is that noise coming from inside my head?

My Last Piece

2010-01-17T22:58:00.005+08:00

I've been putting off writing my farewell post so long that I assume you may have thought I changed my mind on my plan to close this down for good.

Not at all. The plan still stands. Actually, what's been keeping me preoccupied these past few months was thinking how I should orchestrate my blog's "funeral."

On one hand, I was thinking of deleting one post every day until nothing remained but this one. Just for dramatics. But it was too heart-wrenching a task. Just like a mother commiting infanticide on one of her own.

I figure one of the reasons I conceived (no pun intended) the idea was the irreconcilable thought of leaving my thoughts floating in cyberspace, to quite possibly even outlive me. It leaves me cold to think that ten, thirty, fifty years from now, my juvenile and reckless ramblings and whinings (given that I've failed grandly at anonymity of authorship) might still be on full view for everyone---including my boss, constituents, subordinates, life partner, children, grandchildren, and worse, my mother---to read and heap ridicule on.

But, you know, whatever. Yes, I might have come up with the corniest, sappiest dirges this side of the (just let me use it this one last time) blogosphere, but I couldn't care less. The only consolation I can find is that I think I was at least honest when I wrote them. There I go with the dramatics again.

Another thing on my mind was the farewell speech---or the eulogy, in keeping with the theme. I wanted this last one to be as dramatic (I have to find another word for this one) and as eloquent (there) as possible, as would befit the occassion.

Oh, but now I just want for this to be over and done with. I've given up on dramatics and eloquence. The perfect farewell note just cannot be had, and all that remains is for this one to be written.

And now it has, well, I guess this is it. Whooh. Happy Independence Day to me.

This is my final time writing as Adobobo. It's been fun. Thank you.

P.S.

A random afterthought: It would be so sad if, after all the drama that went into composing this, the first comment that appears happens to be a spam from someone selling Viagra. Ayaw ra pud unta, hehe.

A (Late) First Anniversary Celebration

2009-11-07T10:50:00.011+08:00

Chronicle of a Doomed Career
Foretold

Five-thirtyish, Oct. 3, 2008

Loitering at Ayala Mall since I've blown most of my week's allowance on chocolate and gummy candy. Money's such a big issue for me nowadays---must be because I'm always short on it. I've even had to stop blogging since I don't have money to spare for Internet. Wait---I actually do, but dammit I'm always hungry!

So there.

Oh wait, forgot to tell y'all about my job-hunting escapades here in Cebu. So let me recall . . .
Job 1: Online tutor at Company A

Woo-hoo! The first company that called me up after I was rejected by Company X (but, then again, I was not totally rejected---details to follow). Though teaching is the farthest thing from my mind right now, I decided to jump in since I was desperate to find a job. And it didn't hurt that company A was offering to train prospective hirees for P100 a day, which I could really use.

Job 2: Aspiring copy editor, then editorial assistant, then field reporter at Company B
So Company B was the second company that called me up; might I add, this was while I had already begun training at Company A. But then, realizing that I could still work at Company A part-time after I devote myself to Company B full-time (how ambitious and utterly, utterly naive of me), I decided to come to the interview.
A week after, I am in the newsroom of Company B. It is 1:00-ish p.m., and currently it seems I am the only one, apart from the day desk editor (my immediate superior for the time being) and the floor manager, inside the office---the reason for this being that work in a newsroom usually begins in the midafternoon, and continues well into late evening, until the day's issue is readied for printing around 12 or 1:00 a.m.
The first few days I am writing the day's scoops: "exclusives" carried by Newspaper A and B that weren't covered by our newspaper, and vice versa. It is boring, backbreaking work; backbreaking since I spend most of the hours hunched over page over page of the day's news and encoding scoops onto the PC. I figured the task was just some redundant, irrelevant task the editor conjured to get me to read as much news as I can.
On the second night, sensing that I was just like a deadweight around the office, the editor in chief told me that I would be accompanying one of the beat reporters the next day. So I was like, "Wow, how generous. They're actually letting me witness a day in the life of a beat reporter." I know, I know; up until that moment, I was still imagining I was on a field trip.
So day 1 of my field trip arrives, and I am asked to show up at the Cebu City Mayor's office for his daily press conference. Imagine that! To sit just an arm's length away from a distinguished public official. Again, my "field trip" state of mind kicked in, and mentally I was "ooh"-ing and "aah"-ing to be sitting in the company of media practitioners.
Later, I didn't expect that I was going to be asked to write a news story on the goings-on of what I attended.
Sojourn #2, Day 1: Council Session
Another round of of oohs and aahs from me. Men in barongs and suits milling about the . . . the room (I'm tempted to call it an auditorium, since the right term evades me right now)! And then, a vision---a handsome man clad in a gray suit. Hair slicked back, matching gray (or was that maroon) tie, the regulation leather briefcase, trademark politico's smile---passes before my line of sight. And I think: Is this possible? Could such a young and fresh and grudgingly attractive specimen be actually a pawn in the dirty world of politics??
Sigh, he truly was a sight for sore eyes. And well, the minutes, and the hours, of the session whizzed by while I was sighing---and pining---for the honorable Mr. X in the snazzy gray suit.
Later I received the second shock of the day when I was told that I was again to write another story on the session's hot topic.
Me: Oh sh*t. Never mind, at least I saw "him" (pines wistfully, in the fashion of women in cheesy romance paperbacks).
Day 3
Again, the mayor's press conference. Only this timeI wasn't late since I discovered there was an elevator that would take me to the eighth floor. I actually dressed up better this time. Imagine my disappointment when I was told the council only convenes for a session once a week. Hmp.
So I got to write another news story. And for a few fleeting moments, I actually think---and believe---that I can hack it as a news reporter.
Then I discover that I cannot come up to random people and ask for their reactions without breaking into cold sweat. And I realize that, unless I get rid of this character flaw, this job will never be a walk in the park (thunderbolt follows).
Day 4
I actually don't remember what I did this day. Must be because I was still reeling from the experience of calling up various political personalities (and being invariably tongue-tied) the other night. I guess I must have just spent the day languoring in the newsroom, trying to appear productive while I write little notes in my reporter's notebook ("Ma'am, I regret to inform you that I don't want to work for this company anymore. I've developed an ulcer in just a matter of days, my father's had a heart attack after learning that I go home at ten or eleven in the evening," etc.).
Day 5:
Assignment 1: Media conference on "Autologous Blood Stem Cell Transplant"
Fancy that. Nightmares of my early BS Biology days coming to haunt me all over again. The nth day in a row that I came late to an event I was supposed to cover (only this time, I must point out that I didn't resort to hailing a cab---brownie points for me!).
After wiping out images of blood and tumors and exposed nerves from my mind, I have lunch courtesy of the media conference.
Assignment 2: First day in the Hall of Justice
The catacombs, I call it. Pristine white on the outside; dark, dank, crumbling, and moldy on the inside. I walk past walls composed of pile after pile of court decisions, promulgations, appeals, wherefores, whereases, forsooth!---wait, that was from Shakespeare. And all the doors look alike. I swear, if I wasn't in the company of the justice/court beat reporter, I would have been lost for hours inside that labyrinth.
The senior beat reporter hands me a copy of the promulgation for a rape case, and that's my story for tomorrow's issue.

Day 6: Leadership Training Seminar
Now this day would have been uneventful, if it weren't for the fact that I saw Honorable Gentleman in the Snazzy Gray Suit (HGITSGS) sitting by the registration area. Serious heart palpitations ensue, and I am reduced to a giggling, bashful, blushing mess. Sh*t.
Once again, this day struck me as another "me feeling extremely inept" day. And again I am reminded of why I hated my Newswriting class in college: I absolutely dreadtalking to strangers. And so, for the next few hours, I prayed: "Lord, give me the strength. Lord, give me the strength. Lord, give me the strength."
Fortunately, in an extremely fortuitous turn of events, I am introduced to the Honorable Gentleman in the Snazzy Gray Suit (only this time, he was in a barong, dark blue-black denims, and sneakers---so hip and respectable at the same time!). I fall all over myself trying to recall the questions I was rehearsing the past few hours, tyring to appear like I am thoughtfully and dutifully taking down his statement, all the while I am relishing the fact that his face is just a foot away from mine---and wait! he leans closer 'cause I am so effing nervous and my tongue is tripping all over the place and he probably can't make sense of the babble tumbling out of my mouth, and in my mind I am calculating the odds that a man from the echelons of Cebu's high society with a flourishing political career can actually deign to consider falling in love with a troll. So while he is waxing grandly on the youth's potential to lead Cebu City to progress, my heart is gradually deflating.
Nevertheless, I spend the remainder of the afternoon stealing quick glances at HGITSGS, trying to burn his image in my mind since I'm too timid to take his picture. Hah. Plus, I was thinking this might be the last I'll see him---just in case my not-so-promising newswriting career doesn't pan out.
Day 7
I spend this day asking myself, "What am I doing in the office on a Sunday? I seriously need to quit."
Father arrives from Davao, and is shocked to learn that I go home late in the evenings---in a habal-habal, no less. He then delivers a sermon on the evils of my profession. To get him to stop, I tell him that I don't enjoy it anyway, and that I'm planning to quit. I ain't bluffing, though, as I have gradually been building myself up for a "talk" with the editor in chief.
Day 8: Media Conference on the New Wide World of Media
Meanwhile, I am gradually losing steam. Again, I come late to another appointed event and manage to get lost despite already having taken a cab. Events are seriously conspiring against me and this career. I've already made up my mind that this will be my last day.
I spend the rest of the afternoon listing and trying to finish my story before I come to the newsroom. I enter the newsroom. I hand in my story. The day desk editor tells me to cover another exhibit at six thirty; I say nothing. I go kick myself in the head afterward. I come to the event. I talk to some snarky reporters from another national broadsheet. I curse them for being so snarky and haughty and treating this half-assed pseudo-reporter like scum.
Day 9
There is no steam left to lose anymore. I receive another message to cover yet another effing photo exhibit, and I ignore it.
It is Papa's last day in Cebu, and I spend it with him shopping. And while I am at the mall, I am constantly in fear that one of the people from the newsroom will catch me playing hooky. But I couldn't care less. At this point, I have dug myself a pit of work-related depression, and there's no getting out.
I go to the office. (But wait! Before I do , I think I spot HGITSGS walking to his car; in fact, as I walk past him, I think I heard him say, "Hello"---but wait, that's another story. Well, actually, because of the pre-"talk" nerves, I didn't look back, so there's actually no story. Fug.) Ed in chief already senses what I'm going to say. Surprisingly, she takes the news pretty well---and here I was, thinking she would berate me for being so fickle and indecisive and noncommitant and dismiss me by saying, "Get the hell out of my newsroom!" She gives me some soothing words, and sends me off with "I'll be seeing you,"---or "See you soon," something like that.
And I am like, "Gee, I hope not."
As I walk out the newsroom, I give myself my nth kick in the head.
But then I think of the many Sundays---holy rest days---I'd be spending at the office had I not quit sooner, and as soon as I do, I take that kick in the head back, and I jump, click my heels together, and say, "Woo-hoo! Free at last!"
***
So I return full-time to Job #1. I complete the two weeks, and then some, of training. A month and a half later, we're still not through training, and I'm not receiving any paycheck either. Meanwhile, I live on extended alms from my mother. It's an embarrassing way to live, I know.
Fortunately, a few weeks later I receive a call from Company X, asking me if I'm still interested in the position I applied for last June. I was going to make them feel guilty for demanding I come to Cebu ASAP for an interview then holding my application three friggin' months---meanwhile leaving me to fend for myself in this cold, heartless city. Out in the streets, homeless, hungry . . . Okay, I was going for dramatics. I lived in a half-finished home with the rest of my siblings and while I did not eat heartily, I did not go hungry due to their charity. Anyway, I swallow my pride and say, "Yes." Twice, in rapid succession.
My job offer's in three days. But I'm hopeful this'll be a keeper.

Weeell, so far so good.

More of the Same

2009-08-24T20:26:00.002+08:00

Whenever I think of my current post-graduation state, I am reminded of D.H. Lawrence's short story, "The Rocking Horse Winner." Every waking day I spend cooped up inside the house--because I have no money for going out--serves to remind me that school's over. Ergo, I have no reason to ask my parents for money. Worse, I even hear the walls of our home whisper to me, "You are unemployed! You have no money! you have no money!" Damn walls.

Anyhoo, yeah, that's pretty much it; I have no money. I cannot ask for money without my mother nagging me about the value of hard-earned money. Mothers.

So, anyway, I guess all I'm leading to is that I'm going to try and be a studio contestant on Wheel of Fortune. I want some money, dammit!

Written April 9, 2008

Hah. The word money occurred eight times in this entry.

The Portent

2009-08-20T20:26:00.000+08:00

Okay, more of what I do best---whining.

Okay, so I've been putting off writing a "serious" post the past couple of weeks. Why? Well, it just so happens that I was the last person to find out that the whole community has actually been reading my blog. Like, oh crap. I've blown my cover big time.

But hey. Whatever. What did I expect, right?

Actually, aside from the fear that has constantly been nagging me, the reason I have also been kept away from blogging is... well, actually the "fear" is the only thing. I swear, I've contemplated deleting my blog a couple of times. And with the news that certain people are privy to my rude ramblings, the prospect of moving out to a new URL has become very tempting. Very tempting, indeed.

Oh well, I'll have to put off moving out until I think up a clever-enough URL. Or until my mother finds this.

Anyhoo, what's been keeping me busy lately? Nothing much, actually. Since graduating barely 1 month ago, I've done nothing. Nada. Zilch. And here I was imagining that, after graduation, I would totally freak out and leave home and go trekking somewhere.
A teensy weensy part of me even misses school. It's true, when you're a student you have a lot of justification for having a daily allowance. Now, I basically have to grovel and beg to mooch some money off ma or pa.

Man, being poor and unemployed sucks.

So anyway, I've tired of always having to show my parents my sad puppy face whenever I go out. So I'm thinking of getting a job. When I go online, part of my itinerary, aside from checking mail--and downloading off Limewire--is scouring Jobstreet.com and JobsDB.com for job postings.

Anyway, I hate to say this, but I am so totally hating home right now. Mother dearest is again being characteristically mother-like and nagging me about the virtues of saving and valuing money. I think it's more of her subtle way of telling me to go get a job. I will ma, jeez. It's just that it's taking me forever to write a resume. Tsk.

Written April 9, 2008

The Farewell Post: A Draft

2009-08-18T20:24:00.003+08:00

Like I said, I'll come up with a decent farewell once I've flushed out all the drafts I have lying around, half-finished or left unpublished for their explicit or potentially scandalous content.

I credit the beginning of my blogging career to Avy back in late 2006. She asked me through text to vote for her blog in one of the online polls hosted by another blog. Back then, I had a very cloudy idea of what a blog was. But then I was so averse to anything that resembled Friendster or social networking that I never caught the wave early on. I only decided to start my own after realizing that it could be good exercise for my then-atrophying writing muscles. I never intended to have a lot of contacts in my blogroll, nor did I ever intend to make my identity known.

I had wanted my blog to be a collection of entries I'd address to one person: a friend who, prior to my undertaking this project, had also collaborated with me on a writing assignment. By writing assignment, I mean we shared a notebook where we wrote just about anything that was on our minds. The notebook would go back and forth between us until we filled the last pages. By extension, I began my blog to address security concerns regarding our project, since a notebook was very hard to hide. Also, the days and weeks spent waiting for the notebook and the other's reply proved too impractical. To address that, I then began my blog.

At first---wait, I can sense the impending boredom this paragraph is going to induce upon us all. I'll discontinue the reminiscences then.

Let me just say that I'm undergoing some kind of funk right now. Perhaps this is a foreboding onslaught of my own seven-year blogging itch.

How shall I describe it? I'm in that phase where I'm trying to make myself scarce. The barrage of Twitters, Plurks, Facebooks, etc., has left me somewhat disgusted by it all.

And I did say that this year is going to be the year when I'll finally get over myself. That by and large would explain why I no longer wish to continue this blog. I just realized that I cannot get over blogging about my life. Somewhere in the middle--or toward the end, to be more exact--I had asked myself if my life was really that important that the whole Web had to know what I was doing.

The excuses just keep pouring in. One reason why I was so eager to blog a long time ago was that I always found something in my day that was worth writing about. Now that life has become a routine--wake up, work, go home, sleep--it's so hard to dig through the drudgery and find something valuable enough to share. And that's how egocentric blogs implode.

That was the long version of my farewell speech. This is the condensed one.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang
But a whimper

T. S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"

The Seven Deadly Sins Meme

2009-08-18T20:07:00.001+08:00

As said before, I was never too keen on answering memes (and yes, up until now I still don't know how exactly it should be said).

Ah, goody, a reason to sign in and blog.
Tagged by Ami.

Okay, I'll try to answer this as honestly as possible. So if I step on someone else's feelings, then I'm not sorry for being honest.
Here goes...*rubs palms together*

1.
wrath:

who did you last get angry with?
Oh, sheesh, I really can't remember the last time I got angry. I think it was with my father, 'cause he woke me up too early last Sunday, and I wasn't feeling well and really needed sleep. I told him that, but he's always so inflexible and he always has to get his way. Plus he never takes me seriously when I pretend to be deathly ill--so
ill that I cannot be roused from bed.

who did you last get pissed off with?

Our househelp. I don't mean to sound oppressive or snooty, but I'm just not a big fan of Ate Ofelia, no matter how sold Mom and Pop seem to be at her. Oh God, I sound so mean and coño, but really, there's just something about her that just gets to me. I feel she's intentionally trying to be inept and inefficient just to get me to pop a blood
vessel. Anyway, for her latest attempt, she woke me from slumber just to tell me
that father called to tell us to unplug the rechargeable lamp that he was charging. She knew where it was, but apparently she'd feel much more secure if I performed the actual unplugging from the socket. Hmmm.

who was the last person who got really angry at you?
This one should be easy. My father was the last person to get really angry with me (yeah, "with me" should be just right, cause I was pretty angry myself). That happened on Sunday, 'cause he wanted us to attend mass early, but I didn't want to 'cause I slept late and I have this thing where I believe I'll have a really bad day if I don't get my seven to eight hours of required sleeping time. Anyhoo, I was pretty pissed off at being woken up early, so, to get the message across, I took my sweet little time eating breakfast and doing my morning rituals. I took a bath but I
unfortunately encountered some digestive problems so I took a little more time
in the bathroom.

