This is a story of how a twenty-one year-old met his match: a hellish summer of a year with endless nightmares: financial meltdown, natural disasters, crazy politics, a global epidemic, extrajudicial killings. But you should know upfront, this is not a typical year-in-review.
Let’s do away with the extra six hours and stick with 365 days. I am utterly convinced that I had too much on my plate this year already, without another quarter of a day as a side dish. Also, I want to write this blog entry as if the year is as good as over—barring of course the possibility that I might just manage to commit another stupid mistake before 2009 ends.
To start with, I had long periods of extreme poverty for the first time since I turned eighteen. Late last year, I decided to move out of my mother’s house and kept a smallish apartment so I could live on my own. Everything was going well at first, up until the beginning of this year. But just as 2009 was done saying hello, I had to quit my call center job, partly because I was beginning to get bored, but mainly because my boss threatened to terminate me “due to impressively chronic tardiness and absenteeism.” I was not exactly your idea of a model employee, if you get my drift.
By February, I had to look for employment elsewhere. The transition between my last payday at the old company and my first one at the new company was naturally difficult and I had to scrimp. I incurred debts and I fell behind my bills and the rent. By around June or July, I was already living off instant noodles. Then I had to pack my things and go home to momma. Never in my whole life had I felt so embarrassed.
I talked to my mother, discussed our little arguments that made me move out from her house in the first place, and vowed to get a new job. I eventually did get hired at another call center, the third in a span of one year. And I guess that earns me the right to call myself a “hopper.” Let’s all toast to that, folks.
And then around this time, there was Ishiguro. Then after that, there was Ishiguro and me. And then there was just me. Yup, this is the point where you feel sad for me, the point where you decide to tell me that everything will be fine, be a man, the right one will come in time. I thank you from the bottom of my wasted emo heart.
Before Ishiguro, there were of course other failed affairs. But none crushed me as decidedly as this one did. Maybe it’s because I knew that this time, I am the one to blame and nothing hurts more than the fact that I could have done better.
After three months of countless fights and heated arguments, Ishiguro chose to end it for good. And like any other wise guy, I sought refuge from alcohol. I began forcing my miserable company upon friends who were too polite to tell me off. I stalked Ishiguro on every possible social networking site on the web. I even started calling him many times on his cell phone whenever I become too drunk. I only stopped harassing him when he expressly forbid me to contact him in any way and threatened to change his number should he receive another call or text message from me again. I suspect that he even contemplated informing the police. I would have probably ended up in jail, if I had not realized in time that I had become disgusting.
Now that I look back at all these, I am actually amazed that I have managed to live through them all. Yet I know I should not be surprised. For aside from having intelligent and understanding people for a family, I have also met the most extraordinary set of friends this year. Their wit and humor fascinates and impresses me endlessly. Their sincere warmth and encouragement sustains me. The stories they tell on their own pages inspire me.
This angst-ridden, semi-emo entry hopes to redeem itself by doubling as a thank-you note to Jeff, who nursed me through my worst days; to Nyl, whom I suspect to have the ability to read my thoughts; to Ewik and Dabo who are my newest blogger friends; and to Herbs, who has the uncanny ability to bring bloggers together. You all made 2009 seem a little less crappy than it really is.
Because this year is certainly not one of the good ones. And even this statement seems to be not sarcastic enough to capture the shit most of us may have gone through. In the spirit of Christmas, though, I forgive those who are responsible for the crises this year that are not of my own doing. I know you guys didn’t really mean to make our lives exponentially more miserable. Especially you, Mrs Gloria Arroyo. Bitch.