Menthol-Guy

It’s funny I’ve asked this to myself while face down in the bed, chasing the ideas I want to blog.

Why do I blog?

Well, goddamn boredom–it’s the default excuse to almost everything done online! I was bored to death during my High School years; it seemed wise enough to get everything out of our Internet connection. It seemed hip and original to have a turf in the net back then. It seemed an underground activity, a stash for even the most eccentric thoughts. It seemed a teenage thing not to be held responsible with what you write, or generally, with what you do.

Well at least, that’s how it seemed to be.

Now, I don’t really know. I’ve been busted after High School. I’ve been ridiculed greatly by what and how I write.

I write about life. I write to commemorate life. I want to–fine, I want to remember the very purpose of my blogging. It might help me bring back myself on track, write as often and still as fluent. It might help me realize something. But honestly? I don’t really know why I keep on extending my domain for a year. Maybe it’s because it’s the only thing I own online; everything else have fallen apart, including my Tumblr. Maybe it’s due to some existential reason, but maybe these are all bluff. Maybe I’m just conjuring these things up for the sake of providing myself a reason.

Maybe all I ever wanted is the mushy answer: that I enjoy blogging so much I couldn’t help but revive this shit.

After having three laps with his bike, Gamini went home. He stands his bike against the wall and fishes his pocket for his key. He couldn’t find it. He took out his pockets. Still nowhere to be found. For the first time in his life he forgot bringing his key. This is preposterous, he mumbled.

He stands in front of the door, disappointed–no, frustrated. He stands there for three minutes, hoping that this is just some prank thing doors do. It’s the usual reason he states to himself when his laptop wouldn’t budge when turned on, when his microwave wouldn’t produce the humming sound (and the food doesn’t come out warm). It was–fine–absurd to assume that these gadgets and objects have moods too, but in times of desperation we always manage to create reasons for anything.

When he saw a red sports car through the slits of the wooden slabs of his gate, he suddenly thought his brother was in the house.

He decided to press the doorbell and for exactly twenty-nine seconds (counting seconds while waiting is his habit), a bearded man appeared.

“Can I help you?” He wears blue boxers and a t-shirt large enough for him.

He finds words to say, but the words become stranded in his throat. He seemed out of words. Who is this man living in his house?

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I have a flu today. I’m hoping it’s not from my two-day Cinemalaya marathon at CCP. I bet it’s from exhaustion. This isn’t AH1N1.

The fever started last Saturday night. It’s probably the cold weather which makes my temperature go up. My friend and I bought Paracetamols for it. My fever subsides for a couple of hours but it comes back. Sunday night, the fever vanished. This morning, I have a slight fever again plus colds and cough. This is bad.

I gulped down a Bioflu tablet this morning and so far, I’m feeling completely okay.

Whatever disease I’m having, I hope it wouldn’t let me absent myself from classes. Academics is king.

You know what I’m gearing for Sunday night?

I’d hit the streets of Manila (Malate?) after watching a bunch of Cinemalaya films–for almost twelve hours–and just party (read: drink a lot, dance a little) all night long, probably smoke my lungs out (I know, I’m not smoking anymore). I don’t do dirty dancing that much or ask a girl out or check out somebody in the restroom and all.

For one moment, I want to be at my wildest.

Isn’t it just thrilling when you dance with someone you barely know and then you’d sit with her at the corner of the bar–or someplace where you can have decent conversation. Oh, she should be the type of the girl who read books and not just teenage magazines. I mean books–in all its literary glory. It would be better if she’s an avid fan of, say, any classical author. I want her to lure me to intellectual talk and not just chime in some lame talk about her Facebook account.

I want her to wear anything that’s right for her, whatever suits her. I don’t want her to be dolled up for the night. I want her to come naturally, dressed for the night–yes, of course–but that she shouldn’t look like a fashion overkill. (I tell you, my fashion sense can seem to look beyond reparation sometimes.) I want myself to dress up naturally with faded khakis and a shirt with a vintage print on it, scruffy hair, just the typical guy who practically brags that he has brains even in the wrong places.

We would order a drink or two.

I don’t know what will happen next–not that I don’t have the purest of intentions, but I’m not implicitly talking about sex here–but it depends to her. In building a character that’s passionable, someone that’s flawed, you have to leave something behind, mark it unknown, unmask it when the story tells you to.

So I don’t really know what will happen (it can be something as immensely dramatic that it can be considered the twist of the story), but I guess we wouldn’t end up with our hands bound with shackles in bed and all. I mean, if she would offer me a joint just for social puffs, I have to say I’ll accept it, for I am in my wildest that day. But that might not happen, for she could be the type of a person who stays away from the illegal.

What’s even interesting is a scene where we would be at Mini Stop and eat ice cream in the middle of the night. I could see the camera angle a street away (but directly) from Mini Stop, capturing the two of us sitting, licking our ice creams, eyes clashing at midpoint, sensing something else but not lust; something else–probably something that’s as delicious as the melting dark chocolate cream in our mouths.

It’s the middle of the night and all the light in the scene comes from the fluorescent bulbs of the 24-hour convenience store, and we’re almost done with the cone.

That should be the end.