The Drunken Gadfly

A Good Dose of Selective Amnesia

2011-01-31T10:05:00.003+08:00

Everyone needs a good dose of selective amnesia. There's value in forgetting, specifically the not so good things we all encountered in life.

We all experienced some pain and sadness in varying amounts and frequencies. The annoying thing is that these always return to your consciousness, sometimes, at the most importune timing. At your peaceful and silent moments, the past has a way of creeping up to your mind. Memories and remembering have that tendency.

We all know that what is past is past, and what happened yesterday can no longer be reversed. But still, the past has a strong grasp on our hearts that we can't easily break loose. Maybe this power over us is due to regret and the desire to go back and change things. Moreover, it can be the wish for such things to never have happened.

What should be done is to forget: there's a need for selective amnesia.

In one sense, the present and future are built on the past. The string of past tears and laughter is connected to who we are today. We may regret or resent the past, but we can't deny it. If we do, it's tantamount to a denial of one's self. It would be being dishonest. When you look at it from this view, the acceptance of the past is also the acceptance of one's self.

What we should remember is that we once lived in a certain way, made mistakes, was hurt, overcame the pain, and learned from them. What we should forget is the anger at the pain, the shame from being mistaken, and the dejection from having tripped or fallen. What we should remember is that we did the best we could, made decisions we thought were right, and that we took our chances. What we should forget is the stigma of failure, the obsession over what could have been, and the chagrin from a mistaken decision. We should remember that we are not perfect, and we should forget that imperfection is a sin.

How to get selective amnesia?

Simple.

Live, love, learn. Move forward. And watch good anime and read great books and manga. Drink good beer, eat good food. Just live and keep walking forward. It won't be bad to have someone walking besides you as well.

Remember that forgetting is a blessing.

We all need a good dose of selective amnesia.

I Guess I Worry Too Much

2011-01-30T16:21:00.000+08:00

I'm filled with doubts and lack of confidence.

When another's fate becomes connected with your own, you somehow get out of balance.

I guess that's what happens when you've been too used to living life alone. It's one thing to be concerned with your own self, it's a totally different matter when you've got more than yourself to be concerned about. A lot of things change.

I worry a lot--that's another reason. I worry about being good enough. I worry about being qualified. I worry about whether I can return the happiness. I worry, worry, and worry some more.

I know that all this worrying can't be too good, but I can't help it. I worry all the same.

This sounds like I'm complaining. It's as if I'm talking about a burden. One may think that I'm dealing with something troublesome.

But that's not true at all. Not true at all. I'm saying this while shaking my head: that's not true at all.

I'm presented with something beautiful, wonderful, and precious. That's why I worry.

I worry about ruining it. I worry about being undeserving of it. I worry about my mistakes and failures.

But then again, if I have time to worry, I should have time to better myself.

If I have time to worry, I should have time to reflect and correct my actions.

If I have time to worry, I'm better off spending that time giving happiness, no matter how slightly.

I guess I worry too much.

All this while, I should have been learning.

So I won't worry too much. Just a little.

Being too serious can be suffocating.

So I won't worry too much. Just a little.

I would aim to improve. Aim to improve a lot.

But still, I would worry. Even a little. Just not a lot. I can't help it.

After all, I'm presented with something beautiful, wonderful, and precious. That's why I worry.

If you value something so much, it just can't be helped.

Just a bit about living

2011-01-09T12:56:00.000+08:00

It all begins with the idea that this is life. This is what there is. There's no other life but this life. When one realizes this, one becomes the prisoner who finally accepted the terms of his sentence, the chains shackled to his feet, and the bars that limit his walking space. The prisoner, who after years of hair-wrending, bar-biting, and heaven-cursing, will finally find the irony and humor in his placement. The prisoner learns his place, and would finish his sentence. As Camus said, just in that decision, the prisoner has given himself an absurd freedom. The prisoner gets to be free by choosing to spend his remaining time in incarceration. He gets to be above his fate, even though it's just existential masturbation.

That's when everything starts. That's when the old, resented bars become new and interesting. That's when the hateful becomes curious. That's when the endless possibility for humor, irony, and sarcasm is born. That's when you find this world fun in a quasi-sick and somewhat sincere way.

And so, you live. You live knowing all too well that it will lead to nothing. You live in chase for that smile and laughter, fleeing the tears and pain. You have to play the role of a human being, living life to the fullest since that would be the option least encumbered by the yokes of absurdity. You drink heavily the wine of existence, for it's better to be drunk in it and forget about your powerlessness regarding your forceful placement. You live, because the charm of the rebel has an expiration date.

You begin to live, because you are shocked by the fact that what you know is but a microscopic particle of what existence has to offer.

This is why I love people who seriously tried and got burned. My wish is to be among their number.

Carpe Diem, The New Year, and The Last Will

2011-01-03T11:58:00.000+08:00

The first day of the new year is a day of new beginnings. It's supposed to be filled with hope, enthusiasm, and good things to come: of warm fuzzy things and the excitement of new possibilities.

I agree with all of the things written above. But then, I have a different view of things. More of a morbid one.

I was writing my last will on the first day of the new year.

It's strange, isn't it? It's out of season, and even creepy.

Again, it's morbid, I know. But then, I have this strange urge to write it. I was thinking about Carpe Diem, seizing the day, or like the perpetual advice to live life like it's your last. I then thought, what if this is the last day of my life? Will they (the people who would take care of my corpse) know what I would like for my funeral? Would they know my ATM pin? My social security number? Would they know how to dispose of my stuff? If I am to think that any day could be my last, I need to be prepared.

But you can write your will at any other day; why do it in the first day of the new year? But if not now, then when? Plus, the antithesis between the first day of the year and the act of writing a will amused me greatly. It's the presence of irony that made me want to do it. Additionally, I'm not too big on New Year celebrations. This then led to other interesting thoughts.

Aside from the usual outlining of who to leave your stuff with, what kind of procedures you would like for your cadaver, and access to my very meager financial resources, I was hard-pressed to think of things to say to those I will leave behind. The truth is, I don't seem to have a lot of things to say aside from "Thank you" and "Sorry for the trouble." I was hoping for something more dramatic and cheesy to express, but all I could say were essentially those two phrases.

This lead to a very important realization: I tend to take things for granted. Is this living life "without appeal"? Surely, there's more to be said. There's more to be expressed, more to be made evident. Surely. And even if there's none to be said, there's still time to form new words. Surely. Writing your last will on the first day of the year just means you get to know outright whether it needs some editing along the way.

It was a creepy undertaking (no pun intended), but still entertaining and amusing. If this activity was good for anything, then at least it must be that.

On Confusion

2010-12-22T14:05:00.000+08:00

Personally, it's one of the most disagreeable feeling in the world--confusion. That's saying it gently. I can easily see how confusion can become the worst torture there is. The lack of certainty and direction is unnerving and excruciating, more so than the actuality of a mistaken decision--which is plenty ironic. Being confused is God's cruel prank injected into free will. It is the fine print to entering the covenant of knowing Good and Evil. I have to admit, it is funny to see a guy being confused. Looking from the outside, confusion is a fun watch, but when you're the confused guy yourself, you get to resent freedom a little. (It does comfort me to think that God has a sarcastic and mean sense of humor, but that relief only goes so far. It's not a good feeling knowing the joke's on you.)

Even the term "confusion" is confusing itself; what can one be confused about? It can be a lot of things, it can be a few things; it can be big things, it can be small things. You can be confused about anything or nothing at all. That's how confusing "confusion" is.

To add to the confusion, the clock is ticking. The longer you take in making the decision, the more the pressure builds up. The more the pressure builds up, the more you get confused. The more the fun continues. It's no use procrastinating on the decision or ignoring the impending choice to be made; it is in the nature of confusion that you have to make a choice. Otherwise, it's not really confusing at all--it won't be confusion in the first place.

You can be confounded over whether you'll go for burger or rice for dinner, but you won't be calling it the greatest failure in life to be mistaken in either one. But those don't count. The real puzzle is when you start thinking about where you're standing and where you're heading. You look at the streets, the signposts, the direction people are heading, the skies, and the stars just for any hint of direction or destination. You start walking, looking at your feet moving one after another, and you think, "Where am I really heading?" In this sense, stopping and moving really means the same--there's no difference. You seem headed nowhere.

I can hear someone saying: "Get a grip, man!"

True, true. A man should get a grip. To be less sexist, everyone should get a grip.

I tried a lot of things to get through confusing times. I tried Anime, beer, smoking--these have worked so well in the past. To my initial surprise, then horror, they can only go so far. These don't resolve the confusion, they just make you forget it for a few hours (or years). After the hangovers, burnt lungs, and tired eyes, the real solution emerged. It ain't any of these things: the only way to get rid of damn confusion is to make a decision. And deciding entails mostly finding the courage to possibly making the most terrible, stupid, and irreversible mistake ever. (That, and also fortifying oneself to be able to recover from such a blow.) From a rational standpoint, confusion ensues because of the hesitation to make a choice. To be precise, it's the fear of being mistaken.

Now that I seem to have a "grip" on what can remove confusion, I am here writing this post still shaking in terror on making a decision. Ergo, the confusion goes on. Like in most situations in my life, I know what to do, I just don't like doing them.

A Drunken Song

2010-12-22T13:50:00.000+08:00

Don't gulp it down
Tomorrow's busy at rest
Certainly, but slow to come
Show respect for the bottle
Show respect for Time
Don't gulp it down
Always leave some
For the palate's enjoyment
Show some taste
By your capacity for taste
Can't you feel it
Bite at your tongue?
Do not hurry
Let it swirl
Ebbing back and forth
Filling the mouth's every corner
As it flows down
It claws through your throat
Like it doesn't want to go
But it goes through the stomach
With an exploding warmth
Then you can't help
But not get enough
Feeling so good
Until you throw up

August 2004

What I Like About Getting Old

2010-10-26T13:30:00.001+08:00

There are much things to hate in this life. But there are also much things to like and love. Growing older has a way of teaching things like that.

