For some strange reason there seems to be, among my friends, a general sense of wanting to die. So maybe wanting to die is stretching it a little bit, but the collective whining is so loud it crosses over the Maximum Karindihan Barrier into the planet Gorgoro and stimulates the growth of new fungal-prion hybrid life form. Nobody wants to work, everyone’s dragging their feet, the demand for sertraline is getting higher, and I don’t think these people are just making jinarts. Truly there are worse things to whine about like the horrible state that the major DC comics titles like JLA and Teen Titans are in, but the over-arching concept of whinification precludes any attempt to try and get out of whatever is being whined about; more like, if you’re whining, then by all means fucking wallow in it. Because what’s the point of whining if nobody’s around to hear it.
Just this morning I’ve heard four colleagues whine separately that they hate what they are doing and they just want to run away from the hospital and board a plane to Togo. Smoketh asked me, “How do you deal with the grind?” to which I replied, “I just don’t do my best.” And back in the callroom, what should I chance upon but BL and UHBJAW making tagay some slushy hardcore alcohol drink… at 2 pm. I took a shot. Hurricane K, JJL, and others followed suit.
“They say that eating pansit prolongs your life,” someone said out of nowhere.
“I don’t believe that. But huge ears indicate that you would live to your hundreds,” someone retorted.
“If you live to your hundreds and then suddenly die, some rock would fly out of your mouth–your ‘luwa’, and it would fly to another person to give that person long life,” I said. “Do you know that you could check how many children you would have in the future by checking the nodules on your wrist?” Everyone checked their wrists.
“And when you’re done maybe we could play FLAMES afterwards for more fun,” I then said.
Regression is the key.