Long story short: they went to church without me. Hehe.

do you keep grudges, or can you let them go easily?

I don't really know. I'll convince myself that I don't hate this person anymore, but
occasionally, I'd be reminded of that person's "crime." But I always try to give
the person the benefit of the doubt--y'know, take the higher road. But sometimes
it just doesn't work.

2. sloth:

what is one thing you're supposed to do daily that you haven't done in a long time?

Do exercises for my back. That's what the doctor tells me everytime I visit, which is every four years. But somehow I just caaan't. Don't worry doc, I'm saving up for my
surgery.

what's the latest you've ever woken up?

5:00 PM. This was when I was still doing the thesis. Didn't sleep for 24 hours.

who have you been meaning to contact, but haven't?
My prospective employer?

how many times did you hit the snooze button on your alarm clock today?

School's out. I don't set alarms anymore. I don't even take note of the days anymore.

3. gluttony:

meat eater?

Yeah, but I try to eat more fish. Ever the frustrated vegetarian. Always making excuses for myself.

what is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting, outing or event?

A bottle of San Mig Light. Not really much of a drinker, though.

have you ever used a professional diet company?

No.

4. lust:

how many people have seen you completely naked?

The entire family, plus the doctors, nurses in attendance at my birth.

ever caught yourself staring at the chest/crotch of a member of your gender of choice during a normal conversation?

Yeah, but not intentionally. Some guys unconsciously rest their hands down there, and my gaze unintentionally follows.

what's your fave part of the body?

Fave part. I'm fixated on mouths, hands and eyes. And the hollow in the collar bone, 'cause I find it sensuous.

have you ever made a proposition with a prostitute?

Not yet.

5. greed:

if you had $1 million, what would you do with it?

See, here's the thing. I just can't answer seemingly impossible hypothetical questions. I don't know if it's on principle or just because.

I'm the eternal pessimist. I know I'll never have a million dollars, so I don't even want to imagine what I'll do with it, 'cause I don't want to disappoint myself.

would you rather be rich, or famous?

I'd rather be famous.

6. pride:

what is the one thing that you've done that you're most proud of?

Finished that sumbitchin' thesis.

one thing you have done that your parents are most proud of?

Oh dear, I really don't know what goes on in their heads. They don't really tell me if they're proud of me for something.

what would you like to accomplish in your life?

A lot.

what did you do today that you're proud of?

I answered this meme? That's the only heavy activity I did this day.

if you could be anyone else in the world, who would you be?

I'd want to be the woman Christian Bale is absolutely crazy about. Well, I'd also want to be Christian Bale, but I don't think people would approve if I marry myself.

have you ever wished you had a different physical feature?

Yeah. But I guess I'm stuck with poor little old me, so that'll be that.

That's it?!?!?!?

Okay, this is a lame meme (no offense to
the one who tagged me, of course, hehe peace), and so I'm tagging no one.
Written March 28, 2008

The Man named 3.1416...

2009-08-15T20:35:00.001+08:00

He told me, the first and last time I met Him, that I was cute. And, more
often than not, He called me "cutie cute cute" rather than by my name.

The first and last night I spent with him, He told me that I had a lot of thoughts, unnecessary ones, in my head. And that I just had to let go of these thoughts. "...because...a lot of these don't matter," He said, His eyes closed, as He stroked my limbs with His rough, oiled palms, and led it in graceful circles in the air.

He was right, I know. But I couldn't let go of "these things." Dammit.

Earlier that night, we were having dinner, along with a handful of strangers. But I led myself to believe that He was paying more attention to me. He was interested in me. He proferred plates of food in my direction because he noticed that I was too shy to reach for anything uncomfortably outside my grasp. And I took everything He handed to me.

After dinner, when the six of us, strangers all to each other, retired to our cottage in this strange place somewhere in Southern Mindanao, he revealed His true identity.

He was a healer.

And He thus proceeded to heal us all, one by one.

First, our guide. His touch turned this grave-looking, smart-talking, 30-ish man into a child suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness. Pretty soon, he was like a puppet controlled by the invisible strings of His brilliant and mystical mind.

Meanwhile, we--I, and two other students--all of us uninitiated to
this spectacle before us, stood, awed and, at the same time, scared. What witchery is this we had stumbled upon?

But much later, my two companions had fallen prey to His enchantment. And He was whispering in soothing tones--with that unforgettable lisp--words that seemed to come from a gentle prophet. "You are filled with so much anger," He told him whilst holding him in the throes of healing trance. "You must forgive this person."

All of a sudden I was afraid. He could go inside your mind. What if He went inside mine and saw the dark and evil thoughts it held?

I went last. My eyes widened as He stared at me and signalled me to come hither.

My mind was uncontrollably bothered. I didn't want him to see me without my mask. I didn't want Him finding out that underneath this childlike and innocent facade
hid a hideous monster. I blocked His words from my unconscious. I refused His
gentle invitation for me to drop my reservations and step into the zone of vulnerability and, eventually, of wondrous healing.
I think it worked. It took Him close to two hours, and I was able to hold up as long. Until He finally sighed and laid down the judgment that I simply had too little
energy. So He lent me some of His.
He didn't chide me for laying waste to his efforts. Instead, He ended the night with parting words that continue to echo in my ears each time I think about Him.

"You're movements are so graceful and childlike. I love it."

He waited for me to say whatever it was that was preventing Him from reaching me. But I couldn't possibly tell Him. Tell Him that I had entertained unspeakable thoughts as His hands made contact with my skin. That it was precisely His touch--His very existence--that was causing this internal disquiet.

It's been more than a year since I saw Him. Now all I want is to see Him again' 'cause this time I think I'm ready to be healed. If I do get to see Him again, I hope I will be brave enough to bare all.

Written November 9, 2007

The Post Titled "Commercials"

2009-08-11T21:00:00.000+08:00

Written one afternoon when I was probably so bored and uninspired that I just decided to type from memory all the commercial jingles I've heard as a child. I'm such a geek sometimes.

Dunlop Socks

Dunlop Socks,
Computer designed
great style and
comfort
we all love our dunlop
designed for the future
its the socks
of the future
TODAY!

(ENTER voice-over)

Dunlop socks! Maximum style
maximum comfort
you can count on it--DUNLOP!

Mark Premium
Menthol Cigarettes

It's a great great feeling
great outdoor feeling
the taste of adventure
the fresh new world of flavor
enjoy the
outdoor freshness
with mark premium menthol
smooth exciting flavor
a
new world of freshness...
tinuni...tinuninuuuu...
Mark Premium
Menthol...
A new world of Freshness (in a breathy voice)

More Cigarettes

Look
a
touch
of magic
in your tips [tits?taste?]
catch the taste of magic
the magic taste of more
more international cigarettes
catch the
taste of magic...
THE MAGIC TAH-HASTE- OF MORE!

Caress
with
magic Caress...Caress
color every magic moment

Encarnacion
Bechavez...

This commercial, I think it was for Green Cross cologne,
where two young kids find a bunny and...I dunno, maybe it was for Close Up? The
weird thing was, a saxophone was playing in the background.. i think it was
something similar to Kenny G's "Dying Young"...shudder! Creepy commercial!

Dear Diary
Carlo sat beside me today
he was sooo cute
sabi
niya
i'm pretty
kaya lang i'm fat
i eat too much daw kasi eh
kaya
mula ngayon
goodbye chocolates
goodbye spaghetti
goodbye hotdog...
ay
goodbye..
Carlo!

(To the tune
of "Living on a Prayer")

O-woh! way to go Zest-O
Cool and refreshing
that's the way to go
O-woh! Way to go Zest-O
Written December 2, 2006

2009-08-10T22:33:00.001+08:00

Last night, I had a dream.

We were seated on a bench, his back to me. He looked troubled. Either that,
or he was just being his usual distant self.

Then he lay down on my lap. And I held him. Just cradled his head in my
arms.

There were no butterflies in the stomach. No reddening of the cheeks.

All I wanted to do was make him feel that I cared. I could be a good
listener.

But he didn't cry.

His head felt smaller.

I woke up, feeling somewhat disappointed that nothing happened.
Written November 3, 2007

For the life of me, I cannot remember who I was writing about.

Taking Out the Trash

2009-08-09T01:02:00.016+08:00

Preface

Saw that I had a hefty number of drafts still lying around. Before closing my blog down for good, I figured I might as well publish these. The plan is one for each of the coming days; by the time I get all of these out, I'd have been able to write an appropriate farewell. I apologize in advance if most of them are half-written; there's a reason they were on the back burner all this time. Reading through some of them, I cringe at the fact that most of what I've written does not conform to the punctuation guidelines set by the Chicago Manual of Style and the spelling standards of Merriam-Webster. Still, I think it's best I publish them as is, as editing them will be too much (unpaid) work. Heh.

I have just returned from a one and a half day stay at Sarangani Province--not to mention a butt-killing 3 hour bus trip from GenSan to Davao. No, I wasn't there for a respite; rather, I was there to work--specifically, to interview a couple of Sarangan personalities for an article.

It all started with a text message(from a previously unidentified source) last Sunday, asking if I was available from Monday to Wednesday. Intrigued, I asked, "What for?" And so I was informed by a guy named Kit that they had a sideline: they were asked to write for a travel/promotional magazine, and were wondering if I would be willing to come along to Sarangani with them. My first impulse was to say "no," since I have yet to come up with my interview and article for Sir Don's class. But(unfortunately), I thought it over, and figured, "Ah what the heck, I need the experience anyway." I had grand visions of diving expeditions, whitewater tubing, caving, being taken on a tour of the province and being fed with native food. So on Monday afternoon I went to the Tambara office for the briefing with Ms. Maya, the convenor of the, ahem, writers, and my former teacher in English
11 and 13.

At the meeting I was acquainted with my two fellow division mates, Kuya Kit and Ate Krizza; a fresh graduate(who is now working with an NGO), Ate Ayi, and a guy whose long hair was held up with a chopstick, Kuya Pi(as in the Greek symbol π). I also learned that, aside from being a last-minute-choice writer, I had to fill-in for another writer who had fallen sick and begged off from his assignment. Meaning, I had to write two articles. The worst fate of all was learning that the two articles I was assigned to cover were business articles. Aww man! I hate writing business features! It's not like I know anything about it--I mean, come on, have a heart, I'm only a student! But anyway, I just nodded and convinced myself that this is a necessary obstacle I must overcome, blah blah blah. In other words, napasubo na ako.

The few hours before the early morning bus trip to Sarangani I spent lying wide-awake in my bed. I have never gone to Sarangani before, but that was not what was keeping me awake. Rather, it was the prospect of having to interview strangers(that and the fact that I have to write a business story). How I dread interviewing. I really couldn't sleep, so I just tried coming up with good questions. I was able to sleep for, I guess, around 30 minutes, before my alarm clock sounded off.

I came to the bus terminal and boarded the bus at 4:35 a.m.--a chilly dawn coupled with blasting air conditioning--with me sans jacket. The whole 2-3 hours inside the bus I spent hiding my cold, lifeless hands inside my armpits,in between the seat and my gluteus maximus, trying desperately to keep warm. Meanwhile, my four other companions were blissfully nodding off in their seats. I kept staring at Kuya Pi as he would occasionally wake up, and then start making these weird twirling movements with his hands. "Must be a yoga practitioner," I thought.

Around 7:30 a.m., we stopped in front of the Caltex station in Lagao, GenSan, where Ms. Maya told us Dodoy would be waiting for us with the service vehicle. I was only too happy to get off the bus with its arctic conditions. As I stepped off and headed towards the other side of the road, I could barely put one foot in front of the other--they were that stiff.

As we neared Star Mart, I caught site of a smallish man, sporting shades, and wearing what appeared to be a colorful barong of sorts (like the one the Dencio's Kamayan mascot wears, sans the buri hat). He introduced himself as Dodoy, and proceeded to shake every one of our hands. The minute he did that, my eyes were instantly fixed at his totally hairy-to-the-point-of-being-wiry arms. I have to say, I have a natural distrust of hairy men. I decided to regard him with sly hostility after that.

We were herded off to Jolibee for breakfast and briefing for the day's itinerary. There, we also met with the rest of our Sarangan guides. There was Coco, a tall,twentysomething lady who was to accompany Kuya Pi; two middle-aged women, who were going with ate Ayyi and me to our respective destinations. While eating our breakfast, Sir Dodoy took out a laptop and presented a slide show showcasing everything about Sarangani, from tiger prawns, to Mt. Matutum, Sarangani Bay, various indigenous tribes, and the youthful Governor Miguel Dominguez.

After breakfast, the two women, Tita Taqs and the other Tita went with us, along with Pi and Coco towards a L300 van which would take us from GenSan to Malungon, which I figured wasn't that far since I faintly remember seeing it while we were still on the bus towards GenSan.

Lack of sleep finally caught up with me after we dropped Kuya Pi and Coco at the Capitol. On the road towards Malungon, I couldn't help but doze off with the warm breeze wafting in my face. I must have slept for thirty minutes, before I woke up and saw the van turn towards a small dirt road marked by a signpost that was painted with a big "H". "There's a Hospital here?" I thought, still groggy with sleep. The dirt road led us to a 4-tiered, pagoda-like tower, which appeared to be in the middle of construction. I had come to the Diamond Head Mountain Resort, whose owner, a certain Mr. Ben Figueroa, I was supposed to interview.

The resort was a bit small for someone who has grown used to spending summers at Eden Nature Park, and the facilities were a bit wanting,too; aside from the concrete pagoda which currently serves as a seminar hall, there were only a couple of huts
around the hills. But the view of winding, landscaped hills was beautiful, and the air was cool and fresh, too--it made me want to breathe full and deep...haaah.

A couple of minutes after, I finally met Mr. Ben. He walked around the resort with bare feet. He asked to be excused since he hadn't taken a bath yet.

Around 40 minutes later, after Ms. Taqs was half-way through her life story, Mr. Ben arrives. I was nervous as hell as this was my first time to interview someone. It didn't help that he threw a tiny tantrum at my first question 'cause he said he couldn't understand where I was getting at.

Originally written on December 20, 2006

. . . And it ends there, as I eventually realized the post was too long to finish in one sitting. I did finish the article for the magazine though. I never saw the actual magazine (I doubt the project ever pushed through), but my article did get printed---more than two years later---in a local magazine, with the help of my editor, Ms. Maya. Ah, memories.

I Found It Very Hard to Stay Away

2009-06-02T22:00:00.001+08:00

But as always, I have nothing to say.

I'm Thinking of Boxes . . . and Prunes

2009-05-04T22:28:00.003+08:00

And I'm thinking of moving out. This room's too cramped. Too many people know me. Maybe that's the reason I don't look forward to blogging anymore.

Sorry, loves. I guess I just can't bring myself to be honest to all the people I know and who know me. I just can't get it out of my system: that feeling of always holding myself (i.e., my thoughts) back, of always thinking what you'll all think of me once I get my drivel out in the open. Tsk. Here comes that constipated feeling again.

I think I liked it better when I was obscure, incognito, and obnoxious.

In any case, console yourself with the fact that my life wasn't that interesting: you won't be missing out on anything, trust me.

So. --Hwop, look at the time. And I've got work to do tomorrow, goody. Adios.

The Date Says It All

2009-04-23T23:06:00.003+08:00

I knew I was officially an adult when birthdays, Christmases, and New Years suddenly stopped becoming eventful.

If I live to be forty, I’ll celebrate my birthday with cone hats, balloons, parlor games, pabitin, loot bags---all the things I missed out on when I was a child. But hold the clowns, please.

This day was the first in months that I was able to tell a joke and had someone laugh at it. You can just imagine how constipated I was the whole time.

Just a few hours ago, a thought came to me. I think today should be the day I finally start getting over myself.

On that note, can someone please help me get me out of myself?

Iterax. An antihistamine and an anxiolitic. I took it an hour ago, and I’m betting on it to give me a restful, uninterrupted, seven-hours-straight sleep. The effects are incredible. With Iterax in my system, I bet I can sing the entire BEAM Toothpaste jingle with a straight face. Try me.

I share birthdays with William Shakespeare. Which means nothing, really. Oh, and I forgot: Angel Locsin.

I first heard of this in college. Here’s one of the differences between men and women. When men talk, men discuss topic A, then move on to topic B, then off to topic C, D, E, and so on. Women talk about topic A, then move to topic B, segue into topic C, remember topic A, connect this to topic D, briefly discuss topic E, which gives birth to F, cut short topic F to return to B, and so on. So I guess this gives me an excuse for my entry’s incoherence and logical disorganization. Consider this my little paean to womanity then.

The Iterax is working, people. Yay. *Does cartwheels, still with a straight face*

I’ll sleep now.

Home

2009-04-12T18:56:00.006+08:00

I am typing this sentence from the living room of our house in Davao City.

I should've concluded that statement with several exclamation points, but alas, it's my last night in the city. Tomorrow, Monday, I'll be taking an early morning flight back to Cebu and heading straight to the office for work. This calls for another sans-exclamation-point Yahoo and a fist pump mustered with the least bit of enthusiasm and celebratory spirit possible.

I know I have a rep for being sarcastic, but I'm not completely lying when I say I'm looking forward to going back to work. I have a deadline waiting for me at my PC---which was actually due before I left the office last Thursday---so when I say I'm looking forward to going back to work, I actually mean it. Just don't ask me if I'll be smiling when I'm doing it. 'Cause I definitely won't. In fact, I'll probably be spending tomorrow staring blankly at the monitor, kicking myself in the head for choosing to work approximately 405 kilometers (courtesy of http://www.theairdb.com/connection/CEB-DVO.html) away from home.