With age comes wisdom, as the cliche goes. And that is true. Wisdom is but the admission of how little you really know, according to Socrates, if I didn't get it wrong.

It's nice to be young since you can be a know-it-all and be forgiven for it. But after wading through all the years of crap that life chose to give you, you'd get to say at the end that "all is good." Though it would be wrong to say that it is true, that everything is "good, " but at least you get to appreciate the irony behind it. Good or bad, that is part of getting through this life. But in general, life is good, the level depending on how you make of it. The cliche "life's little pleasures" holds a very important truth. It seems all we really have are life's little pleasures. It would be a great loss if we fail to see and appreciate them.

But even so, I love the anger of youth. This anger is from the betrayal of life and ideals. I love youth and its anger. It's because the youth carry such great hopes and dreams that they get to hurt so badly, which makes them pretty angry. That's the reason why I think young people tend to rebel and do crazy things. It's hard to lose the ground beneath your feet then get back your balance in a short matter of time. Because of this, young people tend to stick to their ideals and close out any other viewpoints. That is irrational, but charming nonetheless.

With a bit of time and experience, a young person would get to learn how really horrible this world is. It's almost incomprehensible. All the hate that the young person stores in his or her heart would grow pale in the reality of reality. This, naturally, causes despair. But even so, despair is good. Despair tells you that you're still alive. Despair tells you that there is hope. Even if that hope is something fabricated and artificial, hope is the beginning of all. That, and irony. Though Albert Camus says there should be no hope, I don't think that is possible. There truly is no hope in an objectively meaningful existence, but hope is born because of it. Maybe the term is not hope, but possibility. I don't know, but hope opens the doors for possibilities for me. At least Camus taught me the necessity of irony.

With this opening of possibilities, you get to realize the infinite possibilities of human existence. You get to learn tolerance. You get to realize that the viewpoint you would die for, other people think nothing of. You get to realize that the viewpoints you considered as idiocy, other people would die for. It becomes an interesting situation. Of course, "dying" is a stretch, but you would get to realize that there are other points of view that are being held as dearly as you hold your own.

Thus, you learn to be addle-minded as you grow older. Rather, you learn to look at things with more patience and tolerance. But most of all, you get to realize that your viewpoint is just one of many. You learn that no one needs to be right, and no one needs to be wrong. Although, there are times when you need to make a stand. But in most cases, you're not in the middle of starting a war. In most cases, you realize that talking and communicating is more important--being heard and being listened to. But even after all that, you still stick to your guns, but sans the hate and anger. In some cases, you even call a truce.

But as you grow older, the more you tend to see how young you really are. Not in the sense that you can still down a case of beer and feel like nothing afterward (I miss those days), but more of realizing there's still a lot to learn. That even after decades, this life and your fellow humans still have a lot of crappy things have to teach you. That after all that happened, you would still contend with the fact that you're still as green as you can be.

And this leads me to another thing: keep moving. Keep learning. Keep growing. Keep growing old. Keep learning. Then let life takes it's course, for better or worse. Or, you can end it yourself; it's your choice. But if you did, you won't get to enjoy the bitter-sweet experience of getting old.

Yes, I am a Lolicon

2010-09-30T08:46:00.000+08:00

When I see a little girl dance and twirl with abandon, time seems to stop. Mixed with her song and laughter, I imagine being treated to an orchestra of euphoria. When I think of her coming to me after her play and dance, eyes sparkling with childish pleasure and cheeks flushed from delighted exhaustion, I sigh from a deep feeling of fulfillment. It's her bright eyes and innocent smile that just kills me. Her clear eyes with the potential of the future; her smile that shows a pure and un-defiled soul--these fill my heart with sublime peace and contentment. You would give anything to protect those eyes and that smile. It's one of the greatest pleasures in life to see the play of an innocent child. This may be too cheesy, but if you get the right state of mind, the words above don't come close to describing the emotion.

But the more you love that little girl, the more you begin to feel dissatisfied with time, the world and yourself. Time won't stop--she won't be a child forever; she won't be dancing nonchalantly eternally. She would leave the realm of innocence and join you in the not so ideal world of grown-ups. The world that she'll grow into is a world filled with contradictions and bewilderment, and you become apprehensive at the path that she would take. You begin to look at yourself with criticism: is this the world that you would have her inherit? Have you lived your life as a beacon, a guide, a standard for her to look at, or have you just been an object of cynicism and example of what not to become? You remember the feeling of how you'll give anything to preserve her smile, but how much have you actually given? Have you really given her anything of value? Do you have the courage to look back proudly into her innocent eyes? You feel like you want to be the Catcher in the Rye.

But haven't we all grown up alright? Perhaps in our own standards or justification; but can these hold up to the tears of a child? It seems like a cardinal sin to lie to that little girl. It's like seeing yourself in the little girl's eyes: would you have been proud of yourself if you were that child? The room for growth is not for children alone. Adults most of the times are the idiotic children of the world.

It's just that little girls are closer to my heart. But you can be a shotacon and choose little boys if you like. The gender is not the point. You just got to love a child. Even the cursing and devilish ones that you see in the street. Even them cannot hide the emanation of their innocence.

Nobody's perfect, I understand that fully. But since when is it alright to stop and give up?

Every father is a lolicon. Every mother a shotacon. A daughter will never grow old in a father's eyes. A son will always be a mother's darling boy. Every woman will still always be Daddy's little girl. Every man is still Mama's boy. As for me, yes, I am a lolicon. But not in the perverse sense. At least that part should be clear.

How I Love Thee, Peer Pressure!

2010-09-27T11:01:00.000+08:00

How do I love thee, Peer Pressure? Let me count the ways...

I love Peer Pressure for how it twists my arm. I love Peer Pressure for forgetting the essence of a group--which is a collection of free individuals. Peer Pressure is wonderful since it forces one to conform out of intimidation and threat of expulsion. I admire Peer Pressure for how it disregards discourse and reason. I just can't get enough of Peer Pressure for forcing someone to come to a decision between leaving or staying. I have to hand it to Peer Pressure for the simplicity with which it deals with discord or disagreement: be here, or be somewhere else. I like how your value as an individual is contingent upon your conformity to the group. You're dispensable if you just don't agree. Oh how I love thee, Peer Pressure!

Between the individual and the group, something's gotta give.

I'd like to be dramatic and say it's the individual against the masses. Or like what Nietzsche says, the individual against the herd. Maybe I take my own counsel and company most of the time--I can't be sure--but I am always mystified by this creature called Peer Pressure.

The opposite side can say the same as well. They can be as equally mystified by an individualistic preference. No man is an island after all. Humans are fated/born to be social creatures. So, why the predilection for being alone?

This dichotomy is what's interesting. This polarity is what amazes me. I'm left speechless with this excluded middle. This dualism is what makes me laugh in irony. As someone remarked, you either join them, or leave them. But why should the choice be limited to two? I find that position hilarious.

Of course, I have to admit that this is slightly born from bitterness. Maybe, more out of disappointment. I have this penchant for looking things ideally. I always thought that a group allows for personal differences and that a group's strength is derived from diversity rather than homogeneity. I would have thought that assimilation to a group was done through discourse and acceptance rather than subtle coercion. Any goal worth doing is worth communicating properly. I would've preferred persuasion of the diplomatic, not the dictatorial, kind.

I guess I was looking for rational discourse free from pressure. But that would be impossible. When I was younger, I always greeted Peer Pressure with the middle finger and walked out the door. But as you grow older, you get to appreciate the diversity of life and it's viewpoints. You get to have an allergy for absolutes. You become interested to learn how these viewpoints look like before packing your bags. What you can't comprehend isn't necessarily bad; it's still better to create avenues of understanding. Once you get to see things from different viewpoints, that's when you can better judge the situation. Learning to understand is less complicated as well. Hell, it can be just being a pacifist and a coward.

I love Peer Pressure for its directness and simplicity, but I don't like it for it's lack of creativity and flexibility. I like to deal with Peer Pressure with some patience and understanding, but as we know, patience and understanding are exhaustible resources. But until that time, Peer Pressure would continue to have my love and affection. All Hail Peer Pressure!

The Rain, The Homeless, and Charity

2010-09-03T06:26:00.000+08:00

The rain isn't half bad when you're looking at the falling rain from your room's window while holding a cup of warm choco. While sipping your drink, you think that the ashen skies have a distinct charm to them. There's something calming and thoughtful in the rain clouds glowing with a toned-down light, joined by the shushing sound of the rain on the streets and rooftops. You don't feel a hint of menace; you feel like in a meditative trance. Whether good or bad, the rain even brings thoughts and memories of love and romance. During these times, the rain ain't half bad.

It's nice to be inside with the rain pouring, problem is when you don't have a roof on top of your head. I say this because I remember the homeless. One homeless in particular.

There is a flyover in front of our office, and you can see this homeless lying down at the foot of the flyover, just along the railing. His situation intrigued me since he was able to lie down on that flyover and sleep. Naturally, vehicles would pass by his "bedroom"; imagine getting sleep in a situation like that. Come late at night, think about counting passing ten-wheeler trucks instead of jumping sheep. But what takes the cake is how that homeless seems to sleep like he's lying on soft pillows and satin sheets. He was so relaxed that I have thought several times that the guy must've been dead. But the rising and falling of his chest told me otherwise. I had to smile whenever I see it.

Of course, you know that that guy is not right in the head. But that is a topic for another day. The rain just made me think of where that homeless would make his bed. He may tolerate the noise of the vehicles, but I don't think he can take the cold, wet, and chilling rain. I thought right. When I looked outside through the night's downpour, the homeless didn't want to be a soaking wet homeless. But where could he have slept that evening?

