Hank Chinaski thought of seeing a psychiatrist. But instead of paying to see a psychiatrist, he had a few drinks and ended up having an imaginary psychiatric session.
Same Shit, Different Job. I’m basically just back in the game. I’ve been with ____ for a month now, and I’ve somehow transitioned to the job’s routine --- basically the same graveyard lifestyle I lived before. Only, it’s a little less stressful, despite the longer working hours. There are no definite sanctions, glide paths, and processes are less defined. I’d say that the performance metrics are loose. An enormous bulk of the calls are rejections from the respondents --- but there aren’t any escalated calls and I am finally rid of the irate callers that used to make my teeth chatter in horror and make my heart beat out of my rib cage. Breaks schedules aren’t strictly timed, and there’s a lot more room for slack.
It’s a relatively easier workload with a slightly lower pay. It’s just more mind-numbing, or as ___ would put it, a more “bobofying” job.
With the smaller crowd at work, I couldn’t be anonymous like I planned to. In truth, I’d have to keep my distance and try to shroud myself in the crevices.
I don’t regret quitting __ and I’m truly happy with that decision. This new job is almost the same shit but it’s pretty much all right.
Is this it? I can’t admit that this is all I can be. All my dreams have dried up but I can’t just let life drag on like this, despite the fact that I am living comfortably, or I’m able to dispel my desires.
I still ride the cab on the way to work. Unlike before, I now make an effort and I avoid the small-talk with taxi drivers. I’d rather keep the silence. It’s like diving into this transcendental state to my Jairus-Jason-at-work mode. How can I explain the fact that while I sit on the passenger seat, I secretly wish that I could sit there all night, drive around the city and marvel at the orange tints of the city’s sodium vapor lamps? As early as October, the capiz Christmas lanterns and custom made, dancing light displays are sold on the sides of the Buendia-Osemña highway intersection. Even worse, I’d like some bomb to explode in some uninhabited building.
In the recent medical check-up (as part of my pre-employment requirements,) my blood pressure was at 110/80. I took Approvel that morning. My right eye reads 20/70, and that’s probably one of the reasons why I get dizzy spells. I have better vision on my right eye.
Or maybe, I’m being blinded by conformity.
New Improved Room. A king’s ransom on the Wharfdale 8.4 diamond set up that enables Dolby 5.1 surround and even Digital Theatre Sound features. There’s a even a subwoofer whose vibrations on the floor also serve as a rat repellant. Time has become unnoticeable in the room since all the windows are already blocked off, and despite my graveyard shift, we’ve created ourselves an artificial night in the room. There’s even an entire rack devoted to the accumulating number of DVDs that I wouldn’t have time to rant and rave and write about about, or sometimes I don’t even have to time to view them. I’m not even able to distinguish the distinctness of the room’s smell since I’ve placed eucalyptus leaves, vanilla scented candles, peach tea incense gardenia tea lights and calm water for the oil burner. Sometimes, usually Sundays, I remove the heat insulators that block window, to look at the tree and let some light in.
Friendster and Blogs for Breakfast. Upon arriving home on mornings after work, I gobble on the breakfast my father prepares, while reading the papers. Also part of my morning rituals would be reading messages, accepting and reading friends, creating and approving the ego-stoking testimonials on friendster --- “the next greatest fad after SMS.” I signed up on Friendster last September, upon ___’s invitation, and now everybody’s just jumped into this friendster frenzy. Aside from seeing people (at least online) that you somehow lost touch with, what interests are characters with excellent pictures on the beach with bios that flaunt themselves as “kindered souls.”
I exchanged messages with this incredible character that just completely upturns your stereotype for self-obsessed fucking “fashionistas.” How can someone who looks like a page out of Cosmpolitan Magazine tell me that about the purpose of life and what her dreams are:
“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”
and:
“i dream of phoenixes rising from the ashes soaring above to touch the sunset that intertwines with rainbows. I dream of a murder of crows crying tears of blood that turn into rubies sparkling in the vast oceans that turn into bittersweet wine...”
There’s a certain gratification you receive in doing this.
Aside from Friendster, there are blogs to read. Blogs are evidence that real life is better than the movies sometimes. Many of the journals are surprisingly well-written, in a language so sincere and honest they just sweep you. Reading the sadness in the other people just mitigates your own sadness. People are also so fond of showing-off and publicizing their whining. You can now gaze at the very specific events which are not too displaced from the truth, and organically prove that loneliness is universal. Sadness and whining is just something to be exhibitionist about nowadays. Although these blogs aren’t exactly tailored to a literary sense, it also passes off as entertainment, best read while listening to Aimee Mann and Coldplay during Sunday mornings.
I think I’m likely to fall in love with my ideas about people, than people themselves. Jairus Jason is fucking delusional.
Going Out with 18-year-olds. After you hear all her stories, it gets pretty fucking annoying. Pretty girls aren’t the answer to your problems.
Psychoanalysis and the Project 2&3 Jeepney Ride. I’ve been working for ____ for over a month and I haven’t even completed my pre-employment requirements. One of the requirements is a neurological exam which obligates me to visit a clinic in Kamias. I used to often Kamias, and this rather uninteresting place has such power over me. I was in high school or early in college. There were a lot of first times. It all comes back to me when I’m around the place.
So one bright noon I rode the Project 2 & 3 jeep again to prove my employers that I’m not nuts, and neurologically fit to work. Expecting heavy traffic on the commute, I brought Charles Bukowski’s Post Office as company. It’s a book I thoroughly enjoyed, and even related to, even though my lifestyle wasn’t that transient. As one reviewer puts it, “His language is the poetry of the streets viewed from the honesty of a hang-over.” That, with horse races, whores, and classical music.
While I was on the jeep, I read the part where the character, Hank Chinaski, thought of seeing a psychiatrist. But instead of paying to see a psychiatrist, he had a few drinks and ended up having an imaginary psychiatric session. Hank solved his problems by analyzing himself, and saved money.
Upon arriving in the clinic, the doctor wasn’t there. Her secretary told me she had to attend an emergency session with a patient who gone gaga on the spot.
I ended up eating at the McDonalds in Kamias, where ___ and I used to hang out. I should’ve saved all that time and money and just psychoanalyzed myself.
Inebriated Ice Skating. The not-so-yuppie-friends from various call centers, as ___ puts it, went to a posh place called Ponticello (where we usually have drinks during the mornings since booze is half-priced.) Each of had a lot of laughs and five to six bottles of beer. From some weird angle, ___ promoted Blast internet cards that showcased a free hour of ice skating in Megamall.
In our inebriated state, it made sense to go ice skating in Megamall. We swung by the bowling alley and had another pitcher as though to make sure we were drunk in the rink. Although I could still skate, we bounced like pinballs over the rink. We crashed around two hundred times. I was in office attire. I haven’t had such spontaneous fun in a long time.
My legs and knees were so sore the following night, I had to miss work.
