I Complain.

Great piece of advice for the week: Put a lid on it. Rather, shut up.

I complain too much, says my mother.

I seriously was contemplating on a therapy session with a shrink at the beginning of the week, but then I've been mulling it over and have come to a conclusion that yes, complaints are good.

And no, this isn't another attempt on rationalizing my psychosis -- my fixation on everything over slightly better. Although I have come to terms with the truth that the third world can never be one well-oiled machine, still, I would love nothing more than to rid the streets with suicidal freaks for jeepney drivers and homicidal maniacs for tricycle drivers ---even for just a day. I almost got run over by a mutant tin can on steriods three days ago. I screamed bloody murder in the middle of crazy Corrales St. but the acne-clad jerk fled the scene with patent intentions of breaking the sound barrier. So like a good third world citizen, I spilled my guts out to my friends. Justice is slow in third world streets. The traffic-cops have double vision. Oi!

But don't get me wrong, the third world isn't as eff-ed up as it sounds to foreign ears. I love every pothole in this country. Every toilet seems to be out of order but dammit, I wouldn't exchange the pinoy experience for anything...well except probably for decent leaders, but that's another blog entry.

The world is infested with nit-pickers and nay-sayers; but rid of them and we might just succumb to lives as mindless drones of bad tv commercials, cheap retail, soggy fastfood , crooked politicians and an evil dictator. And yes, homicidal/suicidal jeepney and tricycle drivers.