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Urbanities: a twisted version of a bipolaroid urbiculture.

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A twisted tree for a twisted mind.

A twisted tree for a twisted mind.

Hahaha! I had fun rereading this one!

I wrote and published this crazy blog post more than three years ago in my Friendster blog. I just couldn’t believe how psychotic I can be when it comes to free-form writing, hahaha! But I’ve mellowed down through the years (I no longer write that way).

I hope you’ll have fun reading this as I had.


Sa uacás…

The mist has risen.

Yo trabajo en un centro de llamada. La contabilidad que nosotros trabajámolos es sobre la seguridad de salud para los estadounidenses. Es por eso, tengo el privilegio a usar el sitio de web del dicho trabajo…

It has helped me a lot.

It vivisected my innermost thoughts, hidden desires, and unnoticed urges. For free. My uncontrollable and swinging misdemeanor, my hyperactivity, and to what I thought was my close brush with dementia quite a couple of times… all this I thought were just passing behavioral fancy (if there ever was a term).

At last (and at least), I now confirm that I ain’t one of you.

Society disdains people who don’t conform. Those who violate urbanities are sanctioned, punished. The most common is imprisonment. Those who have difficulty in conforming are secluded in thick-walled buildings, whose rooms are custom-built to contain the unthinkable and unspeakable rage and loathing and unfathomable dreams of the “distorted” psyche. These establishments are better known as (gulp!) mental health facilities. Locally, it’s more popularly known as mental hospitals. Or Elsie. Or Manda.

This revelation is not to confirm that I’ve gone totally crackers (“How do I love thee? Let me smash your face…” / Come live with me and be my X-ray fish). No. It’s just to confirm my state of liberation. The freedom from what’s chaining me to the stinkin’ ground. Yes, like that forgettable line in an old Bush (British grunge band of the late 90s) song, I’m now pissing on self-esteem. If I can’t have it, then I WON’T TAKE IT.

I’ve longed for psychiatric treatment eversince I realized that my peers have been calling me a weirdo, whether they meant it or not. But I couldn’t get any out of shame and because of my walletophobia. I’ve been yearning for Prozac (or its generic, Fluoxetine), but I don’t know where and how to get some (Jonathan Davis, help me).

I had to say this. I thought that my Catholicism would save me from my misanthropy and that kinda stuff — well, I know it can, and would, but due my mixed-up emotional and mental instability, I couldn’t wear it into my spiritual fiber. Christianity teaches that God helps those who are willing to stand up on their own. The problem is, I am uncertain of where, or more aptly, HOW, I stand. I was an atheist for more than two years, no thanks to my fragile curiosity. I know how sorry and putrefied that ideology is. It isn’t even an ideology — it’s downright arrogant stupidity, and stupid arrogance.

I tried to socialize, but I felt alienated. At least now, I have come to the realization that socializing, the urbane way, is just a mere pushpin. Yeah, that’s what all it is. If you disagree, then you’re a lying crappy li’l cretin. That’s what we all are in this world.

Going back to my dilemma. My pusillanimity in relation to maintaining good social relations took its toll on the relationship itself. I was able to create friendships, though they’re quite a few (I’m the complete opposite of my wifey), but lotsa puzzled looks. The “weirdo” tag has been like a signpost sticking on top of my cranium since I was in the 3rd grade.

But y’know what? Come to think of it, I kinda liked.

However, eccentric behavior came to a halt when, quite abruptly, I started raising a family that was never planned. But everything turned out not to be OK, but great! Havin’ a family is perhaps the greatest thing to have ever happened to me, counting all the hardships and trials. All that shit is worth it whenever I look into the happy and contented eyes of my wife, daughter, and son.

But still lingering within the recesses of my cerebral cortex is that fuckin’ itch that never puts my soul to rest. It keeps me wide awake at night — well, that was when I was still on a day job — and restless in my endeavors. For the past two years, for two damn years, I’ve been sterile in my craft. Until a few days ago, when some chuckling witch forced me outta my shell once more… rainy days are here again. Ellipsis, ellipsis, fuckin’ ellipsis.