This then led me to think about the other homeless. Especially the homeless children. It was freezing that night, then add to that being drenched by the rain: it would be a miracle if you didn't get consumption in the morning. Imagine kids having to sleep through that. Without shelter and blankets, you've got to admire the tenacity of our street ruffians. I would have to tip my hat to them for surviving.

Both of these--the harsh weather and the plight of the homeless--made me criticize myself a little. What have I done to help? Shouldn't I try to make a difference to these people's lives? Can't I do anything, no matter how small, to improve their situation?

I know this is being soft-headed and melodramatic. I know this is something that anyone had thought of while seeing someone with a condition poorer than one's own. It's wanting to be heroic. You would like to work for charity somehow. Even if it's not that, it could be the recognition of a need for social justice.

Then reality and selfishness smacks you in the face. You think about how what you earn isn't enough to cover all your expenses. You think about how you would become charitable when you're rich enough. You would think that you're already paying taxes, it should be the government's job. You would think that you need to take care of yourself first, if there's any left over (which is usually none), you can give to charity. You would think that everybody has their own share of troubles, and everyone should take care of their own. Eventually that spirit of charity would become just a foolish and impractical notion; a whim. You would then live your life as normal like you haven't seen anything at all. You would think about the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on.

But when I feel the cold wind brought about by the rain, I think what's more chilling is not the weather itself, but the coldness of people. I imagine a homeless child (a moe loli, if possible) shivering in the steps in front of a building, thinking to herself it would be good to have warm place to lie and that some blankets and a warm cup of choco would be nice. I imagine her teeth chattering while wishing for someone to help. But all the answer she will get is the freezing cold wind and the onslaught of the downpour. She's already chilled to the bone, but it's how the passers-by that glance at her with indifference and apathy that finally chills her heart. I can't imagine how it would have felt to be so cold inside and out. It would have been nice to feel even a warm tear rolling down your cheek, but I would suppose it was too cold to even cry.

I'm being soft-headed again. What I need to think about is the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on. I have no time to listen for imaginary cries for help. All these inclinations to help are just like rain drops that roll off my umbrella as I walked through the rain on the way home. My passion for charity is about as hot as the freezing rain that fell down that night.

And so, I just pass the buck along. It's something I can't do anything about. I'm not rich, and I don't have time and money for charity. I would just have to pay my taxes and hope for the best. I would just wish the flyover homeless the best of luck, and tell my imaginary homeless loli to not give up and fight hard. All of these I do while sitting by my window, watching the rain fall down, and sipping my cup of warm choco.

Apology for the Suicide

2010-09-02T05:10:00.001+08:00

You may condemn the suicide, but you can't deny the suicide respect. This respect is not a platitude given to a nameless dead. For those who have known great pain and sorrow, the suicide is a fallen comrade whom we can empathize with and think of with tenderness and admiration. Yes, even admiration.

I am speaking about the suicide that looked at life in the eye and was disgusted with the sight. I'm referring to those crestfallen at the world they were thrown into. I'm talking about the suicide who decided that the best course to take in life is to end it. If it takes courage to continue, it also takes courage to quit.

There is much to say about everything not being all that bad; I agree with them wholeheartedly. It takes continued existence and patience to be able to understand that fact, even vaguely. Maybe the suicide would have done better to wait to have been able to see that truth, but the suicide knows it is excruciating to do so. One can still smile, but the suicide knows that even that can be painful. There are days of dark and light, but it is that continuous cycle that exhausts and enervates the suicide.

The suicide can be admired for honesty and sincerity. The suicide is honest enough to admit that this life is too much, is of no absolute value, and is absurd. The suicide has decided to end it, and has followed through. In an ironical sense, the suicide lived for what he or she believed in, only it led to the suicide ending his or her life.

One can say that the suicide is weak and foolish. That has some truth. The suicide is weak and the act of suicide is the admission of that. But let's remember that not everyone is strong. More accurately, not everyone can find enough reason to aspire for strength and persevere. Those born strong may find this quizzical, but those who grew strong from weakness would be sure to understand. We may disapprove of weakness, but it exists nonetheless. The allowance for strength is also the allowance for weakness.

Let us not forget that the only shoes we wear are our own. We can only approximate how another's life is lived, but to truly know of it is impossible. What the suicide sees, feels, thinks, and believes is a matter for the suicide alone. If we can't respect the suicide's decision, we should respect his or her agency and freedom. We might think the suicide mistaken with his or her views and action, but it's still the suicide's decision to make. It was the suicide's pain and revulsion, not ours.

The suicide is all of us. For those who are unaffected, they are to be envied like how you would envy the blissful ignorant. One can say that those who contemplated suicide and desisted more deserve our respect. But the suicide also deserves some respect for lasting as long as he or she can. The suicide may have chosen to retire from the battle early, but you can't say that the suicide hasn't put up any fight, nor has suffered any wounds. Even if a soldier runs away after the first volley, the fact that he stood up to face it before fleeing is not without merit.

Should we pity the suicide? The suicide would have no need for it. You may say the same for respect. Perhaps, but respecting the suicide is more for our benefit than the suicide's. Again, the suicide is you and me. It takes some understanding of the human condition and magnanimity to see the suicide in a gentler light. It takes an admission of our humanity and how some of us have lesser vessels than others. But even so, we have to recognize the presence of struggle, no matter if it was given up.

This is not to condone suicide nor to encourage it. This is just an apology for the suicide. This is not an appeal for charity but understanding. The suicide is our brethren. This is more so because of the fact that they have leapt off the edge. The suicide has shown us another possibility--it may not be the best, but it is a legitimate one for us being human born.

Lessons From The Little Prince

2010-08-31T05:30:00.000+08:00

Well, it's time to counter some of the negativity in this blog. We need to have a happy-mushy post for the sake of balance.

The Little Prince is one of my all-time favorite books. The lessons to be learned from that short but profound book are priceless and enduring. I think our society won't do bad if we include this title as one of the required readings for all levels of education. We can all grow up too easily, forgetting the children that we once were. Hopefully, that book can prevent kids from growing up into jaded, crooked, and useless adults like yours truly.

And so, I would like to outline some of the lessons that can be learned from The Little Prince. His simplicity and naiveté reveals the wisdom to be found in an innocent outlook in life.

What is essential is invisible to the eye

Of course, this is not referring to women's undergarments or bikini shots (though I would like to interpret it as such). It just points to looking for the essences of things and to not be preoccupied with appearances. Seems like a Buddhist teaching of trying to look beyond the tip your nose. For those who read the book, the previous line goes: It is with the heart that one can see rightly. Like looking for a well in the middle of the desert, or cherishing the house because of a secret treasure, it's not what we immediately see that gives importance. It's the essence and significance of an act, person, or event that's truly important.

You're forever responsible for those that you tamed.

This is not an S&M (the master is responsible for those which he/she trained) reference, though it can be. This is a reference to the importance of bonds that we make in our life. Friends, family, and loved ones--we are all responsible for those we have "tamed", and those who have "tamed" us. It's such a wonderful notion of looking out for each other and treasuring the connections that we made. As time goes by, it's easy to forget the friends that we made, the past loves, and even our relationship with our family. The simple reminder is that: we should not forget the bonds that we made.

watch out for the baobabs!

In simple terms, just do not become an addict. Things start out simply, then they would spiral out of control if one is not watchful. Like with addiction, it starts with a simple try, then it would escalate to a habit, then full addiction. But in serious terms, there is the need for diligence and discipline. If you remember, the baobab was just teeny weed and the owner of the planet was a lazy bum. That laziness paved the way for the growth and the eventual invasion of the baobab. So, if you're not careful, you'll end up with something more than you can handle. Big problems always start out small. So stamp out that baobab! (Or weed)

Words are the source of misunderstandings.

Don't we all know it. It's just like saying someone is a good guy then stabbing him in the back. Gestures are stronger than words. Next time, don't say anything and just smack the guy right in the face. But going back to The Little Prince, this is what the Fox said to the Little Prince when establishing rites and taming someone (or something). It's essential to just be silent and let your feelings show through your actions. It just means there should be a feeling out process and let the relationship grow naturally.

One must observe the proper rites...

You must be wearing a white robe, wash your neck and rinse your short sword with sake or alcohol. Then before slitting your stomach open, you also need to enlist the help of a trusted servant or friend to chop your head when things get too painful. You need to follow the rite, or a certain order of things. This what the wise Fox teaches us: there's a certain way in doing things, and you need to do things with regularity and patience. The Fox also tells us that these things take time, and so you have to wait it out.

It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.

It's the direct invitation and license for us to waste our time. The more we waste time on something, the more important it becomes. The more we expend our efforts pursuing useless things, the greater the value there is. It's like giving us permission to keep on living fruitless lives. So, we can pick our noses, scratch our bums, and sit in front of the TV or game console for all eternity and it will be alright.

But in the case of the Little Prince, it's about the investment of time. It is the time that you spent on someone or something that makes it significant and special. It indicates two things: it takes time to build a meaningful connection, and all that time spent is by no means for naught.

There are several more lessons to be learned from The Little Prince. I know fans of this book would be wanting to kill me now, but that just shows my point: it's one great book. When someone makes fun of it, you feel obligated to protect it. Just like how you would like to protect the Little Prince like that pilot did (yes, you, you Pedo! Shotacon!). It's a must-read. It deserves saying again: it's a must read.

Silenced Through Silence

2010-08-30T14:10:00.000+08:00

It was just a normal conversation but I had to mention something about the Absurd. I asked, "Don't you get the feeling that waking and getting up each morning is something unsettling?" I understood that it was a question loaded with a lot of philosophical junk, so I tried to explain the ideas of consciousness, being, the Absurd, and the desire for meaning. But the reply that I got was, "You're weird. Why do you even think about such things?"

