I almost sustained a high-spinal cord injury from arching my neck backwards at 2am. Your royal highness has been trying to press her luck to catch a glimpse of the Lyrids, a meteor shower from the Comet Thatcher, in the wee hours of Sunday morn.
Not wanting to be as unprepared as I was before, I planned for and awaited this event like all other astro-freaks, as reports have shown that the Lyrids this year will be visible to the naked eye. I planned my meal to be grilled, so I can cook outside on Saturday night in any case the meteor shower would push through a lil bit early. I even told friends about it so they can marvel at these non-daily wonders.
0100. Grilled pork still looks yummy, but is too cold already. Jeepers. I should’ve grilled it a little later. Went to have it microwaved so I can start gobbling it all up. Anyway, in an hour, everything will be all too perfect.
0230. My empty plate featured a trail of tiny black ants moving briskly. I was a little bit annoyed, but was still expecting. I frantically reached for my all-set cam because I knew that in any moment, the Lyrids would start shooting like crazy and I had to make sure I have a hardcopy.
0300. My entire spine and nape felt numb now. I ditched the dirty plate inside the house, and ran outside, almost tripping, just to make sure I won’t miss anything. But nothing new seemed to happen. It’s just that I seem to see more stars than I did earlier.
I have to get in touch with reality. All I’d see is the metro’s soot disguised as the urban air. I’ll never see those streaks of light I expected, that meteor shower from Comet whatever, those Lyrids… those once-in-a-lifetime stars. And then I started to hate those rotten jeepneys charring the streets, those vehicles who passed the PSEUDO-EMISSION TESTS, those fat-bearded politicians who keep ignoring the Clean-Air Act.
And I started hating myself for grilling dinner.