The Muse beckons not daily, not weekly, not a fuckin’ regular status, but even rarely. I never had a “disturbance” for quite some shitty time. In fact, I even tried to forget the whole idea, thinking it’s all but frivolity and a waste of time, especially that I’m a family man now. I regarded it but a big joke. Writing is a big joke. And the joke’s on those who read them. The writer gets the last laugh.

The Muse took animal form. For the first time, this Muse of poetic fame became tangible right before my very eyes. The Muse rebuked me for not feeding my emaciated ego. So there she was, with whip in hand, ready to punish me for my frigidity.

It took a couple of days before it dawned upon me that I am, at 26 years of age, getting old for all the crap that what I’ve been trying to pretend is me. So one crisp morning, while I was walking home from work, looking for a bus which will take me to San Pedro, La Laguna, I contemplated on my “private future”. I walked, my gait guided by a built-in CDman inside my head, playin’ my fave tunes. Every soul I bump upon in crowded Mutinlupà Market a faceless gargoyle on the attack, the bag on my hand carrying my “baon” my shabby scabbard sword. Conan the Barbarian I’m not, but I’m a listless warrior in my own right. Under the Alabang viaduct, I walk in the middle of the asphalt road; each bus on either side and in front of me, are horrid but lazy, easy-to-slice-like-quickmelt-cheese monsters awaiting my final strike (i.e., when I come aboard their “bellies” to take a seat where I continue to smirk at the faceless throng and their search for subsistence).

In the bus, I asked myself, “What in the name of motherfuck am I doin’ here?!” Like that “creepy” song that still enjoys airtime in alam-mo-na-’yan/i-memorize yan. radio stations being enjoyed by sun-and-soot baked bus/jeepney drivers, I whisper to myself: what the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here…

I’ve got kids, and a lovely, caring wife. A happy house. A god-fearing home. But they are not me. They are a part of me, but they still do not reflect who I really am, and vice-versa. There’s another part of me, a very charitable one, one who wishes nothing but to nourish a very hungry and thirsty ego. There’s a side of me who calls for unity, eager to negotiate with a demanding id. And there’s a sicker side of myself who wishes to outwit a being whom he regards as a dimwit, an inutile being (actually, with no offense to my spiritual conscience, it really is) — jolly ol’ super-ass-life-ego.

Reality check. Back to How did it help? It’s just a website. That’s all it is, churning out prescription benefits as well as interesting health info. I always access it at work. Not only did it aid me during my calls, but it helped me a lot in analyzing my mentality. I was able to verify and confirm stuff that were just hunches before. Now that I’ve confirmed some disorders, there are reasons for my fears after all. Mission accomplished. Hurrah.

Kidding aside, I think I should commence another chapter in my uninteresting, Beavis N’ Butthead life, such as: how deal with — and self-treat my bipolar disorder, ADHD, hyperthyroidism, social phobia, hemophobia, and other cute stuff (my bestfriend in Dubai, weirdonextdoor — do visit her FRIENDSTER, she’s on my account, her name’s Rachel Nazaret, and she needs psychohelp too ever since another pal of mine, Mike Lim {don’t visit his FRIENDSTER} fooled her for some slut somewhere in the Metro — said if you don’t know what it’s called, or if you don’t want to name it, call it STUFF). Treatment shall be done in this, whazzit called? blog?, for all you urbanites to chow down. And for y’all to realize how charitable I am in feeding my ego for free (say what?!@*)

Also, I’d like to stress that I now change the definition of urbanity in my turf. I hate those things that are urban. I feel it takes away something that what ee cummings used to perceive as civility. To those who have the quality of an urbanite, I say bullshit to it! I know it did cause me to have all this mental, uh, STUFF that prompted me into writing this.

Henceforth, urbanity here shall be regarded like this: it’s about people like me… and peeps like you. Yep. Like you, oh tired, sleepless one… come with me, take my hand, and let’s have a walk down the asphalt road of dark urbanities…


NOTE: I copied the above post from my Friendster blog because I have many things to do today. I don’t have much time to write something new. =(


One response »

  1. hahahaha…
    i loved that entry…
    and yes i still do say STUFF

    i dont have time to write too… ill see you guys soon…



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