After weeks of bulldozing through an endless web of red tape, I’ve realized that standing in line until you grow extra body parts is a very good way to know the inner you, a process known as transcendental phenomenological reduction (thanks to the Jesuits, that’s pretty much all I remember from my 7:30 philosophy class. I don’t even know if I’m using it in the right context but I promised myself that I have to use that word in a sentence at least once in my life. So there! ). Having all your pet peeves thrown at you all at once has that mesmerizing effect on a person. For instance, after 2 hours of waiting you finally get to the beginning of a line and a guy cuts in front of you to ask the clerk some stupid question about which document to make copies of. What would you do? I would stand there and give him what I think is my most convincing now-is-a-very-good-time-for-you-to-drop-dead stare. I know you must think I’m Milquetoast but as a rule, I don’t pick fights with strangers or strange men for that matter because A) I don’t own pepper spray B) I can’t run that fast C) I’m a  pedestrian with no get away vehicle to speak of and D) I’m a firm believer that action speaks louder that words (unfortunately that theory only held true on some occassions). 

I also realized that if I ever get to a point where it becomes clear to me that the pathetic state of my life is in no way going to change, I always have the option of working as a clerk in some musty government office. A job which will in no time shut down my central nervous system and make my existence in this cruel earth painless. Where else can you get a free lobotomy? This option is also effective if for some strange reason, you want to rid yourself of common sense. Although whether or not the employees gradually lose it while working there is questionable. Sometimes I think they already start out that way. For instance, last week I found myself filling up an application form for my Social Security ID. On the form below the lines for your name, address, etc. was a portion for gender. Right next to the words male and female were little boxes for you to mark and, mind you, nothing else. I wrote an X on the box next to female and gave it to the girl behind the desk. She takes one look at it, turns to me and in a haughty, matter-of-fact tone blurts, “bakit mo nilagyan ng X to? Hindi ka ba babae?” She then covers my appalling X with a flick of white out and changes it to a dash. Poor thing…Her ancestors obviously went out fishing at the time the age of reason dawned upon humanity. The rest of the time I spent waiting for my name to be called, I mulled over the logic behind what I just witnessed. She had a method of reasoning so unique, it left me questioning my entire genetic make-up. That’s it… It just simply is. There is no other way. By putting that X, I have unwittingly given myself an instant sex change in the eyes of the  Philippine government. Fantastic! And you know what that means? More lines, more waiting and more encounters with people like her. My life has just reached the zenith of perfection.