Chameleon, n.:

Sometimes I do things that are not on my bucket list but are on others’. And there’s an analytical and rational way of elucidating that obtuse madness. However, I’m not going to lay it on your filthy table because I, for once, do not owe you an explanation.  But, maybe you’d get it as you keep on reading this inaudible-yet-visible lament. Or maybe not. But either way, honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m just going to tell a pretty boring story―in which, if you’re a guy like me, your balls would apologetically shrink in approval to my gibberish―where my quite unacceptable acts are involved and will be mentioned a lot according to what really did happen that one hell of a night. Actually, I am not quite sure to what the point of me-saying-this is, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with giving and getting a little help (if that’s what this is). So, anyway, maybe your mind’s starting to throttle itself with some eager WH- questions like ‘What happened?’ and ‘Why did it happen?’ Well, maybe it’d be a little less repugnant to start off with ‘Who are you,’ wouldn’t it?

I was a simple teenager with some simple dreams and— fuck it! I’m not going to tell you who I am. It’s the story that matters, not the writer. Frankly, if I would ever have my own published book, I would not be one of those authors who have their shit-faces stamped on the whole back cover or elsewhere of their works, i.e. Paulo Coelho. His photo in Like a Flowing River is hilarious. But to clear this up, I love him. He’s a damn great writer. I just really can’t seem to make a sense out of it. I mean, nobody buys his books to see his face, right? Because it’s his words that matter, not his teeth saying ‘Howdy’ to the world. So why bother putting it albeit it’s clear no one needs it? Anyway, that one was true, for the record: I was a simple teenager. WAS. And what used to be a present turned out to be buried in the past now because I got fed up with the anonymity of my entirety. Of course, in this society, if you’re simple, you’re nothing. So, yes. I was a Nobody before. To be honest, if I were Ronald McDonald, you’d never know me the way you know him now as the stupid clown with red just-fucked hair and infuriating grin, standing in front of every outlet, even though you always eat my quarter pounder… or my fries, if you’re broke like that. No one really recognized me before. And if there’s something worse than being a total stranger to everybody, that’d be having AIDS. What I’m saying is no one wants to laugh alone behind a huge pack of morons throwing baloney Yo Mama jokes at each other’s face, you know what I mean? It’s really worse than having AIDS or some shit like that, because people don’t come to you for no apparent reason. You’re perfectly fine and healthy, but still they’re making you feel like you’re carrying some kind of deadly virus. Everybody needs someone to laugh with. To live with. And the sad part is in order to get that, however, you need to be a chameleon. You need to blend in depending on the backdrop—no matter how uncomfortable that could be.

My parents raised me as holy as possible. They indefatigably shoved God’s name down to my throat just fine. I even used to pray and talk to Him every moment of my life. Like when I reached my destination after a long walk, I thanked Him. When I got the proper side of my mind working for my Algebra exam, I praised Him. And when I flushed the toilet and the water went up instead of down, I asked for His help. He was everywhere. But that terrible night of the beginning of my fucked-up life, He wasn’t. He was absent. Maybe He was just late and I shut him out of the door because “Late comers, no entry,” like what my grade-school devil teachers said. Anyway, it all started with a tall bottle filled with red-orangey liquid and intoxicating scent prickling my nostrils. When my “friends” and I had enough skateboarding that night, we drank the magical thing down and then everything spun like God was Zac Efron in 17 Again, twirling the Earth with His mighty finger. And eventually, my fingers got something to work out too. But this moment, it needed my mouth and my lungs. My poor little lungs. So, as I hit and blew this white piece of stick, I didn’t know I was puking out some portions of my life, too, some years of my existence. I was slowly killing myself. Just to look cool. To be accepted.

what a waste.

It went on and on for quite some time, and it was because I needed to have friends. I needed to be a part of some wolfpack, not minding whether it was a good one or the contrary. A half of me says I was compelled by the society to do it; to be a chameleon and blend in with the wrong kinds of trees, but the better half of me says I liked it as well. Because if one has greater convictions that he is as complete as a capsule of Centrum, nothing would force him to be somebody else he’s not. If only I was able to see that I have a loving family and a few nice-arsed friends who complete me, then I wouldn’t be in this kind of misery. I should’ve been the same simple teenager with simple dreams―and with no ‘fuck it.’ Now all I could say is sorry because I ruined my parents’ trust to me and my old friends’ love for me and my once perfect life. I think this just concludes that a life full of Sorry is a life full of Fuck it.