The Powerful Meme Generation

We are the powerful meme generation

We're the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidts

Because we're already broke

Instead of crumbling, embracing insanity

We retreat online

Where there's an AU we can get lost in

But we keep breaking the internet

Like, somehow, going viral and amusing millions

Make up for the hilarious joke we call reality

When Children Grow Up

 When she was a kid, she had this dream. She walked out of their nipa house, wearing only her white underwear. She walked all the way to the side of the road, where the Big People were gathered. She stared at them, and they stared at her. As they continued to stare, she slowly became aware of her nudity. 

She felt shame. 

She wanted to run back and hide in their house, but her feet wouldn’t obey her. So she returned her gaze at them, scared this time. But the Big People didn’t do anything. They just continued staring. Then, they started to whisper among themselves. Then they started to point their fingers at her. She wanted to run as fast as she could, but she was glued to where she was standing, terrified. She didn’t know what to do.

Then, she woke up.

She never told anyone. It felt deviant. She didn’t think anyone would understand. She couldn’t understand it herself, so she buried it deep — along with hazy memories of kitten murders and dragonfly mutilations. 

Those dreams and memories became ghosts and haunted her from time to time. When sipping coffee, when in the middle of work, when her head was in the clouds, when in the shower, when pondering about mortality. They would appear, right at the edge of her vision.

She wondered, if circumstances were cruel, would she snicker every time she stole office supplies or kicked her neighbor’s cat? What if she were forced to grip the knife’s fatal edge to survive? Would she see those ghosts as amusing childhood recollections and not disturbing reminders of a depraved alter ego? She always wondered. What evil was she capable of?

A Misanthrope's Guide to Normalcy

 Nobody enjoys office work. Ulan is sure of it. People who say that they live for their jobs are either liars, alien species, or totally uninteresting clones. 

Turn your passion into work, they said. 

Do what you love, they said. 

Work will turn into play, they said.

Well, Ulan does just that. She writes for money, but she has not achieved that work-will-become-play level yet. Maybe she never will. How will she enjoy work when her office is not conducive for any kind of creative activity? How is she supposed to write well when all she sees are grey walls, grey ceilings, grey——

“Hey, Ulan, what’s the meaning of marooned?” her officemate interrupts her internal grumbling.

Google it, stupid.

“Huh? Uh . . . marooned is when you’re isolated on an island. Say, they were marooned in a deserted island for months, without food or fresh water. They were starving to the point of madness. They—”

“Okay, Ulan. I get it. I’m not stupid. You don’t have to make an essay, you know.”

You make me want to maroon myself on a deserted island. Asshole.

Ulan wants to punch her officemate in the face. She forces a laugh instead.

“Right. Sorry, I got carried away.”

When it comes to pretending, Ulan is one of a kind. Unless she wants to reveal her emotions, observers can never tell if she’s uncomfortable or not. She can flash the brightest smile to her least favorite colleague. She can easily form dirty jokes around men. But none can detect that she’s on her limits, every single time. Most people call it hypocrisy. She calls it public relations. Ulan knows she’s not the only one who practices that. At least, she knows herself well enough to realize that she is a hypocrite. And it’s not like she does that all the time with everybody. The fact is she’s always passive. She hardly shows interest in anybody. If she does not flash a smile here and there, she will attract more attention. She will be known as the anti-social, the freak, the enigma. It’s better this way. At least, the people around her think she’s normal, even though she knows she’s far from it.

She walks to her desk and starts working on her piece—if she can call it one. She’s supposed to submit it a day before, but she can’t think of an interesting topic. She has been writing about the same thing for months now, and she’s getting sick to her stomach. Is she cursed with writing about skincare and shoes and clinics for the rest of her life? Is she really that bad of a writer that the only job she can keep is writing for the stupid internet? Her life has become a monotonous drone. And the worst part is she does not know how to get out of this black hole.

She needs a diversion. Right away.

“Ulan! We’re going karaoke after work. Wanna come with?”

“Yeah! It’s Friday, bitch. Let’s live a little!”

Not the diversion she wants, but that would do for now.

***

“I’m addicted to you. Don’t you know that you’re toxic?”

Anne, one of the girls in her department, sang meaningfully to Paul. But their resident hottie seems oblivious. He just keeps drinking and flirting with Denise. Oh, the mechanics of love and flirtation. Ulan understands the game. She’s even aware of a few tricks (she has an unhealthy supply of romantic comedies). She just doesn’t want to waste her time on flirting; it’s too much of a hassle.

But these people . . . It’s obvious they enjoy this game—even when rejection after rejection awaits them. Britney’s provocative song is over. They have been here for over four hours now. It’s nearly midnight, and her officemates are so drunk they act crazier than usual. Ulan heads for the door and musters a cheerful tone.

“Hey, guys! I’m off! It’s late!”

She shouts through the drunken hoots of her officemates. They give incoherent acknowledgments and continue with their fun. Ulan is a little tipsy herself. Enough socializing for the week. She hails a taxi, gets inside, and gives the driver her address. She closes her eyes and hums along to the song on the radio.