My dear mother never really knew what my name actually meant until I was 13 oblivious years old. According to my own research, ultimately propelled by utter dissatisfaction of falsely spoonfed information, the name Shatila is an alliteration to an 18th century genocide in a town which holds that very same name. The Gayle? Well. For a personalized, direly feminine effect, my dedicated mother so explained. So, rather literally, the name Shatila Gayle comes to mean "a town under ultimate massacre.. amidst pretty pyrotechnics?" Clever. I always knew she didn't love me as much.
I was born and raised a religious and all-fearing child of oozing goodness. I so distinctly remember, in everything I did, being extremely and painfully fair, honest, just, obedient, prayerful, trustworthy and trusting. Please note that all these adjectives were deviated out of pure pondering and downright decisiveness, therefore not a pre-defined set of words that oh-so-easily rolls off the tongue due to very blind, excessive usage. Based on a theory of mine, Because I was such an A-child during my formative years, I have consumed all the A's in my allocated bucket of singular excellence, which clearly explains what I am now. A faithless immobile, procrastinator slash pessimist extraordinare, who believes only in the simplest of things such as sleep, caffeine, and other rather engaging tools of imminent doom.
On the 13th of December in the year 1988, not unknowingly for long, Little Town Under Ultimate Massacre Amidst Pretty Pyrotechnics was brought into the world. And as the hardcore programmers so fondly put it, Hello world!
I spent nursery year in Sotero B. Cabahug Forum for Literacy, under sweet Miss Pamela. Yes, I remember her name, and I bet she remembers mine. Then I proceeded, also literally, to the institution 5 blocks ahead to enjoy the optimum effects elementary school would dent on the core of the rest of my life. Dear St. Joseph's Academy, Mandaue, where I was very...
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