LitWit Challenge 3.7: After the after-party (Update: The Yucch-meter is feeling a hell of a lot better.)
Hearing the Nino Rota score reminded me of Fellini, which reminded me of La Dolce Vita (the film that gave the world “paparazzi”), which reminded me of the wild parties in that movie, which reminded me that we have two Bret Easton Ellis books to give away.
Here is this week’s assignment: In 1,000 words or less, write me a tale of the after-after-party. What happens after a night of excess, overindulgence, and behavior you wish you didn’t remember? Why is everyone yelling at you? How did that bowling alley get inside your skull? Who are these people? How are you going to explain that video? Is that a sloth?
It doesn’t have to be in the first person; it could happen to someone else. The prize: Less Than Zero and its sequel, Imperial Bedrooms.
Start feeling that hangover.
You have until Sunday, 26 September at 12 noon to post your entries in Comments.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
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Thank you for the first entry. We know time is a fluid concept, but we said AFTER.
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The first entry has been deleted upon the author’s request.
As for the second entry the Yucch-meter nearly self-destructed at the line, “He immediately succumbs to the ground” and was forced to reboot for its own sanity.
It’s that kind of contest.
HELP.
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Thursday. The Yucch-meter is rebooting and will resume service later today. Meanwhile here’s visual, properly out of focus.
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With the exception of Evan’s short and nasty shocker, the entries feel like the same story submitted eight times. They all suffer from obviousness. There are some details that stand out, and we don’t mean the disgraceful attempts of entry #4 to ingratiate himself with the Yucch-meter (There is a way to do wink-wink nudge-nudge self-referential in-jokey comedy. It is not with a sledgehammer). rani’s description of the self-inflicted bites is the sort of detail that makes a story seem real. angus25, cochise_miz and ariadnespins all use obvious pop culture references (The Bride? Audioslave? White Stripes?) to signify how “hip” they are.
We move that the word “hip” be retired and replaced with “pelvis”.
Here’s a depressing thought: Your notions of debauchery are identical. The more far-out you think you are, the more you are like everyone else.
Is that all you’ve got? And why so serious? Is that guilt?
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The Yucch-meter is back after a full day’s rest and recuperation. There’s nothing like 11 straight hours of sleep to recharge the battery. Now to work.
ralphwaldo: Thank you for not beginning your entry with some variation of “Shet pare, I got so wasted last night.” You have the germ of a story here—young man, faithful household retainer, dying mother, the Eros-Thanatos sex-and-death thing. The Jake character could use some personality. You need a hook.
winnerific: Oy, this time from the “Shet mare, I got so wasted last night” school. But the voice is interesting and the jumpy tone of the internal monologue is sustained throughout. Is this drawn from real life? Do not be the nanny.
jake: Aha, the Raymond Carver-ness. No mention of what had transpired the previous night, but the reader gets that alcohol was involved. Good.
Momelia: Hysterical! You have staked a claim on the comic-absurdist territory in these contests. While reading this piece I imagined Meatloaf and his giant breasts in Fight Club. Could you be…the gay Chuck Palahniuk?! (Newsflash: Chuck Palahniuk is now openly gay. Making Momelia…the straight Chuck Palahniuk?)
dibee: Brilliant. Makes way more sense than Inception. None of that “But you said we had to do A or B would happen. But wait, there’s C! No one’s ever tried it, but it could lead to D!” And the dialogue is solid. You should write movies.
Ejia: That’s bizarre, but it is entertaining. Too much hyperbole. And you can’t just spring the demons on the reader, there has to be some clue early on that the supernatural is involved. You know, the gun that will be fired towards the end.
shadowplay: An engaging (literally) plot is drowned in overworked, often awkward prose. The reader is so preoccupied with untangling the syntax that she may lose the plot altogether. Just tell the story, don’t complicate matters. Complication does not equal depth.
macbookpro: Clever, getting biblical on this challenge. Sodom and Gomorrah did get nuked for their debauchery. I like the part in Genesis that comes before this one—where Abraham has the chutzpah to negotiate. What if I find 50? 40? 20? What if there are ten? Then there’s that disturbing part where Lot’s daughters get their father drunk. Ewww.
2Qt2BSTR8: We are joined by a bruha. You had us at “Revens, honey, revens…” Will see die in a car crass, sipwreck, or avalans? Good use of detail, and the song references are used as atmosphere rather than descriptive shortcuts.
quocksock: We weren’t sure we could publish your story as it is fairly graphic. However we do feature the winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Bad Sex Awards, so why not. Unlike many bestselling romance novels, your story is intentionally funny. At least we hope the funny is intentional. We can’t wait for the cannibalism sequence.
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Here’s the last batch of yucch-meter readings.
Ejia: The classic Twilight Zone story works not just because it contains a clever twist but because the reader feels something for the protagonist, be it pity, disgust, or a sort of kinship. The character in your story is merely smug, and not smug enough to be repellent. The words are used correctly, they are arranged in the right sequence, but behind them, what.
kindler: I had to read this over before I got that the narrator is male. Maybe because the speech is a little affected. Perhaps the narrator could describe the women in more specific terms than “lovely, lively”, and by specific I mean “a bit knock-kneed, but long legs”, etc.
jediknight: The punchline is lost in all the “exotic” details.
kittymarie: There’s an adage, “Form follows function.” If the protagonist feels humiliated, why does she sound thrilled? As my friends who work in production would say, “Walang audio-video lock.”
With that, the yucch-meter is going on vacation.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
September 22nd, 2010 at 18:00
Curtains open to reveal a dark stage. Nick comes in and light shines down on him.
Nick: What do I say just a few hours before I take my fate into my own hands? I don’t know. Probably a defense of what I am about to do. Probably an apology to those I would be leaving. This is not a grand and magnificent wimping out, and you would probably think, although it might appear to be so. After all, I’m nineteen. People my age usually haven’t seen half the madness that life is going to present me. What sort of abomination then have I seen, such that I would be moved to talk so grimly right now? I’m sorry. I’m getting way ahead of myself.
The stage lights up and Kathy walks in.
Kathy: Hi Nick.
Nick: Oh, hi Kathy. I was just thinking of you. Have you finished your accounting homework already? Grabe ang hirap. I stayed up all night trying to finish it.
Kathy: You’re right. I think napahirapan nang mabuti yung author when he was a student, which is why he’s coming up with problems like these for us.
Nick: Ha! I just know that you won’t be satisfied with homework that you would take you less than half an hour to crack.
Kathy: Challenging homework is getting harder to find! The pressures of genius-level IQ I tell you.
Nick: O, where are you going? You’re early for class.
Kathy: I was on my way to the library. I want to research a little on World War II. You coming with me?
Nick: You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.
A spotlight shines down on Nick as the stage lights dim. He is once again left alone. He takes a seat on the bench and gets comfortable.
Nick: Kathy and me, we’re like soulmates. I can’t believe that we’ve known each other since we were in grade school. We’re both geeks, which is to say we are at a constant struggle against people who would try to wrest our assignments, projects, answers to test questions, and sanity from us. We feel that we have a moral obligation to defend society against scum like them. So we’re waging a crusade against their several mutations: those who cut lines during our infernal registration procedures, those who are mucking up the environment …the list is endless. But then most of all, I like Kathy because she is my half of the circle. I hope that I am the half of her circle. I’ll have to pop the question soon. Something like, “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, I’d like it for you and me to go out, but what I’d really like is if we could be a couple.”
The whole stage lights up again. Marco walks in, with a girl in tow.
Marco: Nick, pakopya naman your homework sa accounting.
Nick: Ay, Jonex borrowed it already. He’s in the library. Maybe it will be with him. You can catch up with him if you go now. (aside) Don’t worry about Marco. He’ll find someone else to copy from.
Marco: Okay. Um, mahirap ba yung homework? I haven’t even peeled the plastic cover from the textbook!
Nick: Mahirap, pare. Sabi ni Kathy may pent-up frustrations yung author kaya mahirap raw yung mga problems.
Lights dim and focus on Nick.
Nick: Marco and I have been friends for a long time. Marco and I are as different as two persons can be, and still remain friends. He is everything that I know I will not be. And at the same time, he is everything I hope that I be. But I guess I live vicariously through him. He’s the precise person against whom I am waging my crusade. Those who copy homework, who have the sheer talent of overcutting every subject, who cut lines, who swear loudly when teachers give assignments. But then Marco is confident, aggressive, and…well, he gets the girls. He gets away with everything! And people love him for it. Which is probably the reason why I stick with him.
He gets up from the bench and gets his backpack and walks toward the audience, away from the stage which is going to change scenery. The spotlight follows him.
Nick: After having introduced you to the most important persons in my lives, what remains now, would probably be a typical teenage story on me tying the proverbial knot with Kathy, breaking up for a while, and then making up again, stronger than ever. Probably Marco and I would have a fistfight after he disses Kathy. And then, we’d make up and he’d be the best man on my wedding. A dream that anybody would love to come true, right?
The spotlight continues to shine down to Nick. But the stage starts to be bathed in red light. The bench is taken away, and people start pouring into the stage. It’s a disco. Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” is playing, then fades out while Nick talks.
Nick: But that dream never came true. Instead, what happened was reality. And although I would like to think of it as a dream, I could not. Because it was reality that happened: in its most starkly savage form.
Nick’s voice becomes a voice over and he disappears. Marco and Kathy are among the crowd on stage, in the Disco. Nick comes out after a while looking extremely nauseous and Marco is laughing boisterously. Kathy is screaming like crazy. Marco gestures, as if to say, “Just this one last glass!” and he hands Nick a glass of colored liquid. He has one himself, and at a cue, both he and Nick gulp it down. Nick drops his glass on the floor, and he storms out of the throng, and starts barfing. Kathy sits down and starts crying.
