< hmmm... >

   I finally had a recollection of who in the blue hell I am.

   I am Marocharim.  I am a chain-writing, chain-drinking, chain-smoking, chain-swinging freak.

< boom boom boom >

   In Filipino, di ko ilalabas ang aking tambol, wala akong torotot na itinago sa baul.  Like you, like me, like everybody else, I hate Willie Revillame's pop hit, "Boom Tarat Tarat."  Mr. Revillame is the scourge of this planet.

   I shouldn't be that harsh, maybe.  Just because I can't do pelvic thrusts as well as the next enthusiastic guy, that doesn't mean I shouldn't reflect my caustic attitude on such a popular song.  Well, it's popular, I'll give them that: a bus dispatcher last night whistled to the tune of "Boom Tarat Tarat," well, much to my chagrin.

   Introducing the new verb "taratat" into Filipino is annoying, but it could make me a couple of thousand bucks if I entered it into a contest.  Although I am particularly annoyed right now about the state of Philippine poverty and how people on a Wowowee set are willing to be part of the much-vaunted "Bigat-10" all the while dancing to "Boom Tarat Tarat."

   Of course, I downloaded it.

< hmmm... >

   You know what, I'm more of the betting man than you think.  And I bet against Manny Pacquiao.  That's how much I hate him.  Even if he beat Erik Morales in three rounds.  Even if he cried during the playing of the Philippine National Anthem.  Even if some people are willing to stick their tongues inside his asshole every time he farts.

   You heard me.  There are people - sick people, at that - who are willing to stick their tongues inside his asshole every time he farts.  Mike Arroyo, Monico Puentevella, Korina Sanchez, Lito Camo, the President.  OK, I'm using a tasteless metaphor to describe the kind of tasteless relationship most of us - the lot of us - enjoy with regards to the Pacman.  We eat his endorsements - I tried the Pacman milkshake - like Pac-people.  We think of him as the better boxer even if his opponent, Erik Morales, looked anorexic in the effort to get to the prime weight (it wasn't even fair).  The langka ice cream I had is sitting idly in my stomach, and nobody would stick their tongues into my asshole when I fart.  It's that bad.

   Never mind the countless people who lost bets betting against Pacquiao.  I don't blame them.  It's called saturating the market: we're in too much Pacman Fever turned into an epidemic of sorts that some of us are just sick of Pacquiao.  Kayabangan does not cut it: I can't blame Pacquiao for being a patriot on these trying times for the Philippines, but come on, there's just too much of him going on that it doesn't make sense anymore.

   It happens.  We Filipinos are looking for heroes.  In a world full of lousy politicians, financial crises and doomsday scenarios that even the likes of Jim Paredes are thinking about leaving the country, even Wowowee is not the solution to our problems.  Oh, I almost forgot: like me, Manny Pacquiao is a fan.

   Some people tell me that I'm just jealous of Manny and that I should be a "patriot" and stop writing about Pacquiao in a negative fashion.  I don't know, but who could blame me?  Too much Manny is getting into my system that until the Barrera fight on February, I am not going to write any more Manny Pacquiao related entries.

< system of a down? >

   Like a lot of people, I grew up not having much money.  I live - and I mean literally live - on a hundred bucks a schoolday.  Some students may cry oppression over issues of allowance, but I don't.  A hundred bucks is enough to buy my lunch, my cigarettes, the daily beer (long ago when I still had the urge to drink) and the Internet.

   Not having money gives me a new sense of freedom since I get to do what I want with what little I have.  We're in dire straits now ever since my dad's little incident with a car and a scooter and I think I'd do fine being poor for the rest of my life.  I've grown on the fact that being rich will not make you happy, and I've dwelt on the fact that given my course, I'll be anything but a rich man.

   Which brings me to rich people.  Being rich gives me more problems than I'm willing to face.  I'm willing to let go of dreams of money and live the life of a Tondo squatter: after all, Bill Gates is not a social anthropologist.  I am.  Who knows how much money I would make betraying indigenous peoples for their land?

   I got to talk about this whole "me getting rich" with my mom, who said that she'll probably disown me if I live an unprincipled life.  Getting a job as a professional consultant (OK, apologist) with a logging company would have me having a pseudonym of "Maro" and I'd probably be dying all over again in my wake.

   Anyway, back to being poor for the rest of my life.  My parents, over and over again, stress the "reality checks" that I have to face about being poor.  For one, they expect grandchildren.  Me and my bro have no plans about getting married because we vowed celibacy (he's a computer science major).  I ain't no Manny Pacquiao who'll rise from rags to riches.

   Maybe I'm disappointing my parents.

< hmmm... time for a romantic experiment >

   Platonic love is a bummer.

   The fact that some people are "inspired" by their crushes to do well irritates me.  I have a few freshie crushes (cradle snatcher daw) and I'm not inspired to do well with my academics at all.  About the only thing motivating me is a thesis and a chance to get out of UP without getting into Maximum Residency Rule.

   You know what, I don't think that some people in Platonic love are even inspired.  "She's my inspiration, that's why I'm trying to do well" is faulty logic for me.  It defies the very purpose of meaning.  When you love somebody always on your mind, you know the love is not meant to be.  I should know: that's exactly how I got over my ex.

   Nay, even Marocharim the Infallible is prone to Platonic love but I'm over it.

< hokey pokey, pinoy style >

   When I was depressed, half-listening to my dad about my "negative attitude" towards Math, a name came up: Queena Lee-Chua.  A brillant mathematician who tells everyone math can be fun.

   I've run my little scruff with Jessica Zafra and why I don't write like her, but now I'm running into a little scruff with Queena Chua about why I completely and utterly disagree with her.  You see, all the math I know can be summed up in a single bullet point: that 1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 2 = 4, 4 + 4 = 8, doblehin ang 8.  The little that I know of math didn't save me in statistics.  Now that I'm born to live a life of illusory happiness because I cannot count my change and I'm a philantrophist to storeowners and taxi drivers everywhere, I'd like to revisit my first entry in the Experiment.

   It's about Math 11.  College algebra.

   My parents are Accounting majors, my brother is a computer geekazoid to the nth degree (positive tone).  I never inherited a single degree of mathematical aptitude from anyone.  Math is the bane of school, the penultimate academic nightmare, because algebra, to me, is useless.  I don't do polynomials counting my change, I don't do trigonometry when I admire a mountain, I don't do calculus brushing my teeth.  I don't factor perfect square trinomials when I take into account the factors of social phenomenon (at least that's what I'm good at).  I don't do anything mathematical with anything.

   That's what I think, though.  What about you?

< hmmm... >

   My brother, who I always supposed would rather kiss the asses of a horde of dead Huns than to work in a call center, has turned in his resume to PeopleSupport, a call center that opened - you guessed it, or so I think - right next door to my school.  UP is right next to a call center I haven't heard of.

   During the time I was terminally (cough) depressed, I heard my dad talking on a positive tone about PeopleSupport.  Everyone at school - or so I think - is now looking at it as a Mecca, a dream job.  Basically, I look at call center jobs in the same negative tone as my bro.  I'd rather be a literal asshole - the rectal orifice to an unwashed hairy, uh, Canadian, than be an asshole selling DVD's on the phone or advising the customer on simple computer know-how.  But like my bro, beggars can't be choosers.

   Nah.  They can, I just saw one awhile ago.

< was from my dad >

   "So what?"

   Not that my dad said it, but he had a point in comparing me with a blind accountant.  My problems aren't that bad.  The one-legged guy in an ass-kicking contest has it far worse than me.  The bearded man in the freak show is on far worse straits.  Me?  I just happen to not graduate on time and I am sick.  Big deal.  So what?

   Much as I hate to admit it, there's this certain part of me that plays the crowd pleaser in a real world that doesn't give shit if I'm sick or if I am delayed for graduation.  I always want people to look at what I can do.  Too bad, the world doesn't care.  I'm always out to impress people.  Much as I don't like it, I have to take shit.  I don't like it as much as the next perv who gets off on scatological fantasies with housepets, but it's the Tao of life.  It's what I have to do to get ahead.

   "So what?" brings upon me new opportunities.  I don't have to be anybody's keeper in the way that I have to impress them and to do things the way they want to.  I have a life, plain and simple, and I should live it with the cards Fate dealt me and the way I dealt them.  Plain and simple.

   I know my dad is reading this right now.

< hmmm... >

   Technically, for the past few days I've been suffering from a serious bout of depression...

   For absolutely nothing.

   Must account for the dearth of long entries.  A serious joke, I might add.  The thing was I was a bundle of nerves ever since I thought I was not to be accommodated in my Thesis Proposal class.  I was - that is, if the Dean and the instructor would be adults and stand by their signatures.  I was so depressed I cried in front of my parents complaining about my, ahm, illness, and thinking that the whole thing was the end of my world.  It took a good word of wisdom from my Dad, to whom I am eternally thankful for, to get me back on my own two feet and get the nervousness out.

   This, from a guy who for two years told the whole world depression is not in my line of thinking.  Take that down for a note in general hypocrisy.

   I am, however, fascinated with the physically manifested symptoms of depression: the twitching lower lip, the nervousness, the perpetually long face.  I looked my worst during that point in my life where I was depressed.  I sort of lost weight now (given a quick step in the weighing scale and I lost a full three pounds being depressed) and I should - given my condition - but the worst I feel is the perpetually happy image is long gone, disappeared.  I need to get my happiness jizz back... which brings us to the next experiment.

   Happy thoughts, happy thoughts...

< hmmm... >

   Today was Christmas Tree Decorating Day at my house, and suffice to say there is more to a plastic tree, strings of lights and Freudian Christmas balls.  Christmas is around the corner... yet again.

   Nah, I'm not in a celebratory mood.  After all, it's about a full month and a few weeks away before Christmas season and I'm in anything but the Christmas spirit, that's unless we celebrate some other holiday at this time in November.  Which, of course, we don't.  I don't know what commemorative holiday exactly befalls us this day.