An investigative reader once throws a difficult question to me: how was my family really like up close and personal? Did we come close like what I say in my columns? An amalgam of Dolphy's family in John and Marsha or an alloy of the Iskul Bukol family crackling crispy gags and punchlines?
The last time my family laughed was when our oven got burned and we made the SM Food Court an extension of our dining room for a month.
Honestly, I did not have that engorge varicose vein in my jugular as a result of humming or whispering.
From time to time we shout and yell at each other, we bang the door to dramatize our points, we shed tears to settle our disputes, we throw plates like we play tennis, we learn from our mistakes, we bum around and procrastinate and we experience setbacks, failures, and defeats.
The last time I remember, we are still a bona fide and esteemed members in good standing of your basic screwed-up family.
There is a thin line that separates love and hate, laughter and tears, humor and hurt, merriment and suffering.
For how do you know laughter if there are no tears to compare it with?
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