Saturday, January 05, 2008

It's a shitty, fcuked up world after all.

1 hour and 14 minutes says the timer of my computer in this thriving internet cafe in our kanto. I'm in this renovated expanded room of theirs secluded from the gaming room which noise has been increasingly intolerable. Thank God for the improvement, it certainly fits well with the New Year.

Shit, it is 2008! This has got to be one of the most boring Saturdays in my entire life, not that I take note of all those gloomy Saturdays. Or maybe because I just feel like shit today and I wanted to do something else than stare at the crumbling ceiling of ours that I swear would crush us any moment all the people in the upstairs rooms stomp their feet all together. (Wait, it is really 2008, right?) I wasn't intending to write an entry and since the last time I wrote and kept on returning to my home page and seeing it like that, surprisingly, I didn't give a fuck whether I get back to writing. Which is seriously pathetic. And sick. Whatever happened to the therapeutic claims.

I was watching Season 1 episodes of Six Feet Under this morning, and fuck, what a slap of reality in my tiresome feeling-identification game. It was Nate who nailed it. After failing the funeral services licensure exam, Nate, the eldest of the Fishers, wails that he doesn't know what to do with his life anymore, that he isn't sure whether going back to take care of the business his father left them was really right. I am not 100 percent sure whether I'm in that uncertainty stage because I am not sure whether I don't really have the choices or that I am just trying to act stupid and chickenshit by not opening myself to these choices. Hell, they're even fucking impossible when I come to think of it. But what the heck, the choices aren't the problem, it's the chooser. Now, fucking choose or stay miserable and feel shitty as you always did.

This isn't a perfect world and we got to live with that and we got to live with the fact that we have to keep reminding ourselves of that, but like the short-time mortician of the Fishers who shortly replaced talented Federico, in describing the Fisher home, "this is depressing". Here's to 365 days of attempt at direction, fulfillment, patience, dedication, perseverance, persistence and happiness.

Jeez, Happy New Year to you.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

fucking great way to start the new year man! You need to get laid. hahahah

<.> said...

ops. i'm smelling brewing mid-life crisis? we all get this way but once. here's praying this year will turn uncertainties to certainties. happy new year jay! =)

Anonymous said...

it's better to attempt than to forever watch sfu reruns and be nega. naks, im deep. attempt to have a happy 08, at least.

jayclops said...

@ Isko, yeah I need to man, as in fucking now. hahaha.

@ fye, hoy grabe pud ka. kalayo pa sa mid-life. I'm in my post-adolescent years pa kaya. hahaha.

@ pat, thanks. yeah, who knows that attempt is all worth the while. hahaha.

<.> said...

oh. but i remember you saying u'r stuck with your preteens? bleh.

Anonymous said...

janus, relax..2008 na, year pa natin.. relax lang.. pakyu! hehehe

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