Nick: Let me tell you instead about that night. On that fateful day, just minutes before great fire consumed Ozone Disco I was out in the parking lot, barfing my guts out. Marco challenged me to guzzle down tankard after tankard of alcohol into my system. Kathy was screaming at me for drinking too much, because it was just the first day of our officially being a couple, and it was our first official date, and it was turning out to be a living hell.
Then everything starts to go into slow motion. There is a scream, and all the noise stops. Everyone looks behind them, and then make a wild rush for the spot where Nick is. A few people are able to get out. After which, the red light bathing the stage goes off suddenly, and is replaced with a rapid flashing of white light. There is still a constant struggle for those who are inside the “disco” to get out, and Nick struggles to join them. But some people hold him tightly. He is unable to do anything.
Nick: I saw them again days after and they were scarred beyond belief. These two people were my…friends. I was them. They were…me.
Nick kneels down on the stage. He clasps his hands together as if in prayer.
Nick: Kathy, Marco, I know that you’re there somewhere. And I know that you can here me. You know that I’d give everything I have just for the both of you to be right here again. If only both of you were here with me right now. And the three of us would be together. And all of us would be happy. But you’re not here. I hope you’re happy there. I’m going to see you soon. I’m going to see you soon!
Nick takes something out a small vial from his pocket. He opens it, and then drinks the contents. He immediately succumbs to the ground. The spotlight does not swerve from Nick. But spotlights of different colors now shine down on two characters who enter the stage.
Marco: You do it. You were his girlfriend.
Kathy: You do it. You were the one who placed crazy ideas like these in his head.
Marco: Nuh-uh! He loved you too much. He just dragged my name into this whole thing.
Kathy: Fine. I’ll do it.
Marco: I just want you to know though, that I would’ve done it if you couldn’t.
Kathy looks at Marco, irritated, but she ignores him.
Kathy: (whispering) Nick. Nick. Wake up. Wake up.
Nick seems to arise from a deep slumber. Kathy continues calling him, so that when he is finally up, he thinks that someone is calling him. But he can’t see Kathy or Marco. He can hear their voices faintly. He is still too groggy to respond.
Kathy: Be at peace. Be happy.
Marco: Be nice to yourself. You were to me.
Kathy: I love you.
Marco: See you soon buddy. Not too soon I hope.
Nick realizes what just happened. He looks around.
Nick: Kathy? Marco?
He does not see Kathy and Marco even if they are onstage with him.
EXEUNT
September 22nd, 2010 at 18:43
that bad huh? Lol. Then again, you will hopefully thank me for participating, and it’s not every day that one receives an expression of gratitude from the great jz!
September 22nd, 2010 at 21:06
There are masochists amongst us.
September 23rd, 2010 at 00:55
Here’s another try?
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Some notes I’ve had to write after last night.
To my ex: I woke up today and saw that I dialed your number 48 times. I have absolutely no idea what it was I wanted to tell you and I do hope that was the full extent of my indiscretion. The hearing on the restraining order that my lawyer had to drag me to this morning was not fun. What can I say? I was drunk, and wasn’t that the point of you hooking up with me in the first place, because I was so much fun when I’m drunk? Oh wait, I remember, you were just after my money. I hate you.
To the gay guy with the gorgeous fag hag friend: I hope you realize that my perving was aimed at your female friend and your female friend only. I realize that when I’m drunk, I get all smiley and my eyes don’t really focus well so it seems like I’m smiling and propositioning everyone in the general direction of where I’m looking. But I’m pretty sure that when I went to the bathroom and you followed me and groped me while I was peeing and I said “no” and “stop” that I was pretty clear. The takedown I did on you wasn’t a signal for you to take off your clothes and to claw my clothes off my body and I’m sortov sure my screaming was not equivocal.
To the guy who slept in my bed last night: It’s me, the random guy you followed home like some sort of drunken puppy dog. First of all, I’m still a little pissed that you prevented us from going home with the girl we were making out with. That shit was in the bag til you had to go crazy and ruin it. Second, I’m sure you know by now that the iPhone you took from me can’t make any calls. However, it does contain my 5 gig collection of, em, inspirational photos, and I’d like it back. Third, wonder of wonders, you left YOUR jacket, with your white powdery junk. Leave a comment here (JZ, please approve his comment, I promise this is the last time I’ll use your comment board as my public bulletin board) and we’ll figure out how you can get me my iPhone back and how you can get your jacket back.
To the girl who was freaked out by that creepy guy above: Call me. Oh wait, you don’t have my number. JZ, please approve her message for me?
To the girl who slept in my bed last night: I’m sure you remember me, unless you just happen to like sleeping over in drunk people’s beds. I’m the cute one with the Chinese characters tattoo on the back with whom you had fun with while the other guy was snoring and sort of crying too. Isn’t anyone scared of sleeping over in strange people’s beds anymore? If this is you, tell me what you were wearing (you know the drill, leave a message here on JZ’s board). Actually, screw that, just tell me if will be back tonight. I’ll change the sheets. And I promise the bathroom’s not that scary all the time. Sorry I had to leave so early, my lawyer hauled my ass to the court for some hearing. I promise it’s not for a restraining order in relation to my behavior towards my ex.
To my boss: I’m really sorry it had to end this way. It was two good years I spent being scared sh*tless whenever I heard you voice on the phone, when you ripped apart my work in front of me, when you asked me to do your kid’s term paper (seriously, a 250 word summary of Alice in Wonderland? You could’ve just checked JZ’s LitWit challenges and picked one that you liked). It was a great big company and I wanted to have my name attached to it, thinking that it would be worth it. Oh well. I guess I don’t regret that it ended with you up at 5AM and telling you I’ve hated you since day one, that I knew from the beginning that you were wearing a toupee, that I’ve been sleeping with your secretary, that I’ve been disarranging your figurine collection just to spite you. Now you know, right?
To mom: I’ll be sleeping over next month, umkay? Only just til I find a new job. See ya.
September 23rd, 2010 at 01:16
Nagising ako sa sobrang ingay, may nagtatawanan ng malakas. Gusto ko sanang buksan ang mata ko kaso ang bigat ng mga talukap. Feeling ko nagkaedema ang eyelids ko. Gusto kong sigawan yung mga insensitive na taong nagtatawanan kaso sobrang tuyo ng lalamunan ko. Matigas ang higaan, sa sahig siguro ako nakatulog. May kumot naman na nakalatag pero di pa rin kumportable. Ang sakit ng likod ko, yung pakiramdam na tumagos yung buto mo sa muscles at fats dahil buong gabing iisa lang ang posisyon mo, bed sore ika nga nila. Ang dami kasi, mga sampu kami na pinagsiksikan ang sarili namin sa master’s bedroom sa bahay ng kaklase naming may birthday. Bumaliktad ako ng pwesto at ibinaon ang mukha ko sa unan. Kaunti na lang siguro kaming tulog kaya medyo maluwag na. After five or ten minutes (dahil ang hirap intindihin ng time), binulabog ako ng isa kong kaibigan, tumila na ang tawanan.
“Hermione! Gising na. ikaw na lang ang tulog. Mantika ka talaga”.
Gusto kong sapakin ang gumigising sa akin pero wala akong lakas. Di naman ako nagkakaroon ng hangover. First time ito.
“Wait lang.”
Pagkasabi ko nito sabay taas ng dalawa kong kamay, nakaramdam ako ng hapdi. At pagtingin ko, puro pasa na gawa ng kagat ang aking braso.
“Ahhh!!! Sinong kumagat sa akin?”
Ang sabi ko sa paos kong boses, puro hangin ang lumabas. Tumawa ang lalaking gumising sa akin sabay sabing :
“Ikaw kaya may gawa niyan. Pa-english english ka pa kagabi. Sabi mo ‘di ako lasing. I’m biting myself to feel the pain’. Pinipigilan ka namin pero ayaw mo paawat.”
Hinawakan ko ang ulo ko at inalala ang mga pangyayari. Wala akong naalala sa pagiging masokista. Naalala ko si Harry at Ron na pumunta sa isang sulok at nagbobodyshot sa kung saan saan. Si Ginny na sumayaw sa ibabaw ng lamesa. Si Voldie na kumakantang mag-isa. Si Snape na sumuka sa CR habang yakap yakap ang toilet bowl. Si Dumby na kung anu-ano ang sinabi sa kung sino sino, mabaho raw ang hininga ni Patty, may buhok daw ang kili-kili ni Lyda, ginagamit lang daw ni Neville si Toad…Lahat ito ay naaalala ko. Dahil isa ako sa mga pinakahuling tinamaan. Nakitawa pa ako sa iba kong kaibigan habang pinapanood ang kalasingan nila. Ang huling nasa isip ko eh ang pagsuka ko ng spaghetti at alak sa kalsadang katapat ng bahay na pinag inuman namin.
