[aggressively feels sorry for self]

My birthday had come and gone. Nobody but a handful remembered, and the next handful found out through word of mouth. Everybody who knew greeted me, albeit in hushed tones and secret smiles. They all knew I didn’t want anyone to fuss about it, including me. And I’m glad they (or most of them at least, because one fucker took it upon himself to post his greeting as a status update.. buti nalang walang pake yung mga tao [it’s a good thing nobody cared]) heeded my silent plea.

That day started out great, partly because the power was down from 9am onward; I enjoyed some peace time eating cold tuna rice, and watching windowpane sunshine dancing on my bed in time with Billy Corgan’s whining croons. On to class, hushed greetings, an awesome lecture on Children’s Literature in the Philippines, and a few hours hanging out with two separate best friends and an acquaintance turned good friend.

After, I went home to Manila, and spent the weekend doing nothing but eat and hound my sisters for gifts, and occasionally go to the mall. I got a Palahniuk book, a new journal, a pen, some money to buy new earphones with, and a comic strip compilation (also a birthday card but I wouldn’t count that). It’s a little sad that I had to hound anyone to give me anything, but that’s family so it’s mostly okay.

I had all but forgotten about everything that had to be done for today, which I then had to cram into 2 not-too-stressful-but-taxing-just-the-same hours. It didn’t help that my travel bags were excessively heavy this time, and that I had not had decent sleep (read: not bus-sleep) in nearly 48 hours. My body was in agony, and so was my head and mouth (because I have an erupting impacted wisdom tooth on the left, a decaying molar right, and a cold sore under my tongue). I was sure this was going to be another “kill-me-now” day.

I pushed through with the day, though. And I guess that’s good. It’s good that I didn’t die just yet. My mom called me a few hours ago, made small talk and then cut straight to the chase: she wanted me to stop smoking. I won’t, but I love her for trying to stop me just the same.

And here I am, tired, sleepy, and just about to hit the hay. Is life feeling more or less like a chore?

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