A few nights ago, I had a conversation about days of yore when I was supposedly poor. This was a time when I had to live on P500 bucks a week while exiled in the far-flung rice paddies of the northern provinces. A trip to town to withdraw my allowance already cost 10% of the full amount, breakfast consisted of "cornick" (deep fried corn kernels) and cold, hard leftover rice, relying on the kindness of strangers for meals and lodgings was an imperative for survival because 500 bucks wouldn't last two days given the work that I had to do back then.
Well, I got to thinking about it again, but this time I realize, I was better off back then financially than I am now. The present is the height of poverty... because back then, I didn't have this ginormous loan that I'm still paying off and netting me a sorry negative on the balance sheet. Sure I'm raking in a lot more than the meager 500 bucks, but I'm spending more than I make. Maybe I should go back to that life, surviving by eating crumbs and relying on the folks for lodgings; counting every penny that I have in my pocket, and deny myself the creature comforts and extravagances I'm so used to nowadays, such as scotch, cigarettes, pizza, internet, and cups of espresso. Yep, I probably should, but I don't think I will. Not yet, anyway.
*****
There's this ironic saying in Formula One, that the best way to win the race is to cross the line first in the slowest pace possible. It makes sense from a technological and human standpoint, conserving precious fuel, minimizing engine and tire wear and maintaining sane amounts of G-forces that the driver is subjected to during braking and cornering. This ensures both man and machine are still competitive for the next race, because there are 19 battles one has to go through en route to winning the season.
The same holds true for life, I say. I'd rather take it all at a leisurely pace than pressure myself to do all the things I ought to do all at once. I guess this demeanor can be blamed on a happy-go-lucky attitude and a non-existent sense of urgency, but I daresay, so far so good. Sure I've got money problems, living a life I can't afford, but I'm still living, aren't I? My career is fast approaching that proverbial glass ceiling, but I ain't there yet. I'm in my thirties and still single, fine, I could always get a dog. And if all that fails, well, I've still got my health. If happiness and contentment were the sole yardstick for which one's life achievement is to be measured, I guess I've got a head start, thanks to the ridiculously low standards I've set for myself.
On the other hand, in the very likely event that life's yardstick happens to be an unwavering passion for personal achievement and a real contribution to the betterment of mankind, I'll leave it to my next life to do compensate for the wasted opportunity that is this one.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
This is getting too old
It's another one of those insignificant evenings, the best opportunity to stretch my fingers and type away a post. My mind is drawing blank, the perfect canvass, as I examine my brandy, sacrilegiously iced in a whiskey glass in part due to the humidity. I initially wanted whiskey, but I ran out so I had to settle for Jerez, must remember to get a fresh bottle of scotch later in the evening.
As expected, nothing's changed. The birthday weekend came and went by without any epiphanies nor great sense of maturity. Not even the brandy tastes differently, the Marlboros still stink, and coffee remains bitterly earthy. I guess only an idiot would take meaning from gaining another year.
But the weekend sure was fun all throughout, the only real disappointment coming from the lack of a bag of chocolates which I specifically asked from an ex-girlfriend of mine. I daresay this extended weekend was the most gratifying that I've had in a long while now.
*****
No thanks to Ernest Hemingway, I woke up from a thrilling bullfight dream sequence. There I was, watching how the bull gorged a dozen or so clowns who were running around. Weird thing that there was no bullfighter, I thought. There were just these clowns wearing red, all of them oddly looking like Ronald McDonald. I opened my eyes, waking up to this longing for a double cheeseburger.
*****
I'm being pressured by everyone to get a passport. Me, I can't fathom why the urgency. So far, I haven't any opportunity (nor desire) to go out of the country yet. And besides, having been rejected the first time, forgive me for being a bit bitter about getting one.
For some reason, I find no motivation to hop a plane bound beyond the confines of the P.I.'s area of responsibility. While everyone else seems giddy about the prospect of jetting around the region or to some other continent, I find it a real chore. Having to get a passport, lining up at the airport for them to verify documents and such, it's one of the things that I don't like bothering with. Checking in baggage is all the hassle that I'm willing to take boarding an aircraft. Getting in line for an entirely different purpose seems too much time wasted.
But then again, a friend of mine is going to Hong Kong to study and has extended an advance invitation for the gang to spend the holidays there. I'm seriously thinking of going if finances allow me to do so, so I may finally be lining up at Foreign Affairs one of these days. The more I think about it, though, the more I find myself dragging my feet. What's wrong with me?