The old folks are in the living room, sitting in front of the cable TV and already sleepy. I don't think I've mentioned that I live with all my brothers and my sister in Cebu now. So yeah, it's sad, but my parents are currently living in an empty nest.

Goodness. How did my life get to be so hectic, important, and dramatic anyway? Ah, but I'll catch myself before I go full-digress. That'll be for another blog entry. Sorry to cut this short, but for now I think I'll spend my few remaining waking minutes in Davao with my two favorite people on earth, while we watch nothing on cable and silently enjoy each other's company.

2009-02-20T23:01:00.002+08:00

It's just like a fortress under siege: everbody out wants in; everybody in wants out.

2009-02-14T23:25:00.002+08:00

Here's looking forward to SAD Day number twenty-two.

2009-02-07T19:09:00.005+08:00

Oh, I really wish I could say what's on my mind. There's just so much to filter and distill. My hands can't keep up.

(Pause---distilling)

How's this for a start.

I think it was about a month ago. I was at the beach. I swam toward a floating ledge (I'm not quite sure what to call it. Just imagine huge blocks of Lego forming a square frame and floating in the sea).

I was about a hundred feet or so from the shore. It was there, out in the deep, with the wind howling and the waves crashing and me facing out toward the sea, that I had the overwhelming urge to scream. Just scream. Like Edward Munch "Scream"-scream.

But I didn't. I wasn't able to---'cause I wasn't the only one out there on the ledge. I don't know what I was trying to let out. It's just sad that I didn't do it. I think I'd feel a lot better if I did.

Plus I don't think I've ever heard myself scream before; I'm curious to find out how my voice sounds like when I scream.

I remember this one time in school, I think it was speech class. We were supposed to read a line in a book. Emphatically, with as much emotion as we could muster. The line I was supposed to read was "Fire! Fire! Help!"---or something along those lines.

My head spun and my palms sweat as person after person was called and I realized my turn was coming. I read those lines over and over. I could hear my voice screaming in my head. But when my turn came, my voice wouldn't come out. Despite much prodding from my teacher, I just couldn't make myself do it. Until he grew frustrated and called the next person. My face must have turned red from the effort. And I was embarrassed 'cause I was the only one who couldn't do that one simple thing.

Then there was this movie I watched with a friend. A Japanese film; I think the title was Hanging Garden. And the one scene that stayed in my mind was when the main character---a housewife---was out in her veranda-cum-hanging garden in the twenty-something-floor of her family's apartment. The sky was raining blood, and she was screaming. Just short, shrill staccato screams. She screamed because her husband was having an affair with a dominatrix (whose car stereo kept playing a song whose lines went "I bit your nipple"--or something along those lines) and her daughter just recently started to get curious over love motels and she suspects her son is having a little tryst with his D-cupped tutor. And as for her, she's a housewife. And so she screamed. I don't know if I was supposed to laugh or be horrified at the scene. All I thought was it must be refreshing to be able to openly scream like that.

I just really want to scream. I hope I'd get scream in this lifetime. Fingers crossed.

Is This You?

2009-02-07T19:01:00.000+08:00

What is Avoidant Personality Disorder?Avoidant personality disorder is characterized by extreme social anxiety. People with this disorder often feel inadequate, avoid social situations, and seek out jobs with little contact with others. Avoidants are fearful of being rejected and worry about embarrassing themselves in front of others. They exaggerate the potential difficulties of new situations to rationalize avoiding them. Often, they will create fantasy worlds to substitute for the real one. Unlike schizoid personality disorder, avoidants yearn for social relations yet feel they are unable to obtain them. They are frequently depressed and have low self-confidence.

Symptoms of Avoidant Personality Disorder:
-Social inhibition; retreating from others in anticipation of rejection
-Preoccupation with being rejected or criticized in social situations
-Fear of embarrassment results in avoidance of new activities
-Poor self-image; feelings of social ineptitude
-Desire for improved social relations
-Appear to others as self-involved and unfriendly
-Creation of elaborate fantasy

If this is you, apir.

This Is Me Counting the Days to an Eventual Burnout*

2009-01-31T18:53:00.008+08:00

There's nothing to write. I'm tired of being around words and letters, that's why.

In one of our afternoon breaks, I realized I wasn't the only one. Most of the c------ e------s I know have shunned blogging and posting in online forums altogether. Our problem: we pay too much attention to punctuation to even care about content. Yuh. It's just too hard to pay attention to the inner crappings of my mind when I can hear The Chicago Manual of Style whispering in my ear as I type.

And for those who ask what do I do: I am the master of the comma.

*I kid. Of course I love my job. God bless my job. It feeds my strong consumerist tendencies.

Bulk up, ladies!

2008-12-27T20:36:00.005+08:00

According to a Japanese study, young people who skip breakfast tend to lose their virginity earlier.

Well! Who on earth knew! This is groundbreaking research indeed!

Holidays and Overtimes Always Get Me Down . . .

2008-12-21T19:54:00.005+08:00

Bah. The few days before Christmas, and again my thoughts and moods begin to favor the gloomy and melancholy. How . . . characteristically me.

It's not an exaggeration to say that I don't have a life outside work. I love work so much that I never want to leave the office. I come to the office at eight and I leave at ten thirty, sometimes at eleven. Company policy forbids the bringing of electronic devices as cell phones and iPods into the work station. I keep myself occupied by having the Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony" and Donna Summer's "She Works Hard for the Money" on constant playback in my head. How very apt.

Yesterday we had our team's Christmas party. It was a costume party; I went as Daria. I didn't even have to put much effort into staying in character. Lest we forget, I am ever awkward at social gatherings. In fact, I am awkward forever. This calls for another bah.

For the longest time, I've sworn never to let my system be tainted by a drop of caffeine. Unfortunately, circumstances no longer allow me to stay awake and functional without the help of a little cuppa. Out of pride, I still stay away from coffee and opt for tea instead.

And I know it's way past Thanksgiving; nonetheless, I would like to express my gratitude to Stresstabs, Myra 300 E, and my generic vitamin C tablets for giving me the energy to last the day--and night.

Have a good one, guys!

The good news is . . .

2008-11-15T20:59:00.004+08:00

I finally landed a job. The bad news is, I don't have time to blog anymore. Ahuhuh.

Myeh. Not really. I'm just having what they call a creative dry spell, I guess. You'd think I'd have prepared a ten-page account of my life these past few months. But on the contrary, I don't really miss blogging at all. Doesn't help that I live in the hinterlands of the city, and the nearest internet cafe is two jeepney rides away. Okay, I exaggerate. Actually that's one habal-habal and a jeepney ride away.

There's nothing much to tell about my life now, actually. Okay. One, I live here in Cebu. Two, jeepney conductors give me a blank look when I ask for my "kambyo." Three, I try to stifle a giggle when people say "kupot" (because for some inane reason, I just find it so funny).

The past--wait, let me remove my fingers from the keyboard because I just can't, for the life of me, do mental counting--three months were an adventure. And I can say that I have become a stronger person because of Cebu. Yes, a lot of firsts happened here. It was here that I killed my first cockroach (and the next few hundred, courtesy of Baygon), had my first habal-habal ride, and had my first unplanned excursion to another city (courtesy of Cebu's befuddling jeepney route designation, which I think involves all letters from A to Z attached to numbers from one to infinity). Thankfully, I have yet to experience my first stickup. Simbako palayo.

As for my employment status, I am not prepared to divulge details as yet. Let's just say the kind of work I do thrives on paranoia, deadlines, F7, and the correct assignment of punctuation. And yes, according to The Chicago Manual of Style, an ellipsis point is three spaced periods . . .

*Netopia guy announces "Last ten minutes"*

Ah, but it's not so bad here. Thanks to my company and my probationary status, I think I'll even spend my first Christmas here. Fun.

Okay, my ten minutes is up.

A quick message from the jobless

2008-08-24T13:11:00.004+08:00

So I made it to Cebu after all.

And yes, you read that right: I am still unemployed. I've been turned down for my first job application, so now I'm back in the hunt.

And may I say, my very first "rejection" call hurt (cue teardrop). For now I've built myself a wall of indomitability 'cause I sense more rejections coming my way.

That's all for now. I'll post Update No. 2 when I finally do get a job. Any job.

Sign-off.

Frustrations

2008-07-09T03:23:00.002+08:00

I've always wanted to draw.

One of my earlier childhood memories was of my brother raising a bet with a neighbor regarding how well I could draw. He was bragging that I could draw the exact likeness of Emilio Aguinaldo (with the now-defunct five peso bill as reference). I was around four or five, and my brother was obviously shooting the moon. It didn't matter; the bet never materialized since neither one of us could produce the five peso bill--it was a huuuge amount of money then.

I daresay, even before I took my first stabs at writing generic poems about kites flying high, way up in the sky, or love that comes from up above in second grade, I was already steeped in a passion for drawing.

In first grade, I got into some trouble after my teacher found out that I had been drawing at the back of my Lesson Plan notebook--specifically, the notebook that was supposed to be devoted solely to writing practice. In particular, I remember getting a good scolding in front of the class when my teacher saw a sketch I made of a man, in a robe and headress, holding a ticking time bomb, as inspired by a line from a Christmas carol parody that went: "Whenever I see girls and boys selling lanterns on the street/I remember Saddam, namaligya ug taymbam (time bomb)." Until now, I still remember the name of the boy that ratted me and my sketches off to Ma'am Sonico. I never gave him a moment's peace after that, especially after I had to endure the punishment of writing a hundred alphabet sets for a week after lunchtime.

Despite that embarrassing and traumatising incident, the urge to draw (especially during lulls in class discussions) never left me. Little wonder, considering that my school was known for its fondness for the arts. Nary a month passed without school officials declaring some sort of special celebration, be it Nutrition Month, Linggo ng Wika, Math and Science Week, UN Week, Sportsfest, President Munda's Birthday, Teachers' Day, Janitors' Day, or some other monthly activity they invented. And of course, these celebrations wouldn't be complete without the mandatory poster-making contest. Mandatory, since students were expected to bring their supply of 1/4-sized cartolina (with an inch's margin on all sides) and their own coloring materials--much to the consternation of parents. For one day, all classes would be suspended, and classroom tables would be filled with plastic cups filled with cloudy water, peeled-off crayon labels, and eraser grime. I didn't think much of these contests, but I looked forward to them anyway, since it would mean I would have to leave my bagload of notebooks and books at home. Plus, if I finished early, I could spend the rest of the day at play. Nevertheless, I always managed to win a few medals and ribbons.

Up until now, I consider it a point of pride that I can draw so well, considering that I never took any formal training in art. To be honest, the only reason I never got started in art lessons was because the only ones being offered in school, at that time, were always headed by the school's art director, who also happened to be the school's only art teacher--or so it seemed, since she always taught each art class I ever attended in the entirity of my grade school life. And, well, I just plain disliked her. She almost never showed up for class, and always gave us homework that she never bothered (even to show up for) to check. Up until now, it still amazes me how I don't remember learning anything from all those six years I spent sitting in her art class.

Oh-kaaay, it's past three in the morning and I already feel woozy. I think I'll stop writing now. Anyhoo, I was just thinking that if this writing career doesn't pan out, I think it's time I consider going back to school to learn--finally-- how to draw.

I Take it Back

2008-06-28T13:17:00.002+08:00

I'm staying after all.

Gah, to think that my little "farewell speech" even got published in a daily. But what the heck; everyone has to eat their words some time. Now's my turn.

Anyhoo, I just had the couple of weeks to think things through. And I just realized: I was so naive to think I could just come to the Big City and expect to land that dream job with absolutely no experience to back me up. As for my friend, she's already in Makati. I'm guessing she's either too busy to answer my emails, or maybe she's giving me the silent treatment for reneging on my promise. *sigh*

But anyway, that's it; I'm staying. I still can't say if it's for good. All I know right now is I'll make the most of my time here. And that means gathering up as much relevant work experience as I can and, well, spending more good times with friends and family. Gosh, it feels so good reading this on the monitor. I wish I can stay this sunny and optimistic forever, haha!

Okay, I've got to split. I've baptized this time in my life as my "Year of Living Productively" (ooh, how ambitious).

But before I get started, I'll have to get my NBI clearance first.

To infinity and beyond!

Tsk.

2008-06-09T21:17:00.004+08:00

Writing resumes is scary. I wish I'd kept a copy of the resume I wrote for Business Writing class in third year, which only took me less than 5 minutes to complete. I guess it's much easier writing one when you aren't really looking for a job. Right now, I think I'm too modest to write an effective cover letter. Oh meeehn.

*insert three dashes to indicate break in storyline*

A friend invited me come with her to work in Manila. Problem is, my father won't hear anything of it. She's leaving on Wednesday, and she desperately wants me to come so we can be roomies. I, meanwhile, am seriously considering applying for a call center within the week so that I can finally get started on my career path, and also give Papa the message that I am hell-bent on leaving home to get a job. Not that I'm leaving to spite him; I'm doing this for myself, 'cause I don't want to be a drain on my parents' finances forever. Plus I just find the idea of doing my own laundry, cooking my own food and burning triangular shapes on my slacks oh so exciting. But demmit it's so hard to make him understand!!! Hrrr! Tsk, bummer. Eh, whatever. Whether he allows it or not, I'm leaving. But I do hope there's a happy ending to this dilemma--I really don't want the drama of being sent off at the airport sans father 'cause he doesn't agree with my decision.

Really, I'm so upset I can't stop "tsk"-ing!

The break-up speech

2008-05-20T00:08:00.009+08:00

Tonight I was yet again presented with the opportunity to take a romantic stroll around the city. In short, it was too ma-traffic (and humid), so I figured I'd get to my destination faster if I just walked along the bridge.

While walking, I thought, I'm going to miss this city. *sigh*

Haven't really made plans for where I'll get a job yet; all I know is that it won't be here.
Some well-meaning people ask me if I'm crazy for choosing to leave. Yes, I know; it's a tough choice. I'm thinking--Once I leave, I can never drink water straight from the tap again. I don't think I'll be able to have a good, filling meal with P30--even P20-- any place else. And the no-smoking ordinance--I don't think I'll have the benefit of that where I'm heading. Plus I think I'll have to forget all about getting exact change from the taxi driver, and having access to wi-fi virtually anywhere.

Worse, I don't think I can walk the streets alone at 2am--and still come home with my mobile (and my life)--anymore.

I don't know. Davao to me is like the too-good-to-be-true boyfriend. He never lets me pay for dinner; always holds the door open for me; makes hatid-sundo--even if he doesn't have a car; he brings an umbrella for when we go out and it's cloudy. He'll protect me from anything. He includes me in his prayers. As much as possible, he'll never want me to strain a finger. He gives me everything so I'll never want for anything. Just so I'll never look to another again.

But I just know I have to leave him soon.

Why?

Well, it's not you--it's me. Really. I feel suffocated. I don't think it's healthy that you're pampering me this much. Now look what you've done to me: I'm naive, I'm spoiled, I'm lazy. If you send me out into the big, bad world, I'm probably not going to last a minute. See, there's just not growing up with you. So I'm leaving you for the bad boy boyfriend. 'Cause I need someone to be mean and rude to me. Someone who doesn't dote on me. Someone who leaves me out in the cold and rain and'll think I'll be okay. Someone who forgets me for a couple of days or weeks.

Then, after I've grown some tough outer skin, I'll come back to you. Hopefully as someone better. And hopefully you'll still take me back.

2008-04-26T00:19:00.004+08:00

Okay, I don't know what's come over me, but lately, all I've been thinking about is "I have to do something with my life."

(Wait, scratch the life part, I realize I just have to do "something," period.)

Seriously, though, this "something" is beginning to bother me already. I don't know if there's such a thing as "post-graduation anxiety," but if there is, I'm probably in the midst of it right now. Just like a wave of nausea that comes and goes. There are times when I'd go through the days guiltlessly and blissfully unmindful of the time I'm wasting. But then there are times when I'd be in the middle of something, and suddenly get the overwhelming urge to cry (not cry as in shed tears, but more like cry ala Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, in that scene where he puts aftershave on his face and then goes "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!") or wring my hands and just be filled with this strong, unexplainable sense of dread and anguish.

I've even begun to think I'm experiencing the physiological symptoms of this so-called anxiety. Like, I've noticed there's been more hair caught in the drain than usual, and I've been persistently ill for reasons unknown. Add to that the palpitations and the cold sweats that suddenly engulf me (in the middle of summer), and the fact that I've been sighing a lot the past few days. Yes, I exaggerate, and tend to be a bit of a hypochondriac, but I think it's reasonably normal to assume that all these point to elevated stress levels brought about by thinking too much of THE UNCERTAIN FUTURE. (Cue thunderbolts and lightning)

Yes, I'm scared. Everyone's asking me for my plans, my goals, what I'll be doing now that I'm through with school and am now officially an adult. But I honestly don't know what to say.

But, I have to stress, it's not that I don't have goals, (as a friend portentously remarked as she was reading my palm). No, I have goals. Lots of them. I'm swimming in goals. But the thing is, I don't know which goal to pursue first. I don't know if that's the same banana as having no goals, but there it is. Yuh.

Why's everyone so concerned about other people's goals anyway? I admit, even I engage in--I don't know what to call it--"goal-fishing," sometimes. I don't know why I do it; I don't think it's from a genuine concern and interest I have for the lives of other human beings. Maybe I just do it and secretly wish that someone would tell me they don't know yet (then we'd high-five and console each other or something). But most of the time, everyone seems to have plans to share. So now I'm the only one who feels lost and left behind. And utterly, miserably goal-less.

Anyhoo, I'd like to end this post on a high note. So folks, give me a month to do some navel-gazing and think of some goals, okay? I'll do that, just as soon as I pry my lazy ass off this bed. In the meantime, do me a favor and hold off those burning questions, yeesh.

Birthday Shmirthday.

