IT'S January 10, wow. It was just a moment ago when it was January 10 and I was watching the Black Nazarene being pulled and pushed in a sea of crammed bodies. That was in 2009. Watching the scene like it was a flashback of what happened just moments ago was bizarre.

Where did the days go?

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My life is full of Thursdays; I have began to hate the day. Now, why Thursday? It's my day-off, that's why. It's been that since 2003, after I was forced to give up my Mondays off because Monday is the start of the week and it’s weird starting it by sleeping. Okay, so I got Thursday. That's because nobody goes off on Thursday and that's the only day in the week that's left for me. The married ones have theirs on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, so with some new ones. Mondays are for getting the feel of the week, Tuesdays are the alternate days if a Monday becomes too hectic or too droll to hold a meeting. Wednesdays are set for another meeting, and Thursday just cruises on.

Thus, once the meetings and the groping at the start of the weekends, it's my day off. It's has become a loud warning that another week is about to end and the weekend issue is demanding to be put to bed.

And so I hate Thursdays... not as much as I hate a heckler though. Especially one expensively-educated but poorly taught heckler we have here in our midst. Sad. So much money wasted. But... of course, we know a commodity like money will never be wasted. It is just made to appear it is, so that people will no longer try to track it down where it's safely hidden in the heckler's pockets.

Eastern gurus got it right at the very start, meditate, say ohm. Punching your fists in the air and shouting anti-government slogans no longer work. It's music to their ears. Hecklers that they are, they love to bait others into spates of shouting. Ohm.

A few more Thursdays from now, the ohms should become louder, as the gods they think they are will be hogging our consciousness, demanding attention, demanding space, and yes, concocting lies to fit their agenda. Sad. Loud ohm.

Through all these, however, a passive observer will just shake his head as a young man is not allowed to enjoy the liberating feel of ideals and idealism. He's brought up to think that even baby strollers have to be made of gold and everything must be done to satisfy lust.

A friend, twice born, recalled his naughty days as a young man when Viagra first landed in the market. The bunch of naughty peers he had popped a pill each, and they swore never again as the pliant prod that's programmed to stand up at certain stimuli remained up like an unwielding stick, jammed tight into sore crotches, all day long. Lust, like anything else in big doses, can drive a person crazy.

Now he's twice born, preaches the word, and urges his peers to follow the light. Good for him. The lustful, sans Viagra, remain blinded by their own blinding light past their mid-century marks, seeing enemies where there is none, and seeing malice everywhere. Because in their own world ruled by their stiff sticks, malice abounds and enemies lurk within every brain cell.

Happy are the twice born for they look at the world with glee. Each day starts with the morning sunshine peeking through their bedroom windows. The un-evolved with their stiff sticks groan before starting the day with a sneer and a heckle. Ohm.

It's January 10, wow. The official campaign period has not started yet, and yet our world has already gone crazy and I am relegated to rambling... the dead now tipping the hundred mark. How many more, we may ask. As many as the stiff sticks can prick, gnarls someone welcoming us into his parlor. "Welcome," he says. No thanks, we chorus.