Bumangon ako at nakitang may katabi pala akong supot na may kulay red na parang buo buo sa loob. Alam na kung ano yun at biglang bumaliktad ang aking sikmura. Pumunta ako sa banyo at bigla kong naalala na muntik pala akong mahulog sa hagdan kagabi ng pumunta ako sa banyo para sumuka. Pagpasok sa loob, nilock ko ang pinto at naghilamos. Di ko napigilan ang uhaw kaya uminom ako mula sa gripo. Wala ng pakialam kung may salmonella o cholera pa diyan. Pagkatapos uminom, pumasok at umupo ako sa isang sulok ng kwarto. Sila Delia at Jera ay naglilipat ng pictures mula sa camera papuntang laptop. Nakatingin lang ako habang cliniclick nila ang arrow at tinitingnan ang mga litrato, si Snape na kayakap ang bowl, si Ginny na sumasayaw, napangiti ako habang may konting awa na naramdaman para sa kanila. Well, kasalanan naman nila dahil “weak” sila. Ha-ha. Tuloy pa rin ang paglipat ng mga litrato ng bigla akong napa-SHIT! Ang litartong kasunod ay ako habang kinakagat ang kamay ko. Ang kasunod pa, ako habang umiinom ng Gin + pineapple juice mula sa pitcher na hindi ko maalalang ininom ko. Sa susunod na litrato, nakalabas ang dila ko habang nakadikit dito ang labi ni snape. Bigla akong nahilo, gusto kong sumuka pero wala ng laman ang sikmura ko. Alam mo yung paikiramdam na may kamay na pumipiga sa utak mo pero hindi mo mapigilan kasi may skull na pagitan ang kamay mo at ang kamay na iyon? Pumikit ako pero lalo lang akong nahilo kaya minulat ko ulit ang mata ko, andun pa rin yung picture.
Inisip kong ideny ang litrato, kalimutan ang nangyari pero alam kong wala itong kwenta dahil nasa harap ko na ang hard evidence. Buti sana kung kwento lang ang kalaban ko, pwede kong hindi patotohanan at i-rebut. Pero pag litrato na, lalo kapag video, wala ng takas. Napag-isip isip ko na mas makabubuti kung hindi na ako makikipagtalo pa. Talo na ako. Totoo ang nasa picture! Kaasar!!!
Tiningnan ka nila Delia at Jera habang nakangiti na parang demonyo, naghihintay.
“Huy, pakibura naman yan. Please? Grabe.”
Lalong nagmukhang demonyo ang ngiti nila.
“Hindi pwede. Memories din ito ha. Di naman namin ia-upload eh. Promise.”
Napanatag ng konti ang loob ko pero di pa rin ako 100% na napalagay. Alam ko ang takbo ng utak ng mga ito. Di nga maa-upload pero mamamatay naman ako sa kantiyaw. Nahiya ako bigla sa sarili ko. Pinangako na hindi na ako uulit. Sa susunod, magtitimpi na ako. Pero alam kong hindi rin naman ito matutupad. Ilang beses na ba akong nangako sa sarili ko, uminom, nagsuka, nahiya, nangako ulit at uminom ulit? Pero first time kong makuhanan ng mga litratong ganyan. Gusto ko tuloy basagin sa harap ni Delia at Jera ang laptop pero wala na akong magagawa. At least, lalaki ang kasama ko sa picture.
“Cross your hearts?”
“Oo nga!”
Tapos ang usapan.
Pauwi na kami sa sari-sarili naming bahay. Ito ang pinakaayokong parte kapag nakikipag-inuman ako. Hindi dahil sa maghihiwahiwalay na kaming magkakaibigan kung hindi dahil nakakapikon na magcommute pauwi habang gustung gusto ng katawan mong humilata at matulog maghapon.
Paglabas naming ng gate,
“Ewww! Kadiri! Sinong sumuka dito?”
Tanong ng lahat. Ako ? Naki-Eww lang ako at nakisali rin sa pambibintang kay Snape. Ha-ha.
September 23rd, 2010 at 01:55
My eyes fluttered for a few seconds. They sought the alarm clock on the bedside table; it read a quarter past four in the afternoon. I wanted to stand up, but I couldn’t muster enough strength to even lift my head. It actually took a few minutes before I could check for the time. Besides, I couldn’t feel my limbs. I tried wiggling my toes ala Beatrix Kiddo. They did wiggle, but it didn’t feel like they were a part of my feet. Worse, I didn’t even feel that my feet were a part of my body.
My abdomen is a black hole. Somehow, someone or even something must have disemboweled me and took every organ out. I might have been impaled of my gastric juices as well. My stomach usually rumbles at its own whim, but it must have gone someplace else along with my intestines and other digestive organs. They were on strike for the previous night’s alcohol abuse.
I tried to call my mom or my sister who must be in the living room, or so I thought. I opened my mouth, and I realized I couldn’t even croak. My throat was too dry; there was some phlegmatic matter clogged in it. Good thing that I was still able to breathe.
Breathing was slowly becoming a problem. With each lungful of air, I felt my body sinking deeper into the bed sheets. I even thought that the bed was going to swallow me soon if I just kept still. It reminded me of a horror film that I saw as a toddler. The memory of a woman screaming for help while being slowly devoured by a bed was enough to give me a little jolt.
I was finally able to pull myself up and sit. I felt for my stomach; I was relieved to find out that I was still anatomically complete. I stared at the floor and saw pale red vomit everywhere. Good thing I managed not to step on this fluid that looked like diluted tomato juice. Its rancid smell suddenly infiltrated my nostrils upon the mere sight of it.
I threw up everything that I ate. I was looking at a gelatinous white strip about two inches long, and I figured that it was the chicken skin that I gorged last night. Great, that was the eat all you can promo of that Chinese restaurant where I spent dinner with a couple of college friends. We were only supposed to eat all we can until we saw these cute skinny high school boys. I was supposed to object, but it was hard to resist an all-boys drink all you can, so I tagged along.
I didn’t have a headache or a hangover, but a simple body movement proved to be a difficult task that took a lot of strength and will. I wanted badly to put something in my mouth so I really needed to get up. A cup of coffee, ice chips, candy, food, anything good for human consumption to make me feel human again.
With much effort, I was able to stand up on my feet. I didn’t know how, but I was able to do it anyway. I was struggling to maintain my balance with the little energy that I had. This must be that thing called vertigo, I thought. I took a small step, but something was wrong.
My asshole was in tremendous pain.
September 23rd, 2010 at 08:15
Claire sat in bed for a long time staring at the Audioslave poster on the wall. She had stopped listening to them after Out of Exile but salvaged the memorabilia if only for the shirtless Chris Cornell. Fervid thoughts pelted her brain, but a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror put an abrupt end to the amatory fantasies. She looked horrid. The wayfarers concealed the dark rims of her eyes. The blood red hue of her lips was a stark contrast to her pallid skin. And because she and her friends usually just went out nights for drinks and dope, she was skinny as hell. “I could use a quarter-pounder right now” she thought. But she instantly dismissed the idea of food and reached for the Bacardi on the side table. She toppled the bottle in her clumsiness and spilled it on the Ellis book that was resting on the side of the bed. “Fuck” she grumbled. Claire didn’t read much. Less Than Zero was a book Adrian suggested she read. She remembered how much he liked Blair in the novel. “You’re a lot like her. Only less clingy I guess” she recalled him say. She felt a lump form in her throat thinking of these things, of Adrian. She gulped a glassful of the rum, opened the drawer and snatched a copy of the bible. She leafed quickly through the pages and stopped at the Book of Revelation:
“3:2 – I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God”.
She tore the page violently as if an act of rebellion, took out a stack of weed from under the mattress and rolled a joint. Her mother would’ve gone mad she imagined, if she found out about this sacrilege. Or the addiction. She didn’t really care either way. She dusted the ashes off her dress and threw what remained of the spliff out the window. Just then the phone started ringing. She picked it up and listened to Jill on the other end:
“Claire?”
“Yeah”
“We’re off to the services now. They said Adrian’s – well he’s – a pause. You set?”
“Uh-huh”
“Pick you up in thirty okay?”
“Okay”
“You alright?” a sound of nervousness in Jill’s voice.
Silence.
“Well, see you in few Claire” the dial tone reverberating in her head.
Images of the previous night came flashing back like pieces of a puzzle refusing to connect. Adrian slumped on the floor, unconscious, while she wept uncontrollably trying to revive him. He had excused himself from the party for a while but when some time passed and he hadn’t returned, she got worried. With help from the bar security they forced open the bathroom door to find Adrian had OD’d. Their friends threw the party as a surprise. It was her and Adrian’s anniversary.
The honking from outside signaled Jill had arrived. Claire grabbed her purse and took a last sip of the rum and as she did, Chris Cornell with his doe eyes, stared at her. “Don’t you fucking judge me. I did everything I could.” she spewed. She tore the poster vehemently and stormed out the door.
September 23rd, 2010 at 19:19
Here is the wire hanger. And now it is a hook.
Where is that boy? Boy number 34, or 37 — you’ve lost count; your fingers only go up to ten. Up to twenty if you count your toes. And all your digits already have names to remember. Julio, Dennis, Juan Javier, Robinson, Charles the Third…you can recite them all, recount each of their stories — in vivid detail recollect the musk of their armpits and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol reeking from their mouths and the way they said those three words during climax, peppered with oh, oh, oh, baby, baby, baby.
So what made you think Boy 37 would’ve been different? Seven inches is nothing but genetics; size is not a yardstick of truth. If anything you should’ve learned that clubs are not churches where you meet the boys who build you houses with white picket fences in the suburbs.
This hook is not a hook but a promise; take out the past and let go. Open wide, look in the mirror, and dig very, very deep inside. The past can be such a stubborn parasite.
September 23rd, 2010 at 20:56
A. In our first elementary reunion, I dressed up like Stevie Nicks.
1. And I wasn’t even drunk.
2. I felt irrelevant. And bulgy. Too much flowy fabric, ugh.
3. That was when the end all started. Naturally, people in an elementary reunion haven’t seen each other for God knows how long. Especially when most of them went to boys’ schools after sixth grade.
I observed that after some time – after the goddamn videoke and 90’s hits parade when people tried their best not to tell everyone that they’re smoking pot – conversations turn into the ridiculously awkward/brazenly honest. Suddenly people were advising each other not to get pregnant or take the board exams. People talking about why the chose to smoke, to live the lies they live.
