(via andrewbreitel)Source: adriannaxoxomeow
- There is no bigger honor than being a charolastra.
- You can do whatever the fuck you want.
- Pop tromps poetry.
- Every day a hit holds your happiness key.
- You will not fuck another charolastra’s girl.
- He who roots for Club America is a motherfucker.
- Forget morals. Long live jerk offs.
Last night, at around 3am, my phone rang. One of my best girl friends called me, and I was like, “Fuck, I am supposed to call her last week!”
Yeah, well, shit happens. Not that she does not mean anything to me (on the contrary) but thing is, epic things happened last week that calling her was virtually impossible. You know, like, surreal stuff.
Part One: Sunday
I teach in Brent Subic but I live in Manila (sort of). I used to have a room in a relative’s house until something made me refuse the accommodations; thus, I don’t have a house there anymore. This made me look for alternative spaces.
Now there is a running joke among my friends with regards to my peripatetic behavior: that I will eventually end up sleeping in a church. Sanctuary. Roof over my head for free.
Well last week, fortunately, was not the time for that yet. I considered lodging in a bar though. You know Subic Bay and its bars. They have rooms at the back in case you want to keep the action going. Because I don’t want to part with my hard-earned cash, naturally, I had this option. I had apprehensions with this kind of setup though, because I find that old white men have this natural tendency to hang out with me in this place (I mean Subic, not the bars), and I don’t like the attention. Then again I reasoned that I would not even get out of the room. I told my dad about this setup, and my anxieties. He said it would be fine (wow) but he told me that it was dangerous because fucked up drug deals happen in those places. He told me I would be okay if I had an NBI agent with me. Suffice to say, I made reservations in a hotel.
So I was going to sleep in a hotel in my own room, my own bed, aircon, and wifi. These things weren’t around in my former sleeping quarters so it was cool. Then my friend texted me that we’re gonna hang out and watch a movie. It was perfect. I did not have to adjust to anyone and I had plans for the night and shit.
So there we were, in the movie theater, watching Barnabas Collins. The movie was great, or so I thought, because my friend started vomiting. Man, the movie must have sucked for Ale! So I resolved that we must get our asses home but then again, she lost her glasses! We were in the rest rooms (to continue the puking spree) when she realized that her glasses were indeed lost so I had to get them. I, the ever scandalous friend, went back to the movie theater, asked everyone on our seats’ four feet radius to check for glasses under their chairs. I threatened them that I wouldn’t leave the cinema until it was found. I crawled too. I guess my antics worked because thirty seconds after my announcement, my seatmate found the glasses.
I went back to the restroom to give Ale back her glasses. She was calling her parents now, who weren’t answering! I decided that we should get her to lie down at least for ten minutes, and wait for her parents. We ended up in the breast feeding station of the mall. It had a bed. There were nurses (not the milking kind) there who were very attentive. Thing is, our patient was a foreigner, so the drugs she had for vomiting were not available in the Philippines. And she puked for the second time (and third) in the breast feeding station. And her parents were not answering the calls. We ended up hanging in the goddamn breast feeding station for at least thirty minutes before the nurses decided that we should be in the hospital. That was after a candy, Google translate, two glasses of water and me getting a blood pressure reading. Stress and me, I know.
So we wheeled (hahahahaha) Ale out of the mall. It was pretty exciting. I mean, everyone was looking at us, no one understands her Spanish drugs, she was paper-pale, a security guard was with her, then elevator guy was “hey step out, this is an emergency!” I don’t know. I find it funny, in a Diablo Cody kind of way. The nurse, bless her heart, looked for a cab for us. I found one immediately so I left her to her search.
Then we went to the hospital. The hospital was dark, cold and dreary, like something out of a Stephen King novel. It was clean, no doubt about it, but the personnel were too uptight for me, but that’s just me and my recollections of Nurse Ratched. They were telling people to shut the fuck up when there were practically no patients. Anyway, Ale puked again in the hospital lavatory, and I was like, waiting for her to finish (I was actually looking forward to see her on the wheelchair again) when the nurse started interviewing me. I don’t know her much, so I was asking deets through the bathroom door, in front of the nurse. Like, duh, nurse-boy. It would have been logical if you asked her directly, you know.
You know, after the movie theater threat-and-crawl combo and the breast feeding station, I don’t think it would get any weirder.
But nurse-boy (I really find it awkward calling male nurses as nurses because… they don’t have… boobs?) was really nice and, well, efficient. He inserted the IV into Ale with such precision, I wish that he could be my nurse in case I would get hospitalized too (which would happen in a week, but I did not know that yet), but then Ale had this phobia of needles. What could have been a boring IV insertion was transformed into a spectacle of Spanish curse words. It was great. I felt like I was in an Alfonso Cuaron movie. Thing is, I was not sure if they were indeed curse words because she told me she uses names of fruits when she curses. I don’t care though, because she was yelling and she sounded so badass.
I think everything sounds badass/sexy/cooler when you say it in Spanish. And the best part it, I felt like Gael was about to pop in the scene anytime.
Actually, the next scene was better. Her parents popped in the scene. Plus her sister. Soon enough, I was hearing Spanish and I really felt like I was in a Mexican movie. It can’t be a telenovela, no, because they were too cool for that. It was a movie.
Anyway, the next thing I remember was I was in the mall (her dad dropped me off), buying toothpaste and shawarma. No, it’s not because of The Avengers, okay? I’m a fan way before Iron Man became the poster boy for it.
So I was walking down for my hotel when I got another text. This time from the NBI, telling me to hang out there. I did. Stayed for a couple of hours, I guess. Then I told me cousin to sleep in the hotel with me, like a slumber party. He told his mom that he would be sleeping in his boyfriend’s house. Haha. We ended up hanging out in a convenience store, chugging beer even though it was not even allowed inside the base.
END OF PART 1.
- “I look better than you.”
- “I’m the most beautiful person in the world.”
- “No one can compare to me.”
- “You should look more like me.”
- “I’m perfect.”
- “I look good today.”
- “I’m not ugly.”
- “I like myself.”
- “Have to admit, I am cute.”
- “I’m beautiful the way I am.”
Just some examples of the difference between being conceited and being confident. Get those shit straight.
I don’t want to celebrate birthdays anymore. In fact, I refuse to count my age (well, I will because of medical reasons).
Age, that number, is a source of stress. Like, people have these expectations about you because of it: too young, too old, productive age, wasting time, etc.
As a solution, I will not compare my age to the supposed notions that I should have. No wait, I will stop counting.
PS: I am not a matrona. Thanks.