Raco's Meteoropolis

There is a definite number of stars in the universe—given that the concept of a multiverse is highly unlikely—and the total can actually sum up to a certain number by the milliard, or even more. The thing is, stars are volatile celestial bodies in that each differs from the other in life span and size, among other stellar properties, that it is too hard to keep a definitive track and record the total number of stars that exist in the universe. Another thing is that even if a team manages to record the total number of stars in all the galaxy clusters in the entire universe, the human number system would be overwhelmed by the amount in that it does not have a definite number term to fit the total amount of stars in the universe. Supercomputer systems, the scientific method of identifying amounts, and even scribbles on sheets of paper would not be able to come up with the proper number to account for all the stars, given that the stars’ lives can last as long as one rundown of the number of stars in the entire universe. This, among others, is one of the reasons why stars are partially responsible for giving mathematicians, philosophers, scientists, artists, and the everyman a number term, although indefinite, to fulfill the requirement of a vague description of a massive amount incapacitating to count through in even one week: INFINITY.

(I came up with this philosophizing on the apparent infinite number of the stars while on an extremely gnarly hangover from about two bottles of brandewyn on a hot day in April. I heard a pretty old song on the radio which had the singer comparing the love he could give to his special someone to the number of stars, which in the context he has brought up in the course of the song were tantamount to infinity. Hangovers can really make you do a lot of bad gnarly things. What more about actual brandewyn drinking sessions that makes you become debaters, advice-givers, and basically intelligentsia, while blacking out and removing the crucial mind-honing life-improving data the next day by blacking you out.)

You never know you’re stepping on shit until you smell it. You never know you’re messing around with lethal shit until it hit you in the face and cracked your skull open. You never know how shit hurts until it hits you hard.

For long I had thought I lived in what I had known to be reality, until that fateful day came.

Naoise finally died in the hands of Conchobar’s henchman.

For once I had felt the relatively new adage fulfill what it was supposed to say. Shit really had gotten real. After all this time did I realize I was living in a folly, a fictitious tale weaved by an escapist mind longing for acceptance.

The day Tristan had died was a day I never expected. Iseult had often talked about antisocial behavior, and how unlikely it was for her to make new connections. She hooked up suddenly with Mark, and Tristan, thinking that his aspirations had been betrayed, broke down because of grief. All the emotions and accounts were shattered, so were the mushroom memoria. Tristan, always the recluse, would definitely have spiraled down, had he not been maintained by three guides.

Lancelot would wish for no more than Arthur taking care of Guinevere, now that all love had dried out. His final wails would probably be unheard of, and he would end up a rotting corpse in the middle of the battlefield that is life and love.

Add to that the missing piece in my life: the friend who became my chest of secrets as much as I was to him. He had died a year from now, and I would have wanted someone to drink beer with during these troubled times. With ni Dall being betrothed to mac Nessa (and ironically loving it), mac Usnech has served minimal purpose in her life as much as the tattletale who told of the ridiculously photogenic Zeddie Little-esque attributes of the sons of Usnech. Mac Usnech would be relegated to drinking beer in pubs with his close pals, and even meet king-in-exile mac Roich along the way.

But then the fact that all I have been living this past year was folly hit me hard. It verily mirrors an oft-neglected quote from small-time-criminal-turned-jack-of-all-trades Carl Johnson—a quote so neglected from walkthroughs that I could not even remember what the quote said and to whom CJ addressed it.

All was folly, and shit just got real.

Perhaps what some old friends said about Tristram’s feelings to Iseult was true: it was infatuation all along. An infatuation that was bred and developed into an illusory, perhaps to some extent hallucinatory, outlook on life in that one lives everything according to number, color, and toponymic patterns. It is also best to point out what they have observed in discourses regarding Lancelot’s folly that everything that seemed to be involving what is now a love long gone suddenly morphs into a personal evaluation when the characteristics and attributes of both players are juxtaposed alongside each other, and compared and contrasted.

