Blabbing in Zzz

I have a nasty habit of talking in my sleep. When I was shacking in an all-guy dormitory during college days, my roomy would tell me I was mumbling something in my slumber. He couldnt figure anything out because for one, it was in english, and for another, just like any other typical nights in that dormitory, he was all plastered. I had a fear of unconsciously blabbing out my deepest secrets, the blackmail potential types.
This past forthnight, its been happening again. My sister in law told me I, in one moment seemed like arguing with someone and the next trashtalking in a rather seedy place. Weve been sleeping in one room, all six of us (mom, bro, Doonah, my sis in law and Ysabelle) for two weeks now because Ysabelle tosses and turns in her sleep, thus the possibility of her hurting herself is high (in the slightest creak, all six of us just bolt upright simultaneously, its like a choreographed Thriller dance move.). and the airconditioner has a power of all the horses in Sta. Ana, We need more body to generate heat and ease it off a smidgen, another reason is, before going to bed, we like to goof around and poke fun and often times butcher each other, nothing binds the family better than the old banters.
Four straight days of talking in my sleep, and the only words they figured are "Blast, You, Drop Dead, Hilarious". Its quite a comfort I talk so fast (both in waking and dousing hours) they cannot catch every word, it becomes their latest past time "cracking my indecipherable sleep mumbo jumbo''
Given I still have so many unresolved personal issues, those that I dont give a flying fart during my waking hours, and the fact that Ive been burying my head in all my unfinished books, heavily annotating them and looking some words up, my mind might still be working during my REM.
Keep your hyperactive stream of thoughts unintelligible Dadge, for the life of you!

Profiled

I am Dadge, to my family I am DJ, but I discourage anyone to call me that way, I personally believe that using initial names, aside from straight cut jeans, muscle shirts on twinks and putting on scarves in a frizzling tropical country, should be punishable by law, whereas "Jr and Sr'' should be accorded a corporal punishment. Dadge sticks, and often times it causes much ribbing in my daily grind, when ordering an overpriced espresso, the baristas will knowingly scribble "Doodge, Dutch, Butch" and the worst Ive gotten so far- "Doosh". It drives me to summon the fiercest lightning bolt and aim it at the man behind the counter. "Do I look like a breathing, caffeine-swigging vajayjay to you?".
I am 5'11 and a little under 145 pounds.I would love to think that I am devastatingly handsome and humans -straight, slightly bent, moderately bent, severely bent and those as bent as Auntie Annes' pretzels, throw themselves at my feet, begging to be stepped upon but no, Im just your ordinary looking guy with enough facial hair to stuff a sofa. I hate sunlight so I'm kind of beige, and I am told not to walk in shorts for I can be a potential road hazard- I can blind motorists and during inclement weather, I can be a perfect receptors of lightning. I'm sorry to disappoint but I never use papaya soaps, aside from making your nipples sore, they render you the look of a weathered, overused tupperware, flaky. I once tried to work on my tan and ended up with a 2nd degree burn and I swear my body was emitting heatwaves that could roast a turkey for a week.
I embrace my pastiness.
My weighing scale at home is connected to most of my closest friends cerebellum. And when my weigh tips the scale a pound heavier, the implanted chips in their heads beep and send them the impulse to inundate me with gratuitous comments like ''obese, Judy Ann Santos and Monster Turd". My mom once told me. "Son, you dont have to drop any more pounds, if you go on living on parsley, you'll end up with two pelvic bones jutting out your hips area, not attractive at all!" It doesnt help that both of my brothers have an enduring love affair with weights and active sports, standing next to them, I look like a creature from different specie.
I have very few friends, it must be because I hate cutting a deal, or maybe I'm just an old-fashioned sociopath. My friends can win any contests, they don't have to lift a finger, they just make you see the futility of going againts them. They did their masters at "The Grinch' School of Meanness and Atrocity" in which I am the Headmaster.

My weight is fairly grounded. I am bugged.

I used to be of a hopeless romantic sort, who could identify himself with any songs, including Enya's. Who, in just passing mention of the word 'love', could blush and enthuse about the concept of destiny for the next few days. In the ineffable process of aging, my concept of romance has done an about face (insert your most horrid romantic disillusionments here). Instead of getting into a wistful state when seeing lovers trying to swallow each other up while exchanging inordinate amout of drool, I cant help but cringe. I still get in like with anyone who catches my fancy, but they are of fleeting type. They wouldnt even hear the end of it. This is my romantic civilization. Because some centuries ago, I was a raging troglodyte who had an overwhelming propensity to fall for the beasts.

I love to read but I don't read in public places. I can't. Reading is my metaphor of boffing around. You need to get a room or else you wont have a boner (unless you are a flaming exhibitionist.). But I always carry books nonetheless, it's an effective way to discourage people from barging into your personal space and when it fails to ward off creeps- hard bounds can be a good weapon to crack open skulls.
I blow my dough on books and I have no qualms about it. When in a bookstore, I get hopelessly hysterical my friends instantly disown me and love me at a distance of let's say 5 meters away. They can never understand the depth of my personal affair with books.
I talk in a peppy manner, and yes, I am verbose. There is no cure for a verbal diarrhea. You may use it againts me but my gibberish is replete with idiomatic expressions and esoteric vocabularies (no pun intended). My Australian friend, Mark, would always heckle me everytime I utter something he remotely knows about, asks me to say it again and then the definition followed by its usage. When the word count exceeds 5, he starts getting the Medusa glare and an occasional cussword. I dont mean to be pedantic and uppity but when you 'feel' the words, they just come out of your mouth in the most appropriate moment, because looking for any simpler word to make yourself less befuddling will just blow everything out of context- that, for me is pretentiousness.

The Cup

Okay, maybe I was awfully delusional to even think that in my ripe age of 22, I'd still have undiscovered predisposed genes for greatness, but like a delusion, it was just an unshakeable belief to something untrue (fact reeks!).
My bro is a pro, he breathes tennis, his weapon of choice in bonking heads are his racquets, you can hear his blood sloshing through his veins when there is a big match and he unabashedly guards the remote clicker like a hyena guarding a cascass- he gives you a choice: espn or a head concussion. Not that we only have one tube in the entire house, but what pains me is the fact that he terrorizes everyone who gets 200meter within the big plasma, that is his territory, he peed all over it. This presents a painful problem- How can I appreciate the enlightening mumbling of Boomhauer? Or the comedones of my favorite stars? Ah! the banes of the youngest.
In tennis, which is his religion, He genuflects before the image of Nadal, he doesnt want me around everytime an epic game is going on because, chatterbox and mean machine that I am, I always quip the obvious. "Kuya, Look at Nadal's sweatstain around his armpit area, that must be reeking no?!", My brother, known for his succinctness, tells me to shut up, which only makes the matter worse, because when I am told to zip it, the Energizer Bunny possesses me.

This morning, as I was annotating the cereal carton's nutrition facts, He asked me If I would want to tag along with him to the court in the proviso that I'd refrain from throwing expletives and colorful imprecations at the players. ( yeah, I can curse in 15 languages)

We packed our stuff including bottles of Gatorade, an easy read book (I had a feeling I'd be spending more time in the court side than on the court, so, instead of needling other players and causing riot or dishing out bottled waters to the 'seasoned' players, might just as well bury myself in a book) , I wore a black shirt, to go with the ''dark horse of the court'' image. "Whats with the black shirt? It's a tennis court we'll be going to, not some memorial park!" snapped my brother, "Tell that to Andy Roddick kuya". I answered, and we drove on.

to be continued,im still digesting my lunch.

The "IT" Girls of Waverly Place

"They' hot and you're not!"
The "It" girls (Ita na girls) are the 2-woman militia of the place. They make sure everything is sparkly and screechingly clean, including my ego. You see, I'm the sort of boy whose jokes, if fell flat, says it all over again until you get the hint that you REALLY have to laugh if you fear for your life and the national security, and the 'it' girls only know that too well. Let me take the liberty to profile them

