You're celebrating nothing,
And you feel a-okay.
- Filter
Since taking on extra work, I've felt the way stewed tomatoes must feel like: pulpy, smashed up, acerbic, and ready to serve in a bowl to a family of four. It's also been pretty difficult to maintain full consciousness throughout the workday, especially since that workday happens to begin at 2:30 in the morning and ends at around 9 to 11 in the evening, depending on how masochistic I'm feeling. ("Do I like pain? Do I want pain? YES YES OH GOD YES! Okay, I'm staying in the office for two more hours.")
One minute whole the next minute maimed.Other days, I'm just sputtering out enough steam to get me by from one hour to the next. During these times, I find myself taking half-hour naps when my tasks aren't coming in, and I can't count the number of times that I've woken up with a dead leg or arm, a pinched nerve there somewhere, the pins and needles swarming up my limbs like some dreaded colony of insects. Once, Jose swung by to have lunch with me, and discovered in my stead a snoozing, inert lump of flesh slumped over my desk. Must've been a charming sight.
The lack of sleep has also given rise to a sort of unwarranted crabbiness, which has so far been aimed at a number of unfortunate friends and a handful of other strangers. Last week while riding the train, I found myself in such an ill-humored mood that I ended up snapping at a fellow passenger. I was in the swaying car then, wedged between a man who smelled like onions and another dude clinging stiffly to the handrails. The mid-morning sun had leapt up clear over the clouds, its rays a rude shout of yellow through the train's glass windows. All I could think of was how badly I wanted sleep, that I would kill for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, when an obnoxious male voice cut through the hum and whoosh of the train.
"Hello? HELLO? YES, YES, HI! IS THIS SHARON CUNETA? HI, YES, IT'S ME!" All heads turned to the source of the racket, a chubby, pasty-faced man in his early thirties who was leaning casually against one of the railings, his sweat and the stink of deodorant pouring out of him in cascades.
For broken hearts only? Bummer.Wait a minute, is he actually on the phone with Sharon Cuneta?
I don't fucking care. I don't care if he's on the phone with the President or the Pope or with extraterrestrial life.
That's not true. You would care if he were talking to aliens.
Hmm, you're right. I absolutely would. But look at him. He looks like he fondles little children.
Yes, yes. He is ugly and annoying, and he probably licks off his own sweat during his free time.
God, I hate him already.
Tell Porky to shut up.
You bet.
Good girl.
"Shut up," I said, but I'd said it too softly, the words just skimming over my breath. By this time, the man had ended his call with full bravado, but decided within a minute that he hadn't had enough. Why, yes, I think I'll jack up my popularity in this car by making another retarded call to a friend! He punched a number on his phone, clipped it between his fat chin and his shoulder, and began laughing hysterically. "O PARE KAMUSTA? WALA LANG! NATATAWA LANG KASI AKO EH. WALA LANG. KAMUSTA NA PRE? HAHAHAHAHAAHHA NAKAKATAWA TALAGA PARE." At this point, the hostility level in the car had skyrocketed as well, and all the other passengers within my immediate view were rolling their eyes or staring in utter bafflement at the porker.
I mean, fucking shit, is this guy even talking to anyone on the phone? I know this is public transportation and all, it's a free country, et cetera et cetera, but holy mother of god, must you broadcast this phone call to the rest of us, a phone call that probably isn't even taking place??
"OO PARE GRABE NGA EH. UMAGA NA NGA AKO NAKAUWI, MATINDI TALAGA. HOOOOOOOO! BASTA PARE SANA SUMAMA KA BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH—"
"Shut up," I said, snarling this time. The porker yakked on, oblivious, impermeable, all that blubber must insulate him so well, sound waves dissolving around his armor of sweat and grease, the car hot, everything so—
"SHUT UP!" I said, yelling this time, yelling loud enough so that the man dropped his call and turned to me, and I glared back at him until he turned away and slipped his phone back into his pocket, taking a few steps back and away from me. The other passengers seemed to follow suit, inching away with little subtlety from where I stood, and I could hardly blame them – no one wants to be near the source of any show of histrionics. But at least I shut the bastard up. Quite the equivalent of smacking pie into his face, or pelting tomatoes at him. Bowls of stewed tomatoes. Perfect for a family of four.
