confessions and chicken adobo

this is supposed to be my answer to theorgy's gauntlet thrown on the ground. however, the three-stepped instructions had me stumped.

i apologize for the emo. i dont usually write about these things but every once in a while we do like our adobo after three straight days of pinakbet, right?



















I hope you enjoy it, my one and only but dearly beloved reader.

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I awoke to find out that I had slept for just three hours. Three hours! And I was aiming for five, seven or even eternity for that matter. My head jarred with every movement I made and nausea suddenly assaulted me, a rude overwhelming urge to vomit that forced me back to bed. My eyes zombied unerringly to the ceiling, rooted at a spot where an elusive spider had fixed his ephemeral web. And like a dam swollen at the seams, an unbidden torrent of memories flooded back. It was exactly two weeks when I received that damning text. Due to his inability to accept who he was and its implications on his family, he had to let me go. Just. Like. That.

My emotions were raw and throbbed excruciatingly, just like slapping a day-old sunburn with your palm down. God, dumped at 26! And since it was my first relationship and hence my first break up, I didn’t even have the incipient defences to cushion my fall, nor to assuage my broken down ego.  

tuesday doldrums and pancakes

It is during the period of inactivity between work that I am seized with a creative fervor of religious proportions. The patients we had lined up for the day had either  called in sick – being patients that they are, had been scheduled for an important meeting, or simply had somewhere else better to go to and something to do other than the mundane task of attending to their health.

The night before had me studying with the single-mindedness often seen with lunatics. You know the type. You pass them in the morning rooted to a spot, studiously swinging a leg as if the world’s axial movement depended on it. Then you pass them again, in the afternoon, still swinging the self-same leg, still with the self-same expression.

Anyway, back to studying. After two hours or so of memorizing blurred obfuscations and understanding the counter-current mechanism and its implications on the piss you unceremoniously spray down the toilet bowl, my brain simply performs a meltdown. After that, studying would become a dying art, with the obstinate refusal to learn extending on to the morrow. It was a wonder that I graduated medical school on time and hurdled the boards in one take. Don’t take me for a snob. I have mediocre grades to show for it.