"It" girl number 1. "She's hot! She's as black as your crumpled carbon paper" Doonahhhhh (I require you to extend the last syllable until your lungs shout for air.).
-She is the one I always ask about the first moment I get in the house, and she gets the most of the loot everytime I travel, the last time I went in her room, I saw a Victoria's Secret complete body line, Body shimmer included so don't be scared when you see a slimy creature doing the laundry in the backyard. Having been with me for the longest time, she has earned the "retort license" thus maintaining the body count statistic one notch lower. I have gone into the habit of asking her at every opportunity "Doonah? Maganda ka ba?" in which she quickly retorts "OOnamanYesKuya" in one syllable, and then she bats her eyelids like a possessed voodoo doll with a conjunctivitis.
She knows me through and through, which is a bit sad because I can no longer give her a cardiac arrest. When she hears me clumsily getting about my room in the morning, she sets the table. Her motto is God is in the detail, so she matches my placemat with the coaster. She knows the stuff I find inedible, she knows the color of the underwear I am wearing, she knows If I'm running out of an aftershave, or a perfume, she even promptly USB Charges my mobile phone before it even blinks red, as well as the Ipods. We're in cahoots in times of my alcohol binging and some 'pecadilloes'. I remember one time, I left the aircon on for 32 hours and when my mom came in from a vacation, she'd ferreted it out and furiously stormed into my room. Doonah then melodramatically said "Ati, Patay yan, Nag iliktric pan lang si Kuya DJ" and my mom answered " Eh Bakit ang lamig lamig ng sahig?". Doonah quickly quipped. "Nabuhusan ku yan ng yilo ate, Naglampaso ako para mamatay ang mga anntz". After that, I was thrown down into the room with neither a window nor an electric fan for a week, Doonah has a convincing power of a drugged carabao, but she still tries to keep up a fight, eventhough a no-win one.

Doonah is a rather petite girl, you can even stuff her inside your drawer with a few space left for your vanity bag. She has hair that defies the law of gravity, and the only way to tame it is to put a hollow block on top of it. She has a kind of laugh that makes your hair stands on end, I dont know about your 'it' girl but mine, laughs like a possessed blender. She is horribly clumsy thus the polka dot pattern on her legs. One time, out of sheer boredom and neurotic tendency, on her sleep, I connected those dots with a marker hoping to create an elaborate pattern, it looked like a demented sketch of a suspension bridge.
She has a golden brown complexion, or should I say a deep golden brown, or perhaps rust?
I cant tell exactly which but I find it really nice. A foreigner's delight! But its pretty obvious she dislikes it for she blows her meager salary on papaya soaps and whitening whatevs. There was a time when she was heavily sloughing off skin that everytime she would get near the table, I would cover my glass for fear of ingesting some of her dead skin cells. She, like the half of the population, had also got bitten by this "Belo' hype. It took a little over a month for her to stop musing the famous catchphrase: "Oonly Bee-low tat-ches my skin". At which we would cackle a sarcastic reply,
"But who touches Doona's Boobies?"-"Only Tasyo touches Doona's Boobies".

Tasyo is the village guard who roams the street at night, our Doonah's paramour, her "Bibs".
I digress.

The King of the House

Okay, okay I'd thought I will have gone by now to some exotica staying true to my shiny loose canon reputation, but no, I'm afraid I will be sticking around like a tinnitus in your head for a bit longer. For the love of creatures, straight and bent, beautiful and fugly! Why do I always get fooled into believing that everyone is from the tellytubby world spreading nothing but kindness,goodwill and vapid, one syllable words to the world?! Goodwill my water retentive arse, you pathological liar. I am now getting all my eggs from your basket before they all get hatched into slithery, squishy and venomous whatevs, and be the rightful King of the house instead.

My mom, apparently bored with my whining, catatonia and unspeakable habit of filling the house with Twilight zone'esque screams decided she'd had enough and booked a ticket to the U.S. in the earliest possible schedule, probably to find her peace and quiet.

Because its a standing and popular belief that a mere mention of my name will turn water into blood and bring forth pestilence, locusts and occasional incurable boils.

I, being notoriously known to survive on pita bread and balsamic vinegar, welcomed the idea the way you'd welcome Jehova's witnesses on your doorstep. "But what about the house?! your plants?! the grass?! etc". The only thing I am capable of looking after is a swollen sebacious gland. The task at hand is too nigh. Can this all be done by the two ''it'' girls? I dont know, when a matter is just way above my head, I sit still until it goes away.

Let me just tell you about the "It" girls.

Once Upon a Time In Chinky China Part 3: The Lady Ninja In a Corset

When my turn to get a massage comes. My friend remarks that I look as if I was on my way to the guillotine with no executive clemency possible. The masseuse is a heavy breasted woman with a waist so small you'd think she's invertebrae. She promptly instructs, or rather pantomimes me to take my clothes off, including my underwear. I just hate it everytime I melt into a doddering idiot, and when marooned in a room with a girl with passable looks and a breast big enough to supply People's Republic of China milk for a year with a little left for some small cheese industry, I get weak on my knees and instantly becomes religious (oh god, please oh god..heavens, holy trinity). She then slathers me with inordinate amount of oil that is remisnicent of my grandma's El Shaddai cure all ointment, If the universe is trying to send me a message, can I get a second transmission?
5 minutes through being caressed with brother Mike Velarde's wonder oil. The masseuse seductively whispers "byoo-tee-froo" while scratching her mammary glands on my backside. This is when I become a saint waiting to be canonized. My piety shoots past the kingdom of God. I think I also admonish the Hindu Gods.
She grabs my butt and you know whatelse. And you perfectly know that it takes all the forbearance in the world to say no. My friend, getting under the impression that something 'epic' is going on inside, shouts in near panic voice:

"Dude!! Say no! Whatever it is, just say no! If you did, I'll call your mom and tell her that you screw a whore with a madcow disease!"

Inside, I start sweating buckets, while the masseuse is trying to examine my anatomy. I even make it out when she says that everything will be for free, that she just happens to like me. Inside my head, the devils are doing the conga again while the angels demurely watch while bonking at my conscience singing in unison "Gonorheaaaaa...la la la la, Syphillissss, ta doom, ta doom.. A-I-D-S!". This is when I start to think of the long term effect of this seemingly exciting and kinky encounter. 1. if I had a go, chances are, my family jewel will just rot and eventually drop off. 2. Syphillis? gonnorhea? AIDS? Yes my angels, I can hear you quite well 3. My character and dignity, How can you ever respect a person who mates with just about everything that bleeds for five days?, I dont mean to sound prudish but the proposition, however tempting, is just plain dirty and lowly.

I told the girl that I have had enough of her massage, gave her a hefty tip bigger than the actual service fee (for her massage and for punctiliously studying my anatomy, kidding.) and thanked her.

We manage to get out alive, my friend, with a newly pedicured and slightly bloody nails, and me, with new admiration and assurance from knowing that I learned something new about myself- I have a penis and a brain, and in the face of extreme sinful indulgence, I know how to use them both.

We forgot about the free accommodation and both agreed that a nice, decent hotel with a hot bath wouldn't hurt, and besides, after all what happened, I was badly in need of a personal, private space to recollect the misdaventure in that dank and dark cubicle..Simply 'byoo-tee-froo' *wink

Once Upon a Time In Chinky China Part 2: The Curse of The Gaudy Parlor

After convincing the Chinese immigration officers that I am the person whose picture appears on my passport and not just a product of some nuclear experiment gone haywire, we are allowed to enter the miasmatic city of Shenzen, where we are assaulted by the sight of 1. homeless people who are either just idling around or waiting for their trains to come (there's a train terminal adjacent to China Southern gateway) 2. Peddlers of knock off stuffs that whisper to you conspiratorially about the clandestine locations of their wares which seems enticing until you see Dolce and Gabbana spelled as Dolshe and Gabbina 3. State of decadence - aside from the Shangrila Shenzen, other buildings look decrepit, abandoned or just plain drab.
We start looking for recognizable signs of any massage parlors until our legs scream for morphine shots. When in a densely populated area, I easily get woozy and my humanity just goes out of the window, I grow batwings, and crave for blood. My close friends can attest to the morbidity of my mood. I can utter 3 sentences in one syllable. "Wevebeensearchinghighandlowforexpletive'ssakehowcomethereisntanyffrigginmassageparorsinatleast3kilometersradiusyoufreak! "
Before my friend pees on his pants from sheer terror, a lady wearing at least an inch thick of make up, a mascara that renders her the look of a drunk camel and clad in a provocative synthetic leather approaches us and say "Massa-gi?" while pantomiming it laborously. "Massa-gi? Massa-gi?"
I almost feel the impulse to shout "English, Tagalog? two syllables? three? "
After roughly a kilometer of hounding us (this is how people in Shenzen do their trades, they get in your face relentlessly and with a critical mass of tenacity), we relent to the offer, and I secretly tell my friend, "Please if you managed to get out of this alive, which I know you would because of your droopy, 'hush puppy eyes, tell my family it was I who fed our dog monosodium glutamate stuffed in sandwich when I was just 8 years old".
We steel ourselves.

Le me tell you about the parlor. It is a place where you wouldnt wanna be seen dead in, aside from the fact that it is downright garish, the neon green and pink plastic flowers all over the place remind you of some makeshift beauty parlor manned by a raging drag queen who can also pass as a policeman back home. Its a five star luxury all the way- If you spent practically all your life living in a cave. The place has 3 cubicles. and let me tell you about the rest rooms, there are No restrooms! I assume its either you bring your own latrines or you burst your bladder in order to relieve yourself.