2008-04-24T12:28:00.003+08:00

So yesterday was my birthday, and today it has been 36 hours and 32 minutes since I turned 21. Nothing special about it; just wanted to blog to mark the occasion. But really, for all the hype I used to heap on birthdays as a kid, yesterday's celebration was pretty dismal. No parties, no cakes, candles. Just dinner with the family and some relatives, and to which I even managed to come late.

Then the bill arrived, and that was that.

It's been more than a month since graduation, and Lord help me I'm still not doing anything with my life. I feel like my brain muscles are slowly starting to atrophy from disuse. So right now, I'm jumping at every invitation thrown my way, just so I'll have an excuse to not spend another morning, afternoon, and evening inside the house. So my May 3's booked for a youth circle orientation courtesy of Ate Ayyi. But really, I couldn't care less if it's an orientation for growing house plants, just as long as I get to see human faces again. Yes.

Oh life. Really, I need to do something with my precious earth hours. Meep.

Okay, signing out.

The soundtrack of the last 3 years - and perhaps the rest - of my life

2008-03-10T01:13:00.006+08:00

I also dedicate the first few lines of this song to the "few" people, who are probably reading this, who will understand. =)

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eSnips Social DNA

2008-03-01T22:10:00.001+08:00

Comfortably Numb

2008-02-22T20:06:00.003+08:00

How else can I explain it, except that I see no reason to be upset? I can not even cry. Well, even if I wanted to, I still can't; actually, they're too dry even for comfort. In fact, I think I'll go to sleep after this.

How's this for a start: I needed a good letdown. And that was a good letdown. It's always comforting to know that the universe is still crankin' out good old-fashioned karma. And even if I'm the intended recipient, it's all good. No biggie, universe.

Excuse my crudeness, but we all deserved a good kick in the head. So now we clean up our mess, wipe our sniveling noses, and do better. That's all there is to it. No "what-ifs," no 'If-I-hads, no expressions of regret, please. As far as I know, there are much more effed-up things to howl about. And this? This is but a pinprick.

You're my friend. I know this just bites. I just don't get all the sobbing, that's all.

As for me, I just feel good living in this world. This wonderful world full of suffering and also of overcoming, of unsuspecting strangers that you want to console and hug 'cause they have such sad faces and you don't understand, "what's with all the sobbing?"

And this is me probably doing crazy-speak, but let me reassure you: I took no illegal substances. In fact, all I remember taking today is a good breakfast. And after that I sang some Pink Floyd. And I saw a glorious afternoon. This made me feel so good, that when they broke the "bad" news, I could no longer wipe the grin off my face. And suddenly they were looking a bit teary-eyed, and I furrowed my brows 'cause I didn't understand. That's when I asked, "what's with all the sobbing?"

Ah, but I do not care to understand. At this point I think I'll just relish in this comfortable feeling of numbness, 'cause I'm not sure when I'll be served a good breakfast.

But for now I really need to sleep.

The Vengeful One

2008-01-14T16:16:00.000+08:00

A baboon stole my ice cream just as I was crossing a street and getting to the other side of the road.

No, this is not some region in Africa I'm talking about here. I'm talking Davao here, and the incident happened on an avenue just a few meters from a shopping mall.

But there it was, a baboon on the road, and it was looking to have food the easiest way possible. I was about to step out of the way of a jeepney when, from behind me, I heard someone say, "ako na lang ni 'te." Before the beast could even finish its sentence, and before I could gather that I was the recepient of the message, the ice cream cone had been pried violently from my hand.

Not quite believing what had happened, I looked at the jeepney in front of me. I looked for the hint of a shock in the first face I could find, just to confirm what had occured--and to tell me that the ice cream that was in my right hand was not just a phantom I had been imagining the last five minutes or so. Sure enough, inside the jeepney, beside the driver, a man was staring at me dumbfoundedly. He looked half-shocked, and half-attentive, like he had witnessed something straight out of the movies, and was now waiting for me to make the next move.

My first impulse was to look ahead, step onto the curb, shrug, feign an amused smile to give everyone the impression that I was unfazed by the incident--"it's all part of life, folks!"--and forget whatever happened as I walk away. But, something stopped me from taking a step forward. Something in my head just refused to let this "little" incident go.

I mean sure, sure, it was just a P15 soft-serve ice cream. And I had about finished it half-way when that punk came around and took it from me. Y'see, it wasn't about the ice cream anymore. It was the utter disrespect of his action. He took it from me because he thought I was an easy target. I was small, and I was female--in short, he probably thought I was defenseless. He would practically be taking candy from a baby. And the tone of his voice, and the look of triumph on his face just as he had seized the cone from my hand--it was utterly without guilt. And that was what had made me change my mind.

After a few seconds, I finally recovered my lower jaw and turned around, just in time to see the louse stride confidently toward the other side of the road with two companions.

I wanted so badly to erase that smirk off the louse's face the soonest time possible that I was racing along the road, oblivious to oncoming vehicles, feeling that my my open palms were sufficient to stop their advance. I fixed my eyes on the pack of baboons, who were confidently making their exit across a makeshift ukay-ukay stall. Then, as I was within reach of the three baboons, I gave the last one a mighty shove from behind. Which, I realize in retrospect, was the wrong move. I should have just sneaked behind him and reached for the bastard's hair with my two hands and resolved never to let go until I've ripped a sizable chunk of his scalp off his skull with my tenacious fists.

In any case, the louse, who was shielded from my wrath by his two companions, was instantly alerted at the first sign of trouble, and proceeded to make a blind run for it. Meanwhile, I, realizing that the baboon had made too much headway for me to catch up with him, was hurling invectives and death threats at him in my faltering, surprisingly high-pitched voice. Adrenaline had not only made my voice go three octaves higher; it also made me unaware of my surroundings, as I was too intent on not losing sight of my target. As a result, I only realized later, as I was huffing and puffing my way back onto the street again, that in my haste to exact vengeance, I had stepped on a kanal. But I couldn't care less. At that point, I would have very much preferred rolling in mud or crap while engaging in a fistfight with the offender, if only to exact my idea of "instant justice."

Of course, the real, less-exciting scene was such a letdown for me. In the end, I think I only managed to land a stray blow with my flailing hands before he took off. (And I was really hoping to draw blood, sniff sniff.) But I think I had gotten my point across, and succeeded in letting that street punk know better than to mess with people half his size. Much less a woman who has happened to watch "Taxi Driver" and "The Brave One." 'Cause I can get really rabid. bitchy and un-Christian-like given the right conditions.

Anyway, it's been two days. I have had enough time to calm my nerves, and also to rationalize the whole event. Although I still have to do yoga breaths whenever my mind goes back to that event. And I don't think I can look at a McDip sundae the same way again...

Well anyhoo, thinking about it now, I realize that I really should have just let that street punk have it.

My fist, I mean. And my other fist.

Viva la mujer!!!

My Manifesto

2007-12-10T16:22:00.001+08:00

"Why do things come so much easier to other people, but not to me?

"Life, to me, seems like a series of tests or challenges; each one posing the question of whether I'll pass or fail.

"I'm not saying fate has been unkind. I just can't help getting this feeling that circumstances are always conspiring to present me in this scenario where I am forced to make a hard decision between staying in my comfort zone or stepping out. There is an unseen force that keeps pushing me to overcome my weakness."

me, having a major Bruce Almighty moment, post draft, 19 October 2007

I recall having said it some months past. Not said--more like realized. But now it has come to me in full clarity. This, then, is not so much a realization as a cold conviction:

"Life will always be a challenge to me."

A difficulty. A series of obstacles. An endless row of hurdles I have to get past. I have thought of it in the past, and felt a pang of guilt at how bleakly I saw life. These, I thought then, are not the words of someone who appreciates the joy in living. I wonder why I feel less apologetic about this outlook now. Maybe because I do not consider this a flaw in my character anymore. It is not; it is simply how I am.

Life is never going to become easy for me. And I realize that this is how I am to go through life from now on. Not solely because I will it for myself to be placed in difficult situations. But because the people around me have determined it for themselves to make life difficult for me. Do not get me wrong; I do not say that in a mean, accusatory way--as if I am a victim and they, the perpetrators. By my statement, I mean that these people claim to know more of me than I know myself. They see in me abilities that I can only describe as wanting, insufficient—non-existent, even.

I know she can do it. We just have to push her.
overheard from someone, somewhere, about a year ago

They have judged me, and are unshakeable in the belief that I am capable of the weight they place on me.

So how am I to react to all of these?

Though there are times when I am plagued with self-doubts and appear incredulous to the faith of others, I know I can’t bear to fail them or prove them wrong. In spite of my shallow protests of ineptitude, inside I know I am prepared to take on, to the best of my abilities (including those which they unmistakably claim I possess) everything they have to deliver. I will relish in these obstacles, brush them aside as soon as I have conquered them, and anticipate the next one. Ladies and men: Bring. It. On.

originally written on 8 December 2007, 1:18 AM

Kamustahan

2007-11-09T20:29:00.000+08:00

I have not been sleeping very well these days. And it shows. The first day of class for the second semester, and the first conversation thrown in my direction revolved around my eyes.

"Have you been crying?"

"No."

"Stung by a bee?"

"No."

"Then what happened to your eyes?"

Okay, what can I say, aside from the obvious? I don't know why I don't look forward to sleeping anymore. Wait, I do. It's just that I'm starting to get tired of always being disappointed 'cause it never comes around when I want it to.

***

In other news:

I’m feeling very bummed out about my final semester at school. Everywhere I turn, I am always hounded by the thought that I have to do my thesis. Wait, it's supposed to be OUR thesis, only it seems like I'm the one bearing the brunt of the burden. Thesis thesis thesis. It's hounding my waking hours, like I'm hearing the beating heart of a man I just murdered. And everytime I think about it, the rest of my life seems to flash before my eyes. (I'm never going to get a good job. I have lost all opportunities for career advancement. I have failed the gods!)

I ought to stop beating myself in the head with this. But I feel so alone. Everyone else seems so caught up in their own struggle for academic survival. The environment in class, I feel, has turned artificial. We're like zombies with permanent smiles plastered on our faces. It feels like no one can keep up a lively conversation anymore, because at the back of our heads lies the thought that "there's work to be done." Everyone wants to avoid talking about it, but it always seems to rear its ugly head in every instance. I, for one, have come to dread small talk, since it always leads to the inevitable query of "Kamusta'ng thesis nyo?" And each time I hear that question, all liveliness seems to dissipate from my body. I don't see how I can answer that question now with a smile in my heart.

And now, I even sense the tension getting thicker and thicker. Oh it's vicious, I don't even want to go into the details. I'd never have imagined the last year of college could be so harrowing. Ah, life's what you make it, as they say. What bull.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to see the day when I am posed that all-important question and I can finally tell them, with a deep breath of satisfaction and the triumphant pump of a fist, "It is done." Right, right. Daydream’s over; must get back to work.

(Song playing at the back of my head: U2, Stuck in a Moment)

Private Profile

2007-10-29T02:02:00.000+08:00

I've convinced myself 289 years ago that I didn't like him anymore. And whatever feelings I had for him then, I'm sure, just went along the lines of infantile. And of course I still feel the same way today.

Now, am I happy--no, content--with this present state of affairs? I don't know. A lot of time's passed since then. There's just no way of telling. It has reached the point where hypothetical questions have become moot and irrelevant. He is there, and I am here. Time and distance has rendered even the most fertile of imaginings fruitless.

But sometimes, out of nowhere, a flicker of his existence suddenly appears in my unsuspecting mind. All of a sudden, I just have to know how he's doing. I want to know what's been going on in his life. 'Cause that's just the way I am. I have way too much idle time in my hands, which is why I spend most of it doing meaningless things like running through the cobwebs in my mind. I'm pretty sure it's not the symptom of being hung up. Vestiges of past obsessions still run deep within me. I tell you, they can be very hard to overcome. Or perhaps I'm just in love with the idea of being obsessed.

Eitherway, it didn't help when last week, I heard two voices passing his name back and forth. All the while I tried my best to act uninterested and do the proper thing--which is not to listen to other people's conversations. Like hell I could.

My best attempt at eavesdropping only resulted in picking up the dregs of whispers, giggles, "Oh-my-gods," and intrigue. Still, I am no better than the last time we met but didn't speak--not even so much as look or acknowledge that we once knew each other's names.

Now, more than ever, I am itching to find out what has happened to him, if only to reassure myself that I need not have bothered.

But I can't, cause his life--the only one I can have access to--is restricted only to his friends.

Cursed be.

Rising Above

2007-10-07T00:28:00.000+08:00

The defense was not a success. No, our proposal was not rejected, but it came close. So now I am still in academic limbo. No revised thesis, no grade--and possibly, another year at school.

Surprisingly, I handled this setback quite well. I didn't cry; I didn't rat about my thesis partners to my friends; I didn't even think of quitting school and leaving for someplace where life would be much easier and you could get employment without a degree. 'Cause that's how I lived my life in the past. I always found a way to run away: from school, from relationships (that were purely platonic, I must stress), and from responsibilities that I felt were too daunting to take on. That's why I was never familiar with the feeling of failure or pain.

Now I'm just glad that I'm starting to live responsibly. I took it easy the past couple of months, so I received my inevitable comeuppance. So now all I'll have to do is make things better.

Amazing, the things you can do once you take whining and histrionics out of the equation.

Just a Lousy Update

2007-10-04T21:27:00.000+08:00

This, the night before our thesis defense. My groupmates and I are inside this cafe, pulling an all-nighter in a gung-ho attempt to finish all revisions.

The bouquet of coffee, fried meats, and chocolate cake wafts in the stale air conditioned air. I am hungry. As of the moment, I have a P30 tab for the use of electricity. Subtract that amount from the contents of my wallet, and all I'll have left is P2 and a Canadian penny.

My brain, meanwhile, is running on a dozen refills of water.

Tear.

Moments that do wonders for my self-esteem

2007-09-25T00:21:00.000+08:00

Yesterday afternoon, at our Division Chair's office:

Division Chairperson: (gives me a funny look, points a finger at me, and tells a MassComm student) "Why is (my name here) in English, and not in Mass Comm?"

Me (and the other student): *nervous laugh; exchange puzzled glances*
(at this point I communicate to the other student, by way of telekinesis and some eyebrow acrobatics: "I have no idea why she's asking you that question. Hmm, I also don't know why she's only asked you that, now that we're already in 4th YEAR. I sense a punchline forthcoming...")

Division Chairperson (who, not surprisingly, is in the mood to taunt/torment me again): "Nyee, si (my name) , nabilin na, nabilin na." (rough translation: "Nyee, si (pangalan ko), napag-iwanan na, napag-iwanan na.")

Me: (too nervous to give sarcastic laughter; continues with nervous laughter and awkwardly slinks out of Atty. Division Chairperson's office, thinking: "Yehess. Rub it in, ma'am, rub it in...")

I'm in Over my Head

2007-09-06T23:37:00.000+08:00

But I'm trying to convince myself otherwise. I've just been handed big responsibility (to me, however, it came in the shape of a crown of thorns). The thing is, I don't know what to do with it. I feel so helpless. Incompetent. Dumb. Just plain scared that I just might screw things up and make an ass of myself in full view of everyone. This must be what they mean when they say, "it's lonely at the top." People expect you to be at the top of your game, when in all honesty you are just as in the dark as they are.

But there's no turning back now. With the illusion of attaining personal growth"--and an extra line in my resume--dangled in my face, I took the bait and said "yes." So I guess I will just have to suck it all in and do this, even if I have to bluff my way for the most part.
---
'Times like these when I thank God I have friends to give me much-needed mirror checks. A few minutes ago, I was just reminded by a friend that I create my own nightmares by always seeing the threat in every opportunity. And that made all the difference between a night of stewing in self-concocted anguish and facing up to my personal demons. *heaves a sigh of relief* I'm all better now, thank you.

Your fortune cookie says...

2007-09-02T01:48:00.001+08:00

Still Alive, Still Alive

2007-08-26T00:41:00.001+08:00

Okay, an update is in order to dispel notions that I have finally killed myself. Other than that, I feel no special urge to blog.

Really, my Sisyphusian battle with procrastination has led me to foretell that the weeks following this will be...action-filled. I fear that I will have to scratch my claim that I thrive under pressure. Tsk tsk.
---
Okay, what else can I tell you all, except that I now sport an updated version of a mullet? Thank you, hairstylist, for now making me the butt of bad 80s jokes. Makes me wonder if this cycle of bad luck has anything to do with my refusal to forward those chain mails I've been getting a lot of lately.

Okay, I'm just as swamped as you are as to where I got that one. Thinking disjointedly. My mind feels as restless as my jimmy legs. Not good, not good at all!

That's it. I'm done. Amazing how I wasted close to two hours cranking this out.

Today is a good day to die

2007-07-23T22:21:00.000+08:00

Alternative title: Not really ready to make happy

Earlier this afternoon: Went to school today and found out I had skipped three major subjects to study for a Theology exam that, as I found out in that prof-less classroom later, didn't take place.

Now: I have wiped out whatever doubs and reservations I have as to the existence of karma.
---

It was a humid afternoon. The kind of afternoon that gets your ill-fitting uniform sticking like velcro to your back. The kind that keeps sweat forming on your forehead even after you've wiped it time and again, with your already soaked hanky. The kind that leaves you thinking that, in this sea of immaculate white skirts, khaki pants, and sky blue polos; in this sea of smiles, laughter, high-fives and cheerful banter; in this sea where everyone is always having a good time with somebody; in this sea bustling with co-curricular and extra-curricular activity where everyone is expected to foster camaraderie and build goodwill and better friendships, you--you with your emaciated 3-year old flats, ill-fitting 3 year-old uniform, sweaty forehead, tired eyes, and downturned lips--you are all alone.

And so, as I walked alone outside the school gate--the same way I always did the past 3 years, I thought about it. Thought about a ledge on the 7th floor. Thought about falling head-first onto the pavement and seeing people from classroom windows upside-down. Thought about the last few things I might think about as gravity takes its course with heavy objects hurled in open air.

But then I thought of pain. The pain of botched suicide attempts. The pain of fragmented bones, impacted skulls, and blood oozing from flesh ripped open. And so I thought of other things instead.

---

And contrary to what the title suggests, and what you may think, I am actually a very happy person. I have friends. I have a loving-but-not-very-demonstrative-of-affection family. I live a comfortable middle-class existence. So I guess my little sad episode was just a culmination of the past few days--weeks, years-- spent feeling extremely alone, isolated, and out of place in the midst of very happy people. This feeling of never belonging--with my family, my relatives, classmates--even in my own body--overwhelms me sometimes. And it makes me sigh...and occasionally blog about it.

P.S.

I hope I didn't live up to anyone's expectations that I am dark and brooding. I really don't mean to be. I really don't. Like hell I'd want to be labeled emo. But I'm just not the Carebears/rainbows-and-butterflies type. And even if they say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile, I still feel weird and oddly disgusted when I force a smile. Which leads me to my conclusion that no one can be happy all the time. And if a person always has a smile plastered on her face, she's either deluding herself into thinking her life's going to be so much better, or is teetering on the verge of insanity. See, it just isn't possible.

2007-07-09T23:24:00.000+08:00

Ay uy bisa'g unsaon wala man gyud ko'y masuwat.

Give me a new mode of experience, or get out of my face

2007-07-01T01:15:00.000+08:00

I'm proud to tell you all that, while I was away, I was making something out of my life.

June 15, 9:00 PM. I attended the informal orientation for Rock Ed volunteers at the Transcend Bar of Ponce Suites. Gang Badoy (one-half of the hosts of Rock Ed Radio, the other one being the much-worshipped Lourd de Veyra) was there, and so was Tado. Pepe Diokno (of Inquirer's Super!) and filmmaker Kidlat de Guia were also in attendance, although the only ones who talked during the orientation were Gang and Tado.

On the other side, the volunteers were made up of me, Ate Ayyi (Rock Ed's Coordinator for Mindanao), a brother and sister pair from USP whose names escape me, this other mountain-climbing dude whose name, again, escapes me, and a group of black-shirted punks. There were others, too, but they came much later so their names also went inside my brain's trash bin. One of them was this lawyer-slash-musician who reminds me of Emily the Strange. All in all, there were only about a dozen of us, which surprised me, considering that I sent messages of invitation to almost all the names in my phone's inbox. Sigh. But Gang was appreciative enough of the crowd that came, however small we were. She thinks it's much better to start with a lean-and-mean core group of volunteers that can deliver, as opposed to a whole battalion that can't commit.

...

*clears throat*

...

I'm not really one to elaborate. And I really don't feel like making an impassioned piece on how Gang's words moved me to action. All I want to tell you all is this: I can do something. We all can. We don't need to do anything grand. For starters, we can just work with what we have. That's how RockEd started. Simple.

Right. Now let me get to the part where I ask for your help.

Please help.

What I did This Summer

2007-06-22T21:42:00.001+08:00

Earlier this month, I tagged along with Mama on her business trip to Cebu. I took it as a chance to be reunited with my older brother and sister, who have been based in Cebu for several years now.

But really, the real reason I was begging Mama to take me along with her was so that I could finally experience my first plane ride. The last time I've ever seen the innards of a plane was when I was still in kindergarten, on a field trip to the Sasa Airport. But I'm really not complaining, since being inside closed spaces sends me into a semi-hyperventilating fit. It definitely didn't help that a few days before, I had watched Air Crash Investigation on NGC. Smoldering plane debris. Limbs and luggage strewn all over the mountainside. A bloodied woman yelling, "My baby! My baaaaby!!!". These were not scenes that you wanted playing inside your head as the plane prepared to take-off from the runway.

Okay, I don't want to make too much of it. I got on the plane, strapped myself onto my seat, and convinced myself that God really does exist and will do everything in Her power to not end my life right then and there. So I prayed for my safety, for the plane to stay aloft for the duration of the flight, for the pilots to be sober, for the weather to be forgiving, and for terrorists to be somewhere else but in my cabin. Good to know that my prayer was potent, as I made it to Cebu and back not inside a wooden crate.

Anyhoo, my short stay in Cebu (which also happened to be my first), wasn't that eventful. My brother has work, so he's away during the day. Sister, meanwhile, works at a call center, so she only returns around noon and spends the rest of the afternoon sleeping. Meanwhile, I would sleep in my hotel room until 12. Upon waking up, I would walk to Ayala Mall; but, having no money with me most of the time, I just amused myself by people-watching--which doesn't make the fact that I'm broke any less lamentable. One thing I did notice on my people-watching episodes, though: Cebu seems to be swamped with Koreans. Not that there's anything noteworthy about that. I just felt like writing it. Okay, enough about that.

Oh, and my brother seems to harbor a mild form of resentment toward Koreans. He complains that they always talk as if they have a hard time hearing each other. "Everywhere," he says, "even inside movie houses!"

Other things that happened to me at Cebu:

Against my better judgment, I took a jeepney ride alone, intending to go to a National Bookstore branch near Fuente Osmeña. Instead, I ended up at a port somewhere. I guess that means I rode the wrong jeepney. Good thing all jeepney routes always seem to lead to either Ayala or SM.
After disembarking somewhere at Ayala, I again lost my way. I didn't know Ayala was such a huge place. And the buildings all looked alike. But I found my way back to the hotel anyway, so it's all good.
I was able to see the much-hullabalooed 'ASEAN Summit' lampposts along Mandaue. Tsk tsk tsk. Which reminds me: whatever happened to allegations that our garbage bins were also overpriced?
I saw Budoy riding a big bike.

Ahk. I told you nothing much happened to me at Cebu.

A Letter I Write While Staring at You Passed Out in a Sitting Position on the Couch (and while I am half-watching Frankie and Johnny)

2007-05-31T01:15:00.000+08:00

(Incomplete and Bridged)
Written in the early minutes of Sunday, May 27

I want you to know that I am holding you responsible for your own life (and inevitable demise). That if ever something happens to you—death, disability, a chronic, lingering illness—I shall not be held liable to harbor any form of guilt or regret.

I wrote you a long letter a few years ago. I shed many tears on that letter. I humiliated myself in class during my fourth year retreat in high school by being reduced to a sniveling, weepy mess pouring my heart out writing that letter. All that for nothing. Therefore, should any of my forecasts hold true in the future, I can only tell you this: You brought (and are continually bringing) this upon yourself; I therefore exercise my right to extricate myself from any emotional entanglements brought about by your loss.

(This Frankie and Johnny seems like a good film, only I can't enjoy it fully because you have taken up my space in front of the TV. )

Oh, you have no idea how many times the idea of your death has played in my mind. The many scenarios range from you being shot or wounded fatally with a sharp object by one of your soused buddies. Or you suffering fatal injuries from an automobile accident. And worse of all yet: you getting an expensive, lingering illness, like cirrhosis of the liver or diabetes. No, I don't want you to get that, because I always imagine the anguish (financial and otherwise) it will cause Mama. And then the punishment will rest more on Mama and not you. Lord knows she's been through enough already.

I guess this means I want you out of my life. Or that I'm prepared for the possibility of it.

(If you don't mind, I'll cut this letter short. I'm enjoying Frankie and Johnny too much to spend any more time digging up negative energy to fuel this letter. )
.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:

Papa has slipped into alcohol dependency again. I don't know what's wrong with him. I don't understand him. *releases an audible sigh* I'm too tired/distressed/bummed-out to write any further.

2007-05-29T15:10:00.000+08:00

I really have nothing good to blog about. It's just that this 'election' post is already way past its expiry date, and I think I should replace it before it grows molds.

I think I'll just leave you all with a song from Mike Patton, ex-lead singer of Faith No More. I only know one song from FNM--and that wasn't even an original. It was a rehash of The Commodores' (a.k.a Lionel Richie's Motown band) "Easy". Faith No More's MTV for Easy featured Mike and band lounging around with cross-dressers. Nothing says "easy like Sunday morning" more than a heavy metal band lounging around with cross-dressers.

Mike's a very interesting man. I like him. He's way up there in my book with Chris Cornell and, uh...Chris Cornell.

And now that Faith No More is, well, no more, Mike Patton has gone on to become Peeping Tom. He released a strictly-collaboration album in 2006, working with the likes of Massive Attack, a bunch of artists I don't know, and--Bebel Gilberto!!!

Bebel Gilberto!?

And so here is a cut from his self-titled album. And I think you should listen to it before reading further, 'cause you don't want to be a spoiler.

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Track details

Yeah, that's Mike Patton back there with the Plasticman vocals. And that foul-mouthed femme fatale is Norah Jones.

I can just imagine surprised NJ purists spitting their lattes across the monitor.

PMS-ing, but in a good way.

2007-05-15T21:57:00.000+08:00

Can you fault me for bawling like a baby after reading these words?
---

Election's Over
by Martin Bautista, Ang Kapatiran senatorial candidate

The election is over. It is time to examine, and to both skeptics and sympathizers alike, explain my participation in it.

I gave up a flourishing medical practice in America, joined Kapatiran and ran for the Senate because I wanted not merely to prove a point, but to live by it.

And the point is this: we can change our country, help our people, not by talking or theorizing but by actually doing something about it. One cannot simply make a statement. He must apply it in his life, by example, by involvement, by action. Our political campaign was such a statement.

Did we succeed? We did not get enough votes for a seat in the senate. But we did get the attention of the electorate and, more importantly, we made people aware of alternative solutions, better political options.

We demonstrated that it is possible to conduct an open, honest, vigorous campaign on programs, not personalities.

We showed that there is no need for false promises, political gimmickry, immoderate spending; but that there is a need for continuing communication, defending and justifying our positions and priorities.

Our fundamental premise is this: Politics is not a means of livelihood. It is not an economic investment that will pay off in future material gain. Politics is a way of giving, of sharing, of helping. It is not soliciting support but providing it. It is not about rendering service in the senate when elected, but rendering service now, in the present, in this time and place, in one's capacity as a candidate, a citizen, a Filipino of compassion.

If we have, even in a small, tentative way, we have redefined politics in the Philippines, then we have been fully recompensed for our efforts. The accomplishments of our greatest heroes cannot be judged in the simplistic terms of triumph or defeat. Like Burgos, Gomez and Zamora, the Kapatiran candidates won no instant victory. But they achieved a beginning, advanced the cause for reform, and awakened a hope that such reform is possible.

A personal note of accountability. We received donations from many sectors of society. Added to our own private contribution to the campaign, the total amount exceeded our modest campaign expenses. The balance we shall turn over to Gawad Kalinga in accordance with our conviction that politics is not an enterprise for profit.

Finally I wish to extend my sincere appreciation to all the men and women of goodwill who stand with us in the common belief in a Filipino future. Maraming salamat sa inyong lahat.

Martin D Bautista, MD

---

Yes, I cried. I cried for the loss of this country. I cried because people are more willing to give their votes to coup plotters, Human Rights violators, actors, TV hosts, gambling lords, and shitty bastards who are all talk but have absolutely nothing to show for in their track records.

Initally, I was bitter. I was bitter because I thought, These very same people who complain about the corruption and katiwalian in this country, are the very same ones who eagerly open their arms to goody-bags of Quickchow and Ligo sardines, and willingly agree to bastardize their right to suffrage for a few hundred pesos. They complain about the bulok na sistema, and whine about how all politicians are alike, but don't have the balls and the initiative to look and fight for better alternatives. They poke fun at the clowns we have put in power, and think themselves too high and mighty to participate in such a dirty electoral process, and just content themselves by sitting in their high-chair of misled righteousness and apathy. Fug these people!

My insides right now are a simmering cauldron of emotions: grief, bitterness, sorrow, rrrage. But somehow, with Dr. Martin Bautista's words, I cannot help but also feel strangely hopeful and optimistic. This is sooo not me, I know.

Like I said, in spite of the dark storm cloud brooding over my head, I feel very light-hearted. Sure, I feel a tightening in the chest area whenever I see Ang Kapatiran's numbers in the poll results, but I am consoled by the thought that, at least, 3-4% of the population were brave and principled enough to take a gamble on these three modern-day Quixotes. There is still hope for my country.

But enough of the waterworks. Life goes on. We may have placed a couple more A-holes in Senate (and City Hall and SK), but I don't quite give a hoot. If there is anything my bajillion Philo classes have taught me, it is this: I am an egotist and an individiualist. I do not hold anyone responsible for my life. Leave the senators to their law-making and Blue Ribbon committee investigations, because I will make my own destiny. I will not wait on their promises of peace, security, housing, lower commodity prices, population control (although Ping just might deliver on that, *wink-wink*), zero-graft, etc. So while the rest of my fellow citizens look to the skies open-mouthed and empty-handed for rainbows and ek-eks and bloom-blooms, I shall hold my own.

We Should Walk More Often

2007-04-29T00:16:00.000+08:00

I need to come up with a short story by Monday. I decided it would do me good to go on another one of my nightly walks around the city.

I passed by C.M. Recto and walked past a throng of black-shirted and sleek-haired punks outside Frissan's, and rolled my eyes. I snorted at them, too. Also saw some cute commercial sex workers outside Apo View. I'm not sure if they were CSW's, since some of the girls spoke Tagalog, but I didn't care to ask since I was walking too briskly to avoid being mistaken as one by passing drivers (as if!). I then stopped by TaTuTs at Duterte street to have a late dessert. I initially thought of going to McDonald's nearby but then I only have contempt for that outlet since they offered me the worst-tasting Chicken and Beef McRice Burger ever (and I haven't eaten one since--sorry Ronald).

They didn't have much of a dessert line-up--only the usual leche flan, buko pandan, and whattelse--but there was no turning back--I had already settled in my seat and the door was too far behind me--so I settled for a full dinner. I ordered SaKaNaDon(P75), which, I read from the menu, is an oriental rice dish of fish and swish cheesh. Okay, I was pushing it with the Swissh Cheesh, wasn't I? And a glass of iced tea(P25). And french fries too, but the waiter told me they had already run out of potatoes.

TaTuTs interiors is country-themed; to give you a clue, the walls are filled with ceramic cows and ornaments. Painted aluminum milk pails,ingeniously used as lamp shades, hang from the ceilings. I also found it very cute how my iced tea came in a reused jelly jar(5 points for being environmentally-friendly!), and the spoon and fork were wrapped inside a tiny brown supot--the kind you buy 5-peso peanuts in.

My dinner arrived in a ceramic bowl the size of a medium flower pot. The servings are huge in this restaurant, so huge that I swore then and there never to waste my money on Chowking or Mandarin ever again.

With the arrival of my order, I learned that SaKaNaDon isn't just plain breaded fish fillet and rice. It's the whole thing with minced cabbages, carrots and onions sauteed in egg (by now you should know I'm no cook, so I'm only wingin' it with my cooking terms here),and splashed with a sweetish brown sauce, whose taste, again I second-guess, reminds me of Worcestershire sauce, or barbecue marinade.

The first bite gave me that Cooking Master Boy/Yakittate Japan moment: my eyes suddenly lit up as a thin streak of electricity shot from one ear to another; and then, a blinding, powerful ray of light shot from my mouth, the bench I was sitting on turned into the head of a bearded blue dragon, and it carried me up to the sky and set me gently on a puffy white cloud. "Huwaaaah, How Deliciooooous!!!"

But the impression quickly wore off. I wonder what happened? I guess my sissyful appetite ruined it for me; I wasn't really that hungry, so after a couple more bites I already felt like opening the button on my pants to give me enough breathing room. Still, I swear I'll return to this place. I'll just ready my stomach by starving myself 12 hours beforehand.

After the meal, I paid P100--plus a P10 tip, haha, and surreptitiously left a note thanking them for the meal and an apology for not cleaning-up my plate. I'm not really that kind; I just felt like leaving a note since I had my handy-dandy notebook out there on the table.

I hurriedly scuttled out of the place, and continued walking to burn off the calories. At Bankerohan, outside Metro Circle, I saw kids peeling red onions on the sidewalk, while their mothers and aunts transformed carts and pulleys into makeshift vegetable stalls beside the street. I was moved with pity, but I scolded myself because I should reserve my pity for lowlifes and criminals and soul-less politicians, and not for helpful kids earning an honest living (*feel free to question my logic*).

Moving on, I then traversed the remaining operational Generoso bridge. There was nothing much to see of Davao river at night. Crossing the bridge, I actually realized that the river is wider than it appears when you're going over it by foot. I went past the bridge, overcame suicidal thoughts, and saw a billboard in the distance. "Boni Lami," it said. A political ad for Bonifacio Militar and Peter Laviña. However, it sounded somewhat obscene to me.

I made a short stop at MTS to buy Modess Cottony Soft Sanitary Napkins(with wings) and pantyshields. I also stopped by the comfort room, and saw that after walking more than four kilometers, I had begun to look like someone who had walked more than ten kilometers.

I walked some more to NCCC mall to take a jeepney ride home. By this time, I had adopted the unstable swagger and carefree disposition of a drunken sot, because it was the best excuse I could find for the flushed cheeks, the wind-ravaged hair, and the oil-slick face. And I smiled at the passengers with droopy eyes as I slumped in my seat. And they averted their eyes and pretended to be sleepy from the trip. Meanies.

And I guess I forgot about the short story.

Mercury Rising

2007-04-19T03:44:00.001+08:00

I don't think I've ever experienced a summer this hellishly unbearable. Commuting in this weather,coupled with the heavy traffic generated by the collapse of Generoso Bridge 1,has evolved into a test of one's patience, physical& mental endurance, and the effectivity of one's antiperspirant & deodorant.

A friend told me to expect hotter weather until May. Yay. This can only mean more sauna sessions in jeepneys packed with sweaty-armed and occasionally funky-smelling passengers.

Ah but it rained tonight.

And there's just something so liberating about playing & taking a shower in the rain. Especially if it's been over 11 years since you've given the pre-pubescent activity a rest.

But who knows? This might be the last good rain in a couple of months. And the sun might explode tomorrow. Kiver was thus thrown to the wind.

Thereafter I did one thing I've never done even in my adventurous childhood days: I climbed to the rooftop and lay down, my face to the sky as it rained endlessly on me. And the sound of raindrops drumming on corrugated steel sheets drowned all thoughts of summer classes, workshop entries, feature articles, May 14, and Pompet/Pi; for a moment I forgot everything and just relished in sheer child-like happiness. XD

[none]

2007-04-15T04:56:00.001+08:00

my hearts beating too fast. i just woke up from a
potentially fatal bangungot. or something.

ill explain. i was in the middle of a dream. our maid,
she asked me, nikaon na ka Day? I was about to reply,
when suddenly my eyes open up. thought i was already
awake--until i realized that i could not move. in the
dark i could see a portion of my room, but something
was blocking my view--a lettuce or cabbage spinning in
mid-air. i knew this image came from a
still-half-unconscious mind; a few hours before
sleeping, i had read a cookbook on salads.

first the lettuce. next, i discover that i could not
open my mouth. in my mind i could hear myself moan. in
my mind i was thrashing about in bed. but nothing; i
knew i was helplessly silent and immobile, and nobody
could possibly hear or know that i am violently
struggling to regain consciousness.

then my attention went to my breathing. i could not
even will myself to breathe in deep. and then i
realize my breaths becoming shallower and shallower.
until i think i stopped breathing.

panic set in. i try and get up. but when it seemed
like i had finally broken free, i was only made more
aware that i was actually still held fast in bed and i
still cant breathe. the act of getting up from bed is
a only an image confined inside my brain.

then i remember Uma Thurman in Kill Bill: wiggle your
toe. i try and wiggle it. nothing. my chest hurt. for
a moment i think, I really just might die tonight.

after a few more desperate attempts, i finally,
finally wake up. the first thing i did: inhale damn
deeply. my head felt like it had its own pulse and i
felt so weak--like i had just come from running a good
few kilometers. but ive never felt more grateful to be
alive. PRAISE THE LORD!!!

p.s. ak0 lang ba naay ani na experience??? mao ba ni
ang ginatawag na urom, aka the nightmare from which
there is no waking up? sa tinuod lang ha, kapila na ko
nakasinati ani. pero this time, abi jud nako madayunan
na ko kay dugay kaayo ko naka-recover. Nyeta. gigutom
na lang hinuon ko.

__________________________________________________
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I Lost my Summer

2007-04-10T23:49:00.000+08:00

I'm never one of those people who look forward to the start of classes. The only consolation I find in coming to class is the allowance, the library, and the boys. Or the girls. No, definitely the boys.

And now I'm back to class again. 'Takte!

This summer I'm taking two Philosophy classes: one on Religion, the other on being Human. Philo 106 is okay. The instructor just graduated barely a month ago, and he keeps telling the class, "Relax lang mo, relax lang ta diri sa Philo." Which is probably his way of saying:

1. "Please don't expect to learn too much from me 'cause I just graduated, and now I'm here and I'm sweating too much and you all scare the sh*t out of me."

2. "Im your friend. Please like me please like me please like me."

We're a big class (a block section of Education majors+a few dozen mixed in), and I know a few of the people in front. I saw my two classmates from my BS Bio days, and the English Education majors I met from my Linguistics class, and TY, someone I knew from grade school, and who I remember still owes me money.

In the afternoon, I have Philo 104. The instructor somewhat reminds me of Mr. Clean or Bembol Roco. He scares me because he's very keen on Punctuality and Attendance, which means he'll never miss a single class from this day until May 19. And he doesn't know how to speak Bisaya.

Mr. Clean grilled me this afternoon, all because he asked me if I find Philo relevant in my course, and I flat-out said NO. I don't know why I said it; probably because everyone else was saying "Yes Sir, it's relevant in my course 'cause I'm dealing with humans and this subject is about Being Human so ooga booga", and I just wanted to ruffle some feathers. ("You sissies.") Plus I thought he was waiting for someone to say otherwise 'cause he wanted to prove a point. And he did. And he didn't give me a moment of rest for the duration of the class, directing a whole barrage of dizzying philosophical inquiries at me which made me wish I had said "Yes" instead. Me sissy.

---

I haven't begun work on my 3rd and final Sarangani draft. Perhaps I'm just waiting for my Editor to SMS me with "Where are your articles? I need them tomorrow," which will electroshock my creative juju to panic mode, which shall render me invincible and capable of coming up with articles within 24 hours.

Also, I still have to come up with an article for Sir Don's Album launch. Huhu, this is bad, I don't know how to go about the article, especially since I wasn't at the album launch. And I hate interviewing. Damn damn damn!

Plus I still have my crochet project to work on. Oh man, I want to get my hands so badly on a yarn and a crochet hook and crochet all my rage away!!!

In moments like these, I always fall back on Nike's slogan.

Not a right, but a privilege.

2007-04-10T20:51:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, I went to National Bookstore at G-mall. It was one of those rare moments where I had P500 on hand (gasp! Yeah, I'm that poor, I guess); I quickly jumped at the chance to buy for, for a change, a book whose pages aren't already highlighted or scribbled with notes (made by people from first world countries, who are probably already *shudders* dead), or whose pages are so old that they make crisp sounds when you turn the pages, and look like they may have been discovered along with the Dead Sea scrolls.

Books, especially new ones, are such a luxury for me. My mother snorts at any book whose price tag is above P200, which is why most of the scenes I have with mama at NBS or Goodwill always involves emotional blackmail and much sales talk (though thankfully, I haven't had to resort to throwing a temper tantrum or rolling on the floor). As a result, I have been reduced to lurking around P35 bookstores to ward off my booklust, although they seldom yield decent or attractive, titles. I'm guessing I'll be a suki of 2nd hand bookshops until after I've gained employment and "financial stability". I'm also guessing that will take me roughly 30 years.

Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yeah--I was there at National, scouring the aisles, hoping to freshen-up my library with new title(s). I looked around, and all I saw were people standing motionless, their heads surreptitiously bowed low, eyes transfixed on the books they held with much care in their hands. At this moment, one hour after I arrived at National, something became very clear to me.

Books are expensive. Sad.

Why are books so damn expensive? I mean, c'mon, P699 for 200 pages of newsprint? Asa ang hustisya ana?!?

I'm no expert on the constitution or tax laws, but isn't reading supposed to be every individual's right? So why, oh why, does the government tax books?

Sheesh, no wonder we're breeding more and more stupid people. Because they don't have the "luxury" of reading a good book. And that is just sad. ='(

2007-04-03T22:21:00.000+08:00

(Have to make this quick. Also, I'll compose the rest of this entry in Cebuano; pasensya na lang ang dili makasabot. Pikat ang bagay sa inyo.)

Abisohan lang nako mo daan na basi dili usa ko maka-blog-blog sa muaging mga adlaw (pero magbisita lang gihapon ko diri). Kabalo na mo, Semana Santa man ta kunohay--kinahanglan magpahulay usa ta ug mag...kuan, *unsa man ang Bisaya sa mag-reflect hah...* maghuna-huna sa mga gipanghimo nato sa atong kinabuhi, musaka ug Shrine, abrihan ang nikaging na nga bibliya, maligo sa dagat uban ang pamilya, ek-ek, bloom bloom.

Usa pa, na-okupar akong duha ka kamot sa karon sa pang-gantsilyo. Oo, gantsilyo--crochet man tingali ni sa inggles. Oy, dili pud baya siya lalim no; aron masayod mo, lisod siya--makalibat ug makasakit sa kamot, makainit pa gyud ug ulo usahay pag kanang dili jud ka kasabot sa directions bisan unsaon bali-bali(e.g. "Using blue yarn, ch 2, 6 sc in first chain, join with sl st into first sc--6 sts."). Pero ambot nganong ginabuhat nako ni, hobby daw kunohay pero mura man gihapon siya ug trabaho. Kung mahuman na nako ning akong proyekto, magbutang ko ug litrato diri--hatagi ko ug, mga, unom ka bulan siguro.

Ikaduha, magsugod na pud ang klase para sa summer. Mao gani ko nagdali kay kinahanglan nako matulog ug sayu-sayo karong gabii kay magsayo pud ko ug mata ugma para maki'gbisog sa mga libo-libong estudyante nga mag-inilugay sa usa o duha ka klase sa Philosophy 104 ug 106.
Sige, hangtod diri na lang. Lisod man diay mag-binisaya no? Nadugayan hinuon ko samot kay puros lang "kuan" ang musulod sa akong huna-huna samtang gahimo ko ug mga sentences. Pakaulaw ra jud ko; Bisaya pa naman ko!

Of all the things to write about..

2007-04-01T02:48:00.000+08:00

I could write about that Jun Ducat-hostage-taking-but-not-quite brouhaha, but that issue got stale fast. I could write about watching watching and listening to Mario Ongkiko (of the 'Ang Kapatiran' Political Party, whose three senatorial bets I will vote for, regardless of the stinking fact that they prolly will never make it to Magic 12) speaking candidly on Forum:2007, and shaking my head 'coz I know the rest of the voting public will never EVER know better than to vote for Gringo, Ping, Chavit, or--gasp--Victor Wood(!). How mature. T-T

--Wait, maybe I'll write about this one but not today, 'cause it's early morning and I don't want to get my brain all worked-up and bothered until the next morning.

But what I really want to write about is...(deep breath) my failure to take a bath for this day. Yes, I have gone without soap or water for more than 24 hours. It all began when I took a look(took a look, took a look, took a look--it sounds stupid nu?) at my white bath towel, and noticed that it looked...unclean. Like--even if I took a bath, I wouldn't feel too clean if I wiped myself dry with something that looked like someone had wrapped herself around it and rolled around in dust and dog hair or something. Plus, I saw some very visible, dirty handprints. 'The hell? Is my househelp mad at me or something, and so now she's decided to take all her frustrations out at my one and only bath towel? I don't think she's taking care of it very well; perhaps she just drags it around outside the yard, and hangs it to dry where street-dust can have easy access to it.

Anyhoo, I convinced myself that I won't need to take a bath since I'm pretty sure I won't be doing any strong physical activity for the rest of the day. But that was 14 hours ago and now yesterday's deodorant has broken down and my head itches and I feel a serious dandruff attack coming on. I feel so bad.

I don't know why I'm blogging about this. All I've been doing these past few weeks is whine and complain, whine and complain, bitch about something, and then whine and complain. Wah wah wah, my towel isn't clean. Boo hoo. When did this become a big deal for me anyway?

I don't know, really. I'm sorry, at first I thought it was fun to air my trivial grievances, but I realized in mid-typing that I'm just being lame. Laaame. And now my post is too long and too precious to delete and so now I can't stop typing lame-ness. Plus I just realized that I am being incoherent, and Lord knows how incoherence is such a big issue with bloggers, 'cause every blogger I know always ends up feeling bad or saying "I'm sorry Im sorry please bear with me precious reader, please dont give me forty whacks" when they type-up something incoherent.

But what the hell?!? Why am I apologizing to my dear, precious readers now?!? Am I obliged to kow-tow to them, and offer them flowing verses and intelligently-phrased thoughts and well-planned posts? Is there no place for incoherence and mediocrity and just plain spontaneity in this world?!?

Now you know there is.

***

Anyhoo, my friend Claire finally sent me an SMS--the first in almost 3 months.

"Plip, inom ta."

Oh, the economy of her messages never ceases to touch me.

I really don't like to drink (I remember, the last--and first--time I drank beer, my whole body swelled-up and broke out in red, itchy patches. How sissy-full.), but she likes to drink. And that's that.

Whatever. I will not be coerced into chipping-in for a bottle of alcohol whose taste I will probably not enjoy. I don't care for getting into that whole 'getting-drunk-and-light-headed and-forgetting-all-your-problems'-state, 'cause I'm guessing the whole thing's just overrated. Plus, I never enjoy throwing-up. It's the only reason why I'm afraid of getting fevers: I hate the taste of vomit.

But I'll probably take her up on that invitation, 'cause I miss her, and I terribly need to be with my friends. My good friends. No, my better friends.

There are no best friends.

2007-03-27T16:25:00.000+08:00

Dammit what is up with these "Word Verification" thingies??? I never seem to get them right at the first try!

Dili man siguro ko dyslexic noh!?! Huh? Huh?

Aw. Wala lang.

blogger, interrupted

2007-03-25T05:39:00.001+08:00

So there I was, jabbing away at the keyboard at a very unholy hour,happy that I've finally shaken off the 'blogging lethargy' that I'd been feeling for the past few days. I had this grrreat "comeback" post brewing, and the sentences were just spilling from my head straight down to the keyboard. Upbeat sunshine-y 50's jazz music was playing somewhere in my head, and if I wasn't typing I would have been wagging my finger in the air, doing a throaty "Rat-sa-sah!" ala Louie Armstrong.

Suddenly, the screen goes kaput and everything turns black.

Ugh. So now Davao Light is conspiring against me as well? Tsk. Sick!

It's a good thing I've recently discovered Mobile Blogging. But really, blogging with a handheld is so...not right. It feels as awkward as writing a long, serious social commentary on Grade 2 paper, using those big, hulking, foot-long jumbo pencils you had as a kid but never got to use (I bet it never entered your mind to buy an equally "plus-sized" sharpener, huh?).

And really,blogging with a stylus on a touch-screen keyboard is just a pure, uh, UN-joy ("It's an instrument of torture I tell you! Tortuuuure !!!");plus, it just can't catch up with my currently "hyper" train of thought.

Oh, and did I mention that the lights are on again? But I'm already up here in bed and a trip down the stairs+10 steps to the PC just seems sooo far. Don't argue with me:it just is. Period.

And so, dear reader, I advise you to have heart, and read this post slowly and leisurely, taking time to let each word roll off your tongue--COZ I JUST STRAINED 62 MAJOR MUSCLES ON MY RIGHT ARM TRYING TO TYPE EACH AND EVERY LETTER ON THIS {Bleep}-ING POST!!! GWARRRR!!!

Also, it might interest you to know that what might take you less than a minute to read actually took me until sunrise to compose. No sh*t. Scout's honor.

That being said(er,written), I hereby order you to read my post again, you ungrateful wretch!

Remember: slooowly, this time.

pesteng yawa

2007-03-22T06:00:00.001+08:00

Its times like these when I wish na naa untay extra na
bangag ang akong ilong. Back-up ba, kumbaga.

amazing. di ko katulog kay barado akong ilong. mag
alas-sais na lang sa buntag; nagtilaok na lang ang mga
lintik na mga gabanhang manok, ug nakahawa na para
mag-dyaging akong papa.

Gihiram nako ang Pau DArco ni papa kay desperado na
jud ko na makahinga(sulayi daw hinga gamit imong ba-ba
,try nato kung makatulog ba ka). Gipahid nako sa akong
dughan ug baga; walay epekto--medyo nihalang-halang
lang akong kamot ug mata.

Last-ditch effort: bu-bo ko gamay Pau sa kamot, dayon
nusnos sa ilong. Mhhhm,kahumot. Gitan-aw nako ang
label sa bote: PRECAUTION: Keep away from eyes and
MUCOUS MEMBRANE.

oh, you mean to say bawal diay ni ipahid sa ilong?
haha, i know na ngano...
kay halang diay siya kaayo.

Im glad to say na makahinga na ko gamay(isa lang nako
ka-nostril ang operational sa karon). medyo nawala
lang ang feeling sa akong ilong--after the Pau
incident-pero oks lang.

Good Morning!

P.S. dili daw bad word ang Yawa kay pre-colonial
goddess man daw na siya, base sa komiks na nabasa nako
ganiha.

Yawa! Yawaaaa! Letseng Yawaaaa! ü

Arguing in a vicious circle

2007-03-15T00:53:00.000+08:00

"You can't say you don't have time to do something because you're busy. If you're busy, it means you always have time to do something more."

My classmate Faith, as heard from her professor.

In that case, just say "I didn't do it 'cause I'm a lazy bum," and hope you get extra points for plain honesty.

Out to Lunch

2007-03-08T23:08:00.000+08:00

This might be the last entry you'll see in the coming weeks.

As you can see from my desk, I have a backlog of tasks I need to accomplish. Char.

O-ha! Asa ka ana?

Amen.

Idiot-syncracies

2007-03-08T20:33:00.000+08:00

RULES:"Each player of this game starts off with ten weird things or habits or little known facts about yourself. People who get tagged must write in a blog of their own ten weird things or habits or little known facts as well as state this rule clearly. At the end you must choose six people to be tagged and list their names. No tagbacks!"

1. I have 'restless legs syndrome.' I make "kuyakoy" when I'm sitting or lying in bed. I tap my foot and sway my knees to an almost uncontrollable degree.

2. I like to draw lips. When I don't have a pen in hand, I trace lip-shapes on any available flat surface (i.e., walls, tables, books)

3. I'm a sucker for "cheap thrills": I feel extremely happy going on '(street)food trips' (boiled corn, ginanggang, fishball, buko juice, ice buko, ice candy, dirty ice cream, P6 Bbq, taho...mmm...), buying ukay-ukay and 2nd hand books.

4. I like taking long walks of the city at night. My friend and I once walked from Victoria Plaza to NCCC Mall. We have no fear of rapists, holdapers, and snatchers.

5. I'm an 'old soul': I love watching black-and-white movies, listening to songs from the 30s to the 60s, and looking at black-and-white pictures. Leaves me feeling nostalgic and misty-eyed.

6. I talk to myself a lot--when I'm facing the mirror, before I go to sleep, when I'm all alone. By 'talking to myself,' I mean I just talk as if there were another person listening to me. It's not as bad as it sounds; I find it therapeutic, actually.