The epiphany that the life I have been living—that which revolved around the patterns that can be conceived through a topical understanding of long gone love’s life story—is illusory, made me wake up from the Irish dream, and declare that “shit just got real”. With this realization also came the deciding “glimpse in the mirror”, to use His term, and the subsequent realization that I have missed a lot in my life thinking of what could happen when mac Usnech and ni Dall finnaly reunite. As far as the ability of these epiphanies to bring me forth to a certain fork in the road of my life is concerned, I think it is time I shifted gears once more, and began to grab all opportunities that pass me as much as possible. It is time to make up for lost time, quit procrastinating, declare mac Usnech’s love for ni Dall as inexistent (and subsequently kill Naoise), and fulfill my life as I want it to be. That way, when the time for the ultimate glimpse in the mirror comes, I would cease to regret things I have blindly followed. Hasta la eternidad!

IAN,

I BOUNCED.
SHIT JUST
GOT REAL.
HASTA LA VISTA.
-(raco)

P.S.
THANK NIKO.*

Naoise is dead. The ball is in Deirdre’s field now. Either she splatters her brains all over the dirt road by throwing herself out of the carriage and hitting her head on a sharp rock, or she waives Mannanan of the foster-father responsibility to her children and live with Conchobar until he dies (and, subsequently, she does, too) due to Medb’s greed.

(bəs’lag) (n) A minor, often unaddressed disruption of normal bodily processes during or after a long trip; characterized by fatigue, apathy, drowsiness, and nausea, among other unreported experiences. Usually brought about by changes in altitude, temperature, humidity, and utter discomfort in the moving vehicle, which can be anything from . Usually requires a whole day of rest from strenuous activity and further trips for relatively inexperienced tourists, experienced travelers are more often able to catch up with a few hours rest and a relaxing bath.

The original sin is bollocks. The underlying goodness in everybody is bollocks. So is the underlying evilness in all of us. Whatever we are, the society is at fault. Whatever others see of us, the society is to blame. “Thank” is not even appropriate.

We become good or evil based on what we see, and how society explains the visual impulses that our brain processes. We teach ourselves context clues early on in our lives, even before our English teachers give it a definite term. Our tendency to look at things differently primarily rely on what we have been exposed to as children, and our interpretation of the syntheses of the explanations provided for us by the society.

So it is of no use to whine about bollocks such as un-Christian attitudes, or rather un-Catholic attitudes, given that everyone has an underlying slut inside them.

Every woman has a slutty identity she is responsible for either the suppression or the development of; much like every man having a bastardly identity he can either encourage the growth of or shun for a subjective view on “moral behavior”. Everyone of us has a moral standard, each different from the other. Just as Pikeman’s potion is Imp’s poison, whatever Carl thinks is morally upright may not be as favourable to Frank as his own notions of morality. This does not involve dogma just yet, and people are condoned, if not encouraged, to either be a whore or a derelict, so long as their actions, regardless of the number of people affected, are at par with their moral standards.

Then arises the issue of dogma. With dogma, every chess game involves at least a pigeon opponent. One who tends to knock random pieces down and struts as if it has defended its faith and has emerged victorious in the faulty chess game. As long as their point of view stands out, they will refuse to accept defeat and fight a war. A war that, when the odds are ultimately considered, is actually against the pigeon.

We are said to be in the age of Pisces: an age where they say repression of free thought is prevalent, and a few dogmas try to take over the world and indoctrinate each living being with accordance to their set of subjectively viewed-upon “morally right” standards that he/she/it who they think is in charge of our lives would be happy to see us emulate. I would rather call it Age of Pigeon Chess.

Everybody is caught in the unending war between the Homo sapiens and the Columba livia. The Homo sapiens are those who champion for reason, who believe that everything that you see has an explanation, and to see is to believe; which says that any explanation with no tangible representation is bollocks. They also believe, to the best of my knowledge, that faith is a subjective matter and, in the long run, it is best to keep faith where it actually belongs; in the spiritual realm of the human entity. Philosophers, despite believing in the plausible existence of metaphysical entities, are still champions of reason due to the fact that they find a tangible representation to any predisposed explanation regarding the world. They are basically scientists in reverse.

