Promdi in the City

Some introspection happens when you are wide awake on weekendwaiting for sobriety to come back. Plus the fact that all of a sudden high school memoirs came rushing in at the most inappropriate time— your batch mates suddenly tagging you  in old photos (post-mortem. God have mercy on your high school self).  Should I hit the untag button now?

Born and raised in the land of Chili Peppers - Bicol, I moved in the metro some 3 years ago in the hopes to make a better living (daw oh). College became a short-term memory as I’ve took all summer classes in every freaking year of my college existence in order to catch up. Long story, I’ll save some of the drama for some other time.

However, there has been some inclinations of moving out in between those dark ages when work has become too crappy, social life has been almost non-existent and love life has been a constant freezing point that entering the nunnery became a temporary alternative delusion.  Hey, at least there’d be deprived priests or priests-to-be to demoralize.

True enough, separation-anxiety with the parent is still evident. Dad still treats me like a 3 year old whenever I go home and visit. Curfews after college was technically just a defense mechanism, an attempt to revive parental control and sometimes can still cause some brief discussion.

First Christmas I spent here was 2005 in a freezer of an office, mimicking the feeling of being frostbitten. A holiday on ICE!

The next year was immediately followed by the passing of my mother. All the reason to dread the thought of still going home because everything else reminds me of her whenever I step into our house. The emptiness, the lack of her presence or the scent of a burning cigarette or the hysterical voice that’s constantly on the phone. She can actually pass as a call center agent had she been living in this day and age.

LOST. That was me 2005 and still is untill now. Yes, literally because I am poor in directions. My first commuting experience was this: My first interview in a company where my uncle referred me. The office was in Ayala cor. Paseo. My other uncle (where I was staying at that time), offered to give me a ride which made me less apprehensive until I found out that he will just drop me off in Ayala Ave.  and not the exact location of the office. After that he said that I will be on my own. ON MY OWN TWO FEET (IN HIGH HEELS) with only 500.00 pesos left in my pocket. My first time in the streets of MAKATI. OF MAKATI, IN HIGH HEELS, WITH 500.00 PHILIPPINE PESOS supposedly an allowance for the entire 1 week stay. So he gave me some instructions where he asked me to write things down. Nervous-wreck that I am, i scribble away.

He opened the door and out the sound of honking not just any honking of cars but the type when if the honks are in english it would translate to WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR. YOU’RE CAUSING TRAFFIC!

So yeah, my uncle left me in the middle of Ayala Ave.  just when it was about to rain. And I was too early for my interview. And so I walked and walked and asked for directions. One thing I can conclude when asking directions from strangers, they are all liars. When they said, the building is just another block away they really meant Poor girl, it would have been easier if you will take a cab for which, eventually I did because I had no choice I was going nowhere, walking in circles. Fate is looking down on me and having a ball saying YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED THERE AND DRAIN THE CLOGGED PIPES LIKE I TOLD YOU.

At 20 something, I was stubborn (still am actually), wanting to prove something I don’t really know what. So I hailed a cab. The driver looked like Derek Ramsey, owned a pair of Oakley shades and a black berry. I sank in my seat cursing the heavens. Had I known how to drive I would have opted to apply as a cab driver.

It took 5 days of hopping in and out of the wrong  MRT train, constantly calling my cousin asking for the right bus or jeepney stop, eventually swallowing the pride and begging for the uncle to loan me some cash so I can go through another series of interviews.

It also lead me through hardcore self-discoveries:

1. People in the metro are generally insensitive assholes. You get pushed and shoved literally and otherwise.

2. Dog eat cat, Cat eat dog world.

3. Do not wear high heels when you know you’ll be walking the entire day. The only time that you’ll be able to sit is when you catch the last ride around 10pm– when rush hour is so over and are in grave danger of getting assaulted. Wear shoes with spikes if possible.

4. You did not know what you just signed yourself into. But it’s a job and you’re done with all the ass-kissing. Some months later you find yourself saying to yourself” Hey,I didn’t sign up for any of this?!!!”. 

5. You are there on purpose. You are there to be humiliated and belittled. You are there to make you realize that despite all the shit that has happened to you over the past few years and after all the failed job interviews, the smirks you got from interviewers, the absentminded-nods, the well-give-you-a-call spiels, the crying over spilled milk, the lies and deception your supervisors made to make you stay, and resignation letters signed sealed and delivered, the promdi in you still wants a city life.

Even though, it’s the farthest thing from home and memories of your rural life is something you use to lull you back to sleep , you stayed. You stay for an itching hope of something bound to come like a huge meteor that would obliterate the 2nd floor, north wing of your building or any mild form of good karma, something that will make you sit there comfortably  as if reassuring you that for the first time you made a good decision. STAY. STAY AWAY FROM THOSE SLUSHIES, YOU DRUNKARD.

So now that I’m still here, turning another year older in the next month, what do I plan to do? where do I wanna be? how will I do it? Why is PUPIL opening the NIN concert without  asking for my permission? Where is my money? Why can’t I buy myself a ticket? Who took my lint remover? What is the capital of Brazil?

Still promdi, still LOST.  I sigh and wait for the breaking dawn (BAD TWILIGHT REFERENCE) hoping something poetic will happen because I stayed.