7. When I watch TV, I repeatedly open and close the remote control's battery cover.

8. I have my own "jeepney etiquette":

I'm uncomfortable announcing "Para" or "Lugar lang," so I usually hold on to my coins until it's time to disembark (I need it to tap the jeep's handlebar.)
I prefer sitting on the left side of the jeepney--whenever possible, I sit nearest the jeepney entrance/exit.
I give an extra tip to old drivers and those who follow road rules. I hold out 1 peso for drivers who play loud music, pick-up/let off passengers in the middle of the road, and have "bugoy-bugoy" barkers.
I hate getting on crowded jeepneys. I can endure waiting on the road for 30 minutes just as long as I find a jeepney that'll have enough seating space for six persons.

9. I'm a frustrated astronomer. I like looking at picture books on the universe; also, I am fascinated by the night sky. I often dream about seeing galaxies and nebulae up close in the sky---huwaaaw...

10. Greeting people is a very big issue for me. I panic when I'm about to cross paths with former classmates, teachers, and not-so-close acquaintances; I'm always in a conondrum as to whether I should greet them or not. My feelings are easily wounded when I greet someone and get 'chap'-ed in return, that's why I'd rather not greet people at all.

Tags: no one.

3

2007-03-07T01:22:00.000+08:00

"Where are my friends?"

Ely Buendia's alleged lament, a few days before his heart attack.

1

2007-03-06T21:00:00.000+08:00

I exercise an excess of carefulness--in writing, speaking, or blogging. Carefulness, which can be translated to a form of paranoia. In blogging, especially, I am most careful with the entries I post. I fear that someone I know might stumble upon this blog and find that I am the total opposite of the image I project. That I harbor these sentiments. That I think this way.

Type, erase. Type, Ctrl+A, delete. Edit. Insert new topic. Sanitize text, fill with euphimism and veneer. Filter and release. I blog like this. Ugh, I know, it's sickening. I'm sick.

I do not understand. Where is this text leading to? The voice inside my head--that invisible author--what does it want to me to write?

I need honesty. More honesty. Less pretentiousness. More spontaneity. Openness. Beautiful.

Screenplay sample no. 1

2007-03-05T20:58:00.000+08:00

INT. BEDROOM-DAWN
Adobobo is in bed, lying on side, asleep. Half-awake--leisurely extends legs.
Zoom in on face: eyes suddenly wide open; face is contorted in extreme pain.
Zoom out: right leg appears straight stiff, toes are grotesquely spread apart. Adobobo clutches at right leg with hand.

ADOBOBO

Ah! AAH! PUTCHAAA!!!---

Goes back to sleep. Face still wrinkled in pain, continues to murmur invectives.

INT. ADDU, ROOM F511--NOON

Prof Agustin(60+, with hair dyed black) in front. Five other students are inside room: Adobobo, Zion-Ja(19, m), Zinfandel(19,f ), Alloysius(19,f), and Pavlov(19,m)

Zion-Ja is tinkering with Adobobo's PDA. Adobobo is seated behind Zinfandel, who is seated to the right of Zion-Ja.

ZION-JA

Halaaa, ka-cute!

Adobobo turns head toward Zion-Ja. Tilts head to see what Zion-Ja is looking at--narrows eyes and senses something looks suspicious. Quietly sneaks up behind Zion-Ja to take a closer look.

Zoom-in on face: Adobobo's eyes widen.

Zoom-in on Zion-Ja's hand holding PDA: a cute close-up of Adobobo on the screen.

Adobobo, almost acting on reflex, shoves Zion-Ja from behind. Zion-Ja almost coughs up his lungs from the impact.

ADOBOBO

AAAAAAAAH! UNSA MAN NA?!? NYEEEE, how dare

youuuu!!! WAAAAAH!!

Zoom-in on Zion-Ja's desk: a mad scramble of hands. Adobobo's hand claws on PDA. Struggle is over in a matter of 3 nanoseconds. Adobobo clambers back to seat, continues whining and shooting sharp glances at Zion-Ja. Face is as red as a beet. Prof Agustin, Pavlov and Alloysius are alerted.

PROF AGUSTIN

Ay...Naa'y secreeet...

Adobobo covering face, uncovers face only to shoot puzzled glance at Prof Agustin. Adobobo cannot react properly. Room is too noisy; Alloysius and Pavlov are confused and are demanding to know what just transpired, Prof Agustin keeps repeating "naay secreeet...", Zion-Ja is laughing hysterically and trying to mask the shock of being silently attacked from behind. Adobobo is almost on the verge of hyperventilating.

ALLOYSIUS

Ay, tungod siguro ni sa iyang admirer sa Business Writing no??

Alloysius is clearly off the topic. Begins to relate to class how Adobobo's alleged admirer keeps on asking her stupid questions. Prof Agustin, a born kibitzer, listens intently.

ALLOYSIUS

Kunwari Sir, muingon tong among teacher na,

"Get one-fourth sheet of paper," mangutana pa jud

to siya balik kay Adobobo ug, "Ha? Unsa daw? One-fourth daw ang kuhaon?"

Adobobo: feeling ang haba ng hair! But keeps up an act of modesty and nonchalance.

ADOBOBO

Wala Sir oy! Nangimbento lang gud na'g storya si Alloysius Sir!!!

Zion-Ja looks at Adobobo

ZION-JA

Adobobo...Sorreeee...

Adobobo exchanges glances with Zion-Ja. At this point, Adobobo is utterly disoriented from embarassment and lord-knows-what-else. Exits room in Sisa-fashion: fingers running wildly through hair, dribbling, and zig-zagging across the path.

EXT. OUTSIDE F511, 5TH FLOOR HALLWAY

Adobobo continues to make suray-suray along the path. Finally, Adobobo stumbles on a huge blue dram labelled 'Non-Biodegradable.' Adobobo collapses against the dram, hugs it and sobs uncontrollably.

ADOBOBO

Looooord! Give me a loverrrrr!!!

---

mobile postale

2007-03-03T03:25:00.001+08:00

Just trying out Bloggers Moblog (mobile blog) from my
PDA. Have to keep this short; blogging with a stylus
is such a drag.

Pish Tosh.

2007-02-21T22:08:00.000+08:00

Water, is taught by thirst
Emily Dickinson
(c.1859)

Water, is taught by thirst.
Land--by the Oceans passed
Transport--by throe--
Peace--by its battles told--
Love, by Memorial Mold--
Birds, by the Snow.

***

"Today is a good day to feel stupid."
Me
(2007, written on back page of notebook)

I went to school today, but I didn't attend a single class. Instead, I just bummed around; I stayed at the gazebo --and sat and yawned and OD'd on the fumes of a marker used by a girl who sat next to me--for three hours, and I read a poem--over and over again--until I had memorized the entire animal.

What is a Memorial Mold???

I had no idea. All I could think of was bread--and mold. And so I went home feeling like I had wasted a bath. I should have just stayed home and slept.

***

My head has been feeling strangely empty since yesterday. But yesterday was better; I felt like my head was full of nitrous oxide--laughing gas--and so I did nothing but laugh. I laughed after leading the class to prayer, I laughed all throughout Business Writing class, and I laughed at our dog when I clapped my hand and startled it awake. Ahahaha.

Now, I just feel dull. Burned-out. Aaaugh.

"Where is my mind? Where is my mind? Wheeere is my mind? "

--The Pixies, Where is my Mind?

Yammerings of a schizo man-hater-sympathizer

2007-02-19T23:49:00.000+08:00

I haven’t had a good guy friend in (I pause typing to use my fingers to count)—seven years.

It wasn’t always like this. In grade school, I had two gay men for good (there is no best) friends. And I was a tomboy. And we had a grand time. But then, I lost their friendship in high school; one transferred to Ateneo two years ahead of me, sprouted an Adam’s apple and became a creep—not just any creep, he was a creep who carved “Kix pogi” (“Kix” being his new macho nom de guerre) onto his classroom’s broom closet. The other one was coerced into “straight-ness” by his religion, so now he lives a pseudo-straight existence; it goes without saying that he has become a bore to talk to as well.

And so I am this: a guy friend-starved college student. It worries me a teeny weeny bit that males do not have representation in my triangle of friends (yes, triangle; I only have three friends). I just can’t get this feeling out of my system that I might be missing out on something. Anyway, I do not like to believe that my personality is naturally predisposed to keeping guys at bay. I guess it’s just tough when you’re in the Humanities Division (which is made up of 99% MassComm students and 1% English); the prospective guy friends there are slim pickings. It’s always—always—that they’re either openly flamboyantly gay (not my kind of gay), or they’re really really good looking and so self-absorbed that making friends with them would be pointless. There’s a third group—those who are gay but in hiding; I’d rather not hang out with them ‘coz they’ve got issues—plus they can’t make up their mind (and things are bound to get complicated).

Anyhoo, it’s sad that the only guys I see in school outside the Humanities are:

a. slung around their girlfriend’s necks.
b. addicted to DoTA—that automatically disqualifies them from “the list”
c. pitiful sex-starved idiots in search of nubile bodies and pretty faces—that automatically disqualifies me from “their list”
d. there is no D. If there is, I have forgotten it because Papa is having a rollicking good time playing with the videoke player in the next room.

I don’t know when I had this strange yearning for male—platonic—male companionship. Dammit it must be all those shtufid K-dramas and American dramas (in the mold of O.C., OTH, or Everwood). They make it appear that having a male friend is fun!!! Hah, I must not be fooled. If the guys around me are any indication, then it would be correct to say that 98% of guys are smarmy, insensitive, raging-hormone oafs, totally unlike the caring, sensitive, thoughtful, witty, and funny types so masterfully portrayed by cute Korean actors.

I apologize in advance if there are males reading this (!) whose sensibilities (!) have been offended. I just can’t help it: in my world, all men must be marginalized.
***
In other news, I have finished the second (and hopefully final) drafts of my two Sarangani articles. I’m keeping my fingers, toes, and everything else crossed that the editor will finally get off my back and just approve the frigging articles for publication. I cannot take another week—or, God forbid, month—of stressful revisions. It’s bloody work, I tell you. Already I have incurred stress-induced zit regions on my face. I swear I’ll cry and tear my hair out if the editor asks me for another “total revision.” Merciful editor, please read this and be moved.

2007-02-10T11:49:00.000+08:00

I have a problem--if you can call it that.

Great thoughts--brilliant thoughts--always run through my mind.
But that's just it; my mind is the only racetrack where my brilliant thoughts choose to run.
As such,
I am the only one who recognizes my genius.

Everyone else,
they think I'm just a mute.

What thoughts may come at 3:00 AM

2007-02-10T02:50:00.000+08:00

I should be ashamed. I promised my editor-in-chief that I'd send in my articles before the start of exams. The exam days have gone by, and I have yet to accomplish 1/2 of my writing homework.

There is no end to the shame I must feel. Sir Don reminded our Poetry class a good few times that we should submit our papers on time. 75% of the class, including moi, was not around (and was still in front of the PC speed-typing our analyses) when Sir Don came to class this afternoon to collect our papers.

***

Anyhoo, I am already quite heavy-eyed. It never ceases to dumbfound me how I can spend fruitless hours sitting through long posts without a tinge of guilt, knowing that I have loads of paperwork to write. Even in the midst of exams and deadlines, I still find a way to prioritize senseless pursuits--if only to delay the work at hand. I remember one time, when I was in second year, I spent the night before the final exams reading Banana Yoshimoto's Kitchen from start to finish. I do not remember how I fared in my exams then; perhaps the repercussions of that spontaneous decision to do some marathon-reading is the reason I am no longer an aspiring Med student, and instead, an aimless writer-wannabe.

Nevertheless, here I am, minding my post at 3:13 in the morning, when I should be getting much-needed sleep after subjecting myself to a week of sleep-deprivation. "Learning from countless mistakes the past" is a non-existent concept to me.

Okay, seriously though, I should go to sleep.

***

Sigh. Why is it that some great bloggers take too long to update their blogs? This is inhuman, making me wait for almost a month, coming to your site and seeing the same date and the same by-now-already-sickening title. Come on man, get off your lazy bum and start writing magnificent drivel already!

Why I Think I'll Die of a Heart Ailment at an Early Age

2007-02-05T14:38:00.000+08:00

Suppressing one's anger and annoyance can not be very good for one's health.

Right now, I'm trying to be as calm, diplomatic, and civilized as I can while I type away in my little cubicle here at Netopia. There is another student behind me who is chirpily humming the birthday song every 3 seconds.

*Deep breaths, just keep taking deep breaths...

It must be said: there is nothing in the world that annoys me more than hearing unnecessary and repetitive noise. It's up there alongside with people who sing along to songs although they never get the lyrics right. And people who make those "tsup-tsup" sounds while listening to songs with catchy melodies.

I'll give her the benefit of the doubt; she probably has no idea how offensive her caterwauling is to my eardrums since she's got headphones clamped to her ears.

Meanwhile, this energy ball of aggression and loathing ferments in my stomach, where it will probably languish and convert itself into fuel for a future heart attack. I say: it isn't the kind-hearted people who die early; it's the non-confrontational kind who dig themselves an early grave, what with the amount of pent-up and 'outbursts' they harbor.

I try and ward off a future "birthday song" LSS attack by staging a mini-concert inside the confines of my mind. How apt that the song playing in my mind is Radiohead's "Karma Police"

"...(s)he buzzes like a fridge, (s)he's like a detuned radio..."

2007-02-04T14:54:00.000+08:00

Do you ever...

*find yourself with a sudden, uncontrollable urge to rush to the bathroom, only to find out you're all out of Kleenex and FHM issues?

*get all 'hot and bothered' at the most inappropriate occasions (i.e., in the middle of Biology class, in a crowded cinema, during your annual recollection/retreat, in an island where the only other inhabitants are middle-aged nuns, eunuchs, or tourists from any of the 10 countries with the highest AIDS rates)?

*hold a firm belief that 'self-gratification' is a sin punishable by eternal damnation in the fiery pits of hell, but still remain a slave to your 'biological' drives?

Have I got the solution for you, you naughty little horndog!

sigh.

2007-02-02T03:15:00.000+08:00

Not one of my 'good' days. Last night I slaved over my Discourse Analysis report until early morning today. I looked at the clock; 7:30 AM--I figured I could still afford to sleep one hour before coming to my 9:15 class.

When I woke up it was already 11:30 AM; I missed my Features class for the nth time, and I was already 30 minutes late for my DA report.

I need a hug.

Tomorrow--err, later this morning, I will be leaving for Sarangani again. This time I'll be interviewing Alsons Aquaculture's plant director and someone else, and a few others. I'm currently giving myself a pep talk on overcoming shyness and being a good interviewer. Hope it works.

Bright na kaha ko?

2007-01-27T22:19:00.000+08:00

This month has been a killer. This year, I have not sat down to talk and laugh and gossip and bum around with my friends. This year, I have convinced myself that I am destined to be a writer. This month, and the previous month, I haven't had the luxury of a full eight-or seven- hours of sleep. This month, I have been spending more time reading--than sleeping--in the library. This month has made my face look five or ten years older. This month, I interviewed seven people for one article. This month, I have spent many quiet nights doubting my capability to write. This week, I went to the top of Maa and had my recollection and convinced myself that I am too tired to recollect bad memories and share bad memories and cry over bad memories. This month, I sat in front of the PC for thirty straight hours typing away and then hitting backspace, and then typing away again. This month my eyes have been feeling unusually dry and irritated, either because of lack of sleep or stress or the warm baths I have been taking. This month I have hated myself for being such an awkward, quiet, passive, uninteresting, deceitful classmate. This month's stress has given me two large zits and a massive breakout over my right cheek. This month, I have see-sawed between feeling invincible--even thinking I'm destined for greatness--and feeling like worthless sh*t. This month has taught me hard lessons in setting priorities. This month has shown me the consequences of choosing play over work. This month has made me decide to stop making excuses for myself. This month has done everything except kill me. So I guess I must go on.

Spree

2007-01-27T21:16:00.000+08:00

This afternoon, I went to Envy Me and got a P150 cut that, otherwise, would've only cost me P50 at 5E's House of Beauty in Acacia.

I stepped out of the salon, crossed the street, and went to NCCC Mall. I immediately proceeded to the nameless used bookstore at the first floor. Turns out, they were having a P35 (on selected titles) book sale. Yay. I bought a book by Virginia Woolf, partly to satiate my curiosity over "The Hours" and "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" Also, I bought my third Garrison Keillor ("Love Me"), and this other book, "Mendel's Dwarf" by Simon Mawer--a bit pricey for a used book (at P120), but it was in semi-new condition, and the reviews seemed very promising--so I just had to buy it. I also saw this yellowed book of poems by a guy named Forest. I do not know Forest, but I wanted to buy the book nonetheless because the book was 2007 minus 1931 years old (I entrust the calculations to you dear reader, since I am in no mood to spoon-feed), as the owner wrote on the blank leaf herself. However, I decided against it, since I'm not really a "poems-y" kind of person.

Yes, I have begun the habit of hoarding used books. It is my other vice, aside from splurging on trans-fat-laden food. Of course, I've only read about a handful of the 50++ previously-owned books that litter my room. I just like seeing the messy, yellowed, stack of them--not to mention the addictive dust-and-wood smell of used books. Ahhh, sniff, sniff...and sneeze.

Nah, I just like how it gives me an air of intellect.

Sigh of relief

2006-12-27T03:13:00.000+08:00

Feeling better about my articles. I've begun work on my Alsons article, plus I just need a few revisions and alterations for my mango farm article.

No clue what I'm talking about? Heehee, I'm so sorry I still haven't had the time to finish and publish my previous drafts. Will do so once I've finished with all my projects, homework, and extra-curricular sidelines.

As always, the mood of the moment is busy busy busy!!! Only this time, I'm feeling more upbeat. Thank God!

There's work to be done

2006-12-23T11:41:00.000+08:00

Just came from Sarangani a few days ago for a writing assignment. Right now I have my hands full trying to write my articles. Add to that the many projects waiting for me for January.

Will put up my Sarangani drafts in the coming days or weeks, when I have the time.

Busy busy busy.

Merry Christmas!