The Columba livia is a species of birds which belong to the family Columbidae, and are more commonly known as the pigeon, although there are other species from the family Columbidae which ornithologists refer to as pigeons, too. They are referred to among ornithologists and bird fanatics (save the Celtics three-point shooter) and other bird enthusiasts as the Rock Pigeon. The term Columba livia, in the sense of everyone having a slutty personality, also refers to the pigeons as suggested in the Pigeon Chess definition: someone who campaigns for the supremacy of metaphysical entities and who refuses to believe in the definitive standards of existence the years of methodical scientific analyses and experiments that have given the world a basic tangible definition of biological life.

The pigeons also seem to want to meddle in the affairs of the state, up to the point where their dogmatic dispositions on how people should live their lives encroach upon the internationally accepted rights of the human being, and even the law of a specific nation regarding the rights and responsibilities of its citizens. This type of pigeon chess was best shown in a recent issue regarding high-school students from a point in this country, all of whom were barred from attending their graduation ceremonies due to the dogmatic dispositions of the pigeons regarding the behavior of everybody enrolled at school.

Yes, facebook is in part to blame for this bollocks, and for that I wish to simply flip the bird in its different forms around the world to Mark Zuckerberg. But it would not have escalated up to a point where the dogmatic pigeons knocked down crucial pieces at random and declared their victory over societally bastardized people who wanted to explore their slutty side after years of being constrained into living a very unhealthy ram-the-holy-stuff-in-your-mouth-so-that-you-can-go-to-heaven bollocks life. It would not have gone up to that point if the pigeons finally evolved and accepted where their overflowing faith belonged in today’s technologized globalized world: in a musty corner in their brains. Sure, the poor high-schoolers ventured into such a deed, but it was only to unleash a beast who had longed for relief from the bombardment of dogmatic bollocks they have suffered. And besides, everybody is entitled to venturing into new endeavors in his/her life, isn’t s/he? They just discovered a dormant beast, whose existence has been suppressed by the bollocks they have been fed to as children.

And there’s another bullcrap the pigeons bring about with their self-righteous dispositions of the world. The Holy Bible (hereinafter referred to as storybook), in one of its interesting anecdotes about Jehoshua’s folly, had their mashiach saying something along the lines of “Let the children come to me first” or something like that. This fictional account encourages people to indoctrinate their children into the pigeon’s life, so as to pass the tradition of keeping true to unproven metaphysical bollocks regarding the world’s “spontaneous 6-day construction”. The denial of Charles Darwin’s Evolutionism and the Big Bang Theory (not the TV show that the petty bourgeoisie with cable TV watch) is what constitutes the dogmatic bollocks regarding the beliefs on the world’s creation.

A notable post in the now-famous 9GAG showed the difference between “Religion” and “Religioff”. And I strongly agree that we could have had hovercraft cars and gadgets which convert any gas around a certain closed area into oxygen, if the pigeons would be caged and kept away from the chessboard. If science was not restrained and religion did not persecute technological advancements in the production of the basic needs of the humans, we could have been in a world where everybody is free to be a slut, or a recreational drug dealer, or a gunslinger. Religion should have sodded off centuries ago when the first promise of a technological advancement dawned over mankind.

As long as everybody did not encroach on others’ rights to life, liberty and property, everyone can unleash and release their underlying slut. And gimp.

Before I forget, there is a third type of people who are caught in the war between religion and reason. They constitute those who question the tenets of the two sides, and most of the time the beliefs and tenets of the third type do not fit well with the strict reason-oriented approach of the scientists and the dogmatic self-righteous god-backed disposition of the religionists. They may believe that a little spirituality for a fallback in times of trouble is as crucial as accepting Darwin’s and Gregor Mendel’s analyses for a thorough understanding of the biological background of life. But they do not believe in too much of the storybook and too much of the textbook. They are what Rush calls Cygnus. And they believe that everyone has the right to show off the underlying slut and underlying bastard in them.

