When she's laying in her Sunday best

Packed.

May have bought too many clothes, but even now they don't seem enough. "Do you need all this underwear?" my mother keeps asking me. And then she drops a five-inch book on my lap.

"Where's your toothbrush?"

I leave tomorrow, noon-ish. Will wait two hours, then board a plane that may or may not plummet 102,483 miles into a pond, then maybe, just maybe, resurface in "humid" Dumaguete, lost the minute the air hits me splat.

Blink, blink.

One nostril is runny, the other one's clogged. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and someone's wringing it to get all sanity out. My throat is sore, I sound like a drag queen on Prozac.

Have to shave my legs. Shit. That's an hour's worth of bending over. 45 inches each leg, thirty minutes each.

I'm starting to think that all this [my] talk about Dumaguete is getting snooty. Ew. I don't want to be one of those persons who introduce themselves as, "Hi, I'm Moonbeam Von Liverwurst. I went to the Dumaguete Workshop," then insert simpering smile directed at everyone in a five-mile radius.

I wish I can carve out all my snot and brain spasms then deposit them in some politician's tushy.

Good night, everyone. See you when I see you.

World peace.

PS
I haven't opened my cellphone in a week. So apologies to those who sent me messages that didn't get replies. Especially you, Mr. IKYFMH.

XD