emo

My father will be coming here for a vacation next month. He'll be here for a week, and then he'll fly back to the States in time for Thanksgiving. He said he's sorry he can't stay for my wedding. He has his reasons, and I believe him. No big deal. At 27, I'm too old and tired for this Cats-in-the-Cradle shit.

But I'd be a hypocrite on the level of politicians if I say I'm taking all this with a Sam Milby smile. There are moments - usually Rhum-Coke moments late at night - when I fancy how it'd be like to have my father on my wedding. To see him march hand-in-hand with my mother. To feel the firmness of his hand as he congratulates me and my bride. Sipping my drink, feeling the familiar buzz in my head, I'd tell myself, I'd give anything for that. Unfortunately, fate has pushed me in a situation wherein I've nothing to give. Heck! There's not even much to say. And I'm too drunk to do something about it.

I'm not depressed, though. Far from it, in fact. I've attended weddings that could've been more memorable if only one or both parents from either side acted like decent human beings. I know of a guy whose wedding was boycotted by his parents because they didn't like the bride. What I have is small change compared to them. For that I can't be thankful enough.

still alive

I just realized that it's already way past the middle of October and I still haven't written anything here. People are probably guessing I'm passed out somewhere because of Oktoberfest. How I wish, for that would at least mean I'm having a merry month.

Truth is, I've little time to get weird and crazy these days. There's too much stuff to do, and making Danding Cojuangco richer isn't one of them. Yes, I'm effing busy. Busy to the point that separating night from day has become an exercise in futility. Busy to the point of trembling muscles, worn-out bones, troubled sleep. Busy to the point of . . . you get the drift.

Or, as my favorite simile goes, busy as the star of a Ron Jeremy gang bang video.

So there . . .