Ladies and Gentlemen: This.
- Is going to be embarrassing
It was like a sea storm. My compass consumed by the waves. Skies as dark as coal charred. Rain coming down like daggers thrown by the gods themselves.
I was heading to Chicago, navigating just by determining the sun’s position, star constellations, and the pale face of the moon. I was hugging the raft’s only mast. With my dear life, I held on. Palms bleeding. My body battered, and skin purple from the waters as cold as hell frozen. Five times, my strength failed. Five times I almost saw death in the waters. And five times I screamed in pain and defeat.
Lightning flashed.
My tears mixed with piercing rain, and sea salt.
Thunder clapped.
My eyes opened, greeted by blinding sunlight.
“Hey. We’re here in Chicago”
huh?..
“You’ve been staring at the sun for the past 2 minutes. You okay?”
Damn. My eyes hurt…
“Alright. Snap out of it, and tell me how to get to the apartment finders agency”
My head hurts…more than the eyes
I. was barely motivated just to get my things done. was not even bothered of the smallest chores. was losing my appetite. was feeling the utmost pain from a shattered heart. was dragging my feet on the ground. was depressed. was starting to lose my mind. was seeing the end.
I. am just like a raft in the storm.
“We need to get onto Belmont Ave.”
(Damn. Why can’t I just stop thinking of her… My heart’s already feeling like it’s broken into pieces. Thinking just makes things worse. Like taking the pieces and further grind them into fine powder. Why can’t I just think of jiggly boobies, humping LadyBugs, or that dumb show called..Jerry Springer Show)
The day passed. The sun crawling to the Philippines, and the moon creeping from London. And in between the stars twinkled. One-by-one.
One-by-one, the hours disappear, and my time in Chicago is done. Time to head back to Indianapolis. With bad planning and weary spirits, I managed to get onto a Greyhound bus on a 3-hour journey of utmost boredom, the smell of McDonalds in the bus and a kaleidoscope of US demographics. Most noticeably an “African American” couple sitting behind me in the bus.
Have you ever wondered how some people can smell like cheese and rotten apples? Or maybe how anyone can wear clothes that even moths dare not land on them? Damn. Sure bugged the hell outta me with them sitting behind me. How loud they were. How smelly. How I think how much better of a person I am COMPARED to them..low-lives. I was even wondering how they could even afford for the bus tickets. I guess they are what we call…(black)trash.
Three hours later, Indianapolis was within vicinity. Preparing to get off, I put away my Stephen King novel, and bundled up the remnants of my McD’s Value Meal into a paper bag. The bus stopped, and I stood up to start getting off. I was holding a bunch of messy ketchup-stained napkins and Big Mac remnants with both hands. Shameful to say, I did not want to carry that around with me down the bus, so I decided to kick them below my seat. After looking left and right, of course. I started to walk away from my seat when a tap on my shoulder stopped me.
“Sir. Are you forgetting something?”
(Watzup with this couple behind me)
“Do you still want that below your seat?”
(Oooh…shit)
“I hope you take that along with you. We don’t want no mess for others”
(Hmm…I think I’ll just say it’s not mine)
“It landed on our feet…when you kicked it”
(Damn)
*I hope this blog entry is not too draggy. I have been going through the toughest times in my life, and it is reflected in my previous two entries. There is still much pain, and I doubt it is going to go away any soon, but I am giving my best to continue on with life as it comes. To some people, what I write now might sound..hmm lemme put it this way, corny. However, I do believe in this. Everyone in this world will face emotional difficulties, insecurity, and uncertainties some point in life. And everyone will have different ways and different people to tell their stories to. Showing a steely face outside and dishing on fallen others is just hiding their own truth, and disrespectful to others. For me, I choose to write stories both made-up and real. After all, once in a while, we all enjoy a story or two ever since we were kids.
A great buncha thanks to a lot of people who like my writing (you know who you are), and to Uta and especially Clement for picking me up from Indianapolis when I had no way of coming back to Bloomington. I am grateful to friends who give time to help me out and stood by me during the hardest of my times. And this.
"Ladies and gentlemen. I am not ashamed and embarrassed to say"
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