It was depressing. I was floating around the pool all that time. It was bad enough to have issues, but it was terrible to tell people you barely know that you have them. The class valedictorian yelled at me, “You got thinner!” All I was willing to tell her was, “Of course I did, I took up Chem 17.” And whether there was sympathy with the nods, I really didn’t care.
It was my first drinking party, and I chose to drown myself in vodka shots just to let the awkwardness pass.
B. The bastards got my White Stripes CDs soaked.
1. Compared to the puny stick figure that was him in sixth grade, it was an improvement. He had the broad shoulders of Michael Phelps. “I’ve been in the swim team in college,” he explained loudly when everybody was properly drunk and in the pool.
But in that drunken stupor, my classmates turned into funnier sixth grade versions of themselves. That jerk who poured water in other people’s faces got a beer bottle and poured the contents on various girls. The bullies, in proper gangsta fashion, blasted stupid hip hop music while making people take a hit. Those girls who suddenly became glamorous asswipes to nuns reverted back into loud, screeching proto-bitches running around like the did playing “sekyo.” And that’s when Mr. Swim Team made a move with his shoulders.
And they were playing an Eraserheads CD. I was happy. It was like being 11 again, lying on the classroom floor in my school uniform and strumming a walis tambo like a guitar.
2. A friend of mine was thrown into the pool with all her clothes on and her cellphone in her pocket. She spent the whole drunken night by an electric fan, trying to dry the phone.
3. Speaking of casualties, there was a new Nokia phone out in the market. When the sun finally rose, we realized that:
a) Bully just bought that phone, and
b) It just got stolen
People were searching each other’s bags and accusing each other, and it was the biggest buzz kill ever. Worse than my very first hangover, which I was currently experiencing. I found the whole thing hilarious.
4. Mr. Swim Team promised to call me as soon as he got home. When I reached home, I felt like a zombie gummy worm marinated in chlorine. I watched Kinji Fukasaku’s Battle Royale while trying to fall asleep. I daydreamed of high school, when I could’ve burned the school down and all that shit.
5. Needless to say Mr. Swim Team never called. I called him instead, but it was downhill from there.
September 24th, 2010 at 02:30
“You masturbated while you were asleep.”
And he thought it was a wet dream.
Daday, Jake’s yaya since he was 12, proceeds to serve him lunch in bed. He tries to remember what he had dreamt about as he takes a bite out of a chicken nugget. He’d only slept for four hours since he got home at 7 a.m., but he feels like he slept the whole day.
After lunch, he takes a shower and gets dressed up for the afternoon Mass.
“Your mom called this morning, by the way,” says Daday while making his bed.
“What did she say?” asks Jake.
“She wanted to quit chemotherapy and go organic instead.”
“Oh okay.”
***
Jake skips the communion and quickly gets out of Malate Church. He walks to the nearest Korean eatery.
“Cheese ramen, please.”
Suddenly, he remembers the face of his masseur last night. The massage was bad but the E.S. was good. It should be. P1,000 wasn’t exactly a small amount for a hand job. Anyway, he was dead drunk to do it himself.
September 24th, 2010 at 09:52
“Here’s a depressing thought: Your notions of debauchery are identical. The more far-out you think you are, the more you are like everyone else.
Is that all you’ve got? And why so serious? Is that guilt?”
CARDIAC!!! Kakaloka madam, sasali watashi! Sheena Easton (almost over you) na rin ung candidate ko, binibilang ko lang ung mga words. Ahaha!
September 24th, 2010 at 11:19
I have a hunch that a superhero with superhearing is not with a gift. It most probably is just hangover. I didn’t really feel like going to work today but I just have to be here. I just need to see him. Would he notice? Would he remember? Would he know? I barely slept last night, actually I didn’t sleep at all. I spent the remaining hours tossing around, crying, glancing at the clock, waiting if it’s time to take a bath realizing that I already took a shower. Twice. Maybe this is not a hangover. Maybe I just lack sleep. But honestly, the guy on my right should stay away from the stapler because I’m seriously planning to use it on his head. The consistency of his rhythm causes me to wait for the next punch even if each tick is excruciating to my head. Its like waiting for something that you don’t want. Wanting something that you shouldn’t have. Because its painful. Waiting for each tick hurts. Like waiting for him.
Where is he anyway? Maybe I should call him? Check up on him, ask if he wants anything cancelled on the itinerary today. Well it still is early and after last night, its possible that most of the people here would be late. It was a nice party after all. The program proper was short. Short enough for people to leave and go home to their family. Short enough for people to have more time on taking advantage of the free bar and get wasted. My definition of a nice party is me enjoying a drink or two while watching people transform in front of me. It’s funny how people become different personas when they’re drunk. Some speak english constantly, even better when they’re not drunk. Some cry out of nowhere, complete with tears and drama not knowing why they’re crying. Of course there are those normal ones, just noisy and can’t stand straight but I hate those that puke buckets, those that cuss extremely and the worst: the violent ones that throw bottles and chairs. But him, he was just quiet.
I’ve seen him drunk several times; at least he calls me when he thinks he would be anytime soon and he needs me to drive him home. Because if he is, it’s not noticeable. He just gets really silent and sleepy. I notice because I’ve taken him home several times before and almost every night this past two weeks. But last night was different. I was different.
I drove him home. Assisted him to his room and started unbuttoning his long sleeves to replace it with a t-shirt. I’ve done this before based on his instructions saying he doesn’t want to sleep on his polos as it ruins it. As I was about to pop the t on to his head, I stopped. Stared at him. Contours. Why don’t you notice me? Except for the occasional “Your hair looks nice today”, nothing more. Is there really nothing more? I dropped the shirt and proceeded on the belt. He hates sleeping with his belt on. He says it leaves knots on his stomach. Leave the pants on he says and then go home. Wouldn’t he be more comfortable on his boxers? What’s wrong? Why all the booze this past few days? Do you want to talk? I’m available. I’ve always been waiting. Why won’t you notice me? I’ll leave the boxers and then go home I say.
My chemistry major friend told me before that you should drink plenty of water while drinking to prevent hangover the morning after. It used to work on me. But this throbbing in my head tells me its not full proof. It just left me feeling bloated. Maybe I’m pregnant! Plus this tomato juice doesn’t seem to work. Coffee doesn’t help either. Maybe this is not a hangover. But I do feel horrible, like my body feels sore. And it really does. On some parts. But that’s not it. My feelings are all jumbled up.
Maybe this is not a hangover. Because if it is, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. And right now, I can’t take my mind off images. Pictures in my head. Of him taking my hand the other night thanking me for being there to take him home. Of him taking a glance at me and noticing that I am attractive, realizing that I’m special. Pictures of events that happened and those that I wish would happen. Pictures of him last night. Pictures of me last night. Pictures of us last night. Images of me having a family with him. Scenes from what I did last night. Do I regret it? Pictures of me undressing. Pictures of me motionless, crying, hugging him, holding him, exhausted, sweaty, tired. That exact scene over and over again was enough to make me throw up. And bawl again. How could I have done that? Only someone crazy would do that! How sick can I get?
“Good morning, Mare!” Sabog ka na naman kagabi!
“Oo nga mare wasted ako kagabi. Dami kong nainom. Tulog na tulog na nga ako nung umuwi kami ng kumpare mo eh.”
“True! At dahil don, hindi mo narinig ang latest. Juicy mare!!!! Eto ha, secret lang to ha promise mo!”
“Sino na naman ang nag-lock dyan? Hahaha!!”
“Shunga! Remember yung “friend” ni sir na laging pumupunta punta dito mare? Positive mare!!!!!!”
“Anong positive? Na “friendship” nga sila?”
“Hindi lang yun mare! Positive mare az in HIV positive mare!”
“Ay you mean?! Si sir?”
“Probable mare!!!! Hahahaha!! Eeeewww…
Apparently, more sick than I already am.
September 24th, 2010 at 13:17
Last night my wife said ‘fuck’ for the first time. She said it when she spilled her wine, her fourth glass, on the dining table. For a moment she appeared surprised, but it must be because of her clumsy mistake. She wiped the table with her hand, realized it was a stupid thing to do, laughed, let the wine spill on the floor.
The last time I had beer was when I bumped into a former classmate, who invited me to dinner. I barely finished the bottle and when I got home my wife did not talk to me.
The wine was a gift. I forgot who gave it to us. We have few friends and maybe it was last Christmas. We were eating silently. I stood up and got the bottle. I opened it, poured some on my tall glass. My wife was staring at me. I poured some on her glass too.
She was still sleeping when I called my boss. I told him I can’t go to work today. I have a headache, I said. That’s partially true. Except I’ve had headaches before and I still went to work. My boss said it’s okay. I sensed suspicion.
I had to use the bathroom. The sheets were a mess. My wife was sitting on the bed when I got back to the bedroom. What time is it, she asked. I’m not going to work today, I said.
Everyday she would prepare breakfast and we’d have breakfast together. I’d drop her to her language class, I believe it’s Farsi this time, on my way to work.
Today she got up, went to the bathroom, then went back to bed. She did not bother putting on a robe. She said ‘fuck’ two more times last night. I put on a clean blue shirt, and last night’s jeans, which had some brown stain on them. I’m not going to work today, I tell my wife again. I’m going to the grocery store.
She was still on the bed when I got home. I placed the bottles on the bedroom floor and approached the bed. She was awake. She was looking at me. It’s ten o’clock, I say quietly. Her hair was greasy. She was smiling and I could see her teeth. What are those, she asked. Come back to bed.
September 24th, 2010 at 13:50
Now the reason why they call him Richard Hadede is because of his large tongue. It gave him a minor speech defect that causes him to prefix an “HA” to his words.