I had a glimpse of the Bollywood movie “The Three Idiots”, which focused on the pressures of what was India’s academic condition by the time the movie was made. Firstly, a group report about bollywood exposed me to a significant song-and-dance number in the film, and secondly, my mum had a copy of the film. Don’t ask me questions you would not wanna hear the answer to.

As I was deducing the probable origins of the seeming degeneracy of the somehow democratic Indian Nation, founded in part through the efforts of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi (his efforts to liberate the entire British colony on India would then be screwed over by Muhammad Ali Jinnah, an ex-compatriot of Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru who would move on the establish Pakistan), I took into consideration the population and, given that India ranks a significant second against China, probable micro-solutions, if I may be so allowed to borrow a concept from economics—I am gunning for perhaps a vague representation of interdisciplinarity in case you are baffled, to alleviate poverty.

Thereby, as I was about to sleep just this early morning, I got to thinking about theories I have conjured in the blink of an eye. Theories about population, its connections with the history of a certain state, and their connections with the current condition of the state now.

China and India, when all things are considered, have a greater population compared to the other nations in Asia alone. And, if history may be bothered to lend a few of its facts in establishing a good point in some of my theories, China and India are by far the world’s oldest surviving civilizations. The only western penetration, if Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie would allow me to be “dare-teah” for a few seconds (or more), these two civilizations have experienced which affected the way of life in the aforementioned countries greatly, are either ideologies or typical European colonializing methods (I say typical due to bringing in to consideration a different approach to colonialization the then-rising U.S. empire has brought the world to revel upon—that of their exceptionalist paradigm, as suggested by historians and historical thinkers such as Glenn Anthony May and Julian Go, et. al.

These ideologies and colonializing methods even worked to serve the purpose of the country they are involved in. Take, for example, China, and Mao Zedong’s usage and application of the Marxist theory in integrating a socialist principle whose operation and utilization in a feudal, colonial, and basically economically backward society, such as the China of dynasties past. It may have failed to erase the Chinese dynastic influence amongst the inhabitants (the need for a male offspring is an underlying cause for female infanticide in Chairman Mao’s China, and the tradition of offering incense sticks to deities representing something good that would probably happen is not that weaned away from the Chinese), but it has established a great deal of social change that adapts with the global technologization and neo-industrialization. In the case of the Tibetans, the theory may be disputed, but remember that the bulk of the 1.7 billion Chinese people in the entire land area are mostly in the big cities like Shanghai, Beijing, and Hong Kong. And besides, it’s a theory.

A better example of how my theory works would be India itself. The British Colonization led to a significant change in the culture, but the pre-British traditions remain, thanks to the written versions of the tomes of Indian culture, which for long have stood the test of time: the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Now I don’t know how they plan their families in India, let alone in what is known as the Old Delhi, but the population boom is primarily due to the revolutionary technological changes India has learned to adapt since their liberation from Britain.

There, so in a theory a dumb fuck like me could conceive, India and China are the most populated countries mainly because of their status as being the oldest surviving old-world civilizations.

What about those next in line?

This other theory concerns those who became powerful in the second millenium of the common era. From the Iberian Superpowers to the Dutch and British, to the French and Italians (to a lesser degree), to the “exceptionalist” Americans in the U. S. Their domination boils down to influence. The Iberian superpowers made their mark in making the old Central and South American civilizations obsolete, and integrating a form of language foreign to the colonies into the colonies themselves. The Philippines, a former colony of Spain, remains a largely Catholic nation, with people adapting Spanish surnames (or Spanish derivatives of their native of Chinese surnames) as per Governor General Narciso Claveria’s instructions in the nineteenth century. The Brazilians are an example of Portugal’s influence in the new world, with the language and the culture of the Portuguese being integrated in the native aspects of Brazilian culture. And damn it, Brazil is huge.

