I’m running 3 days late for a 22-article deadline. Might extend for another day if I don’t shut this window down in the next millisec–
And I didn’t.
I’m still here. Rummaging through some Adele songs. Torn between past and future tenses. Grammar twisted and turned. 90 minutes exited and I have had 8 breaks. The usual. Youtube. Chat. And a bit of stalking. No, a lot of it. Productive, eh? I have evacuated to the sala from my room upstairs thinking things would be extra productive without the sight of the bed. I failed myself. Don’t worry, Carmina, I tell myself. The editor, whose face I have never known, is kind enough to understand. A 3-day delay is–okay. Forgivable. You work with average to quality outputs, anyway. Not to mention you work your ass off every night marveling at the essence of that nose hair trimmer review all for a cheap rate. Not bad. Yes, your editor, in fact, will kneel down on you, virtually, and pledge you to work for him some more. With the same cheap rate. With the same fucking nose hair trimmer reviews.
I tell this to myself. Wait, who tell this to what? “You” is now the “I”? And “I” is the new “You”? I don’t get it. Neither do they. We are lost as all the others are.
Blahhberrr Blahhberrr Blahhberrr.
And the 9th break is done and over with. Now, off to work…
I think we all need that one person whom we can be brutally honest with. Someone we can disclose everything to. A conversation that can go from mundane to taboo. Over bottles of beer. Tipsy but still sober. Enough amount of sanity to comprehend what is said. And what isn’t. Someone you can share silence with. Understanding before judgement. No holds barred. Introspection and issues. Non-issues. Disclosures. Strangers who will hold your secret forever. Over bottles of beer. Over beers of bottle. I want to meet that person. This is the best time.
I feel like exploding any minute now.
You have a long day. You’re curled up in bed with two thin biscuits and an unread book. You hear footsteps and murmurs from downstairs but everything is in passing. So, you wick away that thought and continue to oblivion. You touch your left cheek and feel the small zit growing from there. You look at the window across—the 6-pm cold breeze gives you chill. You cling to a blanket. The detergent powder and fabric conditioner are too overpowering to smell sweat or stain or dried tears. You cannot smell dried tears, you tell yourself. You cannot smell tears.
You wish someone gives you a call. You don’t know why. Someone just has to break the silence, you say to yourself. You go back to the zit, stroke it, as if tracing a circle. Then, you take the book and try to read a few pages—a good attempt, you congratulate yourself.
You hug your knees. No rings. No calls still. Just one random call from one random person, just one—your mind tells you. At the back of your mind, you know you’re not picking up if it’s from your mother or from your best friend or from someone else. You know what you want. You know you deny it. You know you want him to call. You know the perfect time is now. But, you have to stick to the plot, you say to yourself as you finally prick that one lonely zit. Poor, poor zit, you mumble.