“Hano na ha-drama mga bakla kayo!”
Richard Hadede is a big girl. He could box men in a corner until they can no longer stand. He’s the ultimate shit brickhouse. All those years of delivering pig innards at the local palengke gave him a terrifying musculature that’s just as fearful as his face, which, to say the least, never had better days in its calendar. It’s his least favorite feature, and that’s a pain in the nuts because his friends, all four of them, are Inter-Barangay Beauty Queens with improvised breasts of varying threadcounts. But they stick with him because his HAffliction makes them laugh.
He’s not built for the parade of nations, but his fists have the force of a revolution, and that gave him an idea. He registered for the gay boxing event in this year’s fiesta. He was asked to strip to his boxers for the weigh-in; he’s a shoe in for the heavyweight division. He was all smiles with this advantage, and then he looked for a make up artist and then some fierce pekpek shorts to go with his “nakaka-babaeng” pink floral top. He’s already got a stage name, too. He can hear it in his head: “IN THE BLUE CORNER, weighing 240 pounds and wearing hot pink pekpek shorts — LA-NEEE MEE-SAA-LOO-CHAAAA. Make up by Via Bangungot!”
He remembered some of the girls that were being weighed that day, and he laughed. Hah, these stick figures are outpatients! I can win by sneezing! Oh this will be easy, he thought to himself. That P500 is all mine for the taking. He then hopped to the local sari sari store, and he IOUed the following items: three litros of Grand Matador, six packets of Nestea Lemon Iced Tea, some Marlboros, and then two bags of Marty’s and a handful of Dingdong Mixed Nuts. His boxing match is set for the following morning. He’s getting smashed tonight. He knows it will all be over in one round anyway, so he might as well celebrate this early on.
The Beauty Queens were all in great spirits that evening; their good friend Richard will finally have his own coronation! And so they cheered him on in between shots, and there was Regine Velasquez playing in the background. Of course there were boys, and they came in four different sizes and were a year away from statutory. But his Beauty Queen friends were legendary in their horniness when intoxicated; he’s got a big flat nose and a fearful build. The boys steered clear of him the moment he started throwing his weight around. Their young legs will collapse with another lap dance ala Richard Hadede. They can’t afford to be cripples; they have a lifetime of whoring ahead of them.
It goes without saying that Richard didn’t get any that night. And so, in his secret indignation, he drank all that poor man’s brandy, all that’s left of those three liters, while his Beauty Queen friends and their Carolina’s breasts got serviced until they were beyond satisfied.
He’s got a boxing match the next day, he was almost late for it, and he’s got this killer, mother of all hangovers that was a prayer away from cerebral palsy. But he got there for some reason, and it was a mess of blurs.
The next minute, he heard somebody shout “LA-NEEE MEE-SAA-LOO-CHAAAA!”
He dragged himself to the center of this dim and spinning platform until he was a few inches away from what seemed like… a person. And then he heard somebody shout “Hijo de puta, Richard! Not only are you uglier this morning, you also smell like piss! Go home!” And then, in a low voice that was closer, “Can you still fight?”
He was meaning to say yes, he can still fight, but this growing lump at the back of his throat got its message faster than he can nod. He puked, hard and with conviction, and the referee got first dibs of Richard’s obscene drinking on his chest. The floor dripped with the rest of his excesses. The mean smell of gastric juice and cheap brandy assaulted everybody that’s within breathing space of that boxing ring, but Richard was elsewhere as he was trying to control his contractions. His head kept on shaking, from left to right, in an unfunny exaggeration while he was giving in to the rest of yesterday evening’s authority. He could go on like this for an hour, but he slipped, as he was trying to fake control over the situation. He slipped on his own rancid mess, and fell, face down, on his own undoing.
There was nothing distinct with the way he blacked out. But he did. And the crowd cheered.
He was up against the skinny and tattooed Pussy Kamagong who won in fits of devilish laughter. And just for good measure, Kamagong went over to Hadede as he’s lying face down on his pool of vomit, stooped down to him, and then punched him at the back of the head. And then he collected his five hundred pesos.
September 24th, 2010 at 19:28
panalo momelia! i am such a fan! :D
September 24th, 2010 at 19:56
Umaga sa isang bus
“Langhiya nakatulog na naman ako. Ang sarap naman kasi matulog sa aircon.”
Tumingin sa tray na nakatabi sa upuan nya. May puto, kutsinta, pinipig, C2 at mineral water
“Putsa wala pa kong nabebenta. Ang kukuripot naman kasi ng mga tao ngayon.”
Tumayo
“Puto, kutsintaa, pinipig. Kung nauuhaw may C2, mineral”
Napatingin sa dalawang binatilyong nagtatawanan sa magkatabing upuan nang muntik nang madapa at napasandal sa upuan
“Manong ano ba, dahan dahan naman sa pagdadrive.Nahihirapan ako maglakad e.”
“Adik ka ba iho? Di pa nga tayo umaandar e. Naghihintay pa ng ibang pasahero”
Kagabi sa isang office party
“Pare lasing na si Monty”
“Asan?”
“Ayun o, malapit sa CR. Di na inabot, sa sahig na sumuka”
“Picturan natin tapos post natin sa facebook, tag natin lahat”
Kinunan ng litrato si Monty
“Drawing tayo ng bigote sa mukha tapos picture ulit”
“Korny na yun, dami nang gumawa nun”
Nagisip ang dalawa.Nagsalita si Monty ngunit mahina at di maintindihan
“Nagigising na”
“Hindi, nanaginip lang yan”
“Alam ko na, tulungan mo ko hilain si Monty, dun tayo sa kwarto para tahimik”
Hinila si Monty sa isang tahimik na kwarto
“Feeling ko, nasa stage sya kung san medyo gising at medyo tulog. Naisip ko lang…napanood mo na ba yung Inception?”
“Oo, pero di ko naintindihan”
“Ako rin di ko medyo nagets, pero ang pinaka idea nun maglalagay ka ng idea sa utak ng isang tao, tapos maniniwala sya na yun ang totoo. Ganun gagawin natin kay Monty”
“Pano yun, wala naman tayong machine nung katulad sa kanila?”
“Nakailang beer ka na ba? Lasing ka na ata e. Wala namang ganung machine e.”
“E pano natin gagawin yun?”
“Kasi nga nasa gitna sya ng pagiging gising at pagiging tulog, baka ito yung tamang time para maglagay ng idea sa kanya. Basta uulit ulitin lang natin sabihin sa kanya kung ano man yun”
“So ano? Papaniwala natin sya na ibang tao sya?…Macho dancer kaya, kakatawa yun”
“Gusto ko nagtitinda ng puto sa bus. Trip ko lang. Bili tayo ng maraming puto at iba pang pwedeng ibenta dyan sa kanto tapos lagay natin sa tray.
Tapos ihiga natin sya sa bus katabi ng tray”
“E pano tong damit nya? nakalong sleeves pa, walang maniniwala dyan.”
“Ok lang yan, mas nakakatawa nga yan”
At nagsimula ang dalawa sa pag kondisyon sa utak ni Monty na sya ay tindero ng puto sa bus
Balik sa bus
“Grabe, naiiyak na ko sa kakatawa”
“Ako rin e…Pero kawawa naman si Monty. May meeting pa naman tayo ngayon. Pano yan wala sya?”
“Oo nga e, pero mamaya na natin problemahin yan. Nagugutom na ko e. Kuya puto nga”
“Ako kutsinta, damihan mo niyog ha”
Sa bus stop sa Ayala
Bumaba ang dalawang binatilyo.
Lumapit si Monty sa driver ng bus
“Sabi sayo gagana yun e. E sa lasing ba naman nung dalawang yun kagabi”
“Biruin mo yun, akala nila na-inception ka nila, di nila alam silang dalawa na inception natin”
“Ang ganda ng effect na may office party tapos nalasing ka, tamang tama sa trabaho nila kunwari”
“Ano naman kaya alam ng dalawang tambay sa pag ko-call center?”
Nagtawanan ang dalawa sabay salang ng Inception sa DVD player
September 24th, 2010 at 20:42
I was on my way to posting Version #5478 of the same depressing theme (think: a career-ending version of Caligula with lambanog, isaw, and misguided campus politics) but I didn’t want to risk breaking the Yucch-o-Meter with a story full of literal yuckiness. On the plus side: The return of Pussy Kamagong!
September 24th, 2010 at 21:33
Gary woke up. Instantly, he thought that this was a rather large mistake. The world was fuzzy and painful, like a particularly malevolent kitten.
His next thought was, “Why am I on the sofa?”
The third came out of nowhere and beat the other two into submission. Coffee, it demanded.
Okay. Coffee it is. He got up and shuffled into the kitchen, stepping over a curious lump in the linoleum as lightly as his uncooperative legs would allow. His hand was halfway to the cabinet door when a fourth thought meekly piped up: we don’t have any more coffee.
“Of course not,” he grumbled to himself. Fine, tea will have to do. He fumbled with a cardboard box and squinted at it. It was green and it had leaves on it, which was good enough for Gary. He grabbed at one of the packets, dropped it into a mug, and then filled it with warm water.
He flopped onto the chair and started spooning the sugar in, stopping when the mug had enough to supply the chocolate makers of Switzerland for three months. He brought it up to his face for a moment, savoring the heat, and then took a sip. Delicious. Warm and sweet, just like, just like…
The sugar reached a handful of neurons. Slowly, in that cinematic way people do when they realize there’s something quite horrible behind them, he turned his head towards that innocuous lump on the floor. Or two lumps, rather, that were connected to the rest of a human body.
