i almost died from heart attack today. somebody/thing just lost 10 million because of my complacency.
but i didn't. although the 2-hour deliberation felt like a death sentence and despite the bosses coming to my defense, i can't help feel inadequate.
(husband then sends a message telling me to stop beating myself.)
wow. 10 million. it could feed a lot of poor people (except the maid i recently fired. i'm evil. i'm cruel. i'm wishing she'd go really dirt poor for lying and stealing my kid's tuition money).
Terror Professor died this week. I first heard of him at age 13. he was feared by many of my house mates who were just beginning their long and painful college life. half of those house mates did not survive life in my university. I regret not having experienced terror prof. I came to the campus too late--he already retired. but during the drinking days in the university, one of my close friends would tell of this recurring memory about how terror prof burned his hair in class.
Terror Prof was a chain smoker and he loved to smoke in his class, i was told. One time, in his class he came with a lit cigarette, sat on the table and began discussing (in monologue, i do not know). In the middle of everything, he rested his chin on his hand--probably one of his mannerisms and became too absorbed in the discussion that he didn't notice he's burned part of his hair. When somebody in the class had actually gathered enough guts to interrupt him and tell him about his burning hair, he did not even flip. he just brushed the ashes of the burned hair and cigarette off his shoulders and went on with his discussion.
of all the people i know, i think ABD has the best last memory: inside the cinematheque, sitting beside terror prof watching a classic film. i could almost picture them inside the cinematheque with smiles on their faces and as the lights from the large screen fade, terror prof;s white hair turned black and blacker until most of him faded in the dark. Then the theater lights flooded the whole room. it was time to go.
i like going to wakes than going to weddings because i feel that there is a lot more honesty in the wakes. despite being highly theatrical with all the guest receiving, the re-telling of how death came, of the last memories, and finally, the going over to the coffin, the attempt to not cry and finally the crying, wakes never pretend. In weddings it is expected that every one should ham it up but every one is also expected to pretend there's no hamming it up. But never in wakes. And unlike my wedding, i rather have elaborate wake plans in mind, where none of those who do not want to participate will be forced to do so, and where ABD will supervise/oversee all the committees. Maybe Maritess will take the pictures. after all it was only in her pictures that i was beautiful. PF will be allowed to feel sad, if he wishes to. JV will sing and CBD will entertain the guests. Alfredogs will shine.
Having survived the near-death-5-hours-10-million-heart-attack-experience, i wished for a drink. Just before chris and i left the island, i sent messages to possible drinking buddies but murphy enforced its law today and everyone is busy when i am not. not only were they busy, but most of them were busy with wakes. my high school friend's aunt whom i;ve known since i was 13 died yesterday. Liby is also attending a wake of a relative's friend and i cannot, in all of my attempts, tempt him to leave the wake for a cup of coffee in Jaro Plaza.
I went home thinking of going to the coffeeshop alone so i can wallow in my 10-million worth of misery and allow shots from 1997 to play over and over again, in my head. hoped to finally write them down with a 30-something perspective.
"in malate, very late at night. alone. buying coffee and cigarettes at a 24-hour mom and pop (yes, the store's name) store. I have a math exam the next day that I'm sure to fail despite having studied it for one straight week. so i drown myself in cheap coffee and misery."
and that is how i slowly died in malate. but that is another story.
Terror Prof was a chain smoker and he loved to smoke in his class, i was told. One time, in his class he came with a lit cigarette, sat on the table and began discussing (in monologue, i do not know). In the middle of everything, he rested his chin on his hand--probably one of his mannerisms and became too absorbed in the discussion that he didn't notice he's burned part of his hair. When somebody in the class had actually gathered enough guts to interrupt him and tell him about his burning hair, he did not even flip. he just brushed the ashes of the burned hair and cigarette off his shoulders and went on with his discussion.
of all the people i know, i think ABD has the best last memory: inside the cinematheque, sitting beside terror prof watching a classic film. i could almost picture them inside the cinematheque with smiles on their faces and as the lights from the large screen fade, terror prof;s white hair turned black and blacker until most of him faded in the dark. Then the theater lights flooded the whole room. it was time to go.
i like going to wakes than going to weddings because i feel that there is a lot more honesty in the wakes. despite being highly theatrical with all the guest receiving, the re-telling of how death came, of the last memories, and finally, the going over to the coffin, the attempt to not cry and finally the crying, wakes never pretend. In weddings it is expected that every one should ham it up but every one is also expected to pretend there's no hamming it up. But never in wakes. And unlike my wedding, i rather have elaborate wake plans in mind, where none of those who do not want to participate will be forced to do so, and where ABD will supervise/oversee all the committees. Maybe Maritess will take the pictures. after all it was only in her pictures that i was beautiful. PF will be allowed to feel sad, if he wishes to. JV will sing and CBD will entertain the guests. Alfredogs will shine.
Having survived the near-death-5-hours-10-million-heart-attack-experience, i wished for a drink. Just before chris and i left the island, i sent messages to possible drinking buddies but murphy enforced its law today and everyone is busy when i am not. not only were they busy, but most of them were busy with wakes. my high school friend's aunt whom i;ve known since i was 13 died yesterday. Liby is also attending a wake of a relative's friend and i cannot, in all of my attempts, tempt him to leave the wake for a cup of coffee in Jaro Plaza.
I went home thinking of going to the coffeeshop alone so i can wallow in my 10-million worth of misery and allow shots from 1997 to play over and over again, in my head. hoped to finally write them down with a 30-something perspective.
"in malate, very late at night. alone. buying coffee and cigarettes at a 24-hour mom and pop (yes, the store's name) store. I have a math exam the next day that I'm sure to fail despite having studied it for one straight week. so i drown myself in cheap coffee and misery."
and that is how i slowly died in malate. but that is another story.
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