Britain exercised its command over India and their colonies, even up to America and reaching as far as the Pacific Ocean, and therefore, the culture was engraved in the colonials’ way of life. And the Filipinos know about the exceptionalism of the American occupation as compared to the European colonial powers. But hell, even in places not occupied by the US, the American way of life, let alone the American dream, is well-represented and well-incorporated around the world. Their rise as a superpower came at a time when globalization was enjoying perfect upshifts as time progressed. That’s one of the reasons why more and more green card holders progress to being legitimate citizens of the United States of America; that and the American Dream.

The influence matter is another thing to look at when concerning population and current situation of countries. That, aside from the unfazed cultural history and civilization of the countries involved.

Anyway, these are merely theories, and I think I’m straining my brain too much by going worldwide in one sweep. Everyone is bound to refute some ideas here (mostly grammar nazis probably correcting construction), since these arise from spontaneity (a trait well known amongst musicians and other people from the humanities field), and the bases these ideas are established upon may have not been well-researched by yours undoubtedly. So, yeah, feel free to slam me and fuck my brains open until you make me (spoiler alert) hang myself like the Joy guy in “The Three Idiots”.

Two years ago today, I wrote this post in my previous gig. The ensuing night, this happened.

(Note that this is an objective summary of the events. The names have been changed so as to protect the identity of those involved and those who do not know they were actually involved. Also, before clicking the hyperlinks, place the mouse cursor over the links to read a brief summary of the contents. I be posting the contents of the latter link here—unedited!!—anyway, so it’s somehow optional for you to click the link above.)

Begin.

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It began as an attempt of waiting for someone whom I had a very intimate discussion with a couple of weeks ago to log on. There was this something that I felt within her, something that I felt about her, and something that I felt for her. I think I was falling for her, though the main reason would be my longing for helping a poor soul like her. For a second there I tried to dismiss it as something somewhat triggered by a manifestation of the Messianic complex in me, though yet unseen in full blast. One thing I liked about her was her cute profile pic of an illustration of a Japanese animated character. Another thing was her condition and her outlook in life, and her seemingly distant approach to love, which, in my interpretation, seemed to have failed her a couple of times in her life.

All efforts were futile, as there was no actual trace of her being on line at the moment. However, two personalities lifted my spirits up just by passing through me. Ron and Michael came by and took a rest on the couches for a while.

As they left, I decided to come along with them, logging out of the web. On the way out, we met someone who, in a way or another, peeved me. I just hated the way Rog (rodj; uh, I guess, for Roger) came in and proclaimed to the world that he can at last ride a bicycle. I admit, it peeved me, and I got pissed. I chose not to say a word and talk to him, as I was very ticked off. What’s more, Janine, Rog’s “velvet partner in crime”, as I would like to put it, came by, wearing make-up and a gown. It turned out she just came from a private party meant only for her and her schoolmates. I got more ticked by the minute, though she seemed to be more receptive. I dunno, it just kinda ticked me off, is all.

I invited them to dinner, and after a couple of shit scenes, they finally decided to eat. My pissed-off-ness hasn’t waned out yet, so I was still feeling this dysphoria in me. I chose to walk far behind them, smoking to my heart’s delight, and my brain’s demise. I caught up with them, as they stopped for a while, trying to confirm where to eat. We decided on eating at this “24-hour” restaurant near a local mall.

Dysphoria was kind of waning as I’ve seen some receptivity from Rog. Janine, meanwhile, tinkered on her phone, while we were talking about different things ranging from Family Guy to the Simpsons to my graduation and my daily life. We ate the beef, and an acquaintance beeped Ron. We waited for Paul in the restaurant just so he could finish the food, as we were full.

Something came up, and we were given a situation and several options. We were split between drinking booze and crashing a party. Sure, we could choose between both, but no one said we could only choose one. Besides, we were done with the school shit.

So, either we crash the party, or drink our hearts out, or crash and drink, or drink and crash. I kinda thought the fourth option somewhat made much more sense and progress, though we would unleash hell thrice the number of the beast, because we were intoxicated.

