The office is about thirty minutes away from home on a holiday. On rush hour, I'd be lucky to get one and a half hours. I used to go to work really early (like 6:30 early), thanks to EmCow's daily 8am meetings, and the trip usually only took us 45 minutes, after which I slept in the car for a few hours to make up for the deprivation, ensuring that I still maintained an overall air of corporate delinquency by showing up late at the office regardless.

That was then... EmCow has since gotten her place in Salcedo and I've been driving by my lonesome to and from the office for the past couple of weeks. I'm still as delinquent though, but only because I have very good reasons to avoid being in the office physically for an eight-hour stretch. Without any incentives or imperatives whatsoever to get myself out of the sack early, I've gone back to the rush hour route, driving solo for a ridiculous amount of time and learning new four letter words for those detestable bus drivers. It also doesn't help that my CD player, after more than three years of activity, has finally decided to sputter every so often just to drive in the point that I should listen to the radio sometimes. All my CDs have started to sound like remix versions. A skipping CD player is the last thing that I need, especially since I have only recently discovered that I still know all the words to 'Informer.'

The timing for relearning the tolerance for rush hour driving couldn't have come worse, with the rainy season just around the corner and the schoolyear just starting. It is a boring trip, to say the least, and I can only take pleasure in the occasionally skipping song or in counting billboards, particularly those of a former presidential daughter who will only be called Kristina A. due to recent events. The car has started to appear bigger from the inside, even with various stuff strewn about. I also think that I'm starting to see things that aren't there. Just this morning, I drove to work with four guys named Jhon, Jhonjhon, Jingles and Lambda. Like any decent morning driver, I refused to talk to them because they were imaginary. I decided instead to use ancient Chinese rituals to curse the bus driver to the front who was unloading passengers by the foot of the flyover. If things would go as I intended, Mr. Bus Driver will find out on his next birthday that his only daughter had been impregnated by some bisexual shabu addict with a malignant hump. Jhonjhon and Jingles found it too harsh, Jhon and Lambda, on the other hand, heartily approved and even sang along with the skipping 'Informer' refrain. God bless my beautiful mind.

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