the way his father was scolding him.

The father stopped talking. He looked out into the dusty and pollution-ridden streets of Quezon City up into the Memorial Circle. We were nearing one of the most congested places in the city, also nearing one of the most deadliest highways: Commonwealth. The driver sped past the rushing vehicles and onto the mouth of the highway. Public buses dragged on with a trail of smoke. The father covered his son's nose, only then noticing that he had fallen asleep; his head bobbing to the traffic and the steering of the jeepney.

As the father looked on, it was evident that he didn't mean to be angry at his son. He had that continued crease on his face, on his brows. I am just assuming here but it felt like he was contemplating on what he had said earlier. He took his hand and put it on his kid's head, leaning it on his left shoulder. The father tapped his son's head two times and kept it close to keep it from bobbing around. Ever so lightly, he kissed his sleeping son's head and kept his hand on the side of his face.

The kid slept throughout the rest of the ride. They happened to get off at the same stop that I did. And into the busy pedestrian streets, they joined the stream of ordinary people, unknown to them that they just told a great story.

That portrait of a father and son is something that digs at me. It didn't have a single frame, it was composed of many shots full of complexity but is simple enough to be understood even without context. 

It could easily have been a short film in my head.