It’s true what they say, “You are responsible for your own happiness.”
I wrote this diary entry during yet another rock bottom; I left my washroom cleaning job, I was in the middle of another ‘blue-collar’ work hunt while refusing to see a doctor for the first time in connection with the ‘ugly bulge’ in my left shoulder (which I soon found out to be lipoma).
But what surprised me was how ‘alive’, hopeful, playful I sounded despite my depressing situation. Yes, I had written comedy before but not about myself, let alone my miserable, endearing life. Self-deprecating, yes, but also a ‘laugh out loud’ discovery. And after reading it through, I thought I would share it with you.
So, here it goes:
Sat, March 7, 2026
2PM
Life woke me up by mistake. I grabbed my phone right away to understand time. Not to check but to confront its force. It told me to consult probiotics instead. It said probiotics could explain life better for me. It was exactly 1:37 PM when the little chat fired up. I was half-conscious, half-cynical, half-functional all at once. My 47-year-old body ached. My stomach was a balloon animal. I wasn’t hungry yet but my major organs were already screaming, “We cannot afford to be abandoned despite your economic trauma so get on with it already!”
Fine. With a ferocious eye-roll.
I live in a kindhearted family’s house basement. “Kindhearted” is an expensive word nowadays. Can you even name any kindhearted people around your life right now? You’re lucky if you can name one. Well, this is my heaven’s gift. It’s the least that God can do. I have my own room and a washroom all to keep my hygiene happy. There’s a solitary living room for ghosts to party in every night. There’s a cozy kitchen with a bunch of lights installed – why? And I have a roommate whose psychological integration is full-on satisfactory in the name of humanity. She has a boyfriend who sneaks in once in a while and it’s cool. The sexual jams must be impossible to resist for sure. It’s nature’s pleasure after all. Live. Come on. Be human.
I served myself toasts with crumbs of solid butter on them, yogurt with probiotics injected in it, instant coffee savored with brown sugar for a wistful change. Pretentious but my brunch was up to par according to my living standards.
Probiotics: I have healthy bacteria. Are you put off by that?
Me: My guts have already filed complaints. Apparently, you’re a fraud.
Probiotics: Listen, lady. Your guts are a bunch of freaks. They’re criminals. I should demand for my independence from them. Now, don’t you dare have a spoonful after insulting my integrity.
Me: The mango pieces are enticing and my blood sugar has dropped. Leave me alone before my inflamed stomach explodes.
Time was right about probiotics.
Ladies and gentlemen, life.
4PM
“I don’t know who you are but you are going to be rich AF!” a pop tarot reader blasted at me on my FYP.
Oh, really? What an existential opening line to get me to stick around – but oh well.
I suspect my social media algorithm can accurately define me more than my self-awareness; funny pets, GenX and Millennials vs. Gen Z war zones, terrifying world predictions, political turmoil, cute dance trends with minimal body movements – why the physical suppression? – emotional celebrity moments, sarcastic stitches, insightful philosophies that degrade every fibre of my staunched principles.
How am I supposed to sum myself up out of all these crumbs? Which one should I trust more – avatars or my patterns? Damn. Priming gets into my nerves now. But why should it even bother me when I have always been the same since I swooped out of my mother’s uterus?
If I were to put myself out there – I mean if I – if only I had the audacity to – the psychological logistics of Social Media – um – wait – what about my “hermetic dignity” though?
It’s ego. It’s greed handing in its lamp to light me up. But who would even find me interesting anyway? I sit in front of my laptop with a scattered brain. No purpose. One minute it’s news. The next minute I’m plunged back into the 80s and the 90s to reminisce. Though on lucky occasions, I would create something sweet for my own creative validation; a catchy song, a satisfying vengeful poem, an idea for a possible horror-fantasy book series. Then crickets. I stop existing.
“Wow! Ace of Pentacles! Fam, I’m telling you, wealth is coming! Claim it by typing 888 in the comments.”
Aw, shut up.
7PM
A tray of dirty dishes from brunch is still lounging right next to my laptop. A great witness of how I have been navigating the power of solitude and the power of psychopathic introspection. Reveal! No matter what it is, possess me.
Oh yeah. I just chatted with a guy regarding a job prospect. Boy, how my thumb trembled and accused me of a serious violation. Don’t worry. There’s nothing fancy about the job at all. It’s just another blue collar for an immigrant like me. Though yesterday I found myself sewing through online pages about PTSD and I was officially diagnosed.
Plus, I have to get my swollen left shoulder checked. The bulge has been striking its pose on my 5’2 frame for years now. It’s about time to slice it off even with fear swirling around.
At 47 years old, I have already negotiated with my own mortality. It has given me a good celebration despite. Thank you, Jesus. Also, my past has already kissed me goodbye during the blood moon. Meanwhile, my present is bored and waiting for its turn to breathe a little more.
I would rather cry over a bullied baby monkey than examine my life situation. There’s that, too.
Now, here I am writing in my room while the family upstairs is busy investigating the meaning of their existence. And you know what? I approve of their human voices a hundred percent. I’m glad they’re beautifully normal after all – especially in a world where “norms” keep changing in split seconds.
9PM
I have a sporadic and odd relationship with noodles. It’s my rock bottom comfort food. Its nutrient value becomes out of question all of a sudden. I appreciate it. I praise it. I respect it. I slurp an entire bowl down like it’s my last meal. That’s what I’ve just had for supper. Along with a piece of bread and a cup of hot chocolate. Once again, there’s a tray of dirty dishes right next to my laptop. It’s starting to judge my sanity now. Also a knife which I used to cut those tiny plastic bags of noodle seasonings with. I don’t remember anymore why it ended up here, honestly. Damn, I’m a mess.
Though I would like to believe I’m clean and organized. A health inspector could barge in here and award me a certificate of approval. My living conditions are fine. My prayers are still lost somewhere. But my mind can write and admit the abominable truths.
I bought a disposable camera a couple of weeks ago. I thought of doing a photo series of half-faced people; literally taking snapshots of half of their faces only. I thought of my former co-workers as the subject. But would my anxiety give me the green light though?
I used to be bold and fierce about these silly creative endeavors and I would do it with an attitude, too. Not the abhorrent kind. The kind that would also make my “collaborators” proud of themselves. But that was long ago. When people’s voices were a little kinder. When I was snoring asleep. When I thought I knew everything. Until – the harsh noise made me deaf, I woke up wondering who made my table cloths that I just bought, I realized I was ignorant altogether.
The rest of the night is going to watch me waste my time away. The problem is I can’t afford to rest right now. I have been loafing around like a lard since February 2nd when I walked out on a job. I don’t have the strength to rant about it as of the moment but I’ll make sure you’ll hear about it soon. It’s a blood-curdling manuscript of human anecdotes. Enough to make me sick and run.
Of course. It’s a victim’s testimony and it can be sickening to some people. But it’s a real-life drama. It’s my human right to suffer, too. At least my life isn’t soggy enough to be forgotten. I can write about it and trigger my pulse to keep on bouncing.
Yep. Keep on bouncing.
But the truth is I would just like to be a useless lard for a moment. To recuperate. To massage my own body. To keep my nervous system in a safe place. To breathe. To live a little.
And to finally notice that my pillow cases need some washing. Ew ew.
Yeah. Sounds about right. Have you checked your bath towels yet? That too. Ew.
They’re fine. I’m fine.
We’re all fine.
Sincerely,
Lady with a Bulge
AE
Image by: AE
