Out of Order

On your way to school or work, you suddenly sense that your bladder has distended, perhaps from surfeit of liquid waste, and then you feel the urgency to extract the juices out of your urinary viscera to ease the discomfort. You will look for the nearest public establishment, say, Mcdonald’s, to have a precious pee-pee, and to feel afterwards that you belong again to the world. But much to your disappointment, all the urinals and cubicles, if not occupied, are out of order.

Yes, as the Murphy’s Law states it, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. And all things that go wrong are hands down irritating. But some things that come crashing are not all the time sources of further dismay and grievances. Sometimes, they have a bright side— a silver lining. They have subliminal messages of fulfilment and satisfaction.

Back to the subject of the out of order urinals and cubicles, well, that kind of situation is one of those rare moments of implicit affliction where you can derive empathy and develop a brimming love for the meaning of existence. Do not let a full bladder miff you so much; instead, take pleasure in an annoying situation for it will never last long. You may either leave the place to look for another john or let yourself be petrified on the spot by a full bladder. You shall relish the indignity being offered by the moment, and in this way, you will never feel offended by any circumstantial ineptitude.

Take for example the omorashi fetishists who enjoy a full bladder. Now, do you get the picture?

In a manner of speaking, a feeling of joyous supremacy and domination can be derived from a mishap, a failure, a contretemps, a defeat. And from our proverbial out-of-order-urinals-and-cubicles example, you can attain a Nirvana-ish sentience and indulge in a fit of self-actualization just by enshrining an untoward moment. Just like a sexually-starved masochist who will willingly transform blows of torturous pain into an orgiastic and gratifying pleasure of the senses. It is turning a negative force to a positive one. It is countering a negative mood with a positive aura.

Simply put, you must bask into moments of inadequacy, of wrong twists of fate and of bungled circumstances, and enjoy them like hell. Yeah, enjoy them like hell. And laugh at them if you want to, with a matching sinister laugh undertoned by sarcasm. Laugh at your bloody mistakes, and laugh at the universe’s inevitable glitches and lapses as well. Life is fleeting, and so are the innumerable negativity and flop appended to it.

One Muggy Summer Morning…

I was in the midst of a maelstrom of dreams when a thunderous bellowing had abruptly made me half-awake. The booming voice was very familiar. My sense of hearing identified the coarse tone, the high-pitched voice, and the reckless litany of foul words- it was my mother’s.

‘This house was never been a house! Everything was messed up! I was away for only two days, and no one cared to fix things here! ’

My eyes were still closed and I decided to continue my sleep hoping to catch up with the unfinished dream. But the words were persistently penetrating my eardrums.

‘And you Alex, (my big brother, not his real name) you are not always here! You lazy ass!!! If you’re here at this friggin’ house, you’re busy, and you’re with your cohorts while minding insignificant matters. You frequently bring friends here as if this bedeviled house is a party house! Look at the heap of dried clothes in the sofa, they weren’t even friggin’ touched! Who'll gonna do them for you? The socks, the hankies! Get up from the bed! Son of a sloth!!!’

Perhaps this is only a terrible adjunct to my formerly-dulcet dream. Or could it be a nightmare?

‘And you Ellen (my little sister, not her real name of course), you’re a girl but you don’t have a sense of order. Look everywhere!!! Whore! You don’t even know how to sweep the rooms, or arrange what has been disorganized! Bummer!!! Now get up from bed too or I’ll hit you with the friggin’ broom!’

Broom. The word reverberated. Ah, it perfectly rhymes with room. Holy Guacamole! My room! MY ROOM!!!

‘And you ____(my name withheld), while I’m away, you’re away too! You’ve been friggin’ gone for whole two days. You are of no help in this house! Look at your friggin’ room! It’s an annex to some stinking dump site! You choose, make a magic to clean it or I’ll throw your things away? I’ll give you an ultimatum, and if you don’t do anything, you'll see what you're looking for! Now unlock your room, I'll get the hangers! You're getting on my nerves!!!’

‘Ackkk!!! I’m friggin’ late! This is all your fault.! I’m the one who lives nearest to our office, but I always arrive late. You know why, because I commit all my mornings cleaning this fucked-up place!!! Really fucked-up! You’re supposed to be helping me out to maintain cleanliness, but look! All your junks, your rubbish, I’m gonna burn this house soon! You friggin’ children of whores!!! Oh, the bitches! The scabies-infested pups! Who let them on the loose? The neighbors are griping!’

If the discordant voice and the pernicious accusations were an earthquake, then my ears were a Richter scale. The seismic magnitude is so prodigious that mitigating the damages would be unnecessary.

Mother’s last words faded like an echo of a plinking campanile, deafening yet remaining. When the decibels of pure, concentrated silence sallied forth from out of nowhere, I gratefully snuggled my pillows to find reprieve. Ah! The sounds of the chirruping birds and the cockadoodledooing roosters outside the window are so endearing to hear. It is going to be a fine, sunny day ahead for sure.

The Tales of The Irked

The charisma and economic appeal of the LRT is still unfaltering and indomitable for the commuting hoi polloi. But I, for one, reckon that the LRT operations should be suspended or canceled once in a while just to save a great deal of money, time, effort, morality and yes, virtue.

Every LRT train car has their own violent vortex to unmercifully suck gullible commuters inside, and pucker them like dried sardines in a tin can. If you are uninterested to wait for the next crowded train, you might as well squeeze your flesh and bones in the midst of the thick passenger plethora in the train car. If and only if you are one of God’s lucky children, nothing bad will happen to you. Then if you are an inborn jinx, you might end up with a broken finger, leg or wrist, or a face slammed smack on the automatic door’s tempered-glass panels. The scenario in almost all equally-populated stations is a pathetic scene to behold, let alone the jam-packed concourse and ungodly queue lengths.

Inside the train cars, it is an impossible actuation to strain any bodily muscles, only your eyeballs are allowed to spontaneously move. The motley crew of passengers also means motley of ineffable and indistinguishable aromas emanating from dysfunctional sebaceous glands. The homogenous mixture is a putrid combination, rivaling that of Payatas’ mélange of malodorous vapor. You are spared from such a lurid snarl if you have nostrils clogged with thick, hardened calculus or you instantly acquired anosmia just in the nick of time.

Another complication that could follow is the presence of lechers and maniacs. Women will be perverted as long as there is a chance, and men are not exempted from that. If there were lascivious asinine old-timers, there would also be the equine cross-dressing faggots. These LRT stock characters will leverage the insufferable horde of unsuspecting people in their own sexual behooves. Pickpockets, however, will never be left out of the scene, they are but infuriatingly passé.

If you steeled yourself to muscle in on the train car successfully, the effort you exerted in your initial venture must be quadrupled to get out past the intransigent standing passengers. You need not to mind kneeing frail legs or stepping on newly-pedicured toes because your co-passengers also would not mind blocking your way. Now, that’s what you call an efficient human barrier.

After alighting from such horror, the turnstile within sight is the consoling prize for you. Your ride is just like finishing an arduous marathon, only less than the stretch of the Baclaran-Monumento route. For occasional commuters, this is a stinking dung heap to hurdle. For the inured habitués, this is the inexorable way of life.