“Nice ass,” said part of his brain. The other eighteen were running around screaming bloody murder. The body stirred, and its owner let out a muffled grunt. Oh good, it’s not dead. All was right with the world, and he went back to guzzling the syrup that tried to pass itself off as tea.
“Ughwrzlfbl?” The words that passed through the man’s lips could have gotten him second place at the gibbering idiot contest. He stood up, gradually, his limbs playing the part of a particularly stubborn gaggle of toddlers. Gary peered at him through the steam, eyes moving slowly downwards, and quickly shut his eyes. He hoped the heat could explain away the fact that his face was doing a respectable impression of an overcooked tomato.
“Good morning.”
“Um, good morning.”
“Was the floor comfortable enough for you?”
“Uhng.” He shook his head. “Do you… happen to have any coffee?”
“No,” Gary replied. “There’s tea, though. Do you happen to have a name?”
“It’s Richard.”
Gary’s eyes briefly flitted back to the man’s more prominent features. Of course it is. If his left eyebrow rose any faster, it would have broken the speed of light. Suddenly, klaxons rang inside his head.
“Sweet mother of-!” The resulting string of expletives made two convents full of nuns faint simultaneously. Except for their Mothers Superior, who merely smiled and filed the terms away for future use.
“No. No, no, no. I did not just sleep with the new boss. Shit.” Gary’s head dropped to the table and banged against it repeatedly.
“If it makes you feel better, we didn’t.” Richard scratched his head. “We certainly tried, though.”
A final thud, and Gary stopped ternderizing his forehead. “We… didn’t?” Cue sigh of relief.
“…but we kind of started back at the bar.”
“Oh.” Thud, thud, thud.
Having appropriated a cup of tea for himself, Richard sat down. Or tried to. The hard corners of the wooden chair bumped up angrily against the more delicate parts of his anatomy. He gave a rather pained squeak.
“I… guess… I should find… some clothes… first.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Gary mumbled. He watched Richard shamble out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And the memories that were unfortunately starting to worm their way back. Ugh. Now how was he going to explain this? Being all over the same person who had stolen his promotion from under him? As if to punctuate this thought, a loud yell hammered its way through his brain.
“Oh no.” No wonder it was so quiet inside his head.
Richard stomped back into the kitchen, holding what appeared to be a miniature humanoid. “Care to explain why this was in my pants?”
“Yes. Well.” He could feel another headache building up, a thunderhead behind his eyes. “You know how people have personal demons? Mine become corporeal, sometimes.” Like whenever he’d drunk too much. “Hold it still.” Fluidly, Gary reached for an umbrella and pointed it at the creature. A beam of blue light lanced toward it, and the creature gurgled a bit before disappearing with an audible pop.
“There are more of them hiding somewhere around here. Help me find them.”
“And here I am without my Athame.”
“Hush.” Gary handed Richard a pan the size and weight of Kilimanjaro. ”Here. Iron works well. Just hit them with it.”
Pretty soon the house resembled a bubble wrap factory being invaded by bored children. Finally, the pops subsided, and the pair stumbled outside.
“There’s one missing. I can feel…” Gary’s words died in his throat as he spotted the last demon, astride one of his neighbor’s Mrs. Lim’s chickens. Inwardly, he wondered if the morning were a movie written, produced, and directed by Freud. Banishing the last one, he said hasty apologies to Mrs. Lim, who had fixed him with one of those severe, withering stares only the truly ancient could pull off.
Finally, he flung himself on the sofa with an undignified whumph. Richard joined him. “Well, the easy part’s done.”
“The easy part?” Gary glared at him incredulously.
“Yep. The hard bit comes when we come in to work next Monday.” He tossed the pan aside, and it landed with a clang that made them both wince.
“Damn. You’re right. Gossip.” They both nodded grimly.
September 25th, 2010 at 01:24
It’s a consorted rule to be an hour earlier at the airport before your scheduled flight. But today, you decided to be four hours earlier than usual.
The sky still drub at three in the morning when you finally resolve to walk out of that diabolical place those soakers dubbed as their heavenly loft, whatever that is. Your eyes watery from fumes of, you believe, thousands of cigarettes as you learned every single person in the bar dispose a stub, lights another stick, inhale a lungful out of the butt and toss it when they feel sated at the moment and lights another to consume since they never had enough. Your ears must be ringing because you can’t make sense to what he has been saying all the time, but you’ve been grateful to place the bit when he offer you some booze but you asked for iced tea. It must be pride you feel when you catch the look in his eyes when he heard that. But that’s the least you can do when you watch him dancing with her, sometimes they look at your way urging you to do the same but no, you actually considered but you can’t when you don’t even enjoy the place. How can you dance with that? It must look piteous but instead you thank your phone for having the Sudoku app and marvels in it, really having fun when the rest of the crowd indulge in the loud music, ciggs, alcohol, flirting. It’s the same thing.
So since one in the morning, you settle on completing boxes of numbers, waiting for three to strike, you can meet up with Ricci, your gay friend who must have his best night with some old friends in that city, he’ll be joining you and Sara to prepare for your flight back home. So at three, you signal Sara and Gino that it’s time to be back at the hotel, interrupting their chat, to prepare your things cause at eight you’ll be flying. Of course, he won’t come because he lives here. But he proposed a day before to take you, Sara and Ricci to the airport so good riddance to the bar already. The three of you met Ricci outside, he’s obviously loaded but he must be trying hard to sober up because he could not miss the sight of you with these lovers, well, he must understood or maybe he’s just too drunk to cave in with his usual carefree comments.
The minute you ask Gino, “Where’s your car?” He nods at Sara, as if coaxing to answer your query– she said “Ate, we decided we’ll be staying a bit, you know just a good two more hours, promise I’ll be at the airport before seven, Ate, please say yes… after all, it’s Gino’s birthday naman kanina diba?”
You’re leery at the idea but you’ll just be branded a party pooper if you say no so you agreed anyway. You’ll meet her at the airport, he promised. There really is a fat chance to be alone with him on his car anymore, you thought, now she’s even killed your chances to be in his car that you missed, which is weird because she’ll be the one sitting in the passenger seat, your mind started to protest but what the hell, he only views you as an old friend and now you’re his girl’s sister so you’ll be breaking his heart if you dissent. You said, okay. Be there before seven.
You’re still deep in thought when you’re packing your luggage, including hers. Ricci’s been a great help for being undeniably quiet. So you deal with your things fast and at three-thirty, you’re one of the first person to occupy the airport benches. You decided to give yourself at least an hour sleep, but it never bothers to visit you. Ricci’s in his deep slumber so as almost every people at the place. You feel giddy but you’re sure envious of everybody.
You started to panic when it’s almost six and Sara’s still nowhere at the area. You’re calling both of their numbers, but still no answer. Six-thirty. You texted her, “Where are you na?” No reply. “So where’s my sis?” on him. No answer. Six forty-five. They’re still on that bar, they must not be checking their phone. Seven. “You said before seven, it’s already 7!” You’re calling, they’re not answering. So how’s that? But you still text them anyway, making sure or just doing your responsibility.
You glance at Ricci, still deep asleep. Gino and Sara must be too. There’s no point in texting or calling anymore. They said some flights are meant to be missed. Okay.
Seven-thirty. Your plane tickets said boarding at Seven forty-five. Good. You also have her ticket though, you can opt to ensure hers at the counter on some helpful crew, throw the thing or hope that she’s coming in fifteen minutes. Seven thirty-three. Ricci’s finally woken up. “Asan na siya, teh?” locking his weary eyes on yours, “Di sinasagot” as you gestured on your phone.
So again, maybe this time she’ll answer. “Sars, bording na. cant stay, got work pa @ 1pm. Ges u myt nid 2 buy another tkt pauwi. Sabi kasi 7 eh, umuwi ka na. ingat.”
When you finished, a flight attendant rolled your plane sign next to the gate of departure to announce your flight. Need to board now, Ricci started carrying the bags. One last call, you pressed but it just go on ringing. Time to turn it off.
When you arrived, you open your phone hurriedly. It starts to ring and Sara’s name registers.
“Ate, Sorry ah. Sorry talaga!” there was something wrong in her voice.
“You’re crying?”
“No. I mean, yes. Was. I’m at the airport na, be there at two hours time. You don’t have to wait for me. Just don’t tell Mom muna ha?”
“So what happened? You don’t show up before seven. Pa-promise promise ka pa.”
“Ate, he finally proposed! We’ll be coming over to formally announce the engagement.” You sense giggles and self-indulgence in her voice. But so do every people with that luck.
It’s your fault you preferred iced tea for parties like that but you wonder why you didn’t take the courage to tell him that night, maybe I’ll try some tequila. When you know full well this would have happened anyway.
September 25th, 2010 at 01:34
“With the exception of Evan’s short and nasty shocker, the entries feel like the same story submitted eight times. They all suffer from obviousness. There are some details that stand out, and we don’t mean the disgraceful attempts of entry #4 to ingratiate himself with the Yucch-meter ” —-> haha! this is like getting free writing lessons from jessica zafra. a million years ago, i was a sophomore in ateneo, and you were a guest speaker in danton remoto’s merit english class. i was so jealous! i was in regular english class. my english prof said she knows you and i was like “so why don’t you get her to speak in our class?!” hahaha
September 25th, 2010 at 02:44
Jealous, cruel, merciless – with what other words would I describe God? He created Adam to be unknowing of good and evil and then created the tree of knowledge, intentionally telling him that eating of the fruit of the tree would give him the knowledge which he lacks, and then punishing him when he did eat of the fruit of the tree. He tested Abraham’s obedience by commanding him to making a sacrifice of Isaac.
Which is why when he sent his angels, I knew that it was the end.
