I've never been this blatant with God, but the recent years of dotcom burst, pentium flops and stock devaluation forced me to pray for money. I even pray for a specific amount. I talk to my dead Mama that I need money like Tita to Chencha in Like Water for Chocolate. When she was alive I used to run to her when the scholarship stipends bleed dry.

And while yesterday I didn't ask for it, I got something unexpected that I didn't know what to do. An office friend wants a Galera weekend. I've been making passes at Jamie Oliver's jamie's dinners, Nigella Lawson's Nigella Bites and a Tefal griddle. A spanking new apron and some ramekins. An LCD monitor and more RAM for my aging P3 for my post-photog works. An iPod to replace my Nomad MuVo. Oh if only I can buy new relatives.

I just stared at the value and thought to keep it safe from my hands, let it grow to six digits before I reach thirty.

How did I save the world? There was taxation on the bonus, around 32%. Every payday I delay the countdown to the Philippine fiscal crisis by five minutes while espousers of the "model debtor" push it by six.

It doesn't mean that I'm out of the doldrums. Some people get headaches because they don't have money. It's not the case with me. Men have periods too, we just don't bleed (Tori Amos). We keep it inside and bury it in our graves. I choose to simmer in my own juices, leaving tracks on my way to the dark side of the moon.

"Would I be baking it like the one I brought them, or grilled by the maid?"
"They might like it grilled more than yours."
Leaves house, lights three cigs in succession and drinks beer at 7-11. Barks at passing cars.

How sublime.

When's it gonna stop, DJ?
Cos you're keeping me up all night.

This entry was posted by sky, on Friday, April 08, 2005. You can leave your response.