What infuriates me more is the fact that I haven't even blogged about my fucking Puerto Galera escapade and that fucking Bilog-ang-mundo asshole plus my fucking Friday night at Temple and pipin' hot Juddha Paolo. Here I am blogging about a very non-sensical fucking Monday morning. I don't have a choice; I'm too mad to blog about sunshiny things. My fucking fingers are still shaking from rage right this minute.
I woke up with the sun shining on my face in my partially-renovated room. I wiggled my toes to jumpstart my system. All was going perfectly well until I stepped out of the house. Apparently, the strike didn't push through but no jeepney was in sight. After 10 minutes of standing under the scorching sun in my blue wrap-around long sleeves [which Ludwig likes so much, btw], a cab finally showed up.
Now, I'm fucking confused. How does those fucking taxi meters work? Do they fucking charge by the distance or by the duration of the trip? The fucking driver seemed to fucking enjoy the traffic. He was always on the slow-moving lane. So, when we were in Baclaran, I told him, "Manong, anong hinihintay nyo? Lumipat na kayo sa kanan o. Aakyat na `to ng flyover eh.", [Mister, what are you waiting for? Shift to the right lane. This lane goes up the flyover] which he mercifully heeded. He did the same on Pasay. I was so fucking agitated coz I was gonna be late so I got off in the middle of the fucking road.
The fucking stairs going up the MRT didn't help. This woman behind me kept poking my ass with her fucking paperbag. Then, the man in front of me took ten thousand years to get his fucking MRT card from his pocket. It took all my remaining positive energy to fucking restrain myself from shoving him aside.
When I got to the platform, it was filled with fucking passengers but no train was in sight. The number of people waiting on the platform was more than enough to fill one fucking train!
A train finally came and inevitably, I had to balance myself on my fucking stilletos all through the ride. By Magallanes, this fucking woman kept pushing her granddaughter towards the fucking pole and the fucking granddaughter kept stepping on my fucking toe. By Guadalupe, this fucking construction worker reached up for grip on the pole, with my fucking face right next to his reeking armpit. At Shaw, the fucking passengers wouldn't let me get through, hence, I was last in line for the fucking escalator.
I was fucking dripping with sweat. My fucking make-up was gone. My fucking blood pressure has climbed up to critical levels. I was fucking late. What a fucking morning.
I was like a fucking time bomb waiting to set off anytime. I seriously need to take anger management therapy. The hoo-hoo-ha breathing technique I got from Jennifer Love Hewitt in The Tuxedo wouldn't have saved the next fucking person to piss me off.
Good thing the fucking driver of the Expedition didn't honk his horn as I recklessly crossed the road. Othwerwise, he woulda received The fucking Finger. Bless his soul.
As if to mock me, fucking Nescafe had this fucking promo at the shaw station and their fucking speakers were blaring, "One good day coming up... Such a lovely day."
Thank you very much. I just hope this isn't a fucking bad omen to my week.
First to count how many times fuck was mentioned in this post gets a prize.
*.* as if! @ 9:30:00 AM • • RBJ
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