Drunken tambukikoy

It’s hard to swallow those two words but what a way to start the end of the year by being just that --- drunken and tambukikoy.

I really hate this time of the year because practically every fucking person is out there parading in the malls, the streets, the bars, just about everywhere you can think of. And for someone like me who’s grown increasingly intolerant of crowds, developing a vertigo of sorts in the midst of a multitude of fucking people, yuletide is the perfect bane. Convenience is the last thing on earth and falling in lines is just about everything that you can do. Good thing though is that I have an excuse to stay at home and catch up on my reading, listen to more music, catch up on my DVD list and laze around. Okay, do some household chores. I’ll try to stay home more often and avoid reunions if I can because really it’s getting too tiring already. Plus the fact that I have a non-existent fucking bonus and non-existent savings which all the more extinguishes the possibility of me replacing my primitive un-classy phone or something that I could totally be happy about.

Miraculously though, last Friday, after the inter-division party (note: the office-wide is another thing, and yes, they come up with these sorts of parties in the office, part of the bureaucratic criteria I guess), I didn’t puked in the table when I could have already, after drinking 5 bottles of that beer which promises you that’s ITO ANG TAMA, probably the result of a drinking hiatus which spanned eons. I vomited at home, but that’s after bawling over my colleague’s propensity to buy chicken skin in the midst of drunkenness, a spilled hot choco which I called Milo and made the girl at the Jollibee (or was it McDo) drive-in counter scoff at me, urinating in the midst of a passageway of the drinking compound, and being too linguistically-abnormal and embarrassingly drunk to be accompanied home.

My colleague’s mother called me, when for the first time she saw me, tambukikoy, or tabachuy, or an adjective similarly-sounding and purporting as saying that I’ve actually grown to unbelievable proportions. Or maybe that’s too humble of me. Let’s just say I’ve completely forgotten my on-off ineffective and pretentious diet regimen so that instead of getting a little smaller, I continue to pig out. Who the hell cares? That fuckable chick who wants a six-pack-ab guy riding her? She can fondle herself like Eva Fonda who’s fuckably-yummy. If living a life means getting to eat what I want to then just fuck the rest.