Four bottles of beer, and I woke up with a hangover.
I could picture my 20-year old self shaking her head in disappointment. Naikot natin ang mga inuman sa KNL, mars, tapos sumuko ka sa apat? Well, what do you know? People grow old, Young Me, and newsflash: you are now officially in your late twenties.
I longed for this. The growing old, the entire jig about being an adult. The sage advice has always been to live in the present — carpe diem — but I was never one to listen. I wanted to grow old and now here we are. I am past the phase of trying new things for the heck of it, of making mistakes just because I could. Decisions, I learned, weigh heavier when you’re old.
I say there are only two things constant in this world: change, and my life in a perpetual state of disorder. Often I dive deep into this gigantic and unforgiving self-pity sinkhole. I am old and ugly and essentially as useful as my mom’s appendix. Oh right, she doesn’t even have one.
Warren is cute and some nights I undress him in my thoughts. We spend the awkward morning-after in the lunch room while I stand behind him and listen, patiently, to the cappuccino slowly dripping into his mug. He turns around, smiles, and the machine whirs as if begging either of us to break the silence in its stead. But he doesn’t and I don’t, and he goes back to his seat and I go back to staring at his shoulders, broad and brooding, his white shirt pristine unlike the pictures in my head, dirty as if drenched in endometrium sludge like a six-hour old tampon, the bleeding elephant in the room.
Mabilis na akong mag-type hayskul pa lang. Natutuwa kasi ako sa tunog ng niraratrat na keyboard—parang mabibigat na tagaktak ng ulan sa bubong na yero tuwing buwan ng Hunyo.
Nagba-blog na rin ako hayskul pa lang. Mahilig akong magsulat tungkol sa mga paborito kong banda, sa current events na hindi ko naman lubos na nauunawaan pa, at sa mga pangarap ko sa buhay. Mahilig akong magsulat tungkol sa sarili ko at mahilig din akong magbasa tungkol sa personal na buhay ng ibang tao.
At dahil personal ang atake ko sa pagba-blog, hindi ko ipinapaalam sa mga kaibigan ko na nagba-blog ako. Nakakahiya. Hindi handa ang puso, isip, tadyang at balun-balunan ko na tumanggap ng pang-aasar mula sa mga kaibigan kong dalubhasa’t beterano sa panggagago.
Bago ko sinimulan ang Jumping Jolens, may blog akong mahal na mahal ko. Pakiramdam ko iyon ang peak ng aking youth, ‘yung panahong nagkukuwento ako tungkol sa kagustuhan kong makapag-aral sa UP, sa paghanga ko sa Eraserheads, sa pagkahilig ko sa mga bagay na jologs, at kung ano-ano pa.
Kaya lang nabisto ako ni JL, ang katrabaho ko dati sa student paper sa UP (oo, natupad naman ang pangarap kong mag-UP). Nagsusulat ako noon ng blog post, nakalimutan ko na kung tungkol saan, nang biglang narinig ko ang boses ni JL mula sa likuran.
After watching Stand By Me for the hundredth time a few days ago, I was urged to finally finish Stephen King’s The Body from the novella collection Different Seasons. This throwback of sorts was triggered by binging all eight episodes of Stranger Things, a Netflix series about many things strange (alternate dimensions and gooey monsters) and heartwarming (a mother’s love and the solidity of childhood friendships).
Consuming all these coming-of-age stories is not doing any good to my self-esteem. I am currently trailing the remaining days of the summer and being reminded that I am now older than River Phoenix when he bid buh-bye makes me feel deeply sad and lonely.
Aside from that one time when I went out on a picnic with a few friends, I did nothing else this summer but work and sleep and sleep some more.