Word Vomit (don't read this if you don't wanna hate me)
I hate it that Neil Garcia keeps using highfalutin words and long, run-on sentences to prove his point with 400 pages of the same incomprehensible diction.
I hate my computer table, because its sliding desk is not sliding. So I held the Neil Garcia book tight in my hands and hit the desk with it. The desk fell and the pulleys and plastic parts shattered in front of me.
I threw the Neil Garcia book at the floor.
I picked up the desk already irreparable, and threw it at the balcony, shattering it further.
I hate it that I don’t have enough vocabulary for my destructions. I hate it that I don’t have other words for throw, for desk, for fell, and for the parts of that desk that I so furiously dismembered and want to dismember more.
I hate it that Papá summoned Egay to Ilocos so Egay would cook for Papá’s lame Christmas party. Egay was supposed to help me shop for my MMAB wardrobe. I hate God and I’d wish he goes to hell because he threw me into this day and life where my voice isn’t working, my chest and head voice are not connected, my thesis isn’t progressing because fuckin’ Neil Garcia is just a vocabulary show-off!!!!
I am the most terrible, miserable, angriest, most stupid, most ambitious contestant in MMAB, gay, obsessive compulsive, thing who still wants to splat that god-damn desk on the terrace until the shards are too small for me to grasp.
I’m so angry with everybody! To that pig who’s got the nerve to ignore because I said something without me choosing to. "What I said back there was nothing compared to you bullying a retard!" Don't you dare judge me when you yourself are a lesser person.
I hate the other pig for stepping out of the way whenever I approach nearby. I hate it that when he kept making imitations of me saying”idiot,” I couldn’t defend myself from his verbal assaults. I hate it that I was called, condemned “assuming!” when I never assumed anything about him. He was the one who assumed everything about me for being gay, effeminate, transvestic, and for whatever reason. He was the one who shrunk back from me as if I was carrying a disease… in the corridor, in the classroom, in the Medicine auditorium, after Baguio….
Hell is other people.
Is this the Mr. AB I want myself to be? Is this the Ideal Thomasian Personality? Is this me? Am I even living my life? Or has it already been ruined for me? By Papá, by Mamáng, by parents who spoil their children, complain that they’re gay; by parents who make fickle-minded decisions and don’t care about what I planned to do: Juillard, Bachelor of Music, Major in Voice, soloist.
I may never be what I want myself to be, because I was already planned to be this. So here I am, with an unfinished final paper with papers I haven't even begun, with a builk of my wardrobe still not bought, starving because of this stubborn appetite that bothers me and my diet, and with a shattered desk, and a highfalutin book by my most hated academician at the moment.
Hate me now. Bad-mouth me. I'm defeated anyway.