This Life is not a Prison, We are always free to go anytime

What if we have it the other way around. Maybe having balls isn’t a matter of finding a way to cope with the emptiness of working for the man, find some kind of solace in the routine of it all. Maybe having balls has everything to do with admitting you’re unhappy, not in a “my life sucks, feel sorry for me” kind of way, but in a way that can’t be drowned out by any amount of alcohol or buffered by any pay raise.

Even looking at my boss doesn’t inspire me. I keep staring at her and feeling like I’m lying to myself if I keep thinking this is it, that it’s about titles and quotas and higher paychecks and using people who climbed the ladder as an example of how “awesome” my life could be. What about the legions who didn’t make it that high up?

But I also keep thinking about the rest of the story, like how much it would please my mom to give her another grandchild, or the twinkle that my lola gets in her eye when she tells people I have a job. I don’t like my job, but I know I like it better than not having a job. At least I like the implications of it, like a monthly paycheck, benefits, security. Security is great because we can rest easy in the face of all the stupid what-ifs we’re always preparing for. We’re so sure something horrible will happen to us that we forget to set the money aside for the awesome things we want for ourselves.

Is it really that hard to imagine the future holding anything besides kids, a house, or some other variation of settling down? What if you have the resources to create a different kind of reality for yourself? Whenever people ask you about plans, it automatically translates to how you plan to earn, how you plan to sustain yourself and your lifestyle. We value the practical, the safe, the comfortable; if you’re not happy with the comforts that you’ve been blessed with–a large house, a car, food on the table every night–then you’re insane. I’m not insane, but I can’t help but feel that this isn’t it.

(I got a compass tattooed on my wrist last thursday. My dad wanted to know what I had to prove, I guess I wanted to prove that just because I can’t commit to my job doesn’t mean I’m completely incapable of committing. That’s the stupid reason, the other reason is because I promised myself I’d see the world, and I don’t have to do it as a corporate peon. Of course the tattoo earned me a memo from human resources [verbal, but whatever]. I’m not getting fired, but they didn’t fail to stress that a corporate appearance requires clean and clear skin, so can I please do everyone a favor and wear a watch or keep my sleeves rolled down.)

A Fine Ending to My Life as a College Student

UP graduation ceremonies take place next week. I submitted the final bound copies of my thesis a while ago and all I feel is this burning desire to bitchslap everyone I see. Hard. Maybe I can bitchslap you with not one, but two extra copies of my thesis which I had to take home because the department can’t seem to make up their minds on how many copies we need. I saw some poor girl walking around with 5 copies of her thesis, does that mean she’ll be taking 3 home? She can make a thesis-fort, it’s like a pillow fort for pretentious academic types.

After I picked up my theses this morning from the book binders, just as I was avoiding a jeep I ended up slamming my car into a boy who was crossing the street. So he gets in the car and off we go to the infirmary. While awaiting the doctor’s orders, I’m pissed as hell. Being an incompetent noob makes you hate yourself. I also want a drink, but that would be a horrible idea at a time when you narrowly missed having a police report filed for driving like a noob. The kid I hit is apologizing to me for some strange reason, so I guess he realizes that you’re not supposed to cross the street with your back turned. He’s a nice kid though, maybe he’ll girlfriend me and we can forget about this whole mess.

Turns out the kid’s a freshman and the unfortunate turn of events that morning concluded his first year at UP. ‘What a shitty way to end the year,” is the first thing on my mind, but he’s smiling, probably because he feels badass. People can ask him where he got the scrape on his elbow and he can be all, “oh this little thing? got hit by a car. I’m okay though. Hardcore sa UP eh.” Then I realize that I hit him on my way to submit the last of my requirements for graduation, thus concluding my entire stay at UP. Any signs of celebration? Well, I do feel like pouring beer on my face and running the hell out of there. Other than that, nothing.

After we patch up his arm and swap contact details, he runs back to his dorm on this campus where he will spend the next 5 years of his life (hahahaha, engineering majors. fail). I drive off to work where the next 5 hours last for an eternity. The end. So much for pomp and circumstance.

As you can all see, Whisper’s done a good job masking the potent musk of Kim Chiu’s vagina

So the new pitch for feminine hygiene products is, “buy our shit, your boyfriend will thank you later.” what a literal load of douchebaggery, in fact it’s given new meaning to the whole concept of douchebaggery where we can just link douching with general stupidity. This is even worse than that commercial with the copious ass shots of the chick in the tight yellow pants (seriously, tight yellow pants? would you wear these even on a good day when your she-pipes are cooperative and stink-free?).

Who writes copy like “Why Men love whisper…” honestly, who cares?! Women are allowed to stink from time-to-time! We bear children, we put up with bloody messes on our underwear and our sheets at least once a month. Sure, men make random incontinent messes of themselves down there because their hormones just go on overdrive from the slightest titty shot, but women’s hormones are another story altogether and when we say “overdrive” we mean it in a BIG way.

I’ve seen a friend cry for days on end because of “hormones”, I’ve hurled bottles of Midol and fainted in the middle of work because of mothafuckin’ hormones, and we’re concerned about the smell? And not just the smell, the smell from the point of view of Gerald whatsisface, fake celebrity boyfriend at fake concert. In fact they can’t even say “smell” instead the masterminds handling the whisper (or is it carefree?) accounts just call it “confidence”. Confidence, smell, whatever. The smell’s got nothing on the pain, or the sudden cravings, in fact the smell is the least of your worries. Expecting your period to smell like flowers is like expecting a plot from a Vin Diesel movie.

And if your boyfriend’s feelings about how you smell down there matter so much, why can’t they make pantyliners smell like something men actually like, like beer, or you know, vaginas?