I know I should engage your attention if I wanted my page to rake up an obscene amount of hits. I suppose, in doing that, I ought to say something highfalutinly profound to give the impression that I am "interesting."
However, as I mainly concern myself of trivial stuff (i.e. taming my ugly mop of hair; hunting for the Lint Monster that eats up my socks during washer spin cycle), I'm afraid that I wouldn't be able to pull off having an intrinsic character despite peppering this space with lotsa German words like "zeitgeist", "weltanschauung", and "volkswagen".
I am shallow, people of the universe. So shallow that I tidy up complexity by putting people into neat boxes of stereotypes using the question, "What's your sign?".
But when I tire of being shallow, I try to critique movies and books. And sometimes, when my insecurity-level spikes so low, I try to make myself sound so interesting by talking about philosophy. "Try" is the operative word here.
Please excuse me if I talk about me a lot. It's my favorite topic. Next to talking about nothing.
And when one talks about nothing, nothing becomes something. And it's called "crap".
On an occasion that a haircut won’t work
May 16, 2008A future colleague just announced, over a cup of coffee at my favorite hang-out place in Ortigas, that she’ll be moving on for real, after discovering that her separated husband of 29 years have ruled out getting back together since he already made plans of going to Mindanao and starting out a family with his girlfriend who is 31 years her junior.
Whew.
Anyweyz, she says she’s moving on. No way is she going to call him at his office again for a chitchat whenever she’s feeling lonely. No way is she going to pretend like everything is ok when they’re in the same room together. No way is she going to plan a surprise birthday party for him again like she used to. No way is she going to stay at the condo unit she’s renting that is situated at the upper floor of his estranged husband’s office. No way, yes, no way is she going to put up with her eyebags and wrinkles induced by being so miserable throughout their separation.
No way, she said. No way.
That’s why she’s moving out of the country after she sold her car and unit, live in the care of her relatives in the US to buy herself a new face, leaving a stinking desperation wafting behind her tracks.
P.S. I just hope she won’t end up looking like Jocelyn Wildenstein
Family Hair-doom
May 5, 2008The Hair, whether in overgrowth unkemptness or undergrowth pathetic state, has always been a source of insecurity to almost every male in the planet. It is second, next to worrying about the size of their nether region’s appendage.
"I need a good hair dresser," my brother told me while he was phoning from London, "I mean, I only have three hairs left, and when I get back there, I would have wanted to at least impress my wife with my hunkiness."
"Chunkiness, you mean?" I said drily.
He ignored me , continuing, "I want to be able to make my hair more…"
"Full?" finishing the sentence for him.
"Yeah, full." He agreed, "maybe if I massage my hair more with aloe vera, the follicles might decide against dying. Uncle Butch swears by it."
"Did you ever see his hair improving? The least you can do is contact some London hair transplant specialist since all the males in our family has been rubbing aloe vera on their scalp with zero results. " I explained, "Else, just shave off all of what’s left, and then get used to it."
"You’re mean."
"I know." I smiled.
