29.08.58 – 25.06.09


Hmmm. Writing about death is more like a Celine and Bukowski thing.

Last night I snuck out of my aunt’s house in Tiaong, Quezon to go beat some beers with my homey up the street. No small feat, there’s bars on all the windows and the gate creaks like the gates of hell. Anyway, I made it. Ever since I started working the bars I haven’t been able to sleep before midnight without drinking something. Never go to bed angry, they say. Horrible habit because I’m not what you a call a “good drunk”. I pull at bra-straps, sing Mariah Carey songs, and throw up at will. I’ve even made good friends cry. That’s what I hear anyway. I didn’t have to mention that because none of that happened last night. We sat outside my buddy’s sari-sari store and sipped at cans of red-horse and smoked cigarettes. Conversations jumped from travelling, to basketball, to Kobe Bryant specifically, to girls, to the filipina-american chick on the tv that can fly a plane with no arms, to wondering what flying a chick with no arms would be like, to the beerhaus up the road. My buddy kept bringing up the beerhaus cause he saw my leg was shaking. An indication that I’m anxious. See, the beerhaus is where the girls in the short-shorts are. The girls that make out with you even if they don’t know your name. After midnight, in a town like Tiaong, everyone is in bed. The only life are the boys drinking on the corner and in the beerhaus, where the girls in the short-shorts sit on your lap and sing you love songs in Tagalog. But again, more unnessecary information, because we didn’t end up going anywhere. We just sat and drank our red-horse from the can and sparked conversations with various tito’s who walked by on their way home, probably from the beerhaus where the girls in the short-shorts light your cigarette for you and call you ‘honey’. We opted against going after going back and forth on the subject for some time. Spending a night at the beerhaus requires a sort of freedom of spirit; loose of guilt, time, and attachments to your wallet. None of us present seemed to possess that tonight. So we called it a night before we changed our minds and regretted it. I woke up holding my head at the temples to keep it from exploding, feeling guilty anyway, cause I remembered that I didn’t let myself in last night. Tita did. Then, before that sunk in and I sat up I got a text from someone who hardly ever texts me: “Michael Jackson is dead, man :(.”

Good fucking morning, Boom.

MJ was a hero of mine, see. I don’t know what to say. Death is more a Celine and Bukowski thing.



~ by mlv on 26 June, 2009.

One Response to “29.08.58 – 25.06.09”

  1. oh god yes, you are so not a good drunk and i only met you once! :p i could take the mariah carey and the barfing, you won’t be able to make me cry but if you pulled my bra straps i would have pummeled you, drunk or not

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