There was a time when I thought I couldn’t cry anymore. I felt I’ve shed all tears in my body. After what happened in my life, I thought that was a plausible explanation. But then I thought about it, and maybe it’s not that I can’t cry anymore, but rather I don’t want to cry anymore. I’m afraid of running out of tears, if that makes any sense at all.
I’d like to save some tears, for happy occasions. My wedding, the birth of my children, their graduation, etc. I’m just sick and tired of crying out of sadness.
Rest in peace Nanay Fely. Don’t worry, I still have some tears left.
On wèt todi quand dj’su plin, on n’wèt mauy quand dj’a swè.
(On voit toujours quand je suis plein, on ne voit jamais quand j’ai soif)
I had to go to City Hall for an official document or whatnot. Before I left my aunt’s house, I said to myself: “Axle, relax, deep breath, don’t say anything and let your aunt do the talking as much as possible.”
The system is killing me. Slowly but surely. What the fuck? How is this possible? You’re a public servant. PUBLIC SERVANT. Your job is to SERVE the PUBLIC. Not to cover your ass. Taking notes and shit, as if she’s going to actually do something. All I need is a goddamn document which states that I have been living here in the Philippines. True, I should’ve brought my passport, I’ll give her that. But there are other ways to verify that I have been indeed living here for some time.
“Don’t say anything about their shitty system, don’t say anything about their shitty system, don’t say anything about their shitty system, don’t say anything about their shitty system,…” Thank you, Rational Axle, for keeping Irrational Angry Axle in check.
By the way:
1. Pick up the phone and call Immigrations
2. Pick up the phone and call the Belgian Embassy.
Didn’t think of that didn’t you? Of course not, that would actually require you to do something, to do your job, paid by the taxes of the PUBLIC that you’re suppose to work for.
Yeah, it’s more fun in the Philippines…
Ya une nouvelle tendance ici au pays, ou les couples s’echangent de sacs. Le mec porte le sac de la fille et vice-versa. C’est une fille qui a eu cette idee, j’en suis sur.
Pourquoi? Petite analyse. Dans le sac d’un mec, ya quoi? Un bic, 2-3 feuilles de papier, une bouteille de parfum et c’est tout. Dans le sac d’une fille, quel que soit la taille du sac: assez de matos pour survivre un cataclysme pour 2-3 semaines. Une bouteille d’eau, le petit biscuit pauvre en calories, un kit de maquillage, des vetements de rechange, un parapluie, diverses produits hygieniques, livres et notes de cours pour la semaine, chargeurs de telephone et ordi portable, ordi portable,…
Two rules for my birthday celebration:
1) EVERYBODY, no exception, has to drink. NO EXCEPTION. Unless you have a really good reason.
2) No crying.