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.
Sometimes you'd think it's fucking cool to be such a fucked up creature on this fucking planet called Earth, being fucking wasted with some fucking spliff hanging on your fucking mouth and swigging some fucking beer or vodka, or some fucking tequila, but most of the fucking time you'd realize that you're a total fucking mess that does no fucking good all through your fucking existence. You'd think you're fucking worthless, fucking pathetic, and what-fucking-ever else to add up to that fuck, because everything you fucking touch turns to fucking shit. Everything you're involved at transforms into a fucking pile of fucked up moments. And to stay away from fucking whatever else is fucking left, you'd fucking isolate yourself. You'd prefer to be fucking alone than to fuck up more things and more people's lives, because you'd not want others to fucking stare at you like you're a fucking waste that keeps on ruining the fuck out of every-fucking-thing. You'd even put up a fucking act that you don't fucking care about anyone at all and that they should fuck off all the time because you don't fucking need the fuck of them. But nobody would ever know that deep inside your fucking vulnerability, you fucking need somebody to fucking understand you and fix the fucked up soul you'd always have.
