Everytime things become unfamiliar and people don’t know you, an introduction is most oftentimes asked to acquaint yourself with the seeming aliens that surround you. Be it self-imposed or just plain unavoidable, self-introduction was always a practice of ‘brag and swagger’. You may try to deny it, but I bet my monthly salary your mind starts to dig up the dirty details of your professional portfolio when in queue for introduction in an attempt to make a striking first impression. Then comes fifteen minutes max of your listeners’ time wasted in having them reel through your vast array of achievements and experiences. Sweet mother of Jesus. You could’ve practically read them your biography.
Detestable? Yes. But then again, this is my blog, and this is my first entry. So in any cases that you might try to protest against hypocrisy, do let it elapse. Pass me the chance to let you know more about me. Your brain might try excrete the following information from its containment within the next few minutes, but at least I tried.
“Just a heritage city boy living in
a lonely cyberworld.”
I am JAN BRIANE ASTOM. My parents named me after St. John, the evangelist, as I was born on his feast day. My father had a compulsion to name me after his favorite guitarist, Brian May, widely known for his blazing guitar riffs in the 'Queen’s’ immortal rock anthems. Add my parents’ flair for originality, then, voilà! My name is now how it appears in my birth certificate. Don’t let my name fool you though. I am neither a saint nor a guitarist. Damn Catholic tradition. Damn rock fanaticism. Now I’m forced to live in the shadows of my name’s etymology. (The latter notions, my friends, are just plain stupidity. Bear with me.)
I am a registered nurse, though I currently teach as a clinical instructor to young nursing students. Them kids wanna be like me. I pray they do not. They don’t know how much self-repulsion and prolonged periods of intense ruefulness I went through before I finally accepted my fate in this blessed profession. I blame my childish stupidity. Teeny bopper that I was when asked what I wanted to take up among the different courses offered at the college where my mother worked as a high school teacher, I chose what I thought would give me the best chances at greener pastures. Stuck at college with a bond to continue the course I started due to a private scholarship, I had to endure four years of incalculable mental and emotional torture until I graduated, much to my parents’ elation, and to my relief. Now I have no desire to seek the greener pastures that led me to choose my career path in the first place. Great, just great. How fickle-minded can you get?
If given the chance to choose what I want to do with my life, I would want to become a professional pianist. I would complete my course requirements, play Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto in C minor with an orchestra, and go to Warsaw, Poland to win the International Frederic Chopin piano competition. Then, I would let my hair grow to the shoulder level, damage my sense of hearing to develop conductive hearing loss, then fly to Vienna, Austria, where I would live alone in an apartment, refuse to take a bath everyday and compose music that would put Adam Young’s composition prowess to shame. (Peace out. I love Adam XD)
So you see, I actually want to become the reincarnation of Ludwig van Beethoven. But since my mom won’t let me… Tss. Destiny denied. Friggin’ fate. Now I have to start all over again.
I was once a very good kid. I obeyed my parents instantaneously at their command, and refused to use cuss words to express deep-seated emotions. What happened? Blame the magic box you call television. Blame the super highway where I often hang out in times of solitude and fap opportunities; something you call the internet. Blame Chuck Norris. Blame Barney. Blame Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. Now blame yourself. Thank you for playing the blame game with me. Please try again.
Fortunately, I grew up saner than other fappers out there, albeit growing up is a natural phenomenon I loathe to the core. Being 20 years old is the hardest phase of my existence in progress. As each day passes to approach my 21st, a throbbing sense of impending doom intensifies within this five feet, six inches body of mine. I do not even dare think about the prospect of becoming a full-fledged adult. You see, my world is the thought-haven of Doraemon, Nobita and Nodame—a world of vulnerability and superficial ecstasy, where adults are the villainous entities that constantly attempt to transform me into a workaholic monster, with nothing in mind but Philheath Insurance, Social Security System contributions, and PAGIBIG fund salary loans. Ugh. And I thought wrinkles are ten years away.
I do not deny my fallibilities, yet I do set my expectations aloft. ‘Tis no wonder I am also prone to mental and emotional breakdown. But then again, it might be due to my immature sense of crisis resistance. Ain’t that the reason I never got to escape my comfort zones? Twenty years ago, I was born here in Vigan City, Ilocos Sur. Twenty years later, I remain, still sharing a bedroom with my two siblings. I fucking don’t know when I will be able to get out. I really fucking don’t know.
So you see, I’m not your regular stickler who always seeks to play the game as it should be. And yes, I am flawed. I still have a million other imperfections, some of which are not yet ready for disclosure. But who gives a damn? I don’t.
Whew. Self-introduction over. So much for a low-profile self-introduction.
Have I made a striking first impression yet? Or should I re-do this entry in the “brag and swagger” format?
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