My friend comes in first as I nervously sit on a couch for a foot massage and whatnots. I never had a footmassage before because 1. I'll keel over laughing my arse off causing my trachea to collapse thus clogging the air passage that will lead to my untimely demise 2. My feet, if tickled, can be a weapon of mass destruction, decapitating any humans within 2 kilometer radius . It is done by a pudgy chinese guy who reminds me of a butcher in some horror flicks that dont sell. But in all fairness, the massage is relatively relaxing and I have to emphatically think of the starved children of Africa and the Auschwitz extermination camps to prevent my feet from karate kicking the head of the masseur. He tries to involve me in some desultory conversation which is as good as not trying at all because his english sounds all chinese to me. One lady staff occasionally sits beside me, touches my face and utters ''byoo-te-froo". Oh that I can understand! but I prefer the word 'handsome'.
All throughout our 'indulgence', if you are so 'third world' to call it as that, my friend and I would talk loudly to know if we are not yet choked to death, chopped and tossed onto dog food sacks labeled as ''vitamins fortified'' yet.

Me: Dude! How are you doing there?
Friend: I am being molested! This girl asks if I'd want an extra service! She is so insistent I feel the urge to bang her head with a lampshade!
Me: I hope you wouldnt catch something venereal, work it man!"
Friend: Sicko! how have you been doing there?!
Me: My legs are overly tenderized I feel like a paraplegic! get a wheelchair, Quick!



to be continued...

Once Upon a Time in Chinky China Part 1: The Quest for the Dirt Cheap Touch

During one of those idle days when all the devils from the underworld are cavorting and doing the conga line inside your head. My friend and I decide to traipse by Shenzen, the sourthernmost city of the Guandong Province, Mainland China, roughly an hour away from the riotous Hong Kong. My friend, who is the undisputed king of superlatives and theatrics ( its the greatest doughnuts! its the coolest place! its the worst smell! Its the freakiest, scariest face!) has been told that Shenzen boasts of great and dirt cheap massage parlors, and if you really have the eye for great and obscene bargain deals, you can even snag a free accommodation for the night, all under 150 Yuan (I prefer to use yuan, aside from its ancient feel, RenMinBi makes you sound as if you'd lost all your front teeth.) Having been addled with the Chinese opera music that is eternally blasting downstairs that regularly makes our brains just ooze out our noses, the prospect of getting away from it all seems irresistably inviting, or as the way my friend
puts it while throwing his hands on the air, ''fantastically brilliant!''.

We pack our bags, and head to the Jordan MTR station. While standing on the platform I start getting weird and quizzical looks from people. Everytime I get weird looks, I start to act like a lumbering log, indifferent and catatonic, until I convince them that I am really just an inanimate object that stands upright, its so effective that after a minute or two, they instantly lose their interest and leave you alone. It turns out that one of my 'festive' underwears is peering out of the bag. When you are 22, please take the initiative to buy and choose your own underwear, because your mom is just more than willing to run that errand for you at the slightest provocation.

There's nothing really much to see in the Hong Kong countryside aside from the occassional doddering Chinese oldies doing that hiphop dancing version of people who have extreme case of rheumatism called Tai Chi, I swear watching them can put you in a suspended animation. It gives you the urge to just grab the remote clicker, fast forward and get done with it. A single step can reach up to 3 minutes, during which you lose your consciousness while drooling inordinate amount of saliva.
In the PROC immigration, the lines to visa counters are mercilessly long, in this case, after standing 10 full minutes in queu, Its either I start muttering to myself all the country, city and airport codes that I have learned in college or flirt with the nearest human standing regardless of the gender. In that moment, the target by default is an Indian national whose smell can send your olfactory bulbs on the endangered specie list. I decide to quietly recite the codes while trying to breathe through my ears.

To be continued.

You Had Me At..

Hey princess, I know that your pretty little head cannot understand any of this rambling, but do you know how tender I feel everytime you call my name? Your sweet little ineffectual tongue and delicate lips that utter my name, or rather the version of my name your innocent mind could muster. 'Tu-ta, Teeeeh-To, Teehh-ti". The latter if mentioned by any other humans will sound lascivious. I allow you to call me 'Teeh-ti" my sweetie. Only you.
Corruption has never been this sweet!.

I specially love it everytime you throw your hands at me, either for that warm hug, for wanting to be carried up or for that physical articulation of your vent up emotion followed by a resounding "slap!". How can I ever say no to that adorable face? Slap me silly, You sure know how to win me over my princess!

