Watch Out For Falling Debris
Look out for open manholes, too.

Monday, January 31, 2005

Crucified Without Nails

I survived my second company corplan. Set against an inviting backdrop of bayview serenity, we all, well, most of us anyway, made fools of ourselves to last us a lifetime. All the way to the next. Survived, yes, but definitely not unscathed, as far as ego plus scarring plus bruising is concerned. For example, singing James Ingram's "Whatever We Imagine" at the top of our voices, arms linked, swaying to and fro as the musical cheese lolled by (believe me, some fucking dared close their eyes as they sung. Yes, you guessed it, the guys in the accounting department). Yup, whatever Leonine pride I had those two days starved and sulked and pined to brooding dark, nefarious thoughts.

Friday night happened. Migraine happened. The six pack pair of San Miguel Light brewskies grew forlorn and desperate as they waited, almost in vain, in suspended animation in cold storage. I unpacked my hammock and hoisted it between two coconut trees, which, next day later, became the buzz among the lame and the outdoor-allergic amongst us. Yeah. Like I give a damn.

My roommate proved my salvation, apothecary to the rest of us who cannot take anymore cheese served wholesale. He brought his Playstation 2, the bastard of bastards, the serum to my migraine cum malaise. My feeding mosquito companions buzzed their regret as I traded the hammock for a PS joypad.

The beer flowed, the brandy too, Snoop Dogg rapping in a loop. Friday night ended on a Saturday morning, sober, but game over-dazed, the master of ceremonies obliterated by alcohol of varying proofs, escorted the girls, gravity and beer and brandy colliding, back to their rooms, slept soundly, soundly courtesy of a roommate who brought empty beer cans to animation just by snoring.

Saturday. Saturday I got home, travel-weary but bulalo-filled and fulfilled, a little past 10. I survived a voluminous serving of cheese only a man can endure.


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