*****
My drink is gone, I've puffed the last out of my cigarette and the urge to go to bed is increasing. I scroll up and see I've dished out another post that is probably not worth publishing. If you made it this far, you should seriously consider getting a life. I know I am.
As expected, nothing's changed. The birthday weekend came and went by without any epiphanies nor great sense of maturity. Not even the brandy tastes differently, the Marlboros still stink, and coffee remains bitterly earthy. I guess only an idiot would take meaning from gaining another year.
But the weekend sure was fun all throughout, the only real disappointment coming from the lack of a bag of chocolates which I specifically asked from an ex-girlfriend of mine. I daresay this extended weekend was the most gratifying that I've had in a long while now.
*****
No thanks to Ernest Hemingway, I woke up from a thrilling bullfight dream sequence. There I was, watching how the bull gorged a dozen or so clowns who were running around. Weird thing that there was no bullfighter, I thought. There were just these clowns wearing red, all of them oddly looking like Ronald McDonald. I opened my eyes, waking up to this longing for a double cheeseburger.
*****
I'm being pressured by everyone to get a passport. Me, I can't fathom why the urgency. So far, I haven't any opportunity (nor desire) to go out of the country yet. And besides, having been rejected the first time, forgive me for being a bit bitter about getting one.
For some reason, I find no motivation to hop a plane bound beyond the confines of the P.I.'s area of responsibility. While everyone else seems giddy about the prospect of jetting around the region or to some other continent, I find it a real chore. Having to get a passport, lining up at the airport for them to verify documents and such, it's one of the things that I don't like bothering with. Checking in baggage is all the hassle that I'm willing to take boarding an aircraft. Getting in line for an entirely different purpose seems too much time wasted.
But then again, a friend of mine is going to Hong Kong to study and has extended an advance invitation for the gang to spend the holidays there. I'm seriously thinking of going if finances allow me to do so, so I may finally be lining up at Foreign Affairs one of these days. The more I think about it, though, the more I find myself dragging my feet. What's wrong with me?
*****
My drink is gone, I've puffed the last out of my cigarette and the urge to go to bed is increasing. I scroll up and see I've dished out another post that is probably not worth publishing. If you made it this far, you should seriously consider getting a life. I know I am.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Two funerals and the bug's revenge
The carnage of a day, when death lingers in the air and you realize just how short life is. Today I witnessed 2 deaths, which is one more death than I can usually handle.
Okay, first death... it was all my fault, actually. The household was terrorized by another tiny rodent. I let it go for a while, maybe a couple of weeks or so, until the critter yanked on the proverbial last straw and dared to gnaw on the cable. So I set off on a mouse-hunt, took out my trusty old mouse-trap and baited it with a left over fish head. I must say, for a creature with a brain the size of a corn kernel (or smaller even), this guy was smart. It had eluded capture for two days, a record in my book, and had even been able to unhook the bait a couple of times. It was frustrating, to say the least, waking up early in the morning, all set to cook a breakfast of deep fried food, when in a flash the rodent would jump off the kitchen counter like a spring and listen to me while in mid-flight, shrieking like a little girl and running off in my boxers.
Anything that could scare the heck out of me that way deserves to be terminated, if only to nurse a man's pride back to non-pathetic levels.
I do some psychological theorizing, if this rodent keeps up getting free meals out of the trap, then it's bound to get overconfident and be reckless. That single mistake would be all the chance I need for victory to be mine! Eventually, the law of averages was bound to catch up to him.
So I bait the trap again, chanting curses and making offerings to the god of hunters, and wondering how much it would cost to have this particular rodent gutted, stuffed and mounted on a shelf.
Of course, after an hour, the bait was gone again. Why have the gods forsaken me?
This morning, I was overcome with joy at what I saw struggling and writhing in the mousetrap! The furry little beast of torment was caged at last! I lift up the cage up to my face and heckle away, unmindful of the horror that must be running in its tiny little brain. I set it back down and began thinking of what to do next, while it looked up at me with black, beady eyes and paws clasped in front of it. So I "mercifully" passed judgment, down the drain it went, via the toilet's raging counter-clockwise current.
The second death, I found a little birdie lying on its back on the 3rd floor of our offices, right smack in the middle of my favorite smoking spot. It wasn't the usual "maya" that we see in the city, the office is in a province after all, situated in the middle of two lakes and hectares of former rice paddies and grasslands. It was one of those grass-birds (sorry, that's the best description I could think of), long legs, tails and beaks.