I chose to live in Sodom because of the proximity of good grazing for my flock. There was vice in the city, but it was not unusually virulent, and my family and I were left to ourselves. Their men knew their men, they had their fill of drink – was this so evil?
Abraham did send the message of the Lord, that if 10 righteous people in Sodom and Gomorrah could be found, that the cities would not be destroyed for the sake of the righteous yet dwelling therein. Angels would be sent to seek the righteous.
But the angels were sent on the day of the harvest feast, when the grape was rich and the wine was sweet and everyone had their fill of drink and everything was permissible. And the three angels that God did send appeared as men were in full bloom of youth but carried themselves with the substance of men; grew no hair on their chin but full in limb; beheld everyone as if inviting them, tempting them; common yet exotic, young yet mature; irresistible.
I met them and greeted them as they were – God’s angels – but beheld them as harbingers of doom. I covered them in rough cloaks that covered them, but the cloaks transformed into beautiful silk. Everyone who beheld them lusted after them. In their drunkenness they did not recognize the beautiful as the terrible.
I rushed the angels to my home and beg them to lodge with me and seek the righteous men at a later point in time, I begged them to eat with my family. But they refused. They walked around the city and beckoned everyone to do what anyone would do in the face of beauty that was both vulnerable and terrible.
When they were satisfied that they had stirred the lust in all of the city, I was able to take them to my home, but it was too late. The men of the city, the men of Sodom, both young and old, all the people to the last men, surrounded my home and called to me.
“Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us, that we may know them.”
Fools! They did not know what was at stake. I begged them to reconsider. I offered them my two virgin daughters.
“Do to them whatever you may wish for my guests have lain down for the night!”
They refuse and threatened to do worse to me than what they would have done to the angels. I was terrified at them and wondered if God was not right in wishing to destroy the city. But this was not a fair fight. God had sent his vilest temptations with these angels and had struck when the men were blinded with wine.
The walls to my home broke down but the angels struck the men blind. The angels commanded me to gather my family and leave, revealing to me what I had known from the beginning – that they were sent to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, that their mission to seek ten who were righteous was a ruse. I was told to leave and not to look back under any circumstance.
Fire and brimstone rained from the sky that night. Everything we had was destroyed. Yet this was not enough. When my wife looked back to Sodom to mourn what had been stripped away from us, she was turned to a pillar of salt.
Beware! Your God is a cruel master. He will tempt you and then punish you for failing his test. Fortunate is the man who sees through his guile and escapes his unreasonable wrath.
September 25th, 2010 at 12:58
Wow Dibee, you got the Twilight Zone vibe, galeng!
September 25th, 2010 at 15:18
The Party
When the likes of us party, the island, and all of its natural calm breaks loose –beasts and monsters, dark nature’s freeloaders by virtue of their uncultured powers, crash in to join the fun, and black clouds, thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening me, Galileo, Galile… okay, I’m digressing, but really, though ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ was the favored music-bed among the older set, the younger ones insisted on Lady Gaga’s ‘Bad Romance’.
Though I am not one to easily embrace pop rock for pop rock’s sake, I found myself rocking along, and in particular, with unabated relish, to this line – “I want your ugly, I want your disease…”
The Gaultier-inspired red/black leathery dominatrix gown, red stilletos, black fishnet stockings reeked of dirty sex but had someone dared to know what my middle name was, I would have said without batting an eyelash in that rehearsed Celia Rodriguez gravel, ‘Revens, honey, revens…’.
But nobody had, therefore it occurred to me that I could actually use my brimming sexuality, if I should carry out my mission seamlessly. When everybody in a crowd is straining their eyes on you, believe me, things could take on a shade messier than planned.
The Potion
1. Middle claw of a virgin vampire bat (Cantabon Cave)
2. 13 fresh horsetail buds (Mount Bandilaan)
3. 7 fronds of deadly nightshade (Cang-asoy Valley)
4. Dried mimosa roots (Pili River)
5. 3 fresh teardrops from romantic rival
The first four was easy as picking wild berries, although, my familiar survived a near brush with death when it stupidly declawed a hag vampire bat.
The Abduction
Then I spotted Ingredient #5 as soon as the air reeked of wild basil and lemon grass –phew!, how primitive! And the dress, what a sloppy mess.
I signaled my familiar the minute she approached the central bonfire. Eyes in the dark glinted with ominous reflections.
But I smelled victory in my pigskin bag already. Three teardrops from the wretched bitch and I will be the happiest witch.
“Dili lagi ko kahilakon, unsa gud ni siya?!” (I don’t feel like crying, what are you?)
“Uy Day, ayaw pag-sinuplada kay dili na bagay, histura baya…” (Hey wrench, being snarky is so not becoming of you now…)
“Unsa man, dili ka muhilak o lusukun nako imong kalimutaw? Hilak na!” (What now, aren’t you really going to cry, or shall I scoop out those eyeballs? Cry!)
After-Party
I woke up heady and felt triumphant already. Beside me, is the man of, um, wild boar of my dreams, who was held captive by some bitch of a witch, and who in a matter of days, will be morphing into the handsomest of prince charmings, Siquijor Island has ever known.
September 25th, 2010 at 18:22
As he pierced through me like a sharp blade, my flesh shivered and contracted, and both pain and pleasure sheared and opened me raw. While I was looking at his face I forgot that he was a decent man. Destitute of all manner of elite culture he devoured me like a hungry ravenous beast, rabid, animalistic and primeval. I clenched the satin sheets as he tightened his grip around my fragile wrists which were held together above my head by his massive hand. As the relentless gyrating movements went on like a manic beating the muscles in my thighs ached and my back arched at angles I never knew I was capable of. The pain was unbearable and I was almost dry but I refused to stop him, because I derived from it, a sense of sinister pleasure. As he approached the summit of human excitement, he hastily relieved himself of me and on the supple skin of my face I felt the warmth of his viscous essence. In between the realm of sobriety and intoxication, I found my tongue roll out to clear the salty drop that perched atop my lip and my hands spread the rest of him around my breasts with imperative regard to every bit as being exquisite, precious and expensive, like Dom Perignon.
The festive parade poured out unto the busy main street, and as the flamboyant float steadily rolled its way through the modest urban landscape, I heard the masses call out my name. Their desire was feverish, and the warmth of jovial reception stirred in me a blissful countenance. I was like the queen that ruled over their land, and every graceful wave and gleaming smile uplifted their dampened spirits and took their minds off from the dull and dire circumstances of daily life. As the sun reached its highest point, the heat did not equal the incessant seething between my legs and I knew then that it was weeping. My head was throbbing, but I had to smile. After all, I was Miss Manila Sunshine.
September 25th, 2010 at 22:07
Oh, that was intense! Thanks for a cocktails and a great time, Ms Zafra! Haysolavet!
September 25th, 2010 at 22:09
Ay mali, teka, take two…
Oh, that was intense! Thanks for cocktails and a great time, Ms Zafra! Haysolavet!
September 25th, 2010 at 22:55
Thank you for showing up! Please send me the photos so I can post proof.
September 25th, 2010 at 23:20
Ah, Chekhov’s Gun. Of course.
Ooh, here’s another one, partially inspired by Kristin Chenoweth singing Last Name on Glee.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuIzp_abPFw
It seemed like a nice idea, a night out with the girls. Jennifer never anticipated how boring it would be. Naturally, they’d leave her all by herself, having attached themselves to various men (and in one case, woman). It was that stupid movie cliché again. Any time now, a man would come up to her, start with a variation on a line, and expect her to swoon into their arms from loneliness. Oh look, here comes one. Jennifer rolled her eyes. Well, at least it’s nice to look at. Relatively easier on the eyes than some of the sorry specimens around, at least.
Hi,” he said with a smile. “I couldn’t-“ Jennifer held up a hand, and waved it dismissively. “Less talk, more drink.” His smile grew even wider, not that he would have anything to be happy about soon.
Sunlight shone into the room, in rays that bullied lingering shadows into submission. Jennifer yawned and turned in bed, ignoring the day’s attempts to intrude upon her. Her arm reached across, searching, but did not find what it was looking for.
“Hmm?” Now where was… was… whatshisface? The name would come to her eventually, she thought. Her ears didn’t pick up any activity in the room. Maybe he was outside. She sat up, and what she saw made her grimace: part of the bed sheet was caked in blood. Well, there’s the problem. Her period must’ve started last night, and apparently it was one of the heavier ones. Jennifer wouldn’t blame anyone from fleeing in horror at the sight of that.
Sighing glumly, she gathered up the sheets and threw them into the nearby laundry basket. She didn’t even know the guy’s last name. Or first name, or cel number, for that matter. Pity. He had skills; last night was one of the best fucks she’d ever had. Several of them, she recalled with a smile.
She noticed the set of clothing he’d discarded last night was still there. So maybe he hadn’t fled in the night, then. Or, as a thought crept into her head, he did, but in some of her clothing. Jennifer recalled how she met Edgar, who had unfortunately looked better in her own miniskirt than she ever did. A mental note was filed away: Edgar borrowed her favorite pair of black stilettos. She’d have to pass by his place to get them back.
Walking to the bathroom with laundry in hand, Jennifer wondered why her uterus hadn’t been killing her if she was on her period. In fact, she was feeling rather energetic. Curious. Seeing as she’d downed the equivalent of an entire distillery last night, she wasn’t even the slightest bit nauseous.
She was feeling a bit full though. Before Jennifer could continue pondering what exactly she had eaten, a loud belch derailed her train of thought. Something got caught in her throat as well, and she coughed the offending bit out. It landed square on top of the sheet in the basket.
It was a single, whole human toenail.
Jennifer frowned at it. She couldn’t recall that little midnight snack, and she so hated not being to savor her meals.
