Wake At 6 a.m. And Think About Your Holidays

I never wanted to kill –
I am not naturally evil.
- Morrissey

I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT THEY PHASED OUT TAMPONS IN ALL THE MERCURY DRUG BRANCHES! Putangina. What am I going to do now, ask my friends to ship me boxes of tampons from abroad? Tarantado talaga 'tong Mercury Drug.

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I’m probably the last person to cough up any religious allusions to clarify an idea. Still, I can’t help but mention the biblical Jonah here, and I can’t help but succumb to the same leaden feeling he must have buckled under when that whale swallowed him whole.




Jonah, Jonah, Jonah. If you truly did exist, buddy, I think we’re on the same boat, and I’m not trying to be clever with that pun. These days, I feel as though I’ve been intercepted and gobbled up by some deep-sea mammal in mid-stroke, I feel as though I’m wading through the creature’s fucking entrails and I’m waiting for the Good Fairy to turn me into a real boy, I’m so tired of being a wooden puppet!

Oh, wait, that was Pinocchio, not Jonah. Excuse me.

I'm not kidding, though. I don’t mean to be dramatic, but I feel as though the days are shaving hefty chunks of my flesh from off my very bones, and I half-expect to find nothing but exposed marrow where a section of my arm used to be. I want my goddamn life back! I’m sick of going home and thinking of work and waking up and thinking of work and looking at the stupid clock and thinking of work again. I’m sick of waking up during the weekends and thinking of mollusks! Actually, I meant work, not mollusks. I just felt like using mollusks because it’s such an interesting word; I love the way the consonants are ranged arm-in-arm like old friends, I love the guttural U, and I love the way the last S has to elbow its way out to be properly enunciated.

Mollusks are such peaceful creatures.

Get me out of this goddamn fucking whale.

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I’ve taken to wondering about our excretory habits, mostly during those times when I’m walking down Ortigas and spread out before me is an expanse of human butt. Butts of all sizes. Butts decked out in all sorts of material. Butts sticking out or turning coyly away from view. How can you not think of excretion when you have all these butts poking into your face? Not literally, of course, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, so imagine that taking a piss and taking a dump were as commonplace a public scene as any chump lighting a cigarette. If any chump can light a cigarette while walking, any chump can urinate or shit freely while walking. God, can you imagine that? What a terrible thought.

Suppose you see a yuppie about to cross a street, and he has a newspaper folded and tucked under his arm. He’s checking the time on his wristwatch and stepping off the curb, and a stream of piss is coursing down his thigh. And it’s nothing, it’s no big deal, everybody’s doing it! People are casually peeing and taking a dump wherever they are! They’re in their business suits and they stink! I mean, can you imagine a civilization like that, a fully-functional and firmly established one, but where the citizens are virtual, walking toilet bowls? And think of what Friday nights would be like in a beer joint – there’d be pools of piss everywhere and nobody would so much as flinch! Weirdos.

And what if farts were really colored gases? The real stink bombs would give rise to miniature mushroom clouds the exact color of a healing bruise: greenish purple. Milder emissions would be distinguished by yellow smoke, and green fumes would signal the release of a decently rotten fart.

But if our bodies worked that way, we wouldn’t need to guess about who farted in a roomful of people, and there’s just no fun in that. Think about it: a number of the most exciting situations are actually the direct result of Fart Whodunits. In fact, some of my dearest childhood memories are comprised of Dad and Mom squabbling fiercely in the car, bickering over who passed gas.

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The brightest patches in my weeks seem to be concentrated now on my AMCI training days, where I run for kilometer after kilometer, with my ribcage sheltering an exultant drum. I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing quite like a good run to pop the earth back to its old equilibrium or to salvage an otherwise lackluster day.

One of my best runs so far was during the Adidas King of the Road (KOTR) Race two Sundays ago, where I clocked in at just around 51 minutes for the 10-kilometer run. 51 minutes!!! Even I couldn’t believe it. Adidas’ official record of my time goes up to an hour and fifteen minutes, though – this was because I was late, and I started the race at exactly 6:24 a.m. where everybody else had begun at 6 a.m. By the time I crossed the finish line, it was only 7:15, just less than an hour after I began running.

With fellow trainees and AMCI members after KOTR.
(Photos courtesy of Bajay, I think.)

With AMCI members. That's Ike scowling beside me.

All in all, my time for KOTR was leagues better than my time for the Animo! 10K run last February, which I finished after an hour and twenty minutes (read about it here).

Since the entire Basic Mountaineering Course (BMC) started, I’ve been compelled to drink considerably less than I used to, and I’ve resorted to just staying at home and getting lots of rest on Saturday night instead of going out and getting hammered. My cigarette consumption rate has also decreased significantly, with me smoking less than 8 sticks a day.

Anyway, our batch is set to go for our first Training Climb this weekend at Cinco Picos in Zambales, and just the prospect of going up the mountain is enough to send me bouncing off the walls from sheer excitement. On my way home last night, all I had to do was think of the first Training Climb and the fact that it was mere days away, and I felt my insides dissolving and crashing down kerplunk! to the soles of my feet.

It’s insane. It’s totally batshit. This mountaineering thing almost feels like a rehashing of old times when you were an unsuspecting fool and you were completely in love with this other kid, and you said the dumbest things just to sound smart, and one word from him could dismantle you piece by awful piece. And when his hand caught yours, you understood that his hand was a new city, it was a new city and you wanted to live in it.
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