Tick-Tock

I feel like a ticking timebomb on countdown, filled to the brim with frustration, just anxiously awaiting and fearing my own explosion.

My chest feels cramped, as though invisible Schwarzenegger arms are squeezing the blood out of my heart, draining my lifeline.

I'm trying so hard to cope. I take deep, slow breaths from the bottom of my lungs, drawing from the bottom of my lungs, hoping this can calm down the almost-irrational fear that's building in me.

I feel like a racecar driver, speeding down the highway past blurred trees, streetlights and buildings and suddenly realizing, the brakes don't work.

Sadistic Pest-Hunting

I have a secret to confess.

My guiltiest pleasure, dessert indulgences aside, is lashing out my inhumane sadistic tendencies towards pests.

I find immense pleasure in watching a mosquito sizzle, spark and crackle on my 120-peso electronic hand-swatter. I find it so gratifying that I have considered making 'pest-hunting' an official hobby. I could spend hours and hours just chasing and swishing after flying nuisances and barbecuing them to death. It’s like getting hooked onto little spurts of Adrenaline rush.

My mom says it’s a waste of time, but I say it could be a potential workout regimen. What with all the arm-swinging and running, it could very well make up for the thousand hours of cardio I need to make up for since I have long been M.I.A. from the gym.

Plus, I figured pest-hunting might be a good outlet for my much-repressed sadistic alter ego to practice methods of torture and express all the violence it wishes to lash out onto the world. After all, we'd all prefer the massacre of winged bloodsuckers than have my alter ego take over and go out the world to start jolting everyone with this battery-operated, China-made weapon of mass aggravation, right?

Valentine's Day Sentiment

Bah. Humbug!

Tupperware Lady

She chirped, she giggled, she batted her eyelashes at me. She called me up several times a week. I heard her syrupy voice float across telephone wires almost every day. She said I was pretty, intelligent, sweet and more--every little thing that one can assume from just sharing cordial phone conversations.

I found her amusing at first. I laughed at how this middle-aged woman could remind me so much of a four-year old kid. I almost even believed all the compliments she showered me with.

But then, days became weeks and weeks became months and I had to start making an effort to be nice. I had to smile through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. I had to start lying about urgent things-to-do that just cannot be postponed. And I had to constantly restrain myself from accidentally cutting the phone line.

Yes, it was that bad.

But it was when I started to dodge phonecalls, avoid picking up the receiver myself and cringe at every rrriiing that I realized this has got to stop.

So the next time the phone rang, I picked up the phone, and to no surprise, found the caller to be my Tupperware lady. The syrupy voice reminiscent of a toddler stuck to my ear canals, clogging them with BS. With every minute passing and my blood sugar rising, I allowed her to finish her spiel. Then, when she finally took a breather, I cut in.

"Tita, uhmm..." I hesitated. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not interested to buy Tupperware."

"Bakit naman? Maganda ito, atsaka matibay, atsaka napapalitan kapag may sira, ataska..." She rebutted.

"Hindi ko naman kasi siya gagamitin. Marami pa po kaming Tupperware sa bahay. As a matter of fact, sa sobra pong dami, nakatambak nalang sa storage room 'yung iba." I reasoned in the kindest tone I could deliver.

"Magagamit mo naman sila. Someday! Malay mo kapag nag-asawa ka na, siyempre kakailanganin mo rin ng gamit sa kusina. Malalagyan mo sila ng mga ulam. 'Pag nagka-anak ka na, magagamit mo rin sila sa paglagay ng baby food. Pwede rin silang lagyan ng baon ng anak at asawa mo. Tapos 'pag..." She rattled on and on about the advantages of Tupperware at hyperspeed.

At this point, my patience was wearing tissue-paper thin, but she wouldn't let me interrupt. On and on she went about the good stuff that Tupperware is made of, the gargantuan benefits I would reap, and how my life would not be complete without using them.

For all the syrup poured into my ears, I somehow managed to tune her out in the middle of her long, well-memorized speech and slipped into a more interesting daydream. Then, without any real thought behind it, my fingers took a life of its own, took hold of the receiver and placed it back on its cradle with a satisfying "click." Snapping out of my daydream, I realized what I had done and took the extra step of pulling the cord from the back end of our telephone.

Soon therafter, I discovered the development of my telephone-ring phobia. Symptoms are cringing, brow-furrowing, jaw-clenching and the ability to switch to speaking with a Visayan accent.

"Ay, Ate, pasinsya na pu. Umalis pu kasi siya..."

Still Waitin' On The Blogbug

Hummin': Barista ('D Pinoy Version of Bartender)

I stared at the monitor for a good five minutes, my eyes focused on the blinking cursor. I wanted to write something, anything that would get me started on the blogging habit again. But somehow, that writing "thing" just wouldn't budge.

I wrote a word, then backspaced. I typed a phrase, then a sentence, but ended up with having to highlight and delete.

Sigh. Just when I had my hopes up, my blogging thing won't go to work.

Maybe, perhaps, hopefully...I'll be able to come up with something before the week ends.