I tried my best to explain myself once more. But she just gazed down at her plate of pasta in silence, looking annoyed and zoning me out. She would look up at me from time to time to show apparent interest, but she couldn't resist looking to the side with a slight frown on her eyebrows. She would then look down again at her plate and twirl the pasta on her fork. I think she was desperately wishing for me to stop yakking. She said nothing, but she expressed a lot. And so I stopped. I was silenced through silence. It was awkward since it lasted for a while, but she got the talk going again about an old friend and common acquaintance. We both looked relieved for before that I knew we were both wishing we were somewhere else but with each other.

What interests me in that situation is the feeling of devastation. I felt my life drifting away as if she was slowly sinking a knife into my heart. Just like that soldier in Saving Private Ryan. There was the feeling of powerlessness, despair, and the sureness of the impending end. I felt like I was murdered magnificently. She managed to erase and deny my existence with ease and nonchalance.

That was one of the occasions when you can see the opaqueness of the usually invisible wall between persons. It was like trying to talk through a clear soundproof glass. You know of each other's presence, but the words and thoughts just won't pass through. I felt like I was at the confined side of the glass inside an insane asylum. She never said a word, but the words "crazy" and "insane" sounded in my head with her own voice. I made no sense to her, and she didn't seem too fond of speaking with a lunatic.

But what seems to be lacerating was how she stayed silent. It was a polite silence yet filled with restrained annoyance. I was pestering her, but she wouldn't want to be inconsiderate. But this quietude was not passive; it was the same as telling me to shut up and that she does not want to hear anymore. It seemed like it pained her to hear me talk like a madman, and I should stop humiliating myself for it's embarrassing for her to keep listening. It was pity mixed with contempt. I was just insulted out of politeness.

I can still remember the anger and frustration. When words and thoughts don't connect, it's alienating. When it happens to you and people that you know, it's unsettling. You become strangers in an instant. The bridge that connects became a bridge that divides. You try to cross it, but it seems to spread out infinitely. The crack that would shatter the bond finally appeared, and it was just a matter of time before the shattering.

She was not at fault. I would like to say it was all mine, but I don't think that would be true. I guess I should have chosen my audience. I'm not looking for anything or anyone to blame; I just needed an explanation. The difference between persons? It may be the possible cause, but I am far from consoled. What I know is even silence can cut deep into the heart and soul. Even politeness can carry the deepest insult. I'd prefer being silenced through violence than through silence. Humans have the latent talent to hurt each other. Even without knowing and willing, we give each other the gift of pain. All it takes is to silence someone with silence.

Summer Street Sweeper

2010-08-21T04:54:00.000+08:00

This was last summer.

Seeing someone sweep the street in the middle of the burning sun is depressing. It seems a cruel fate to sweep the streets under the scorching summer heat. Then when you think about the repetitive nature of his job, it makes you think of Sisyphus and his rock. When you also consider the fact that he's cleaning up other people's mess, it makes it all the more depressing. You would get an idea that what he's doing is an endless task; add to that that it's a thankless one as well. It makes one really blue.

As if that's not enough, consider also the pay that he's receiving for such a job. It would be great of he's even receiving minimum wage for his efforts. Somehow, the amount of work that he's doing isn't enough for the amount of effort that he's putting in. That's the depressing thing about it. You think there should be social justice. But that won't happen in a third world country. You just have to sigh at that fact. But sighing won't get us anywhere.

You also need to consider that the man might not be even unhappy with his situation. What I'm doing is just making assumptions from what I'm seeing from the outside. There are several things to look at. Perhaps the man is simple enough to be happy and that he has a job. Perhaps he's happy just being able to bring money home food to the table. Perhaps he doesn't wish for much; he can be at peace with the idea that he has something for a living.

Perhaps he has a loving family at home. Perhaps he has children who are proud of their father for being hardworking. Perhaps they don't mind their simple lot. Perhaps they too are thankful that their father has a job. Perhaps they can feel the pride of their father and feel proud about themselves, too. They might be poor, but they live an honest life. Perhaps the children would learn about hard work, sacrifice, and caring for the ones they love. Perhaps they would be inspired and actualize their father's dream of a better future for them. Perhaps they would give a bit of meaning to the endless sweeping of their father. Perhaps it would make the sweeping an act of significance. A means to a good end.

But there could also be a negative image to this. Perhaps the sweeper isn't as hard working as he's supposed to be. Perhaps he was lazy during his youth: did not persevere in studying, did not maximize his skills and opportunities, did not live his life to the fullest. It would be romantic to say that he was forced to such a humble position by cruel fate, but that would make a mockery of the human will and spirit. You have to consider that most of the things in our life did not end up like that without our will. It's not like we are totally powerless to change our fate.

It does make for a sight of pathos, that street sweeper. But then you have to temper that emotion with some facts and reason. One cannot feel entirely sorry for the guy, nor can you say that he absolutely deserves his position.

What I can say for certain is that seeing him sweep the streets under the scalding summer sun makes me depressed. I thought that there must be a better life than that.

On Abortion

2010-08-20T04:36:00.006+08:00

Just to limit the discussion, I am writing here from an Ivory Tower. I am dealing with ideals here--the world of our visions and dreams. I do have my head in the clouds.

Let me start by saying that abortion is murder. It's the premeditated termination of another life. The real question about abortion is whether this is one murder we'll allow: just like capital punishment or euthanasia.

If you don't think that abortion is murder, I suggest that we call it as we see it. There is this argument that says before 14 weeks a fetus is not yet human. It does have a point, if we don't believe in causality and medical science. If you believe your gynecologist in matters of pre-natal care, then that blob of cells from the union of a sperm and ovum will become a human. If not, why do people even care about pregnancy? One can argue that this blob of cell is not human--well not yet anyway. The hilarious discrepancy here is that one can create a lot of fuss for an expected pregnancy but be cold-hearted towards an unwanted one.

If you want to be indirect yet factual, what you're killing is potential. You're not killing an infant, just the possibility of those cells becoming one. I like this argument since it is apologetic. It's just like leaving someone atop of Mt. Everest with limited oxygen. You're not killing the person outright; you're just limiting that person's potential for survival. Like telling someone to face a firing squad and evade all the bullets. It may not be murder, but it practically is. Do we really need to point a gun at the fetal skull and pull the trigger to call it murder?

Well, should we allow abortion? There are medical and economic reasons saying why we should. As what the news said, unregulated abortion has been killing women left and right. In terms of economics, if parents can't give a decent quality of life, it might be better for all parties to chuck the kid out. In a larger sense, abortion can reduce overpopulation. These are strong practical reasons for supporting the legalization of abortion.

But are these enough to end a life? This might be an unfair question, but it's a question that needs to be answered. It would be hard to give life a specified value since it would be demeaning-life is supposed to be invaluable. But for abortion to be allowed, you have to play god and decide who should live and who should die.

I mentioned to someone before, the only way that abortion can be banned is if we all have a strong sense of social justice and responsibility. Abortion being an option implies that we all have become meaner and apathetic as a people. I'd say we've lost the Bayanihan spirit or the communal feeling. I believe that we were a kinder people before, but somehow we have lost that charity and feeling of community as the changes (or hardships) of time went on. I may be speaking in nostalgia, but I do think that people were more genteel, generous, and noble back then. This may be just a delusion of mine, but I would like to believe that this is true. This makes me think that the problem of abortion is one of cultural values rather than that of practical and health matters.

How does this relate to abortion? Abortion exists as an option because we like to give people stigma, because we don't take responsibility for our actions, because we've become less forgiving, because we are uncharitable, because we don't think before we act, because we are weak and petty, because we forgot how to be nice in general, because we don't stick to what is right, and because we've forgotten how we were when we were children. It's a cultural thing, I tell you.

Now, here's also this question: Is it really fair to let the child/fetus/blob of cells pay for it all? Is it alright to get away with murder so that we could just get on with our lives? Is it alright for us to just wash the blood off our hands in exchange of practicality? It is a sentimental argument, but how should we answer it? Killing a potential may be just an abstract action, but aren't we just kidding ourselves? If we didn't believe in the almost sure reality of that potential, then we shouldn't be as expectant with any pregnancy at all.

What I would like to say is do you remember when as a kid you hated it when the adults did things which we thought was weird and was just plain wrong? I'm not referring to not letting you stay up late or not having more allowance. I'm pointing to the disgust and bewilderment that we felt whenever we saw our parents doing something they shouldn't be doing or saw the world acting contrary to what was taught to us. Haven't we somehow, at one point or another, vowed not to be like that when we grew up? Didn't we all make some form of resolution that we'll be better when we grew up? Weren't we all like the Little Prince before--innocent and good-hearted?

In this here abortion, have we done that? Have we become adults ourselves? Have we forgotten our ideals? Have we forgotten how to be kind? One can say that kindness cannot feed the world or stop overpopulation. This might be true, but kindness hasn't killed anyone either (I'm not referring to euthanasia, mind you).

Man and His Booze

2009-10-26T13:58:00.002+08:00

Men and alcohol is a match made in heaven. I think that wedding vows would apply more effectively and consistently to men and booze. I find the fit and harmony pleasantly remarkable.

Take a look at an edited sample of a traditional wedding vow:

Will you love (booze), comfort (booze), honor and keep (booze), in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon (booze) your heart’s deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto (booze) as long as you both shall live?

What are two has now become one. What was put together let no one put asunder.

Looking at it, it’s the perfect marriage. When you examine the precepts mentioned in the matrimonial vow, Men and Booze make a happy couple.

Love booze? Of course it’s a given if you’re a man. You might not like it at first, but as you continue to drink, it grows on you. Suddenly without rhyme or reason, without you noticing, you now have an affectionate regard towards alcohol. You then reach the point where you can’t live without it. If that is not love, then what is?

And we do honor alcohol. Do we not we use it during mass? Do we not we make toasts with it? Do we not we keep vintage wines and exquisite whiskeys in high esteem? Do we not spend a considerable sum of time and money when it comes to booze?

In sadness and joy there is booze. Have a reason to celebrate? We drink. Got dumped? We drink. Depressed? We drink. Won the lotto? We drink. In calamities and triumphs, booze is always at our side.

When it comes to devotion, men couldn’t be more devoted to booze. Booze is man’s best friend. Booze makes a man open up his heart and it will listen to men without fatigue or judgment. Now that’s a big thing. Also, booze is forgiving and comforting. It gives men a brief but much needed release from the harshness of life. When you had a bad day, you go: “I think I need a drink.”You don’t say: “I think I need to see my girl”, or “I think I need to go to church.” Also consider that in wine there is truth. Booze brings out the hidden depths or shallowness of a man. Men find things about themselves thanks to alcohol. Because of booze, men discover the hero and the devil within. The great guy and the jerk lurking in his heart. And booze is also a ready teacher of lessons in moderation. You drink too much, you get a hangover. You drink too much, you throw up. Booze teaches you all this. And even if we don’t learn our lesson, booze patiently makes us throw up and have hangovers until we know better. For all of this, men are devoted to his drink.

And men forsake everything when they drink. When drinking, all men think of is to drink some more. You know how some wives have to drag their husbands from the table, or how fights start when the woman calls for the man in the presence of his buddies. It’s simply hard to separate man from his drink.

Speaking of separation, only death can separate man and his drink. People stop boozing because they die. You have drunk driving, drunken arguments resulting to murder, and liver deterioration and hypertension. So the only way men stop drinking is when they are dead, or in the process of being killed by booze. And men cling to their drink. This is because when men stop drinking, it’s like dying in a way. Life is not fun anymore. It lost its original color of splendor. You lost contentment in your placement in the world. You lost something important that allows you to stomach the interesting things in this life. Man and Booze, till death do them apart.

It’s a very comic fit. It’s funny how sometimes men love their booze more than their women. If men could only have sexual relations with booze and have children with booze, women would be rendered obsolete. (Of course this is a harsh or sexist thing to say, but take it in the spirit of comedy. Meaning, none of this is serious, unless you take it to be.)

And women always hate it when their men take to booze. It’s paranoid jealousy (it’s redundant, I know). If I was a woman, I would certainly find it disturbing that my man spends more time, laughs more and even opens his heart more to booze. Then think about how hard you had to work your womanly charms just for your man to buy you something, and compare it to how cash flows like a ruptured dam when it comes to booze. It can be frightening; it would be devastating for a woman to find out her real status in her man’s value hierarchy. That between her and booze, booze has the upper hand.

This is why booze is an enemy of women (add to this the fact that most unplanned pregnancies are not due to Cupid’s amorous influence, but due to Bacchus’ intoxicating power). It takes away their man’s time, money and attention. And when a man comes home drunk, there is no hope for some late night action.

Maybe this is the reason why women take to booze themselves. If you can’t beat them, join them. Maybe if women can also have children and sex with booze, then we won’t need each other. All we need is just a good old bottle of beer to comfort and keep us company as we travel through life drinking ourselves to contentment and death.

About Letting Go

2009-10-26T13:48:00.002+08:00

Letting go is growing up. This is something I’ve seen in Snow Falling on Cedars. Letting go of something that you hold dear. Of something that has been the defining object of your existence. You try to move forward but always hiding the pain. Trying to put up a brave face even though one is really broken and dying inside. The funny thing is that you are equivocal about the idea of salvation. To be spared of the pain is to be able to forget at the same time. That the old significance will be washed away by new events and a new happiness. You fear that learning to let go is disrespecting the memory, of burning all that you have accomplished. To go through life fresh, but with this freshness is the cost of nakedness, of being alone and vulnerable. Starting all over means having to climb up the mountain once again and risk the pain of tumbling down once more in a broken heap. Sometimes one gets to think that the human heart also has its limits. One feels one cannot go through the same thing again. And so one lives in fear, in anxious self-preservation. Living the life of a prey that can be devoured anytime. This is how comical the human heart is. Or human emotions in general. But emotions are part of what makes us human. It’s an integral part of our being. Our capacities for reason also assume our capability to make the worst choices in our lives.

When you can’t let go, you are filled with fear.

Back to the hesitation for getting salvation. We want to be saved, but we don’t want to. We don’t want the pain, but we want to always remember. But to remember is to get hurt. So that is the irony of the situation. Want to be relieved of the pain, but it is the pain itself that is the one thing you don’t want to let go. I can’t move on, because of the pain. Because of something important that will be lost. Somehow you feel it base to compare what is lost with what is going to be gained. You feel that this is something that is not a business transaction. It is not in the world of laws, reason and weighing of advantages. It is the world of feeling. The world of the soul. There should be a demarcation and you obstinately hold your ground. You can’t let up. You will not let up. You rebel and not accept exhortation of reality. You hold on stubbornly. You hold it with clenched fists placed against your heart. You dare not let go. You dare not let go.

The image of not letting go. You can’t let go of something that was lost. Of something that can never be recovered. You end up being like Gatsby, trying to bring back the time although he knows at the back of his mind that it’s not possible. He denies this fact even unto himself. He denies it so strongly that he deluded himself with the idea of Daisy and the green light. He was living with ghosts of his own creation. He was human right to the end. And he was innocent and pure. His means are questionable but I still believe he is one of the best chaps around. He was never bad out of malice. And his dreams are innocent dreams. But he was tragic in the sense that he was too pure, meaning stupid, to accept the facts that was presented to him. He also did not have the flexibility to change his life to pursue a different path. A different happiness. But how many of us can really do just that? And if somebody did, we admire them, but also think that something is wrong with them. That these people committed an injustice. A sin that is not easily pardonable. They learned how to forget. They learned to move on. And somehow, we find that unbelievable. We find it abhorrent. We detest the pain but we need it. We cry and gloat over our suffering at the same time. We live in an eternal contradiction. We can’t really let go. We dare not let go.

There should be a proper mindset to all of these. And what is the goal really? That it’s okay to let go? Or just to say why it’s hard to let go? Perhaps I’ll take the second option. To say and show why it’s difficult to let go. There are times when you just really can’t. Even when the wound is no longer fresh, even if the scar is only a blemish of what it once was, all you need is to remember. All you need is to have the right mindset and the right emotions. The right focus. The right soul for it. When seen during happy times, the pain of remembering might be weak, but with the right state of the soul, the tears and deluge of feeling will come back instantly. When you think about it in its purity, in its essence, you’re bound to feel like the wound was just received today.

As much as we hate noise, we need it for distraction. We need noise to silence the throbbing of pain and the screams of agony of the heart. We hate to be left alone, in front of the mirror. We need to be busy since we don’t want to be constantly reminded. If we’re constantly reminded, we’re going to die. We won’t be able to function. I have a soft spot in my heart for drunks and drug addicts because of this. You can have compassion, but forgiveness can be a different matter. We need something on our hands that will let our minds wander somewhere else. We need something that can point our attention to something else besides ourselves.

Ame Ga Kirai!

2008-09-12T08:08:00.004+08:00

All this rain also made me think for a bit. I find it interesting how we tend to hate rain. But rain is just water; at least that’s what I believe. We like to take a bath, but we hate rain. That can be a bit absurd. When water comes from the faucet or shower, we like it. We don’t mind. We are even thankful for it. When water (which comes flavored in some brands) comes from sealed plastic bottles, we love it. We gulp it with gusto. Whether the water is hot or cold, we don’t mind. But when water comes from the skies, we hate it. We shun it. We run away from it. We even protect ourselves from it. We even fear it. If you’ve seen people rush for the nearest shed during a sudden shower, you’d think they were running away from artillery barrage. Then once at the shed, they would look at each other and smile a smile of relief. It would seem they’re so relieved to have narrowly escaped death. Now, what gives? H2O is H2O, whether from the faucet or from the sky. Outside of acid rain, rainwater is still water. Again, what gives?

As with all things, it depends on the perspective. For people in the city, it’s understandable why rain is well-hated. Rain makes it hard to commute; makes it tough to go anywhere. Rain floods our streets, wets our clothes, ruins our hair, and soaks our socks and shoes. Rain means traffic, slippery roads, less fun outside, cold weather—basically a dismal day.

But I don’t think we hate rain for those reasons. Flooding is our fault—we know zilch about trash management and city planning. Traffic? Rain or shine, it’s a fixture. Cold weather? Get a jacket. Gets you wet? If I’m not mistaken that’s what raincoats and umbrellas are for. I mean we can live with rain. If we can live with the corruption of our government and our apathy towards the state of our nation, rain should be small fry. (It’s funny how we hate the rain more than those who fool around with our “hard-earned” money. It’s a case of misappropriated anger. But anger and hate are emotions, so go figure.)

So when you consider it a little, it’s not really rain that bugs us. What we hate is what rain brings, not rain itself. But is this true? We still say we hate rain. We say: “Expletive! It’s raining again!” So what do we hate about rain? It’s not like we can’t do something about it…

That’s when I went: “Ah! Eureka!” Maybe that’s the case. We hate rain, not for its effects, but because we can’t do anything about it. You know what they say how you can’t stop the rain? Then I go: “Aha! Typical of humans! It’s control! We hate rain because it does not have a remote control!”

Think about it: it seldom rains when you want it. It always rains when you don’t want it to rain. When you have outdoor plans, it rains. When you don’t have an umbrella, it rains. You’re at your best clothes, it rains. When you’re going to some place important, it rains. As Alanis said, it’s your wedding day (a garden wedding), it rains. You had your heart broken, it rains. You just finished hanging the clothes to dry, it rains. You’re a gremlin, it rains. It goes on. Feel free to add your own experience. But the fact is, during those times, you wanted the rain to stop. But it won’t. You can’t. No matter what you do, it won’t stop. Rain is insensitive. It’s unmerciful. It doesn’t care about you or your concerns. Who are you to the rain anyway? The rain would just say: “Shut up. Here, have some more rain.” So, you hate it. You can have your science teacher explain how rain falls, but still you’ll hate rain because you can’t control it.

