I have been living with it for my entire life and I was fine with it until one beautiful incident smacked it hard to my face one day: I am in college, I am seventeen, and hell, hindi ako marunong tumawid.
I do not want to put the blame on my parents for not introducing me the concept of crossing the street and pounding that basic skill into my being when I was still young. It’s just so damn frustrating that while others consider crossing the street as simple as breathing, to me, it’s like splitting an atom. Or something.
It happened last week while I was making my blissful way home. As I trotted across the traffic-jammed, sidewalk-less expanse of a road, I suddenly felt a slight discomfort in my auditory nerves (caused by long high-pitched beeps). It was followed by a peripheral sight overload (everyone was staring tartly at me) and then the realization that I was on the brink of engaging in the process of being hit by a car.
I turned very red as the earth cracked open, swallowed me up, and spewed me on the other side of the street. The embarrassing moment passed by in a blur, and before I knew it, I was already home trying to find the right and lenient way to get rid of the next-day possible humiliation from people who witnessed the commotion. I tried my best to steer away from pricey and gruesome ideas and narrowed down my choices to two.
a) Get a plastic surgeon and make me look like Brandon Boyd.
b) Burn down the entire street and its inhabitants.
But then, I realized that the given choices were both pricey and…well, gruesome. So I opted for c) Smugness plus Apathy.
For now, join me as I dedicate the rest of the week gathering the fragments of my dignity and thanking Mother Civilization for her majestic creations—Footbridges, pedestrian lanes and traffic lights.
