Year of the (Rant) Rat Wrap-up

This is a post of relentlessly emo proportions. If you don’t want to cringe and vomit the shitty by-product of some two-decade old young man’s SSDD idiosyncrasy, I ask you to close this tab and go fornicate with some gum-chewing slut of HIV origin whose boobs are sagging down to her waist and whose orifice might very well accommodate the entire male population of Taiwan continue your browsing of some cheap Maria Osawa porn. Or you could do yourself a favor and find something sensible to do, perchance guillotining yourself and ridding the world of at least one pathetic moron. That’s one less ignoramus out of close to 6.7 billion suckers.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For all its worth and for whatever petty temporal elation it has brought you, commercialized Christmas is finally over. And along with its fuckin’ passing comes the inevitable turning of a new leaf for all of us, or at least for the non-Chinese folks following the Gregorian calendar. I’ve been feeling an empty void these past few days that I could not bother to correspond to all the people wishing me and my family happy holidays, much less blog a sensible post that any Internet passerby looking for some arousing “hoinky toinky” discreetly at one Trojan-packed R18 site might stumble upon.

I have hibernated to my favorite recluse, you see. Devoid of petty stereotypes and fucked up social norms, I retreated to the comforting pages of my books. I shunned the bitchy vent outs of reality TV’s ugly villains who make my life much miserable than what it already is and traveled to Gaiman’s frenzied London Below, experienced timeless romanticism in Garcia-Marquez’s words, shared the sentiments of Zafra’s wisecracks. At least, even just for a while, they make me forget my whinings, my failed dreams, my insatiable thirst for the uncommon, my wish for a life better than what I am wallowing at as of the moment. At least, even just for awhile, I could be in a different world devoid of petty pretensions, of hopes gone hoaxes, of bitchy life becoming a tad bitchier.

Geez! What a fuckin’ prelude. Now I am ranting again. My Scrooge Christmas tells it all. That’s how I feel right now. I better not elaborate. Maybe because I’m in my early twenties and I think of myself as a failure. I have not made any significance yet. My life is contained in a cardboard box and I am letting it be. Or is it really?

A year will almost have gone by and here I am wallowing in self-deprecation. True, I am well aware this year has been marked by a lot of achievements and personal improvements and I am thankful for them. But somehow, I still feel unfulfilled, like a cup filled to the brim but only because of too much froth. Here I am, a young man well within his early twenties admired by friends and foes, by kindred and kin because for them he is one demigod celluloid borne out of comic tomes – magnanimous, mythical, excellent par none. And yet, deep down I feel there is nothing to be admired and very little to brag about.

When I was little, I told myself that by this age, I should have already fulfilled my childhood dreams, caught the stars and danced like mad under stardust sprinkles. The kind of dream that was uttered not out of sheer just-for-the-heck-of-it when asked by persistent family members but more of as a result of becoming the man that you ought to be when you grew up. The kind of dream that you don’t forget and cross out and change as you age but rather, something that you stick on because you know deep down inside this is what you want to be when you grow up.

Life was tough on me early on, you see. I had no option but to be much tougher than it. Fate threw in some vile creatures from the very pages of double douche bag reality and I could not even complain. Unlike other adolescents whose only mars include blotches of petty teenage angst and unfounded rebellion, I had to bear with fatherless childhood and proletarian upbringing and all the crappiness that a prince-gone-pauper life entails. So life’s a bitch and you have to be bitchier to live. And thus began my resolve not to succumb to the lousy, stereotypical expectations. I chose not to be a defeatist. I chose to be a perfectionist – a non-conforming, narcissistic bastard never walking the same lines all the normal, idiotic drones walk through.

I have said it before and I am telling it once again that I do not subscribe to sugar-coated miseries. I live life as I see it and I do not let petty euphemisms and sweet words wrap it. I have told myself that if I am on the verge of dying and the tube is the only thing that keeps me breathing, then I’d rather they pull the plug and get it over and done with. Spare me the theatrics. They make me cringe. Maybe I have yet to see the beauty of life, no matter how cliched that may sound. Maybe I have always willed myself to wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning. Because I always believed that everyday, it’s always the same shit running for the nth time. Maybe because I’m 21 and I have been robbed of my childhood laughter early on. I’ve been forced to become a fucked up adult without my permission.

And this is why I whine and tell life is a bitch ’till kingdom come and hurl out sharp-stabbing invectives that only show little of what I really feel. Words will never truly commensurate to the human emotions we feel. They are just attempts to clothe what we feel and to let this human emotion shape up and make us notice it, or at least decipher a bit of it. Because what we feel is always larger than life.

I believe that all these rantings will only be ephemeral. They will not last long and someday, somehow, I will find life’s genuine meaning. For now, though, allow me to be young and restless and ranting. Allow me to digress and to wrong and to hurl out sharp-stabbing invectives. As the Year of the Rant Rat wraps up, allow me to get bruised and stand up and learn. Allow me to keep growing. In the mean time, though, allow me to rant and blog and get even with the wicked ways of the world by polluting it with my randomly semi-idiosyncratic, semi-idiotic thought bubbles.

Postscript:

This is the last post from an angst-ridden, narcissistic bastard in orgiastic moans recluse for this year. Breathing the SSDD Mantra is only young, I am aware, and in spite of its being only three months’ old, it’s nice to know there have been quite a few souls out there who have professed relating to its effing content and have put in their two cents’ worth on how diabolically fucked up this planet really is and how it would be a better place to live in if not for pathetic, stereotypical drones multiplying as rabid as guinea pig fornications. So for those folks (yes, that includes you my dear high school English teacher, you who have surprisingly stalked on this site and patted your student for a job-well-done sans the regular sprinkle of R18 profanities) who agree in ridding this macrocosm of inutile, lifeless twits, here’s to looking forward to another year of  deranged idiosyncrasies as I become one step closer to my devious plan of world domination.

Happy New Year suckers!

Lio Loco now signing off…