Maybe it’s because of that. We can only predict, but we can’t control. And sometimes (if not most of the times) we predict it wrong. The rain will come as it pleases. We can seed rain, but we can’t stop it. We can’t turn it off like a faucet. Maybe that’s why it pisses us off so much. Rain has the audacity to ignore and disregard somebody as important as us. It’s insulting, us being the center of the universe and all. And we’re literally being spat and pissed on the face by just a water-drenched cloud?! The nerve!

That would be fun though, controlling the rain. Make it rain on one person only, two persons, or three. Or just a whole city. Make it rain inside the building. Literally stir up a storm in a tea cup. That would be nice to see. Especially the part where you can just shower one person, you know, just like in the comic strip, where a raincloud is hovering over someone’s head. It’s fun. You hold the fate of a whole rice field in your hands. You can make a desert become an oasis. You can hold the whole world ransom by not allowing rain. You’re all powerful. You have this all-consuming (hah! I finally used the word; just have to work on “sparking”) desire to taunt and play with the lives of people with your power over rain. You start a new form of terrorism—weather terrorism.

Since this is already too long (I made the word count) and quality takes a lot x 100000000 of effort (I am lazy and undisciplined; this piece is not that good anyway): the end. Think of it as one of those “choose your own ending” thing. If you want a proper ending: Humans are ego-centric control freaks.

A Society of Motherfuckers

2008-08-22T07:54:00.003+08:00

It’s all true. We’re a society of motherfuckers. Every human civilization born has thrived because of motherfuckers and motherfucking. No motherfuckers, no society. It’s as simple as that.

It’s a crass way of putting it, but motherfuckers and motherfucking are acceptable in every society, religion, and culture. So long as you adhere to the precepts of marriage and proper sexual relations, be a motherfucker till your heart’s content—which just means so long as you have the stamina for it. So long as you only do it with your spouse, there should be no problem. It’s even promoted as a means of strengthening marital ties. It engenders contact and communication. Keeps the love and desire alive, they say.

But of course not everyone is a motherfucker. Some are just fuckers. Some are whorefuckers, some mistressfuckers, handfuckers, fubufuckers and some not even a fucker at all. So you have a large variety of fuckers. This just means that there are conditions to being an acceptable and legitimate motherfucker. First, you have to be to be married. Second, you must have at least one child with your spouse. Lastly, the one that you have sex with must be the same woman. When all conditions are met, you can raise your head high and declare to the world with pride that you are a motherfucker. Otherwise claiming you're a motherfucker just means you’re a sexual deviant, a philanderer, and a home wrecker. If you’re the type that goes after MILFs (this is not the armed group in the south), then you’ve got yours coming to you someday.

In simple terms, my dad, your dad, his dad, her dad, all of our dads--are motherfuckers. Or just say all dads are motherfuckers. And we love them, our motherfucking fathers. And our moms love them too—for obvious reasons. And if we have younger siblings, or if we’re the younger siblings, there’s a feeling of gratitude that springs from the happiness found in being born. We would say: “Thank the lucky stars my dad’s a motherfucker!” If you wanted a little brother or sister, you would say the same. But if you wanted to be an only child, you might say: “Damn that motherfucker for a father!”

If you still haven’t noticed, we’re just playing around with the sense of the word here. We all know “motherfucker” is meant to be offensive and abusive. It shouldn’t be something to be proud or happy about. But still, the concept is curious: motherfucker can be construed as a synonym for father. Think about it. In the traditional sense, you can’t have a child, continue being with the same woman and not be a motherfucker. You can object: what if they just had sex once, then the child was born and the man left the woman for good. This is a clear case of a spineless, irresponsible, death-deserving fucker. It’s a fucker in the crude and common use of the term. And it’s also an exception to a father not being a motherfucker. He’s a father, but he didn’t shag the mother, since technically, she was not yet a mother then. But it’s different if she was already pregnant without them knowing and the two still kept at it. By that time, he can be considered a motherfucker, although one that is frowned upon by society. Another exception is brought by the advances in medical technology. One can be a father through the practice of surrogate pregnancy. No sex involved, just seed. This also makes for a case of a woman being a motherfucker. They can be a lesbian couple where they had a child through “artificial” means. Nonetheless, if the lesbian partner had sex with the mother, then she is a de facto motherfucker. So far, those are the two cases I know where one can be a father without being a motherfucker.

I find it amusing that there’s a whole class of motherfuckers. Since motherfuckers are mostly men, you have motherfucking idiots, motherfucking A-holes and motherfucking jerks. Jerks especially. Boy, are they so many. (I would include myself, but I don’t qualify as a motherfucker). This requires no explanation. At the other side, there are also motherfuckers we admire, the motherfuckers we emulate—motherfucking role models. You know, like most good dads. Then there’s the motherfucking bastard—someone who got married and had kids without knowing who his or her father was. That’s a poor bastard. Maybe an angry one too. And since the class refers to humans, you can add “motherfucking” to any trait at all. Like you’re a motherfucking prince, a motherfucking accountant, you’re motherfucking honest, et cetera, et cetera. Et alia. Ad infinitum.

You can go on and on about the discussion of motherfuckers. If I just had the time and longer attention span, this could go longer. In general, you can say it means a larger population, the continuity of the race. You can say that it’s motherfuckers that increase the chances of a next generation coming. It also means that you would have a livelier family life. The more, the merrier. So in a way, the survival and growth of a society depends on motherfucking.

But the more important thing to my mind is the power of meaning or if you will, semantics. If you find yourself smiling or agreeing with some of what was written, the point is proven. Don’t you think it’s quite interesting to have your view of a certain word or concept fluctuate and flicker once it’s presented in a different light? Well, if you didn’t experience such a thing, then it’s either you have a solid, established belief on the matter, or this just sucks. Most probably it is the second case.

Working In the Adult Industry

2008-07-02T10:17:00.000+08:00

I always wanted to have an interview with a Porn Star. Since there are no legitimate (hard core) porn stars in this country, I took the liberty of making someone up.

We’ll call her Kim. Our conversation ran as follows:

Watashi: Let’s get straight to the point: Of all things, why did you become a porn star?

Kim: That’s unfair, you know. That’s a loaded question.

Watashi: What do you mean?

Kim: Well, you asked it like I’m guilty of something. Like, I’m a bad person.

Watashi: Well, you’re not Sister Teresa, I’ll tell you that.

Kim: Sure, but I’m not the Queen Bitch of the Universe either. God, you sound like there has to be something wrong with me for taking this job.

Watashi: Isn’t there? Nobody really says at age six: “I want to be a porn star.” Nor would you put that on your high school career counseling form.

Kim: I’ll give you that. But you seem to know a lot about me if you think that my life is all messed up just because I work in the adult industry. It’s not like I’m a good for nothing bum who’s drunk and drugged the whole day long.

Watashi: Alright. So you want to be treated like ‘decent’ folk. That would be difficult since you earn by being ‘indecent.’ It’s a contradiction of terms right there.

Kim: Well, if they were ‘indecent’ enough to watch and enjoy my work, then I don’t see why I can’t be as ‘decent’ as them.

Watashi: But watching and doing are two different things. Just because people enjoy watching porn doesn’t mean they’ll go ahead and become porn stars.

Kim: Sure, but as long as they keep watching, we’ll keep on filming. It’s a simple matter of supply and demand. They want it, we provide it.

Watashi: You sound like an arms dealer selling automatic machine guns to children.

Kim: Sure, only we work with adults. It’s the ‘adult’ industry, remember?

Watashi: So, you blame the porn-buying public for your situation?

Kim: Well, the adult industry will not survive this long if people weren’t so fixated over sex, I’ll tell you that.

Watashi: So you mean to say that you’re just a victim of the public’s lust for lust? That’s an escapist’s way of saying it. Just like Pilate, eh?

Kim: Well, I’m not saying that. What I want to say is that the adult industry is here because the people want it. The same way people want their Starbucks or their McDonalds. Like I said, it fills up a demand. And since it’s a legitimate industry, I see nothing wrong in working in it.

Watashi: So, you’re proud to be a porn star? Like, you can go to a room full of kids with your child in it and say that you’re proud to be a porn star?

Kim: I wouldn’t go as far as saying that. It’s not the best job in the world, but it pays well and it pays the bills.

Watashi: But there are lots of other ways to pay the bills…

Kim: Exactly. So what’s wrong with paying it this way?

Watashi: Well, if you can’t be proud of it, then…

Kim: I can’t say it out loud in front of the kids but I won’t mind saying it in front of everyone else.

Watashi: Well, should there be a difference?

Kim: With kids it will be harder to explain, especially as they don't understand or appreciate what is involved in my line of work.

Watashi: Like sex?

Kim: Yes.

Watashi: So you can’ t tell your kid that you have sex in front of a camera for a living?

Kim: Yes. It would have been easier for the kids if society doesn’t look at our line of work with much prejudice. If we gain the status of like that of a clerk or even a janitor, everything would have been fine. But to the public, we are nothing but sluts and gigolos. People think that who we are in front of the camera and behind it is the same. We get lots of raised eyebrows.

Watashi: But you couldn’t really blame them, could you? I mean, if you're in this line of work, then you also have to be ready for the disrespect that comes with it right?

Kim: I know that already. But what I don’t get is that people can look at movie actors and be able to differentiate between the role and the actor, but not do the same with porn stars. It seems like all we live for is sex and that we don’t do anything else but have sex. That we are all fast, loose and ‘easy’ women.

Watashi: Is that really not true?

Kim: Of course not. We are just acting out in front of the camera. There may be some among us like that, but not all. It’s the same for all lines of work.

Watashi: That’s funny. You act out by doing the real thing. That doesn’t sound like acting at all.

Kim: Well, you don’t have a kissing scene where people don’t actually kiss.

Watashi: But somehow your case is different. A kiss is a kiss, but boning is a different matter.

Kim: The problem is how we see a sexual act. Look, we’re not looking to win the Oscars with the work that we do. But doing the actual thing is what makes porn, porn.

