The World Owes You NOTHING. Stop Acting Like It Does

.:I Don’t Read Neil Gaiman, But He Still Pwns:.

Yes, I know. Blasphemy. Despite that, I still believe that Neil Gaiman is awesome and deserves all the props in the world for this entry.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again... I’m getting rather sick and tired of people who feel entitled to things they really aren’t. The whole “the customer is always right” adage has been used and abused to the point that people have been spoiled. Everything’s amazing, but nobody’s happy! I don’t get it, really.

I know people are entitled to take offense, to complain, but at the end of the day, the world owes you effing nothing. You didn’t do anything to earn being alive. You were alive just because, and the world doesn’t magically owe you anything just because your conditions are less than optimal or whatever other cockamamie reason you can think up. It’s so easy to whine and to rant and to complain, but it’s so difficult to just sit down there, focus, and finally do something constructive for a change. People are entitled to complain, but the minute that’s your defining trait? Boy, you better rethink what you’re doing with your time.

I’m really glad he came out with this post, really. Because let’s face it: a lot of people feel entitled even if there is no sensible reason why they should be. When I guested on Ruffa and Ai a few weeks ago, I had people who took offense to me because I did not want to be textmates with them.

Listen, let me give you a tip: just because my cellphone number was displayed on television, it doesn’t mean you’re entitled to ask me how my lunch was at three in the effing morning. I’m a professional. I am not your monkey. I am not your bitch. If you can’t respect me as a person, then I see no reason to feel bad at being labelled as “suplado” when I don’t owe you a single mothereffing thing. You don’t feed me. You don’t know me. So take your insensitivity and find someone else to bug.

No, the customer isn’t always right. Not when they disrespect the other person, resort to insulting them, calling them names, and stepping on their dignity as a human person. I don’t get why we tolerate that kind of crap being hurled in our direction just because. As I said during the Alec Baldwin issue, people are entitled to take offense, but that doesn’t entitle them to act like idiots and resort in kind. I thought we left that stupid “eye for an eye” schtick in the Old Testament? So why are we running back to it again?

I ain’t havin’ it. This sense of entitlement crud really has got to stop. Just because people are doing their job does not give you the right to treat them less than human. We are not your effing monkeys.

Enjoying My Last Day As A Bum...

.:Got A Move-On, But Still No NBI Clearance...:.

It was annoying because the line was so long the cut-off was made earlier than anticipated. I don't know when I'll get around to it, but... feh.

Nonetheless, I'm very stoked about going back to work after almost a year of being a "bum" thanks to my thesis. Took the time to hang out with some people from Team Massacre, namely Andres and Tong, and even treated 'em to Mang Jimmy's. The bad news was there was no Tapa Mix or Lechon Kawali that evening. Boooo!!!

So when I went home, I ran into Dr. Kaelin who was having dinner with Dr. Ibana. Dr. Kaelin's one of my favorite teachers from the Philosophy Department, not to mention the fact that he's gonna be in town for only a month, really. It was great running into him, making my last day of bumhood a very exciting one. Not only did I hang out with some magician friends and talk about a lot of things, including the ruthless ribs I throw one of the "top mentalists in the country", but I even ran into one of my favorite teachers of all time.

Given the fact that Mrs. Cardenas has said her goodbyes to the Ateneo, I feel that in some way, the things I've gone through as a hopeful of employee of the University have left me a bit... smarting, but nonetheless, optimistic. I have faith in my ability to adapt to any situation that comes my way, and Nuffnang.com will be quite an adventure that I will be finding myself heavily immersed in as the days go by.

The thesis is still a question mark, but I am determined to finish it and graduate in 2010 (March, more specifically.). I have worked long and hard over it, and though I'm not entirely certain if I'll be able to have much of an academic career at this point, it will at the very least put a definitive bookend in my foray into Philosophy. Doing events and marketing sales is something I'm very excited about, and I don't see myself just changing horses in midstream all over again after this one.

I'm hanging in there. Despite feeling lonelier than I ever have, I'm doing what I can to survive, because one thing I know for certain is that after everything has been said and done, I gave all my love, and all my heart, and even if in the end, I wasn't given the same in return, nobody can fault me with the passion I put into everything I've done.

Last year was a year of changes. This year is a year of direction.

.:Another Literary Attempt...:.

It Was Just Me
by Kel

Everyone knew that you are my fire
That's what you are, my one desire
Now that we're through, it's plain to see
You never felt the same: it was just me

My love was all I had to give
Without you I don't think I could give
You never shed a tear when you left finally
You never really cared: it was just me

I should have known from the start
That you won't quit playing games with my heart
You said you would stay with me eternally
You never came through: it was just me

Looking back on the things I've done
I realized I was trying to be someone
You never saw that, you took it so casually
You never loved me: it was never me

Haruki Murakami: On Seeing The 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning

.:Let Me Share With You This Story...:.

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.