I am sorry if sometimes I get more excited than you when our favorite disney playhouse programs are aired, while you are just ogling the television in modest mirth, I hysterically jerk and incessantly sing to the tune of the programs' themes. I hope tito doesnt scare you.By the way, tito has no mental impairment my princess.
During your bath time, I know you hate it when us, adults are taking the brushing up to our hands but dear, We just dont want any carries to wreak havoc on your pearls. It doesnt mean that we are tormenting you, we just want to instill into your pretty little head the value of oral hygiene and the vileness of halitosis. Oh halitosis! why are some people as charming as halitosis?

And when you are being dressed up, I know that we always come up with the weirdest ensembles, You may not always get comfortable with the H&Ms but geez, they fit you like a dream! It entertains us seeing you 'all that'. It maybe our own repressed showbiz fantasies projecting onto you but honestly we just want the very best for you.
The whole household gets alarmed my princess everytime you get tight-lipped during feeding time. Tito does your food, and eventhough its a wee bit bland, it surely is healthy. No MSG, no artificial flavors, only pure tender loving care.
You are growing up so fast my princess. and if there is anything I am guilty of, Its the fact that I am a doting tito.
And I will never get absolved from this guilt until Mr. Alzheimer knocks on my doorstep.
I love you so much my princess.

You had me at 'U-haaahhh!"

Time Space Warp

We met years ago, you were in your uniform, I was in my trusty old pyjama. The place wasnt fancy, my bare apartment was not of a romantic type that makes lovers croon and consign their affection to paper. It was dark, naked and uncharacteristically cold. But there was nowhere I would have rather been.
Its funny how we remember every piddling detail of such wonderful encounter. The scent in the air, the smallest of gestures, the stolen glances, the faintest smiles and the way it made us feel. We may have seemed to throw everything into oblivion as we go about our personal hustles and bustles but a slightest whiff of that particular moment in time can send gazellion wattage of electricity through our frozen body, sending us in a time space warp of good old memories. Thats the magic of true love. It wont leave you, It can be swept under the rags of your existence, but it will never leave you.
Years have passed,3 apartments and too many cold nights later. I still think about you. I still get fried from the gazellion electric wattage generated by sheer reminiscence of our old days. I still get trapped in a space warp.
I wish I wouldnt have to time travel and get inside that imaginary four dimentional cube just to call you my own. I wish, once again, everything is real.

I love you more than any words can say.
Until we meet again.

Plummeting

I'd thought I was resilient to this downward spiral feeling, time when nothing seems to go right, and everything is just all over the place. Time when you have just fallen down your rump, only to find out that you'd get kicked and hammered mercilessly further down the muck. It is when, even the idea of attempting to flounder becomes nearly impossible and emotionally taxing. You fail miserably even before the execution, your mind has no mercy telling you so.
When you talk with your friends, you shield yourself with the shiny exterior to augment the happiness and alter the grim reality, You dissect the truth and offer them the left over, stuff that isn't thoroughly depressing, but how can you pull this one off, when you know in your heart that everything that's going on in your pathetic existence IS depressing?
You get into the game of self delusion. You tell them that everything is going swimmingly, you even manage to crack a joke or two, but in truth, you have no good news, only chapter of misfortunes, your life is everything but exciting, you are feeling down the dumps and crappy, but you never want to cast your shadows on any of them. They deserve to be happy and you ought to face the bitter fact-You are singled out for that cosmic torment. You work out your own salvation.
This is the time when you surrender to the hopelessness that's eating you alive, grawing at your person, you throw in the towel and you clam up and let them gush about their bright and promising lives. Their stories only underscore your lack of anything. You sink into the quicksand of depression while you steel yourself and listen to your friends with sense of detachment, viewing it at a certain distance. You know you are happy for them, you have to be, as what the norms dictate, but inside your head, the maggot is squirming telling you, what all of those stories make you? Are you worthy to be their friend when you are so smallish and insignificant?
When everything becomes so overwhelmingly unbearable, you shut the thought out, and then the world. You start to live in your four corner darkness. Feasting on your own pain, coiled into the smallest ball your tired and harrased body can muster, until you become inconspicuous to the prying, questioning eyes of people around you, until you blend in with the darkness.
I just hope this demon will pass. I wish I'd resurface again from this melancholia. I hope all the means will be justified. I wish I'd stop bleeding.
God, you know Ive been a good boy.