Watashi: But I have to ask, where is the self-respect? You allow yourself to be debased and become an object whose purpose is to induce lust. Is there any form of contentment in that? It seems like you exist just to pander to people’s sexual desires.

Kim: We are all panderers, one way or another. We all sell ourselves to get something in return. The difference between porn stars and, say a teacher, is one of degree, not in kind. The teacher sells education, we sell sex. Both are needed and both have a demand.

Watashi: I can see your point. But you haven’t answered whether you respect yourself being in this line of work.

Kim: It depends on what you call respectable. If you mean being able to earn your keep without hurting anyone or doing something illegal, then I find my profession respectable. Being treated like an object is something for others to do, not for me to do to myself. I’ve never considered myself as an object. It’s just that there are a lot of people that makes you feel that way. And sometimes they succeed. They make me feel like shit sometimes. I do sometimes think that I’m better off doing another job, something more “respectable”, but it’s them that’s only saying that. I don’t really mind doing this job. It’s just that people think I need to be doing something else. And when I don’t listen, I get burned at the stakes.

Watashi: But I still can’t believe that someone in the right state of mind will go naked and have sex in front of the camera for all to see. The idea seems insane. Like something went wrong somewhere.

Kim: Honestly, I think whatever reason anyone has for doing something is none of anyone's business. Questions like that are just meant to judge and find fault. It’s so that people can look down on others and what they do. Just because you can’t find any good reason doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Just because you can’t find it acceptable does not mean it’s not acceptable. If we say we like what we do and that we chose to do this, then better give us some credit.

Watashi: So, you mean that there are people who actually like being porn stars?

Kim: Of course. The fact that porn existed and has continued to thrive shows that some people like what they do, and people like watching these people. And don’t you think that there are people who enjoy being in front of the camera having sex? Whether it was forced on them or not, whether they didn’t like it at first or liked it immediately does not change the fact that they like it. You can’t be a better judge of what they like than them. If you are, then you’ve got to be some form of god. Now that is something more insane.

Watashi: But what about your fellow women? Don’t you think you’re pushing the idea that women are just sexual objects? That you make men put in their head to treat their women like porn stars?

Kim: That is not really our fault. If men think of women as objects, it’s not through our influence. Society treats women as objects, porn or no porn. Do we help the idea along? Maybe. But not overtly. What we do is just a reflection of what society is. We just provide what the public needs and wants. So if you see something like the objectification of women, its not because porn made it that way. It’s because that is what there is. The problem is not porn. The problem is with the people’s minds.

Also, think about how women made great improvements in getting recognized and getting equal rights. But that didn’t make porn go away. So long as people have sexual needs and urges, porn will stay. So long as men are not all made eunuchs, priests or castrated, porn will stay. Woman question or not.

Watashi: But you don’t exactly help the women’s cause either.

Kim: That is true. We don’t really help, because we are not made to help them. We do a different thing. We cater to needs and demands. We’re not running a propaganda campaign.

Watashi: And you’re fine saying that? Isn’t that a bit too convenient?

Kim: You can hate porn, but that won’t do much good. Don’t kill the messenger. We just show what is there. We don’t make it up. If people have perverted thoughts and tendencies, we just enact it for them to see. If you have sexual fantasies, we bring them to life. We’re not here to campaign for anybody’s ideals.

Watashi: So, you’re just saying that the people are just misguided with their view of porn?

Kim: That’s for them to decide, not for me to say.

Well, this ends the imaginary conversation with Kim the Porn Star.

Living the Fictional Life

2008-06-27T11:52:00.003+08:00

What if we are all just characters in a story? What if the fact that I wrote this and that you are reading this is something that was plotted by some unknown author? This means whatever you’re thinking right now is just according to a script. All your thoughts, emotions, knowledge, habits and experiences are all fabricated by the one who holds the pen (or keyboard).

I know this is a hard sell. It is because making it work needs some imagination and broadness of mind. So if you think it’s impossible or not plausible, it’s ok. Limits are understandable. Maybe that was your characterization. Maybe that’s how you were made (or written): A bit special.

Well, this is not my original idea. I encountered this while reading “Sophie’s World.” And I’m sure that some of you have thought of this possibility. I really find the concept curious. The idea that we are just fictions of someone’s mind – it’s surreal. The solid earth that you were once standing on becomes a flimsy paper with printed letters. It could also be annoying to think that we are all just characters in some cheap soap opera or B movie. Or, that we are all just playing second string to some main protagonist we don’t even know who. Maybe it’s me; maybe it’s you. But whatever the case, the idea that you’re not the main character of at least even your own life is a tenfold slap on the face of your ego. If you relate it to LOTR, you’re just a Gondor soldier in the melee that trips and gets trampled on by Orcs and Men, then flattened by an Oliphaunt. You didn’t even get to see, much less hold, The One Ring. You’re not even a character. You’re reduced to a mere background element.

If you still can’t grasp it, try the movies. If you’ve seen “Vanilla Sky,” you should get the drift. If you still can’t, then think of “The Matrix.” They all point to some alternate reality. Maybe the more accurate description is it’s the “real” world, versus the “dream” world. Although “The Matrix” did maintain the autonomy of human will and emotions, it doesn’t change the idea that much of their “normal” world was fabricated. And in this case, you don’t have a “real” world.

So, if we assume that our world is just in the head of some writer or printed ink on paper, what does that mean for us? It has a lot of impact on free will and deliberate actions. I can smack you on the head right now and tell you it’s all part of the script. Then you would smack me right back and tell me it’s also part of the script. It creates a comedic situation. You are not your own person anymore. Rather, you were never a person to begin with. It makes the entire world funny and amusing in a twisted and disturbed way.

All the things that we care about, love, hate, adore, and resent are all just given to us. And we had no choice about it. I guess, we would rebel then. But what if this rebellious feeling is also something designed for us; some form of literary device to move the story along? Isn’t that insulting? You’re just a means to an end. That’s the meaning of your existence.

If you push the idea some more, you’ll find yourself in a wonderful trap. And there’s nothing that you can do about it. Not even Houdini can’t escape from it. And once you’re written down, not even God can save you. The finality of the written word is absolute.

Is there a bright side to this? Of course there is. If we’re all just made up by some person, then that makes this life easier to understand. Not necessarily easier to accept, but comprehension is the first step to resignation (or acceptance, I like it negative). And what could be the best thing about this is you have somebody to blame. If this world is messed up, you have someone to direct your resentment at. Now, that’s a big thing. It gives you at least some peace of mind. And for some, a reason for existence: Something to hate. Of course, you can take this the positive way. You also have someone to be grateful to, someone to worship. If you were written like a James Bond or Tomb Raider character, then you have a lot to be thankful for. If you were written as the Queen Bee, or Silverback Gorilla, then you’ve got it good. At the lowest level of gratefulness, you can be thankful that you existed at all. That out of nothing you became something of some sort.

This can also engender a form of vengeance. That is, if you were allowed by the script to do so. You can start holding a pen yourself and start tormenting your own poor creations just for spite. Since you can’t reach the object of your revenge, you’re left to create some of your own. It can be quite sick once you think about it. But also consider how you can be sane when you’re given a concept of freedom but also exiled from it at the same time. You know what a free person is, only you’re not it. If that don’t get you gritting your teeth, then I give up.

Of course this is just a thought experiment. The eerie thing is, what if it was true?

The Possible Absurdity of Rationality

2008-06-25T09:22:00.001+08:00

Being rational is always forwarded as the epitome of human evolution. That man’s capacity for advanced rationality is his main distinction from the rest of the animal kingdom.

What’s not to like about rationality? With rationality, everything is easier. Everything is well-defined, governed by rules and principles. This eliminates much of the confusion and misunderstanding which are the cause of most human suffering.

So, let’s perform a thought experiment. Let’s say that we conduct our social and personal relations through rational means and intercourse, void of the emotional and non-verbal nuances that we find in daily interaction. Let’s assume that we are as we are, only that we are concise, factual, stiff, robot-like, and well, rational.

This is how I imagine it. For example, you have a guy confessing his love for a girl:

Roboguy: Greetings to you, my fellow human of the opposite sex, with the given name of Robogirl. I have some information to present to you which is of utmost importance to my present and future psychological and physical well-being. And perhaps, it could also affect yours as well. Would you spare me some of your time and listen to my report?

Robogirl: Greetings as well, Roboguy, my fellow human of the male sex. Since you mentioned that it is something essential to your well-being and mine, I find it within the bounds of reason and ethics to listen to what you have to report.

Roboguy: I am grateful for your understanding, Robogirl. For an easier understanding of my report, I think it expedient to provide you with the context from which this knowledge emanated from.

For the past weeks I have been constantly bombarded with images of your physical form and facial profile to the point that it interferes with my ability to concentrate on tasks and my capacity for nocturnal repose. Even during your absence, your mental image has been persisting in my consciousness regardless of my will. Another thing to note during your absence is that a feeling of isolation is initiated within me. It seems I am urged by some inexplicable drive to be within the immediate vicinity of your presence. However, when I am within your presence, certain biological functions of mine demonstrate erratic behavior such as: nervousness and slight fear, increased heartbeats and palpitations, and a small amount of dizziness and sweating; then my psyche is also burdened by an unfounded feeling of timidity and embarrassment. All of these with a strangely developed tender regard towards your person, even though that kind of emotional disposition is reserved only for humans related by blood. Together with this disposition of tenderness is the increased proclivity of my imagination to fabricate scenes of you and me together engaging in pleasurable activities and being fully satisfied with each other’s presence.

Moreover, I am consumed with the urge to make your person as one my possessions. Although I do find the idea irrational, as owning another person is an affront to personal autonomy and would constitute as a case of demeaning objectification, but for the sake of accuracy and honesty I mention this fact to you. In conjunction with the urge for possession is an increased sexual desire for your person. And although taken rationally, your person does not entirely match my ideals for a human of the opposite sex, there is a sense of inevitability regarding my feeling of attraction towards your person.

