Tinnitus for the Non-Emo Fan

If it weren't for my handydandy earplugs last night, my ears would be ringing with (for the love of God) Puddle of Mudd-inspired music. Quark threw the Blast Signal yesterday at such short notice saying that I had to sub for Mikey in spitting out the low-end for a Blast Ople gig.

So Marie and I had to make a run for it after my art class' exhibit at Connecticut. With our bellies full of finger foods and our phones set to alarm, we headed to her secret lair and gingerly watched the first side of a laserdisc copy of Robert Redford's Quiz Show, which I embarassingly I haven't seen until. We then swam the pool fantastic for ten minutes,then hastily got dressed. (Funny, whenever I hear the word 'laserdisc', I'm beamed back to those times when my family used borrow a lot of titles from Cla-Ro Visual Ventures in Katipunan...Man, don't you just miss the '90s?)

Marie and I got lost on the way to D' Point (where the gig was) because of faulty directions given to us by Quark. Surprisingly, the gig turned out to be enjoyable. We ran through some Ople standards like the Pixies' "Where Is My Mind?" and Sonic Youth's "100%". Our set was quite good that I was actually jumping and doing some guitar antics onstage, which I don't normally do when I'm in Narda. I also bumped into a few friends and acquaintances like Jing, JV and Mark Villena of the Narda community.

Headed home afterwards, and ate some leftover-but-reheated Yellow Cab Pizza and resumed watching Quiz Show. Got too sleepy to drive so I just slept at Marie's place and snuck out clandestinely this morning to avoid any suspicions from Gary, his protective big brother.

'Nuff said. Going to Mass in a few minutes. I feel lazy but my inner Bruce Wayne tells me to be productive.

Words Are Batarangs

I am now mother fucking employed. Fucking finally... After six stupid months of repolishing the resume...After six stupid months of waiting for the word of those motherlovin' corporations who raise your hopes but bail out in the end... After six stupid months of splurging the allowance and the precious time on Earth on TV-series-on-DVD's because there's nothing else worth doing other than masturbating with your girlfriend or Naomi Watts in mind... After six stupid months of dandruff-inducing boredom and seven day weekends, Wincy fucking Ong is now out to earn money for comics.

I now work as a copywriter for this design company in Pasong Tamo Extension, which is virtually in the middle of fucking nowhere: a one-Starbucks galaxy amidst the Andromeda that is fucking Mayor Binay's Makati. I go to the office six times a fucking week and dry my mucus membranes out as I bathe in this air-conditioned, four-walled existence. I'm not complainning though.I fucking realized that one has to fucking break his back so that he could feel more alive.

So no Durdenisms in my head right now. I'm happy as a pig in a cage on antibiotics.