Today I would write about nothing. Have you read one, an article about nothing? I haven’t, and so if you already did, please spare me the slap that this wasn’t really an original creation of my shrieking mind once again espousing the term brilliance. This is obviously not a rambling post, a manifesto or a pseudo-intelligent commentary. Just plain nothing. And as the cliché goes, proceed if you’ve got nothing better to do.
Nothing. I look at my cell phone, a black Nokia C3 with scratches on screen and fading characters in a key pad with its nine peso load, and thought that if it is indeed the measure of today’s caste, my head would be chopped first. Ten-tenenen-ten-ten…ten-ten, it ranged. It was a message from Fully Booked that my reservation for this book I’ve been salivating for is on due. I checked my wallet and aside from ATM receipts and ID’s, there was nothing there but a mocking two US dollars, one thousand Korean won and two happy faces of Sergio Osmena.
Nothing. Had I have the money, bongos wouldn’t be banging rapidly in my head and I won’t be found in my room with a mounting laundry on the floor of underpants and suspenders while shooting pigs with bullet birds. I turned the dials of my radio, probably the one from Nikola Tesla himself, and there was Datu’s Tribe rocking like the first time I saw them in a mob. I turned it off. I don’t need more emo-schmucks. I, after all, got more dramas than you could possibly imagine and I don’t need to listen to anything more than that. Maybe that’s why no one bothers to read this blog. Enough is enough, the f--- saying goes.
Nothing. True, it must be selfish that I shopped for new bed sheets and black satin curtains and complain about the bad state of my personal nation where it could be paradise for Butchoy, an eight year old kid with his bag of toys that contains soda crowns, a gnome figurine about sixteen centimeters tall stolen from some barren family garden and a half-used notepad, whose only wish is to eat in what he called a "styrofoam plate with small partitions" in it. But what could be done? I learned to raise my fist in rallies wearing my black Giordano polo shirt and dreamt of ostracizing black witches and wizards of this blue-red-and-white kingdom but was lost from the inertia of dazzling strobes and cups of caramel macchiato.
Nothing. I blog in the middle of gossips, perpetual judgments and happy faces with smiles as wide as a Tarsier’s to no certainty as to why I’m still contributing to this idiosyncrasy of constant self-promotion, no, not on the verge of narcissism as it goes, I believe, way beyond that, and yet continue running on a treadmill like a rat. Was it the magnetism of half-naked bodies? The shameless sexual innuendos? Or the delusion of finding the right love in a wrong place? I hope not.
Today I write nothing and gave you nothing. Nothing, that in the hopes that when tomorrow inevitably pave its way, I could give you something bigger than my man-boobs and my exploding tummy. And before I rant once more about me being “undateable” and how I’m this rejected package of everybody, I would cut loose. Tomorrow I will sue everyone who fabricated lies about me and drew malignant caricature of me in drag. But today, I will masturbate to Elton’s video with his beautiful face in it imagining how I could strangle his smooth neck as I shove my d--- in his mouth, pray the rosary in three languages then go to Quiapo with my tin cans and beg for conscience and coins with my fellow passersby.