ironic, it is

there was this poignant scene in that 90s postcard to the youth (the so called generation x) film - reality bites - where winona ryder (who graduated on top of her class) was asked to define irony during a job interview. and for all her academic brilliance, she simply can't define it.
what made the scene even more ironic is that later on, when she asked ethan hawke, the slacker in their group, he gave her its definition without losing a sweat. (it goes something lyk this):

the use of words to express something different from and often opposite to their literal meaning.

i was reminded by this because in the past few months, nay years, my life has been a constant tidal wave of ironies (is there a plural for this one? sorry to the grammar police out there). if i were an island, i would have sank (or is it sunk) by now.
or maybe i am just full of contradictions - typical for someone who does not know what he wants, only what he does not want. thus, my lyf has been, was and is a mess. lyk a bunch of pubic hair. if you know what i mean.
take for example six months ago.
i was staying in a tiny flat in a creaky old building in makati, where the lobby reeked of body odor, cigarettes, beer and cheap perfume, and was desperate for a job. simply because i was bored, lonely, oversexed and running out of money. i applied for a lot of jobs and got one that i hope was the best.
six months later - i am in a quandary.
on a cross road once more.
why do we always have to make choices? why can't sumbody just make the choice for us - lyk the all powerful god - so that we won't make a mistake ever and we can be assured that we live happily ever after. lyk cindefuckingrella or snowfreakinglywhite!
why do we have to grow up? get a job? support ourselves?
why  can't we be a bum for lyf and be a parasite forever?

^^^^^^

these are the tyms when i really wish i were the scion (i hate this word, by the way. very pretentious) of a very wealthy aristocrat. then i could just live off my inheritance. travel around the world.
live in an isolated island during the winter and enjoy the sun, sand, sea twenty four slash seven. then be a  hermit in switzerland, or where ever there is snow all year round, during the summer.
sit on the front rows of fashion shows in paris, milan and  new york.
attend movie premieres in los angeles and tokyo.
hobnob with celebrities at the annual vanity fair oscar party.
or at bloomberg's and vanity fair's white house ball.
how about the met's annual gala?
get drunk in paris.
fall in luv in rome.
even die for a while in st tropez.

^^^^^^^

i wish choices were given to us before we were born - not after.
then i could have decided who i want to be, where i want to be.
wouldn't it be perfect to be named - her royal highness, heir to the throne indiara putra of sum old european continent? how about being a guinness? or a mellon? or sumone with an over hyphenated first, middle and last name, whose fortune dates back to the old testament?

&&&&&

sadly, i was born in the wrong era. in the wrong body. bearing the wrong me.
wouldn't it be luvly to be borne during the free luv and booze late 60s to early 70s?
or during the glamourous jazz age of the 20s?

&&&&&

but never mind me.
i am sulking.
blubbering.
not making any sense.
this will pass, but i hope it does soon.

******

in the meantime, here is my favourite blues song: