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Reviewing for the IDC exam, in Chancellor Arcadio's office:
Clint: Who is the father of comparative anatomy? Clue: he is mentioned in all subjects.
MJ: Paracelsus.
Manzo: Versalius.
Me: Galen.
Clint: Aristotle.
When in doubt. XD
---
If the world had any sense of narrative I would be writing this cross-legged on my bed cushion on the floor of our living room, but the classmates have hijacked the living room and are watching a movie and I'm just sitting at the large white table and watching them.
And that would have been the typically me thing to do, to sit there and go This time two semesters ago- This time two semesters ago I would have been asleep. It's easy to say two semesters ago, two semesters ago, when I had no idea Cesc Fabregas even existed and I didn't give a damn, and all I was doing was waiting for the chance to do something wonderful, so that I could throw myself off a building and still have the seventeen-going-on-eighteen years be worth the while. When all the furniture that graces our living room was in Calasiao, Pangasinan, where it was made to stay and where it belonged, when I was bawling my eyes out at Toy Story 3 and feeling rootless and attempting to cook. When I was sleeping on a cushion on the floor of our living room and writing about things other than what an abject failure I was. When I had to keep headphones over my ears so that I didn't have to hear myself think. When Allison and Manzo and Joshua Torres stayed over to watch Spain's first World Cup game at two in the morning and all I did was wish the team luck and then go to sleep. When we were dissecting cats and making ice candy and I was still trying to be both in love and functional. Well. I'm still trying. But somewhere along the way- I can't say that I figured things out, exactly, because I still haven't, but the thing is that I've been wanting to commit suicide ever since I could remember, so that I don't even know the reasons anymore, only that somewhere along the way I figured out that you don't live for, you just live, and it will be worth it.
Because even if all I got from eighteen going on nineteen years of life was evaporating capsaicin in the STR lab, or watching Barcelona beat Real Madrid 5-0 on a fuzzy stream at four in the morning, or running to Robinsons at ten-thirty at night when it's raining and Pedro Gil is ankle-deep in water just to get the next part of Hitverse, or cobbling together a comedy about serial killers and UPCM graduates trying to give back and failing in different ways- it would all have been worth it, in the end.
If the world had any sense of narrative- but who even cares about sense of narrative. It's things like these that make the narratives. It's noisy classmates and learning to give a damn without it making you crazy and growing the hell up.
Clint: Who is the father of comparative anatomy? Clue: he is mentioned in all subjects.
MJ: Paracelsus.
Manzo: Versalius.
Me: Galen.
Clint: Aristotle.
When in doubt. XD
---
If the world had any sense of narrative I would be writing this cross-legged on my bed cushion on the floor of our living room, but the classmates have hijacked the living room and are watching a movie and I'm just sitting at the large white table and watching them.
And that would have been the typically me thing to do, to sit there and go This time two semesters ago- This time two semesters ago I would have been asleep. It's easy to say two semesters ago, two semesters ago, when I had no idea Cesc Fabregas even existed and I didn't give a damn, and all I was doing was waiting for the chance to do something wonderful, so that I could throw myself off a building and still have the seventeen-going-on-eighteen years be worth the while. When all the furniture that graces our living room was in Calasiao, Pangasinan, where it was made to stay and where it belonged, when I was bawling my eyes out at Toy Story 3 and feeling rootless and attempting to cook. When I was sleeping on a cushion on the floor of our living room and writing about things other than what an abject failure I was. When I had to keep headphones over my ears so that I didn't have to hear myself think. When Allison and Manzo and Joshua Torres stayed over to watch Spain's first World Cup game at two in the morning and all I did was wish the team luck and then go to sleep. When we were dissecting cats and making ice candy and I was still trying to be both in love and functional. Well. I'm still trying. But somewhere along the way- I can't say that I figured things out, exactly, because I still haven't, but the thing is that I've been wanting to commit suicide ever since I could remember, so that I don't even know the reasons anymore, only that somewhere along the way I figured out that you don't live for, you just live, and it will be worth it.
Because even if all I got from eighteen going on nineteen years of life was evaporating capsaicin in the STR lab, or watching Barcelona beat Real Madrid 5-0 on a fuzzy stream at four in the morning, or running to Robinsons at ten-thirty at night when it's raining and Pedro Gil is ankle-deep in water just to get the next part of Hitverse, or cobbling together a comedy about serial killers and UPCM graduates trying to give back and failing in different ways- it would all have been worth it, in the end.
If the world had any sense of narrative- but who even cares about sense of narrative. It's things like these that make the narratives. It's noisy classmates and learning to give a damn without it making you crazy and growing the hell up.
