As of this writing, they are talking about boys and love and everything that has something to do with Alice in wonderland. They are a bunch of college girls who toil the night away with beer in hand and a mouthful of stories that never seem to end until you wake-up the next morning only to realize that, lo and behold, another one of their endless nights is yet to begin a few hours after. They chatter as if Mount Makiling is standing between their lines of sight, as if their male companions are coddling them like grumbling babies in wanton need of attention. They are hungry for a man's fiddle, and I call them the Desperate Dormers.
They live right next door. Four of them, I think. Tonight they are attempting to reach the heights of drunken nirvana, and somewhere inside that room a guy is strumming his guitar to tunes that remind one of eye liners, razor blades, dangling hair bangs and all the sadness and frustration the world has to offer. That's French for Emo music, one of the worst oxymorons since dinosaurs roamed the planet. At half an hour past one in this unholy morning, their voices can stir the dead back to life or, worse, can raise the sleep to a fit of rage. One of them tells the tale of how she is far too confused to give the boy the answer he deserves. Another speaks of the pang of being left single in this Earth where men are supposed to thrive in shapes and sizes. The same girl proclaims just as well that, push comes to shove, she won't be kissing a frog in the hopes of the toad turning into a prince. Better single than having warts and all. Still, another recounts how her lesbian days are far from over contrary to popular belief—ah, but the intoxicating powers of alcohol, when taken in excess, can truly make your brain think sideways.
One girl in particular appears to have been totally deprived of the chance to live her life with a man by her side. She thinks of how that golden opportunity melts in her hands and slips through her fingers like water each time her luck of finding a boyfriend would materialize in the form of a, well, classmate. She thinks and she lets a behemoth laugh escape across the palates of her mouth and through the spaces of her teeth. She imagines herself in the arms of her man in the winter chills of December, or the other way around which, God knows, may unwittingly lead to the strangulation of her beloved in the breadth of her limbs. She fantasizes about a man somewhere out there who is waiting for destiny to roll down its carpet and direct his footsteps to her door, whatever that door may stand for considering that she seems to be at the height of puberty, raging hormones and all.
What can I say? You get to feel the weight of desperation the moment you realize the unrecognized need to float in sheer weightlessness. But that is another chapter.
All these spoken in coño tongue—the one thing in this vast universe that makes me cringe and cry and laugh all at the same time; partly because of the insanity meshed in the thickness of the conversation, partly because of the way the beer has trickled its way down to their last vein, causing them more insanity than a few hours before.
Tolerance is gold, but I'd rather prefer tin. The most I can do is to bear witness to this unbearable nightly ritual of theirs. While I let them be, I can't help but write about them, not because I've run out of topics to write about. Quite on the contrary, there are tons out there worth deserving the space I dedicate here in my small virtual space. I can't help but write about them because I simply can't help it, and for several good reasons.
For the most part, the last few weeks have been gruelling, or excruciating, if you will. Right smack at the time when I am busy writing for my freelance work in the dead of the night, the Desperate Dormers never fail to rise to the occasion by banging the walls with ice which apparently signals the start of yet another beer fest. Thereafter, their male companion would play songs with his acoustic guitar loud enough to be heard three floors below. And the Maalaala Mo Kaya moments would soon follow. Those moments, as I've observed, are not without tears and laughter that, put altogether, sum-up the essence of disturbia. I swear had I only been less kind enough, I would have easily wielded my pen—my fork even—storm them in their room, and may God have mercy on my soul, assuming I have one, of course. But cleaver in hand or screwdriver on the other, it didn't matter. Vengeance could have easily been mine to take.
But I'm not a hazard to women. Neither do I bite. That makes me powerless to confront them and splice and dice them to chunks and tidbits, preferably with their intestines shooting out of their bellies. The gore would have been pleasant enough to watch. The visual presence of blood painting the tiled floors in full crimson is a sight to behold. The macabre of throats cut wide open and gut sinking down the drain is a magnum opus. But that's just not who I am. Or at least that's not what I think I am.
