The title has nothing to do with this post.
To those who opened this because of the title,
you have been hoodwinked, haw haw.
To those who opened this because of the title,
you have been hoodwinked, haw haw.
One day, Martin Cruz woke up and discovered that he had become a multimillionaire. Then he promptly fell asleep and began dreaming that he was underpaid. His rational mind decided that that was the state of all writers all over the world, and that photographers and painters who take very little time perfecting a single painting or a photograph - no offense to those reading this, and this statement technically breaks the fourth, fifth, and whatever walls of this story masquerading as a blog entry - but get paid more than a genius hack who sweats blood, tears, and alcohol for weeks to come up with a brilliant paragraph.
Right now, in his dream, Martin Cruz is sitting on his laptop, typing out something, while the news is busy telling the story of a coup d'etat happening. The Peninsula Manila has become the barracks of Trillanes, whoever he is, and he is demanding for the unholy, unmitigated, wholehearted resignation of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, who, during her own time and prime, did the same for Joseph "Erap" Estrada.
"Again, the hotel. Why do they always use hotels as their fortresses," thought Martin Cruz. "If I were to stage a coup, I would take over one of the big malls. Not only do you have a fortress, you have a maze. You could hide from your enemies, situate strategic shooters and spotters with very little trouble, and you could hoard items from nearby stores, such as Aji Ichiban and Starbucks, with impunity. You wouldn't run out of supplies."
Right now, he's thinking of getting his arse moving, getting dressed so that he can make his way to Gilmore to get himself a Netgear wireless router, the stuff of his dreams for weeks now. He likened it to a girl, a beautiful, cheerful looking woman. She would smile when he looked her way, maybe perhaps blush a little. He would grin at this, kiss her lightly on the forehead, and watch her snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, like a remote part of his body.
Of course, the router had very little in common with that perfect woman, but Martin Cruz imagines that the router, once acquired, would hit him in pretty much the same manner.
"Don't go out today," says Martin Cruz's father. "If things escalate, you could get in trouble."
Martin thinks, "If I had a bottle of whiskey (which I do) and somebody tried to stop me, then there'd be trouble. Otherwise, I'm good."
The news says that the door of Manila Pen just collapsed. Martin Cruz's father is laughing from the safety of his home.
Martin Cruz closes his laptop, thinks about disconnecting it so his niece could use the Internet. It's time to take a bath. The women of the world could wait, for now. The Makati situation didn't matter. All he wanted was the router that could make his insides boil with feverish strokes, his heart leap like a matador in the ring. There was nothing else that mattered as of this moment, in his dream.
Right now, in his dream, Martin Cruz is sitting on his laptop, typing out something, while the news is busy telling the story of a coup d'etat happening. The Peninsula Manila has become the barracks of Trillanes, whoever he is, and he is demanding for the unholy, unmitigated, wholehearted resignation of President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, who, during her own time and prime, did the same for Joseph "Erap" Estrada.
"Again, the hotel. Why do they always use hotels as their fortresses," thought Martin Cruz. "If I were to stage a coup, I would take over one of the big malls. Not only do you have a fortress, you have a maze. You could hide from your enemies, situate strategic shooters and spotters with very little trouble, and you could hoard items from nearby stores, such as Aji Ichiban and Starbucks, with impunity. You wouldn't run out of supplies."
Right now, he's thinking of getting his arse moving, getting dressed so that he can make his way to Gilmore to get himself a Netgear wireless router, the stuff of his dreams for weeks now. He likened it to a girl, a beautiful, cheerful looking woman. She would smile when he looked her way, maybe perhaps blush a little. He would grin at this, kiss her lightly on the forehead, and watch her snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, like a remote part of his body.
Of course, the router had very little in common with that perfect woman, but Martin Cruz imagines that the router, once acquired, would hit him in pretty much the same manner.
"Don't go out today," says Martin Cruz's father. "If things escalate, you could get in trouble."
Martin thinks, "If I had a bottle of whiskey (which I do) and somebody tried to stop me, then there'd be trouble. Otherwise, I'm good."
The news says that the door of Manila Pen just collapsed. Martin Cruz's father is laughing from the safety of his home.
Martin Cruz closes his laptop, thinks about disconnecting it so his niece could use the Internet. It's time to take a bath. The women of the world could wait, for now. The Makati situation didn't matter. All he wanted was the router that could make his insides boil with feverish strokes, his heart leap like a matador in the ring. There was nothing else that mattered as of this moment, in his dream.
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