The Aftermath

It would be silly not to move on, but I have to admit, my little misadventure last week has started to turn feelings of hurt into hate.

Last night I felt ill just by being around the office. I had to get out. So I took off, on foot, and an hour later I found myself at the mall, drenched in sweat. I gathered myself in the washroom before retreating to my favorite spot at the coffee shop where the kind people (kabayans) allowed me in, despite the fact that they were already doing the closing ceremonies. They probably noticed my lost-and-confused look so they provided me the sanctuary I needed. The waiter didn’t even bother giving me the menu. He just asked me "the usual?" and to which I nodded in answer before the question even made sense to me. When it did, he was already at the counter mindlessly summoning the espresso factory. I felt glad to have finally found a place that served me "the usual"—a feat that took more than two dozen consecutive cups of White Café Mocha Grande before they labeled me as one of their predictable patrons (the last time I had "the usual" was at Basti's Brew in Davao).

"Bakit ka mag-isa sir?" the waiter who looked like his name was Noel or Nestor or Hernani asked when he served my coffee. Sometimes, people don't know the polite way to say "what a lonely life you have". But he can't corner me. "I'm always alone when I come here," was my lame retort. Noel/Nestor/Hernani excused himself. He probably didn’t want to play bartender to the bummed out drinker.

I sipped my coffee faster than usual. They cut off the music, there was no time to read a book, and as the last customer, I got a lot of "hurry up"-glances from the crew. What a sad night, I thought. I was ready to just sulk in the coffee shop chair and wallow in my misery. I was ready to suffocate with self-pity. I paid 18 Qatar Riyals to do just that. Then, I started to feel impatient. I started to think random things and how I hate being alone in the coffee shop, or how I hate being there in the first place. I went there because I couldn’t stand the office. I couldn’t stand the office because Arabs kept coming in and out. Then just like that, it occurred to me, I hate Arabs.

One Arab man attacked me and he turned me into a racist. They could all be the same underneath the white clothes—all violent, harmful and camera-grabbing men.

I hope this is just a phase. I don't want to be the racist in a place where I'm part of the minority.

I took a taxi home. No surprise, the driver is Indian. It's becoming a habit. I should stop it soon.

I arrived at the office and started writing this post while the Chinese talked loudly to each other. The Chinese shout when they talk, even if they're just millimeters apart. It seems to me that the Chinese either have really bad hearing, have no respect for other's ears, or they simply have cockroaches crawling up their asses that every so often they feel the urge to scream.

Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. It's because I'm a Filipino. See, even to myself, I'm a racist. It freaks me