September 26th, 2010 at 10:10
It is 7:58 AM on the day of my thirtieth birthday, and once again I find myself lucid a heartbeat before the alarm goes off. Strangely, this only happens when something’s simmering in the electric crock pot overnight. Wait—it seems I’d said those very words out loud just recently…
Oh yes. Met two lovely, lively ladies at the specialty cookbooks section at Fully Booked on High Street last night. Culinary enthusiasts both, they couldn’t believe people still actually cooked with crock pots. Watch me, I’d dared. And so they did, my condo being right around the block.
While intently observing me prepare my killer recipe (creamy chicken and vegetables, cooking time: 7 hours and 30 minutes), we got to talking. It turned out we had mutual friends, one of whom lived three floors down. ‘Good thing then,’ I’d said, ‘because this here recipe calls for a spot of milk and I’m all out–think we could badger your friend for a carton?’ Of course they could, and came back with a little extra–a bottle of Merlot.
‘You ladies are quite perceptive,’ I’d remarked. Naturally, how could they help but notice the glaring absence of alcohol at this high-end bachelor’s pad? I had no hang-ups explaining my reasons for abstaining. For starters, it always piqued a girl’s interest, my being a teetotaler by choice.
But my, these were difficult ladies to convince. They refused to buy my story. All the men on my mother’s side of the family cannot handle alcohol—not a drop. Or we risk turning into raving alcoholics. The day I turned ten, my mother made me promise I would never touch the stuff. Or I could end up like my great-grandfather, who went mad after sipping some sacramental wine at his daughter’s first communion. The village priest had told him it was purely grape juice. My great-grandfather disappeared a month later, a victim of a deserved lynching, the family maintains to this day. And it could only be true, for I do not recall ever having seen any of my mother’s male relatives imbibe.
But like I said, these were difficult ladies to persuade–these two lovely, rather frisky girls, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday and indeed, indeed–sometimes a man’s entitled. As the recollection of that first beatific swirl and swallow begins to thrill me, the alarm goes off to remind me that I’ve something simmering…something simmering…oh my dear mother, what have I done?
September 26th, 2010 at 10:30
In a hospital bed somewhere in the island of Mindoro, a man opens his eyes. His whole body aches. There are scratches on his face, his arms, and bruises all over his body. His head feels heavy, he has a massive hangover; the mother of all hangovers, it feels to him. He couldn’t remember the circumstance that brought him there. He does not know it yet, but he is very lucky.
The man’s wife and father brought him there. Asked by the doctors who the man fought with, the father told them an amusing story. But many of the hospital staff thought the story was not anywhere near amusing.
Joaquin and his wife Merlita live in a small village near the foothills of Mt. Halcon in the island of Mindoro. At first look, there is nothing strange in that village; the village is like any other small village found all over the archipelago. Many of the houses’ roofs are thatch, floors are flattened bamboo strips, and walls are mostly made of dried, woven coconut leaves. Normal in a small town such as this, except that a visitor would invariably notice the bamboo spears placed point up in some of the thatch roofs of a few of the houses in the village.
There are about fifty families in Dapuan (for that is the name of the village), mostly farmers and fishermen and small-town traders. On Sundays, village folks travel about a kilometer to the town where the church and the market are located. A few of the men folk would sometimes visit the town sabungan, where they would place bets on a fancied fighting cock. It is very noisy inside the sabungan.
Joaquin is known to visit the sabungan some Sundays, placing a ten-peso, or if he feels really lucky, a twenty-peso bet (his absolute limit; Merlita does not allow her husband to gamble with such a huge sum of money) on a fighting cock he fancies. Then he would go home, buying a kilo of fish to take home to his wife. If he got lucky, he and his wife would have a meat dinner.
That Sunday, however, Joaquin opted to stay home. His wife Merlita is nine months pregnant, and she could give birth anytime.
Joaquin was worried. The night before, he was awakened by a scratching noise up in their house’s roof.
It was as if somebody was crawling on the roof. Joaquin listened for a few moments; he heard their dog whining and whimpering. He heard a sound—tik…tik…tik…—a sound that is not made by any bird he knows. Joaquin knew that sound well. He stood up, and quietly took down his bolo from the wall.
“What is it?” his wife had asked him.
“Ssshhhh,” Joaquin answered, slowly unsheathing his sharp, twenty-inch bolo. He stood silently for a few moments. He lit a match, and lighted the lamp nearest to him. He looked up. There was a small hole in the roof; a circular, fist-sized hole that was not there before. Something was looking down on them, peering down. He could see the lamp’s light reflected on its eye. At least, he thought it was an eye.
With a shout, he threw his bolo in the direction of the eye. He was scared, and he was angry; he threw the bolo as hard as he could. The bolo hit the thatch. He heard a sound, a sound like a really large rat might make if you step on its tail. Then the beating of wings. There was no mistaking it: they were wings, and they flapped frantically. He saw part of the moon through the hole on the roof. His bolo fell on the floor; the thatch roof couldn’t hold it for long. He picked it up, and rushed outside their home. He didn’t see the thing flying away; it was already gone when he came out.
The next morning, he recounted to his father what happened. His father, Mang Pedring, shook his head.
“I told you to put those bamboo spears up on your roof. Houses with pregnant women should have bamboo spears on their roof.”
“Will you help me put them up?” Joaquin asked his father.
“Yes.”
And so Joaquin and his father put up several bamboo spears on the roof, with the sharpened end pointing up.
Joaquin asked his wife, “How are you feeling?”
“Joaquin, I’m scared. Maybe I should stay with my family, their roof is yero.”
“Do you think yero is going to stop the tikitik from going after you? No, you stay here. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of everything.”
Joaquin was afraid, but it is his duty to protect his wife and his unborn son. Yes, a son, it’s going to be a son, he thought fiercely. If it’s a girl, it will be all right, too. But no, he brushed the thought aside.
I—we—shall have a son.
The sun was getting low on the horizon. His bolo was sharp, bamboo spears were in place. But God I’m afraid, he thought.
He remembered the gallon of distilled coconut wine he had been saving up for the christening of his son.
He thought of the conversation he had earlier with his wife and father. “Merlita, you stay here. I will be on the roof. My father will be here with you. Don’t worry.”
“No, Joaquin, you stay here! Please stay here with me!”
“It will be all right. I’ll take care of everything. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”
Merlita looked at Joaquin’s father.
“Yes, you’ll be safe, I’ll stay here with you. You must let Joaquin do this. This is something he must do,” said Mang Pedring.
He waited until the sun had set. “It’s time,” he said quietly.
Joaquin adjusted the bolo on his waist, and gingerly climbed up to their roof. He opened the bottle of coconut wine he brought with him. He began to drink.
And he waited.
September 26th, 2010 at 10:42
Hi, Ms. JZ! :)
This happened to me 2 years ago, but I still can’t get over the humiliation. Hehe.
Here goes:
It was a great party, I said to myself. I was able to say goodbye to Kate, my favorite officemate, as this will be our last Christmas party together because she had submitted her resignation already.
Oh well, it’s just another ordinary day. Back to reality. So what exactly happened that night?
I know I had a brooch on my dress, an eerie-looking gold cat with diamonds as its eyes. And heck, I lost that at the venue. What else? Oh yeah, beer. Overflowing beer. People dancing. Me, dancing. Good thing I remembered all that.
“Hi Kerri”, somebody weirdly smiling greeted me on my way to the elevator.
“Oh hi.” What’s his name again? Am I so drunk that until now I can’t even remember his name?
7:55PM. The elevator clock blinked back at me. I can’t be late today. I’ve a lot of work to do…
“Kerri, dear! How was Saturday?”
“Oh it was fine, Anne. Overflowing beer, lotsa girls. Visuals for the boys.”
“Yeah, ‘heard about that. And I heard about you and Migs, too.”
“Yup. I think he had a hard time bringing me home. I’m so friggin’ drunk.”
Ding. Was it just me or was Anne going to say something but the elevator cut off whatever it was?
“Hi sweetie.”
“Hello there.”
“Did you get some sleep?’
“Yes, and no. I think I am chums with the toilet bowl now. Mom said I can’t seem to part with it until about 6 yesterday morning.”
“Uh, I need to tell you something…”
“Oh wait. I’ll just get myself some coffee from the pantry.”
Pantry. 8:01PM.
“Kerri! You looked hot last night!”, another officemate said to me.
“Huh?”
“Yeah. If I had known I should’ve gone to the party with you instead of Migs.”
Yeah, right.
Again, is it just me or are the guys eating at a table nearby have that look of amusement towards me?
Holding the coffee I got from the vendo machine, I’m back to my desk. Click, click, new email. From Migs. Weird, we’re on the same department, did he really have to send me an email instead of just walking over to my desk?
‘This is what I was trying to tell you earlier.’
Downloading attachment.
A powerpoint presentation. Entitled, “Mahaba-habang inuman”
The usual crap after a party. These are definitely pictures.
Opening…
WHAT THE SHYEEEEET?!?
They’re definitely pictures, but not of any of the girls scantily clad during the party. IT WAS ME. AND MIGS.
Migs was hugging me from the back, his lips on my neck, my right arm over his head, his right hand clutching a San Mig Light bottle.
The photo’s caption?
“Move over, Marian and Dingdong. Eto na ang mga bagong endorsers ng San Mig Light!”
Looking at the thread, it was sent to: THE COMPANY’S ENTIRE DISTRIBUTION LIST.
Kill me now.
September 27th, 2010 at 09:09
wow the entries are really good! haha its true ms zafra! this really is like getting free writing lessons :)
and no my story is not true to life….. its something i tried to squeeze in my heaping tray last week mastering the alt+tab command :)
congratulations to the will-be winner!!! :)