A Sore Monday

I am thinking of ways by which to dominate the world while a bag of newly purchased groceries is wedged between my feet, for fear that I’d forget and just leave my week’s ration of noodles and, hoohay something new!, instant curly spaghetti and no-cook just-add-boiling-water soup on the internet cafe floor when I get up and go home. Mmmmm! My jaded salivary glands just water at the thought of another MSG and sodium overload.

Apologies to all who drop by and see that I haven’t written anything insane for some time now. There’s the situation in The Shoe Factory, where everything passes through the newly installed pirated version firewall. The fear of being suspended from work for three to five days without pay grips my heart each time I key in www in the address bar of my browser. IT’S THAT BAD, boys and girls! Someday, furtive glances would not be allowed anymore, and we elves will be required to look each other squarely in the eye so that the Host of Unimaginative Shoemakers are assured that we are not cooking up ways of dominating the world while stuck for a quarter of the day in the dreariness of the factory and that our glances mean nothing else than attempts at flirting with the cute guy two rows away. Sorry. I must recant that. But then again, dang and tarnation! I do blog in the office… sometimes. And another thing is that I am still feeling wretched and lonely that I can’t bring my carcass out of coma to head off to an internet cafe with a bit of decent connection. I can’t, really can’t.

But something has got to give. Addictions are really hard to banish, so says a crack peddler to his new protege. I’m here now, clacking away like a deranged… clacker.

This is how it came to be:

I finally escaped the suffocating heat of my boarding room and rode the mini-jeep (I shall not call it easyride too often, as the word conjures images of highly impregnable females in my already malicious mind) to the city after rolling around in the upper deck that I’ve transformed into bed and getting nothing out of it except the feeling that I am a limpid lumpiang sariwa drenched in garlic sauce.

In the city, I marvelled at the pace of everything… fast, blurred, and confused. People wore confused expressions on their faces. Or is it just me? It’s been three solid weeks since I walked around the downtown area and mingled with my fellow mortals. To acclimatize myself, I ate in my favorite carinderia while on half a shoestring budget and then proceeded to the grocery to stock up on semi-eatables for my daily subsistence in the boarding house.

Some people might think that I suffer needlessly from my diet of noodles and other curlicued carbohydrates and that I have a choice between eating a freshly cooked meal or bomb my system with all that sodium and gunk. Yeah. Let’s just say that I am a masochist.

After getting my groceries, the afternoon sun’s still high overhead. I’m loath to go back to the boarding house this early and was wondering if it would do me good to hang out by the boulevard. The last time I did, I got propositioned by a desperate soul for a two-hour stint in a nearby hotel/motel. I told the poor guy my sores* were still raw and I was off duty that day. I opted to stroll and window shop this time.

So walk I did. Then I came by rows and rows of internet cafe offering promos for their per-hour computer rental. Alrightee. The addiction has to be fed.

Here’s where I am right now. This is NOT in the office, that’s for sure.

And about my plan for world domination? I’ll keep it to myself. But it does begin with cartons upon cartons of instant pancit canton being unloaded on the docks of major city ports all over the globe.

___

*Kidding about the sores. Ask my physician.

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