We decided on a crash-now-drink-later, with no looking back.

We arrived at the scene, though it was a bit creepy. There were a considerable number of people who could make us wet our pants at first sight. We decided on a game plan, as we fell back on the staircase. They tried to take a few people who they planned would be accomplices to the crime, though it took a lot of patience and guts to get them on our side. I, meanwhile, started to talk like a pussy, and at some points in time, intentionally fell down the stairs. Frankly, I like the feel of falling down the stairs. However, in the process, I lost a pack of cigarettes lodged in my hoodie pocket.

They tried to patch up a plan, and stood steady to wait for a right time when…

“Kayleigh’s singing!”
“What?”
“Kayleigh’s singing!”

As if I had hit a bong before everything else that happened that very night, I rushed to look at who was singing. There she was, sitting on a chair, everyone intent on watching her perform. I never expected it from someone whom I never thought was actually a multitalented artist, but it seemed like hearing the angels whisper sweet nothings on my ear. Another thing that was amazing was that she hit the notes right. The other woman on the guitars didn’t quite hit the chord, yeah, she did, but she didn’t actually pace it on the ticking of the metronome, and the song was somewhat derailed for a second. But I want to focus on the singer who, aside from possessing a voice not even Randy Jackson (the balding black American Idol judge, not the cool long-haired prog-rock singer for New York rock act Zebra) can mistake for William Hung’s because of the considerable difference only measurable by the league (one league equals about 7 miles or something), also possesses this aura that made me feel stunned and enamored at both the physical and artistic beauty she displays before everyone else, including me.

Time continued to tick away as I watched her belt out a tune that seemed very pleasing to the ear. I never minded time, as I was pouring all my concentration to this girl who possesses the beauty of a goddess, the voice of a seraph, and the name of a TV personality. (You know Layla Kayleigh, a host for G4TV? Well, that’s not her name. I’m going to be honest, since you know I change the names of these people, she’s named after one of Bloomberg’s news anchors, and/or the producer of an episode of Nickelodeon’s “The Fairly Oddparents”. Make a guess.)

I unconsciously found myself clapping along with the audience as she wrapped her song up. For that moment the missing cigarette pack disappeared from my mind.

The plan came to fruition as a slow song was played. They were to get partners to dance to that slow song. Paul agreed to dance with Janine, and the latter took two of her classmates to dance with Rog and Ronnie. I, meanwhile, stayed on my foot, as I was still stunned by how things went. I hope they understand, seeing as they knew my personality as a shy boy, but I want to bet they were saying things like “Fuck him, since when did he even help us?!? He’s but a pussy.”

The plan was working. Everyone was surprised, and I do not mean surprised whoa. Everyone was taking out their cameras and snapping pics. It seemed like a very receptive audience. At first no one tried to stop them from taking the stage. Just then there was this old lady who looked something like Susan Boyle, Yo-landi Vi$$er’s granny (minus the wrinkles), Manuel Uribe (just the fatness, though), and King Kong. She approached me, as if in a fit of fury, and drove me away from the party. I, being the pussy I am, surprisingly apologized, and ran toward the floor below the function hall of the said hotel. Hazy from the shocking event and feeling like I was stomped on by a huge elephant, I went back up and heard that degrading verse constantly ringing in my head: “Outsiders”.

We had no other choice but to leave.

We were about to go to some bar and drink the night out when it struck us, through a text message, that the people whom Rog and Ron danced with were being blamed for the “disaster”. In a fit of redemption, they decided to return to the place and try to ask for an apology in behalf of the group. That time I know I wasn’t a part of the group because I never actually did my part as a group member. I mean, I just sat at the staircase waiting for the wind. All I did was just give them pussy-sounding inspirational messages and sell them out at the last minute. That’s what I thought I did.

