Bloody Tale

I hate blood, or rather, I hate the sight of blood, and when you are living with friends whose primary source of amusement is to see you wetting your pants and trembling like a posessed blender in fear, disclosing it is like peddling a basement bargain priced gadget up their noses. There was this one moment that they locked me inside the room only to find out that we were up to a movie marathon-the movies in tow were the whole collection of SAW, I would have fervently prayed to Zeus to strike the television (and my friends) with his fiercest lightning bolts, if I wasn’t too busy banging them with an electric fan. I am not a thoroughly squeamish sort of guy, you see, I have no problem downing 3 baluts (aborted duck fetus) or let us say stopping by a mobile lugawan, and sit alongside pedicab drivers, pimps or hookers while trying at small talk, (I have learned that in order for one to get the best and most innard parts, one should pal up the stall owner, you don’t necessarily have to introduce yourself, because no matter how frequent you drill into their skull your name, you will always be known as just “pogi” “boy” or in the cases of women owners “darling” sweetheart” or yes, “pogi”, although you’d start questioning their sincerity and credibility when the person waiting to be served next to you looks like a cross between the bride of Frankenstein and something that escaped from a mad scientist’s petra dish. Just shut it, sometimes it is comforting to know that in shedding a dirt cheap amount, one can fill up his stomach and get his ego bolstered up.

So where is this blog leading? Surely my train of thoughts is dancing freestyle again. From point A to point D and then back to point B. No wonder Ive only got 3 readers, the rest have died of motion sickness and vertigo..

Oh now I remember what this is supposedly all about. The other day, My friend/housemate’s mom asked me for a special favor. Why does my heart impale itself upon my ribcage everytime I hear someone use my name as an opening salvo? Perhaps it is because,in all the serious confrontations of my life, its always been like that, someone mentioning my name as if to warn me to steel myself from the sting of the next verbal shot (“Dadge, I think we should stop sending you allowance” Dadge, hold my hand and let us pray to God that he banish the devils residing in your decrepit body” “Dadge, I hopelessly heart you, This is Brando by the way”).
You see, my mom is in the states, so my friend’s mom is the closest I could get to having a mother. She needs a blood donor for her Dad who just recently had a blood transfusion.
I swear that the moment I heard it my soul left my body and hover away screaming as if it was on fire. I am deathly afraid of the idea of someone as inexperienced as an 18year old nursing intern poking a large needle into your vein and drain the blood out of you, its as if my mental search engine has brought scores of grim pictures of blood donation.

To be continued..

The Horror Queen of the Right Wing

Probably the reason why I'm having this constant need to strangle anyone within arm's reach is because I stopped blogging months ago. A lot of things were going on, short course,teaching job and front desk stint, albeit a fleeting one. Front office course was a refreshing experience,I got to revisit the feeling of getting late again, bringing my trusty backpack and sometimes packing lunch and hurtling it on unsuspecting classmates. Part of the curriculum was the 100 hour practicum time and so off we went to Subic, the nearest and the most convenient place for us to wreak havoc on hospitality institutions. We decidedly stayed in the hotel where we we would also be doing the training and the raucous mirth and drunken merriment are still ringing in my ears. The excuses not to go on duty varied from melodramatic ("I just got into a serious fight with my boyfriend, I'm afraid the tendency to crack open the skull of any approaching guest with the keyboard can be so tempting, I fear for other people) to cinematic ( "I saw a girl clad in white dress cavorting in the hallway"), we later found out that it was a gay classmate rehearsing his Japanese catwalk, It wasnt exactly a dress as one would aptly assume under the dimly lit corridor but layers of fitted queen size linen, thrown in a recognizably decent ensemble. That fag! no wonder my classmates would immediately feign any sicknesses known to the history of mankind. (one classmate even claimed of having a candidiasis, and she stated it while putting an act of a severely and incurably itchy -----)) just to play hooky from duty if assigned to clean the right wing, it was haunted by Ms. Marian Rivera aka Renato Dela Cruz.
To Ren, I hope,by now, you have completely mastered your walk of horror.

Singled Out

Ringggggggggggggggggg! Ringggggggggggggg! "Hello sir, This is Ms. Bee of Camel Dung Recruitment Agency, We've received your online application, and you've been shortlisted for the position of a hotel receptionist,Please attend the interview on monday,11 am. The employers will appreciate it if you would come in coat and tie.Thank you."
The post was in Saudi Arabia, a country that conjures up mental image of veiled women, sandstorms and a prison gang rape scene for smooth guys- daunting scenarios,but what the heck, I've been bum for the longest time, the ax is getting rusty and the village body count must stop. I should go, but not in coat and tie for crying out loud! the tropical heat is searing and the agency is located at the country's red light district, I dont want to look like The Godfather cruising around for hookers!
The whole building is cheek by jowl with Filipinos who are applying for placements abroad. Mostly hard labor (plumber,etc.) and domestic jobs. I felt awfully out of the loop wearing a rolled up smart shirt, a pair of tailored pants and patent leather shoes in a place where everyone was wearing simple shirts and denim jeans. I wanted to crucify everyone in the agency who insisted on the outlandish ensemble.

to be continued.