As of this writing, the Desperate Dormers are still killing time by killing their livers and killing their neighbors with their killer noise. This is desperation at its peak.
They live right next door. Four of them, I think. Tonight they are attempting to reach the heights of drunken nirvana, and somewhere inside that room a guy is strumming his guitar to tunes that remind one of eye liners, razor blades, dangling hair bangs and all the sadness and frustration the world has to offer. That's French for Emo music, one of the worst oxymorons since dinosaurs roamed the planet. At half an hour past one in this unholy morning, their voices can stir the dead back to life or, worse, can raise the sleep to a fit of rage. One of them tells the tale of how she is far too confused to give the boy the answer he deserves. Another speaks of the pang of being left single in this Earth where men are supposed to thrive in shapes and sizes. The same girl proclaims just as well that, push comes to shove, she won't be kissing a frog in the hopes of the toad turning into a prince. Better single than having warts and all. Still, another recounts how her lesbian days are far from over contrary to popular belief—ah, but the intoxicating powers of alcohol, when taken in excess, can truly make your brain think sideways.
One girl in particular appears to have been totally deprived of the chance to live her life with a man by her side. She thinks of how that golden opportunity melts in her hands and slips through her fingers like water each time her luck of finding a boyfriend would materialize in the form of a, well, classmate. She thinks and she lets a behemoth laugh escape across the palates of her mouth and through the spaces of her teeth. She imagines herself in the arms of her man in the winter chills of December, or the other way around which, God knows, may unwittingly lead to the strangulation of her beloved in the breadth of her limbs. She fantasizes about a man somewhere out there who is waiting for destiny to roll down its carpet and direct his footsteps to her door, whatever that door may stand for considering that she seems to be at the height of puberty, raging hormones and all.
What can I say? You get to feel the weight of desperation the moment you realize the unrecognized need to float in sheer weightlessness. But that is another chapter.
All these spoken in coño tongue—the one thing in this vast universe that makes me cringe and cry and laugh all at the same time; partly because of the insanity meshed in the thickness of the conversation, partly because of the way the beer has trickled its way down to their last vein, causing them more insanity than a few hours before.
Tolerance is gold, but I'd rather prefer tin. The most I can do is to bear witness to this unbearable nightly ritual of theirs. While I let them be, I can't help but write about them, not because I've run out of topics to write about. Quite on the contrary, there are tons out there worth deserving the space I dedicate here in my small virtual space. I can't help but write about them because I simply can't help it, and for several good reasons.
For the most part, the last few weeks have been gruelling, or excruciating, if you will. Right smack at the time when I am busy writing for my freelance work in the dead of the night, the Desperate Dormers never fail to rise to the occasion by banging the walls with ice which apparently signals the start of yet another beer fest. Thereafter, their male companion would play songs with his acoustic guitar loud enough to be heard three floors below. And the Maalaala Mo Kaya moments would soon follow. Those moments, as I've observed, are not without tears and laughter that, put altogether, sum-up the essence of disturbia. I swear had I only been less kind enough, I would have easily wielded my pen—my fork even—storm them in their room, and may God have mercy on my soul, assuming I have one, of course. But cleaver in hand or screwdriver on the other, it didn't matter. Vengeance could have easily been mine to take.
But I'm not a hazard to women. Neither do I bite. That makes me powerless to confront them and splice and dice them to chunks and tidbits, preferably with their intestines shooting out of their bellies. The gore would have been pleasant enough to watch. The visual presence of blood painting the tiled floors in full crimson is a sight to behold. The macabre of throats cut wide open and gut sinking down the drain is a magnum opus. But that's just not who I am. Or at least that's not what I think I am.
As of this writing, the Desperate Dormers are still killing time by killing their livers and killing their neighbors with their killer noise. This is desperation at its peak.
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