Piece of Cake, 1

I never tried smoking, and I pray I never will. I don’t like the scent of the puff cloud one makes after inhaling and blowing it. Don’t like the feeling of being suffocated. Nothing against those who smoke, but for someone naive like me when it comes to things like that, nah, probably I’ll just pass it off the hundredth time.

My parents don’t smoke and don’t drink too much. Yes, they made great examples. I’d like to think we grew up good, even though the both of them were always at work, dad being away at sea and mom sleeping at home while we’re at school and going to work after she tucks us right to bed. We grew up having mom and dad away and an Ate to watch us by. We grew up having big respect to those who live with us, and that respect also goes to all other service people out there. Tricycle drivers, Cashiers, Jeepney Konduktors, people who some people think deserve a little less respect for, I think we all should afford them a whole lot more. They run entire society in a systematic, smooth pace. Everybody deserves their own piece of good cake everyday, and it’s up to us if we’d take out the extra mile to give them theirs.

I have to admit there are bad days, most especially when I don’t have enough sleep, when I’m agitated by most of my fellow commuters. But what really gets on my nerves are those people who don’t even try to give a shit. It’s like they’re royalty everywhere. It’s a public commute, and everybody’s expected to do some little bit hand service everytime somebody needs to pass some coins. But there’s always this annoying old woman or some coolio-ass prick who tries to get into your way into a better day. Those douchebags should be taken care of.


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