Friday, April 13, 2007

freaky Friday

I still get freaked out sometimes with Friday the 13th. Like today. Days before the date, I always feel like there's an impending doom or something. Or sometimes I caught myself ill-at-ease. I'm not a big fan of Jason Voorhees or the Halloween series either. My birthday is on a 31 and Mama died on a 13, Friday, same month as my birthday.

Something about numbers and their superstitious inclinations. Like last year, 06 June 2006 -- or rather the very ominous combination 6/6/06 -- a unexplicable feeling of dread enveloped me the entire day. I was on travel with some of my colleagues to Cagayan de Oro that day and while inside the van I kept receiving this spooky text messages on doomsday, disasters, anti-christ and what-have-yous.

Crossing an intersection (still in Davao), a freak accident unfold right in front of our very own eyes. It's like as if the van turned into a freezer and froze us in utter disbelief. Two motorcycles collided, the other one rode a couple; the woman was pregnant I think. When the vehicles crashed, the woman tumbled on the side but the man was thrown in the air and smashed his head on the pavement. He was wearing a helmet but blood immediately covered his face. The driver responsible fled to a nearby golf course and everybody who saw waited for almost a minute for reality to cave in and finally got their asses moving.

No comments:

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting