Balderdash on Angst and Isaw

When you have a thesis defense coming, you put all your angst in a blog post. This was sometime in 2008:

I have a long list of personal embarrassments that I’ve brought on to my self because of my growing resentment to the state of SOBER-ness (I refuse to use the more apt word “sobriety” or the more applicable and noble “abstemiousness.”) Don’t mind the flowery rhetoric; they are the product of the brewing poison in my liver and the seven ilks dancing on my heart.

Let’s start this post then with a lie.

The world I envisioned when I still had my angel wings (way back 3 years old, when Cory was still frantically waving her L-shaped hands to the world) was punctuated by notes of vespers and the occasional chorus of the Gregorian brothers. The earth resonates with a thousand thanksgivings, praises for a good harvest and the heavens raining with so many graces, it floods our two-storey house. The world was good and people were smiling with a contagious iridescence. If it were a picture, the world would be painted by one of those gay expressionists. Ahh…

Then, I lost my wings. It was clipped off by the first news of mass murder. It was the 90s and everyone thought it was the last decade of this good ‘ol planet, the last few gulps of oxygen suddenly became asphyxiating, adulterated with a million little pieces of agony and apprehension. Earthquakes, eruptions, typhoons and countless crises crossed our lives like a collective nightmare resembling the bloodbath of St. John’s apocalyptic vision. People sought for the cross, climbing it to salvation half expecting a saving hand at the top of the bloody wood or an angry, madcap God with the terrible ax, ready to chop down their hands. (Sound effects: Shower scene of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho tan tan tan TAN TAN -crescendo)

But I was a nut-case (as by the now the reader might have surmised). I resolve anxiety by putting my feet first in the boiling water, so I decided to improvise. Yay!


DEFENESTRATE v. – to throw out of the window, usually head first. The growing estimation of the reader towards the author.

—– End of commercial—–

When the intensity of the growing trepidation became too hard to contain, I resorted to an age-old remedy: alcohol.

If the tribes of Papua New Guinea initiated their adolescents by way of jumping 50 meters from the ground with only an undependable-looking vine assuring them of safety and unbroken balls, my initiation came in the liquid phase of matter. I can still remember the cold look from my friend when he passed my first tagay and I sipped the first taste of that dreaded gin. YUCK! It was like drinking Manicure Remover or worse, my lola’s night waste!!! (Hmmm delete the last illustration.)

I don’t know the chemical composition of those dreaded drinks that makes you drool for more. It may be some pernickety covalent bonds between the atoms or some fucking hitherto unknown psychological pathos that makes me want to ask for more. Damn it I’m exaggerating. What’s alarming is the condition of my putrid liver. It wouldn’t even pass for a chicken liver. I believe isaw is healthier than my liver. Or my liver has ceased its being one. You can act outlandish now, scream at the top of your lungs (more organs… bopis anyone?) and scrape out your eyes for my communicable malady, just give me time to defend my sanity or what’s left of it after writing this preposterous, dim-witted and obtuse post.

It would be ludicrous for me to be defensive, let’s just say then that alcohol was not a solution but a diversion. TUMPAK! Ha ha ha would be the answer of my shoddy and tawdry friend. ABNORMALITE would be the stamp on my forehead right now. Aside from the self-obliteration that I am doing right now (sober while writing this ehem ehem) I’m planning to create a totally odorless mix and give it to my panelists for my defense. WEH? would be the answer of my commonsensical friend upon hearing the proposition.

Talking about isaw I remember this debate on one of our sessions: does loving a friend, like teleserye love, i.e. Piolo Pascual and Angel Locsin-love in the multifarious “Lobo,” acceptable? Does it ruin anything? (Most of the times, topics are even cheesier). I roll my eyeballs out of its socket, breathe in (breathe the million little pieces of other people’s agony) and answer:

TANGNA, TAGAY! KAMPAY TO LONG LYP! — And I pass out, out to that horizon (hic!) where thoughts recede (hic!) and isaw are free from the bondage of the sticks… or just continue with whatever you were doing a while ago. Go weave your own blanket made from the hair on your legs for all I care.

You’re free to consider this as a work of fiction.




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