season does it even matter

I go home and the thin film of the country's stench envelopes my skin. It is an aroma of vices, of smoke and alcohol and saliva and pot. Oh, and pollution.

I wanted to get away from the dark ages. And the night life is far from the dark ages. It is actually a collection of glow-in-the-dark neon rainbow colours. It's the perfect redemption. But yes, it's still in the dark. Dim, more like it. Metro Manila as lit by lights hanging on the post like a crucified man.



In the little social biosphere that I live in, after-sex does not mean post the carnal act. It does not mean waking up at 7am with a man beside you. It can merely be defined as the state of yourself where your shirt is more than 3 sizes too big for you, your hair is messed up, and your lipstick is naturally smudged off.

And I bring my friend home, after-sexed. Very. Drunk.


Another friend told me: "Die fast, live young".

Hilarious. Something like that you can not just make up on your own. He really did say that.



What is this infatuation for the non-reality called glamour? Ah, yes. The short-lived, exclusive, luxurious, and unrewarding vision called glamour.

This non-reality lead people to indulge in irrational pleasures and make improper decisions. Life is not a fairytale, my friend. Yes, you, my after-sexed friend. Wake up and smell the stench of Manila. Of vommit.