The Red Book - Prologue and Birth

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Around 10 years ago, I wrote my first autobiography for a project in our senior high English class. Around the time of the project, my mom bought our third computer which was, at the time, spanking fast (compared to our much older Commodore '84 and NEC Pentium 133mHz anyway).

Being able to use a new and much faster computer that can actually run MS Word without the processor exploding and turning into a black hole, I got carried away banging at the keyboard and ended up with 18 pages. I was only 15 back then, and I didn't exactly lead a charmed life so I guess 18 pages is already kind of long.

Thanks to the internet, I was able to upload a copy of it and preserve it so when my kids start snooping around, they'd know where their sucky writing genes came from. (after which I'd probably just joke about them being adopted)

Anyway, 10 years on, I think I'd like to do a rewrite of some parts.

So let's start from the very beginning.

I was born in Manila, 25 years ago, and I can't really think of nothing special about how I was born. Maybe, just the fact that I was born - the sexiest, most intelligent, and best liar in the world.

As my mom recounts, shortly before giving birth to moi, she had to drive herself to the hospital alone - which is probably the most hardcore thing I have ever heard in my entire life, probably made more so because she was driving manual transmission, no power steering, no seatbelts, no airbags, and for this case, waterbags. (it was 1984, all this was not only legal, but also viewed as being economically sound)

After a few hours of labor, I came out with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. I'm not sure how that happened, but the doctors said it nearly killed me. As for the reasons why, I can only think of a few theories. Either I was trying it as a scarf so I didn't feel quite so naked after coming out, or I was already emo, long before people realized chicks dig guys who like to mope about their selfconfidence.

I'm not quite sure about it, but my tita gave me my name, which incidentally was also the name of the doctor who delivered me. I'm getting the feeling it was all just a big misunderstanding in the delivery room.

Nurse: So what's his name? *scribbling*
Mom: Uhh I'm not sure. Say Tita, can you go get me painkillers?
Tita: Let me ask Doctor Jethro
Nurse: Jethro it is. Good choice ma'am *scribbles walks off*
Tita: OH SHI-

But let's give them the benefit of the doubt.

There's the saying that goes that we are born crying, cold, and naked and it just gets worse.

I'd say we are born crying, cold, and naked which is already how most girls nowadays like their guys.

How can that be a bad thing?


Menaya Garces said...

Hahaha. You have to finish this. However, autobiographies are tricky. When do you stop (since, obviously, your autobiography can't include narratives of your death). I can't wait to see the rest of your autobio.

Good stuff.


I'd probably stop after college, since that's the last thing I remembered up to the point where I read your post. Everything else has been one hazy drug-induced trip.

Menaya Garces said...

Sweet. Write write write! What are we if we cannot write?


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