I used my foot to nudge it here and there, trying to figure out if it was indeed dead or just getting some shuteye. When I was certain that it was lifeless, I tried to investigate the cause of death. There were no bullet marks, no gashes nor bite marks. For all I knew, it might have just been old age or a massive coronary mid-flap. Then I noticed a rather distinct, dusty "splat-mark" on the clear glass window. Ooooh... bird with a not-so-sharp eyesight, it seems. Such a waste.
Googling "taxidermy", I didn't think I had the particular skills, fortitude, nor preservatives to take up a new hobby. So, to keep the whole cycle of life ticking, I pick up the carcass and place it on the base of the nearest potted plant I could find. Here, I thought, it would rot into a noble cause, fertilizing the thorny rose bush my boss planted.
I was watching the dead bird, lying still and starting the long, drawn-out process of decomposition when this bug all of a sudden landed on it. It was a ladybug, all red with black spots (well, it actually looked more like squares up close), buzzing to a soft landing on the bird's wing. I wanted to take a photo, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera-phone on me. It was cute, though, up until when the bug crawled its way to the bird's head and made a meal out of the eyeball. Eww...
Now that is what I call IRONY.
Okay, first death... it was all my fault, actually. The household was terrorized by another tiny rodent. I let it go for a while, maybe a couple of weeks or so, until the critter yanked on the proverbial last straw and dared to gnaw on the cable. So I set off on a mouse-hunt, took out my trusty old mouse-trap and baited it with a left over fish head. I must say, for a creature with a brain the size of a corn kernel (or smaller even), this guy was smart. It had eluded capture for two days, a record in my book, and had even been able to unhook the bait a couple of times. It was frustrating, to say the least, waking up early in the morning, all set to cook a breakfast of deep fried food, when in a flash the rodent would jump off the kitchen counter like a spring and listen to me while in mid-flight, shrieking like a little girl and running off in my boxers.
Anything that could scare the heck out of me that way deserves to be terminated, if only to nurse a man's pride back to non-pathetic levels.
I do some psychological theorizing, if this rodent keeps up getting free meals out of the trap, then it's bound to get overconfident and be reckless. That single mistake would be all the chance I need for victory to be mine! Eventually, the law of averages was bound to catch up to him.
So I bait the trap again, chanting curses and making offerings to the god of hunters, and wondering how much it would cost to have this particular rodent gutted, stuffed and mounted on a shelf.
Of course, after an hour, the bait was gone again. Why have the gods forsaken me?
This morning, I was overcome with joy at what I saw struggling and writhing in the mousetrap! The furry little beast of torment was caged at last! I lift up the cage up to my face and heckle away, unmindful of the horror that must be running in its tiny little brain. I set it back down and began thinking of what to do next, while it looked up at me with black, beady eyes and paws clasped in front of it. So I "mercifully" passed judgment, down the drain it went, via the toilet's raging counter-clockwise current.
The second death, I found a little birdie lying on its back on the 3rd floor of our offices, right smack in the middle of my favorite smoking spot. It wasn't the usual "maya" that we see in the city, the office is in a province after all, situated in the middle of two lakes and hectares of former rice paddies and grasslands. It was one of those grass-birds (sorry, that's the best description I could think of), long legs, tails and beaks.
I used my foot to nudge it here and there, trying to figure out if it was indeed dead or just getting some shuteye. When I was certain that it was lifeless, I tried to investigate the cause of death. There were no bullet marks, no gashes nor bite marks. For all I knew, it might have just been old age or a massive coronary mid-flap. Then I noticed a rather distinct, dusty "splat-mark" on the clear glass window. Ooooh... bird with a not-so-sharp eyesight, it seems. Such a waste.
Googling "taxidermy", I didn't think I had the particular skills, fortitude, nor preservatives to take up a new hobby. So, to keep the whole cycle of life ticking, I pick up the carcass and place it on the base of the nearest potted plant I could find. Here, I thought, it would rot into a noble cause, fertilizing the thorny rose bush my boss planted.
I was watching the dead bird, lying still and starting the long, drawn-out process of decomposition when this bug all of a sudden landed on it. It was a ladybug, all red with black spots (well, it actually looked more like squares up close), buzzing to a soft landing on the bird's wing. I wanted to take a photo, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera-phone on me. It was cute, though, up until when the bug crawled its way to the bird's head and made a meal out of the eyeball. Eww...
Now that is what I call IRONY.
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