Anyways, apologies given, and lamentations aside, we took a cab to this bar. Perhaps still bearing the weight of shame on our backs, we decided to drink the hell out of the night we had. In the moment I had my first drink, I felt something come upon me. Next thing I know, I was drinking each and every glass of cocktail being passed onto me. I never realized I have been talking about life, and love, and when that flap of skin on the dick gets in the way of your pissing, and your pants become wet with pee. I was even freestyle rapping smoothly, no flaws whatsoever.

In every shot glass we toasted our shits, achievements, and whatnot, and laughing about it and feeling good. I and Janine we’re graduating, Rog learned how to ride a bike, Ronnie was done with the school shit, and Paul..?.. I can’t remember. However, midst the weight the night brought to us, and the way we tried to redeem ourselves (“we” is read as “they”, “ourselves” “themselves”), we (this time read as “I”) had the most fun intoxicating night of our lives (read “my life”).

Rog ended up extremely drunk, as he has been drinking shot for shot of that cocktail we took, whose name I don’t know. In the process he started “apologizing” for every “shit” that he “did”. He apologized to Paul for being such an ass on guitar, to everyone else for his behavior, and to me for… uh, I dunno, he just said, “to you too, man, sorry.” Janine defended his statement saying “and it’s true”.

“Along with the people inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy…”

Turbulence, with loud voices, confessions (Jim, for example, didn’t actually want to be in a relationship), and intimate scenes between Rog and Janine, ensued. It kicked in.

Perhaps that saying was indeed true. “In Vino Veritas.” I once used the saying to extract from subjects 02 and 03 (see squib 4) the things I needed to know about them making out. I never realized it would hit me hard as well. I ended up telling Paul and Ron that I liked Kayleigh, and I was impressed at the things she could actually do. Again, upon marveling at the talents she has, I began to underestimate myself the way I underestimated myself when we tried to play Iron Maiden songs and Rog’s house. Ron reminded me I also played guitar and drums, however I still am stunned and very degraded at how she manages to grip my feelings like a hand grenade (see Green Day’s American Idiot album cover, you’ll see what I mean.) and at the many ways she can express herself freely. She has this photograph she took, at an exhibit in a local mall, and admiration drove me to write bullshit in the comments book under a name I gave myself in September, following the three-month hiatus of the drummerless band we had.

We ordered a couple more pitchers we thought we could finish, but we ended up very stoned (well, excluding the only girl because 1] I guess she knows her limits and 2] I guess she knows she’s the one who is supposed to take Rog home) and drunk. We laid down at a patch of ground in a park near a local campus of the state university, and we actually felt good.

“Anlakas na ng tama, parang ang sarap humiga…”

Turbulence was still in our (read we men) veins. Ronnie suddenly became a master at knife playing.

Probably because of extreme intoxication and that feeling of having your parents worry about you because you never beeped them, we decided to part ways. Rog and Janine took a cab to the former’s house, and I & Paul took Ron to hail a cab at a place near where he usually rides a jeepney. (To foreigners, a jeepney is a public utility vehicle commonly found in the Philippines. It was patterned after the World War II GP’s taken in by American soldiers.)

I took Paul to home and we talked about how Dream Theater began. Their ups and downs, and where they are now. I kind of tried to make a reference on what they did and how they fucked the shit out of the obstacles awaiting them. I suggested we make DT as examples, along with other bands, of how to survive the Music Scene.

I left Paul just as he was nearing his home. I then decided to take a hike towards where cabs usually wait for passengers. I came home at 3 in the morning, after a five-kilometer ride.

The hangover phase was kinda shitty. I don’t want to talk about it. Sorry.

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Two Years Ago Today: Dysphoria Indiscipline Turbulence is an objective summary of the events that happened two years ago involving a few people I was close to when I was not yet legal. This began a series of other posts that consecutively followed this post, but that’s none of your concern. The thing with this, though, is that two years ago today, I learned how love can maliciously grip the heart of a blind naïve human with a soul and make it do its bidding in order to shackle and rend the adventurous innocent soul into forever being chained with its choice partner. That being said, a notable segment of the local fictional epic poem Florante at Laura comes into my mind.

Love is such a fucking asshole.