Given all of these symptoms, with much analysis and comparison with previous reports from resource books, such as romance literature, and popular audio-visual media, such as adolescent television programs and soap operas, I concluded that I am harboring the emotion of love towards your person. As such, it is within the definition of being in the state of love that I make this fact known to the subject of love, and inquire if the said subject also has the same disposition towards my person. If not, then at the least to be granted permission to engage in the act of courting to engender the same feeling in the said subject.

With all that previous information serving as premises, I now declare that I am in the state of love towards you, Robogirl. Do you harbor the same emotions towards my person? And if not, will you allow me to engage in the act of courtship?

Robogirl: First of all, I am grateful for your feelings. Also, I have listened intently to your report and I do believe that you have sufficient grounds for calling that emotion love. The reason why I state this is due to the fact that I also have the similar experiences regarding your person and has also made consultation with the same research materials. That stated, it’s no longer rational to engage in courtship. I declare as well my state of being in love with your person.

Roboguy: I am grateful as well for your resonance with my emotion. I believe this situation merits an affectionate contact of our lips. Would you permit us engaging in such an act?

Robogirl: I believe it is but what is proper and expected in this situation. I do allow your proposed action to be executed. But an additional question: should we need to embrace or is lip contact just enough?

Roboguy: If it would not cause you discomfort, I would prefer the addition of skin contact as it engenders closeness and satisfies the physical urges for tactile contact.

Robogirl: You have a good point, Roboguy. We should ensure efficiency in the relationship. But even so, may I remind you that there should be limits and phases in our conduct of this relationship. I would permit an embrace, but the usage of tongue is prohibited. Perhaps after the second date, that would be optimal.

Roboguy: Of course, rules and limits are a must. So is planning. How about sexual intercourse?

Robogirl: There are several factors to consider such as culture and religious mores. But personally, if we achieve the right amount of emotional harmony and enough alcoholic consumption to lower our inhibitions by the third date, then that would also be optimal.

Roboguy: I have no objections to that. So, should we engage in the kiss?

Robogirl: Let us proceed so we can continue on to other matters. Remember to meet halfway, and to close your eyes.

Roboguy: Of course, that is but rational.

And so, the two kissed. It’s quite romantic in its own way.

I would have had a version where the guy was dumped, perhaps that would have been more interesting. But if that was the way that we did life, it makes me smile. It does have a certain charm to it. What do you think?

When Looking Good Doesn’t Look So Good

2008-06-13T07:59:00.002+08:00

The problem with looking good is that you’ve got to keep looking good. It’s a vicious cycle. It’s running just to stay in place. Look good one day, and you have to look good until you die. Just let up one day, then all that effort in the past go down the drain. Just show one moment of ugliness and you’re exiled immediately to the country of the hideous. You become guilty of deception; of hiding what you truly are. You’re now a conniving, lying, delusional megalomaniac who thinks you’re something you’re not.

Exaggerated? Maybe. But it’s true nonetheless. The mildest criticism is “bad hair day.” But deep inside, you think that that person is not as cute as you thought that person was. The image (or illusion) was shattered. That person was just human. Then you shake your head and raise your fists to heaven.

This fact, which I had to think about for some time, is instinctive to women. Why else would they have a compact mirror, blush-on, face powder, lipstick, brush, comb, cologne, lotion and some other cosmetic contraption stuffed in their little purses all the time? You’d think that their bags or purses are like Doraemon’s pocket with all the things stuffed in there. (Of course, not all women are like that, but I would assume that at least a compact mirror is universal. It’s like a proof of womanhood. Like they’re born with it.) Then, think about why women take a long time when they go to the latrine. It’s possible that half the total time men spend on a date is spent waiting for a girl to get out of the girls' room. Also think about why women take a long time to bathe, dress and get ready to go out. It’s instinctive to women: You’ve got to look good, and more important, you’ve got to keep looking good.

To be fair, men are not much different. Men have their hair gels and aftershaves. They also dress up to the latest fashion. But I think what’s distinctive to men is buffing up. “Check my biceps, baby” – perhaps that’s the closest to sprucing up men can get. Men are natural slobs, so it’s hard to think of a guy being cosmetic. But they say there’s a new brand of man around. The “Metrosexual” male. I just shrug my shoulders and sigh. You just can’t get it out of your head that, maybe, just maybe, those guys are gay. Maybe. And I can be dead wrong. But with my very limited social circle, all the metrosexuals I know turned out to be gay. (They just didn’t have the courage to come out at first. Chalk one up for liberal society and individual freedom.) But the main difference between men and women on the matter is that men do not exactly know that they have to keep looking good. When you tell it to them, they’ll go: “Really? I haven’t thought of it like that.” Then you can just imagine women going: “Duh!”

Regarding this, I remember Calvin’s (Calvin and Hobbes) parents talking about how the media and society is built around making people unhappy with themselves. All those cosmetic commercials and ads, then you see how pretty, handsome, sexy, or flawless that star on TV is, then look at yourself in the mirror – it can be quite depressing. They’re just promoting a product, but subliminally, what they’re telling you is: “You don’t look like me, ergo, you’re ugly. You must be miserable. Buy my stuff, and perhaps you’ll be like me. Then, probably, you’ll be happy.” It’s quite funny. You’re too fat, too thin, your hair is too short, too long. You have dry skin, you have dark skin, you have pale skin. But at least these ads point out a simple truth. That we are human and that we are not perfect. And more important, that we vehemently deny this fact everyday of our lives. We buy stuff to keep the denial and illusion up.

One can object: “It’s just a matter of grooming and personal hygiene. It doesn’t have to be as bad as you say it is.” True. But I’m too stupid to draw the line between being well-groomed to wanting to look good. Maybe the line is blurred. Grooming for me is taking care of yourself so that you don’t stink, and don’t get sick because you stink. Like I said, I’m pretty stupid on these matters. I guess I’ll let you tell me what is what one of these days.

So am I saying to stop looking good? Hell no! If women stopped prettying up themselves, it’s a terrible world to live in. It’s a world not worth living in. So, what am I really saying? Did I just contradict myself? I don’t know. Right now, I don’t really care.

Work, Children and Pets

2008-06-11T10:42:00.006+08:00

It can’t be helped that some time after joining the workforce, you’d long for the time when you were a child. You think back of the time when you’re somehow, quite free to do as you please, more often than not. The time when stuff was free; where you just throw tantrums or threaten to run away from home to get what you wanted. And when you compare it with the present, you somehow regret the loss of that kind of freedom. Now that you’re all grown up, you do get your way most of the times, but it comes at a price. The ironic thing is you need to be a slave of some sort before you can enjoy your freedom.

That’s why, in a way, we envy children. They just play, eat, sleep, and whine all day. The only drawback is, being a child is like being a pet. Well, to be accurate, just a notch higher than a pet. If you’re a child, you need to be cute. Have to be cute. You need to be “precocious”, adorable and a “bundle of sunshine and happiness.” If you’re not, then you’re useless. You’re a mistake – a lamentable example of bad gene combination. But this is where children are a notch higher than pets. If you have a mangy, dull, and lethargic dog as a pet, aren’t you tempted to kick it, even just once? Imagine coming home after a tough day at work and that’s what greets you. I’ll bet you would kick that mutt just to feel better. But, will you do the same to an ugly child? Of course, not! Children are like pets, but not pets. If you kicked a child – no matter how ugly and unlovable – you’re sick. You need to be reported to the Retard Extermination Brigade for summary execution.

Now, think of the way we interact with pets and the way we interact with children. Aren’t they quite similar? Like pets, we teach children tricks. Of course, not the likes of jumping through rings of fire or balancing a ball at the tip of the nose, or clapping flippers while swimming backwards – children are too inept for those. We only teach children simple things. We teach them “Close-Open”, “Clap Your Hands”, “Smile”, “Jump”, “Catch”, “Bye-bye”, “Flying Kiss”, or move their hips spasmodically to the latest crappy song from a noontime variety show. And once they learn those tricks, we show them off. We call for a clan meeting. We demand a neighborhood assembly. We aim to trounce the children of neighbors and relatives. It’s like a dog show (or dog fight) for humans.

Then, think of the way how we pick up children’s pooh, give them a bath, feed them, and nurse them when they’re sick. Not much different from a pet, right? And when you give milk supplement or vitamins to your child, it’s just like getting Alpo for a dog or Thunderbird Max for your fighting cock. It’s strangely similar. The only difference is that you don’t put your child up for stud service or sign the child up for a cockfight.

Another aspect wherein children are like pets is that children get to eat for free, but in exchange they get to be caged and wear a leash. You remember right? No more TV, brush your teeth, eat your vegetables, go inside it’s already dark, don’t play with your father’s gun and stop shooting the neighbor and his dog, smoking is not allowed till you’re ten, stabbing classmates with a pencil is bad, don't date that boy, he's your father's toy – you know, things of that sort. The only things children aren’t being dictated at are involuntary body functions. Things like breathing, pissing, digesting, circulating blood, etc. But the rest is fair game for parents. Isn’t this the source of most conflicts during adolescence? You try so hard to tell parents that you’re no longer a pet; that you’re no longer the cute child that you once were. That you’re bigger and smarter, that you can handle yourself. You vehemently and emphatically state that you don’t like being told what to do, yet still feel entitled to the free board, lodging, education, allowance and health coverage. You aggressively assert your evolution from a pet that was at least entertaining, into a parasitic, know-it-all freeloader. The essence of adolescence (Oh, such fond memories they bring!).

And of course, there are a lot more similarities out there. I'm sure you can come up with one.

Looking at it from this angle, would it be better to be a slave or a pet? The answer, I don’t know. Better view it with a sense of resignation since you’re all grown up. There’s nothing you can do about it. You can just continue with your slave and toil, get a member of the opposite sex and together create a pet of your own.