To confirm what we’ve always kind of known: the kind of food you crave late at night says a lot about who you are as a person. Not just like, taste-wise, but in terms of where you are in life, and how you think, and maybe even what shape the hole in your heart takes on after dark and how you choose to fill it. Fun stuff!
Working out was fun the first couple months, but I’m coming to the end of my GuavaPass package and I still don’t look like Shakira circa 2001. But cheat meals are for the weak and I’m! Almost! There! The path to wellness is paved with suffering! But God forgive me, these strawberries are in dire need of Nesquik chocolate sauce.
As far as entry level positions go, I’m pretty lucky, I guess. Even though the southbound commute takes an average of four hours out of my day, and tax deductions eat into my salary like flies upon roadkill. Ha ha ha. Hah. Where else am I gonna get this much umami for this little effort?
I’m out with friends, the night is young, and I’m happy. If this was the late 2000’s or early 2010’s though we most likely would’ve gotten sisig.
I’m sick of fruit.
This is the seventh month in the gap year I asked mommy and daddy to give me for soul-searching purposes. I finished my European backpacking trip three months ago, and it’s either I take up the family business or literally anything else, but I’m kinda like, parang, just trying to find myself, y’know? Also my barkada is filled with the children of Senators.
This seemed like a good idea in my head, crawling up from the kitchen floor to the marble table top while everybody else was playing King’s Cup in the front lawn. “Okay ka lang ma’am?” Ate Annabel asked me while my limbs reprised their role of wet noodles in the latest installment of Obvious Symptoms of a Deeper Sadness, ongoing forever. No Ate, I most certainly am not okay lang, but I’mma need summa dat Red Oak before I hightail it out of this party and blast The National in my room until 4:37 in the morning. Falling out of touch with all my / Friends are somewhere getting wasted. Ideally the citrus helps cover up the taste of the bile trampoline-ing in the back of my throat.
Be happy? No. The point of existence is to minimize pain.