A Night of Healing in a Strange Place

2006-12-21T00:11:00.000+08:00

"I love your energy," he told me
while his hands were clasped against my palm
"It's child-like
and graceful--
I love it," he told me
his voice soft
tired
raspy
scratchy
but mostly just tired
but with so much softness
that my eyes grew heavy
and my lips sagged

He was leading my hand to move in small circles
fast circles, my fingers violently shaking
to and fro, left and right,
going everywhere
then stop--
my hands feeling once again his warmth
and the cold of mint
on his and my palms

But I couldn't do as he wanted me to do
I could not sway my hands wildly--
the way one with a child-like and graceful energy would
They just fell heavy and dead
on his warm and
then tight grasp
Because...
Because I could feel everything
--all too aware:
of his warm, roughened, oiled hands on my palm
travelling the short length of my arms
his warm hands on my outstretched neck
resting against the dip in my collarbone
then sliding back to my nape again
squeezing and kneading
--sometimes his warm hands growing rough
and pulling and tugging at my hair
but he would let go
and the warm and rough of his hands
once again returns to the back of my neck
once again electricity runs under my skin
and I
out of nervousness
swallow
with my neck outstretched
pulling forward

His hands took me by the shoulders
as he laid me back
and rested my head on his crouched body
trying to carry my weight
all the while his hands were on my arms
on my neck
and my back was resting on his knee

Sometimes long strands of his hair
would brush against my lips
my cheeks
my closed eyes
and
I could not resist opening my eyes
and looking into his face
but his eyes would not meet mine
All I saw was white
He was in a trance
Trying to find my ailment
Trying to mend me from my ailment
His hands crawling down my back
then on my neck
then cupping my elbows
his grip tightening
sending little bolts crawling across my arms

I just stared at him
Lost
Confused
Helpless
Quiet
A little girl
No,
just someone
who needed to be healed
by the warm hands of this
healer

Honey and Clover,

2006-12-17T22:26:00.000+08:00

Honey and Clover's first season is going to end its run on Animax next week. How sad. I've grown quite attached to this series (especially the characters), since it started airing on Animax in August.

For the benefit of the unfamiliar, H&C revolves around a group of college art school students. The series delves into issues on friendship, unrecquitted love, self-discovery, and the uncertainty that plagues every college student when he begins to think about his future. Some of you might think that the show's premise seems very cliche, but believe me, Honey and Clover offers a very fresh and realistic perspective to all these matters.

Over-all, Honey and Clover is a warm, earthy and refreshing mix of humor, romance, friendship and a bunch of other stuff that we all can certainly relate to. I'm not doing a very good job at convincing you, am I?

Thank God for YouTube.

The opening theme's really beautiful, isn't it? I don't know about you, but the first few times I listened to it, tears welled up in my eyes and tingly sensations spread across my brain to my face (plus the 'Food'-esque claymation is really good, ay?). The song's called "Dramatic" by Yuki. If I'm not mistaken she's 1/2 of Judy and Mary, which also sang one of the opening themes to Rurouni Kenshin. The full version of the song is also available for viewing on YouTube.

I guess--no, wait, I'm certain-- one of the reasons why I love H&C so much is--apart from the flawless animation and the "hits-close-to-home" storyline-- the excellent soundtrack. Every song included in Honey and Clover is guaranteed ear candy--from the opening theme to the episodes' insert songs to the closing theme. It might interest you to know that the show's title is culled from the albums of Spitz("Honey") and Suga Shikao("Clover"), which explains why a lot of these two's songs figure prominently throughout the series.

Here's the first season H&C's first closing theme, "Waltz," by Suneohair.

Warutsu-Suneohair

Akanai mabuta kosutte mieru(I rub my closed eyes and I can see )

Pasuteru moyou no mirai ni(The pastel pattern of the future )

Chiribamerareta kigou wo tadoru(Following the inlaid code)

Taguriyoseta hyoujou(I reel in and gather up your expressions)

Nee, nan dakke sagashiteita mono( Hey, what was it we were searching for? )

Are wa, sou ne itsu dakke(That was, yeah, when was it?)

Bokura ga inryoku ni sakarai nagara deatta koro( When we met, unable to resist the pull of gravity)

Sore wa warutsu no you da ne fushigisa( It's like a waltz, so strange)

Sasayaku you na komorebi no kousaten de( At the crossroads where the light whispers through the trees)

Futari warutsu no you ni ne mawarinagara(We whirl along like a waltz )

Egakidashite yuku mono(Drawing something )

Atatamesugita omoi wo zembu(I spit out my overwarmed memories )

Hakidashite mieru randosukeepu(And see them in a landscape )

Hantoshi ijou kusuburaseteru(This image has been niggling at me for over six months )

Imeeji ni hi wo toboshite(I like its fire )

Nan dakke nakushite shimatta mono(What was it we didn't want to lose? )

Sore de mo iin datte(It doesn't matter)

Bokura no inryoku de hikiai motomeau no darou(Our gravity will draw us together as we long for each other)

Sore wa warutsu no you da ne shitekisa( It's just like a waltz, so wonderful )

Tsubuyaku you na saezuri kikinagara(Listening to the murmured chirping )

Marude warutsu no you ni ne futari ga(It's just like a waltz, the way we whirl along )

Egakidashite yuku mono(Drawing something )

Aa,

toboketa genjitsu mo genshoku de nurikaete shimae(Repaint the feigned innocence of reality with primary colors )

Hikiyosete ageru kara nee(I'll pull you in, so hey )

Soko kara odoritsudzukeyou(Let's keep dancing from there)

Futari dake no warutsu(In our own waltz )

Sore wa warutsu no you da ne fushigisa(It's like a waltz, so strange )

Sasayaku you na komorebi no kousaten de(At the crossroads where the light whispers through the trees )

Futari warutsu no you ni ne mawarinagara(We whirl along like a waltz )

Egakidashite yuku mono(Drawing something )

Covert Ops

2006-12-16T19:30:00.000+08:00

I am all alone inside my house; no maids, no parents, no brothers. Just me--and the dogs barking outside. Save for the christmas lights outside blinking blue, red, and green, the house is cloaked in darkness.

I keep the noise on my keyboard to a minimum--typing very slowly to dull out the clack-clack-clack on the keys. I have bordered the window with my bath towel to prevent the light from my computer screen to filter outside. I'm so careful I'm not even breathing properly...

These carolers are vicious. They come in droves--one group every two minutes or so. I have begun to wonder if there is some conspiracy or scheme involved here. Perhaps these kids all belong to one organized unit. They divide themselves into smaller groups to extract as much spare change from the villagers as possible. Perhaps they even scramble members from time to time to ensure that they can still come back the next minute without being found out.

I will not be fooled.
***

My brother called me on my mobile a few minutes ago. He told me there was a shoe sale at Converse in Cebu, where he is currently working(in Cebu, not at Converse). He asked me if I wanted to have some Chuck Taylors; if I do, "Tell Mama to send me some money, so I can buy something for you--and for me too."

Whoah. My brother really has become a changed man. When he was here, all he did was sleep and throw tantrums when I would make too much noise and wake him up. Always grumbling and complaining--very grumpy indeed. He almost always seemed to be in a perpetual hung-over/bad mood. Also, there always existed a sort of friction between him and Papa; whenever the two of them interacted, it seemed like I always needed to hold my breath, since Papa's so irritable and Chino's always had this penchant for challenging his authority and testing his patience. But now that he's away, I think he has come to realize the importance of family.

Pfft--Ha ha ha! I can't help it, it just sounds so corny!!! Hilarious. Hwaaahaha!

But really, I'm glad that he seems happier and more grateful now. I viewed his friendster profile, and I think it's safe to conclude that he's found some form of direction for his life.

In short: Pwede na siyang mag-asawa. Char lang!

And now, for a moment of Self-righteousness

2006-12-16T14:46:00.000+08:00

I decided to come to Simbang Gabi earlier this morning. I didn't know I had it in me, too. While brushing my teeth (after posting my little piece on Borat), I just decided that I might as well go to Mass, since it was already past 4 a.m. anyway.

I quietly slipped out of the house, and made my way towards the road leading to our parish--hands inside the pockets of my jacket and walking briskly (I could almost imagine puffs of white air coming out my mouth). While walking I happened to look up, and never saw a clearer night sky in my life. Okay I don't know why I'm being so dramatic here.

When I came by the road, I noticed that the streets were nearly deserted. Luckily a jeepney came by, else I would've walked two full kilometers to church.

There were a lot of people in church, and most of them had spilled out to the parking lot, sitting around in clumps. I shook my head at the sight of young girls and boys walking around chatting boisteriously amongst themselves, as if they were making the rounds in a park. I know it's very manang of me, but really--the church is no place to be making passes and googly eyes at the opposite sex. Tsk tsk tsk.

I stayed away from the young crowd and made my way to the part of the church outside where families were mostly gathered--that way I could hear more of what the priest was saying. I then spent the rest of the hour on my feet, envying the early goers who had the privilege of good seats.

I'm just glad our parish has the good sense to provide a well-manned choir, if only to compensate for a church structure which is almost 5 years old--but has yet to see completion.

After mass, I bought puto and bibingka as pasalubong for the sleeping inhabitants of my home (and proof also that I hadn't been off making miracles somewhere). Mama and Papa weren't around (they were at SM slugging it out with the free tae-bo sessions), which disappointed me quite a bit since I couldn't show them what a good little girl I was.

And so, for the rest of the morning, I slept.

A toast: To the end of school, and the beginning of Christmas break... NOT!

2006-12-16T01:48:00.000+08:00

I'm finished with all my exams. I should have made that period into three exclamation points, but I am in no mood to celebrate the start of christmas break yet. I've got an article due next week (I love how that makes me sound like a professional working woman, ha ha!), and more projects waiting for me at the start of classes. How about that?

I don't think I can properly pig out at Christmas and new year with thoughts of homework, projects, and reports bombarding my mind. It is decided then: I must iron-out these pressing (is a "pun intended" in order here?) academic matters before Christmas. Okay, I know I have a bad record when it comes to setting goals--and actually accomplishing them--so I'm keeping my fingers crossed real hard that I will not shirk from my commitments. (alter idem: "You willfull shirker!")

I came to school at 5:50 and was showered with a wide array of chocolate confectionery from my kind and generous classmates. How I hate it that they ganged up on me like this! Now I just feel all Scrooge-esque and un-thoughtful. Bah--oh nevermind, how corny. Well, I was supposed to give them a box of Go Nuts, but gluttony got the best of me and I ended up eating the two boxes. Yes, this must be karma bestowing upon me a well-deserved bout of guilt trip.

I blanked out at certain bits of the exam, but nothing so major as to merit a failing mark. After the exam, I decided to reward myself for a job "mediocredly-done" by watching Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. High five?

Karma must've been on a roll, 'cause I happened to sit through Borat in a very bad environment. The people who were with me inside the theatre were silence personified. I don't know what crawled up their butts and made them decide to watch Borat, 'cause they certainly weren't twitching their zygomaticus one whit. It's a shame; Borat was such a good movie, but the totally dead reaction from my fellow audiences just totally ruined the film-watching experience for me.

There was this guy behind me, though, who probably thought he was so artsy-fartsy British with that dignified "A-HAH hah hah hah...Hilarious!" expression he did all throughout the duration of the movie. By the 15th "Hilarious!"(followed by mock slapping of knee) I was sooo ready to shoot an unpopped popcorn kernel down his throat, if only to induce a choking episode and make the abso*blooming*lutely annoying chap shut up.

I clambered outside the theatre while the closing credits were rolling (and the Kazakhstan national anthem was playing), feeling slightly light-headed (from having restrained myself too many times while laughing, so as not to disturb the unconscious and making out), but sorely relieved to have escaped the presence of so many anal-retentives.

Yes, a butt-load.

2006-12-12T23:35:00.000+08:00

Oh Gaaaad. I feel like a huge butt-load has been lifted off my chest. How heavy is a "butt-load", you ask? I don't know. Just felt like modifying my idioms. Metaphors. Whachever.

Anyhoo, what am I talking about? Y'see I'm supposed to submit a feature article on Thursday(so that's like a day and a half from now). Yeah yeah I just remembered--I already wrote about this on my previous post. So, to cut the story short I already have a subject!!! Hweeeh!!!

I owe a bajillion thanks to banana/s... Ooh yeah, real Godsend. God really is good! Yesh, that's how happy I am!

Apart from that, nothing of notable importance happened today, or in the past two days. As a matter of fact, I actually just made like a rock yesterday: didn't talk much, didn't move--didn't even do a good job breathing. That's how worried I was that I still wasn't able to find a subject to interview. Interview--how I loathe that word. Abhor! I smush my booger at it! (Okay I don't know what I ate today that's making me type really crazy-and-stupid-like) I really don't like engaging in interpersonal activities. However, in as much as I hate interviewing, I'm actually glad that I got banana/s as my subject. The best part is, he asked me to just e-mail him my questions instead!!! Whooptidoo! Less stress for me!

--Whoah I just felt my seat move. It's an earthquake y'all! Okay--looking out the window--no one's scampering outside. I'll go on typing then.

Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, I think that's all!

P.S.

Could the taba ng talangka I ate tonight be the reason for my erratic typing? I highly doubt it, since I did not eat the taba ng talangka. Ignoramus that I was, I thought that it was some sort of crab poo or bile juju or something, so I wiped it off the meat.

I'm really hungry. Eating that fat crab didn't satisfy me at all. I think I must've spent 45 minutes cracking the shell open, and picking at the meat with the other end of my fork. After I was done gathering the meat, my rice was already too cold to consume.

An added bonus: while I was washing the langsa off my hands, I felt a prickly sensation on my index finger. I had unknowingly injured myself, perhaps while I was battling with the crab's pincers and spiny legs. I was so engrossed eating that I hadn't even noticed that I was already losing precious blood! And to think that I was even licking my fingers contentedly...

Have I grossed you out enough already?

Anyway, it just reminded me of that anecdote, on how Eskimos kill Polar Bears using just a spear smeared with blood. Bwahaha. Hilarious.

Christmas with the Masses

2006-12-10T00:29:00.000+08:00

Late this afternoon I made a last-minute decision to go to Rizal Park to look for a certain Benjamin Gabuni, hoping that I can interview him for my Feature Writing project. For those of you who are too lazy to click on the link, Mr. Gabuni is a member of Food not Bombs Davao--ah, nevermind, just click on the link you lazy bum!

So anyway, I got off in front of the Magallanes Public School and made my way to the park through the back of City Hall, with camera in hand. I figured this guy--if he was still in the park--would be pretty easy to spot, going by bananas' description. Just look for the torn jeans, the predominantly black outfit, the piercings, perhaps a pineapple do. Also, he'll probably be surrounded by snotty kids. Okay, this interview's practically in the bag, I thought to myself.

Alas, what I didn't expect to find was a Rizal Park swarming with warm, sweaty bodies.

Sheesh, how could I forget--it was the Christmas season! Beside Rizal's monument was a merry-go-round. "LIBRENG SAKAY," says the streamer in front of it. Tsk, there goes my snotty kids.

I also noticed that everyone was holding a styropore bowl, which I assumed contained rice porridge. A ray of hope, I thought! I then began looking for the long line which will possibly lead me to the person I was looking for. But, when I saw the end of the line, I was dismayed to find out that the purveyors of the lugaw were not of the "Punks not Dead" variety. Rather, they were just a bunch of brusko-looking middle-aged men. I took a close look at the red printed matter on one of the bowls and was enlightened. It read: Pahalipay ni Rody sa Katawhan (my rough translation: Rody's Gift of Joy to the Warm, Sweaty Masses).

Abandoning all hopes of finding the elusive Mr. Gabuni, I instead contented myself with taking crappy pictures of my be-decored surroundings. I apologize in advance for my spastic hands and my camera's dirty lens.

Stop the Sanity!

2006-12-08T23:12:00.001+08:00

"Sanity is so last century!" reads one blog.

What can I say? These days, it seems like everyone's trying to affect some personality disorder, or feign mental illness. Ho-hum. What's new, anyway?

I doubt their intentions. What could be their reasons for advertising their "fruity"-ness? Does having a screw loose somewhere up their cool-ness factor? Is it to give others the impression that their lives are more "interesting" than they actually appear to be?

I guess some people are just too suggestible--or perhaps hypochondriac. They do a bit of reading on disorders and their symptoms, and the next time you see them they're biting their fingernails, squirting alcogel all over the place, delivering spontaneous monologues, counting the steps on stairs, and avoiding cracks on streets and sidewalks (good luck with that, says DPWH).

Whatever. There are way too many self-proclaimed OC's and Paranoid-delusionals out here, that I think to have an imagined personality disorder has become somewhat passe.

I therefore declare that sanity is the new "in". =)

You better be Happy coz I just paid 70 pesos to see you.

2006-12-07T01:23:00.000+08:00

Watched the 8:00 P.M. screening of Happy Feet.

Hmm, what can I say? Despite the fact it's currently number one at the North American charts, it totally left no impression on me whatsoever. Not even a tiny,infinetisimal dent. Just a few chuckles here and there, nothing really funny enough to make me snort a whole kernel of popcorn out my nose. I was more engrossed with the humans; were they really CG characters? I don't know, coz they totally looked real to my ignorant eye.

Now that I think about it, the film was more disturbing than funny or inspirational. Kinda like Al Gore's "An Incovenient Truth"--Kiddie version. Pfft.

Okay I won't attempt a full-blown review, coz I bet I'm one of the last people to have seen it.

Next up on my list of go-sees: Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. Offend me to death, Sacha Cohen Baron--I don't care. I'm not an American anyway.

Have a break. Have a Knick Knacks.

2006-12-05T20:55:00.001+08:00

O sige magbinisaya sa ko, kay gipadalhan man ko ug elektronikong suwat ganina sa Bisayablogger Moderator; ana siya na kung pwede daw, kay nag apil-apil man kuno ko sa ilang grupo, e di mag-Binisaya pud ko sa pagsulat sa akong blog. Tama siya, nakita man pud nako ilang punto. Pero pasinsyahi lang gyud ha, kay dili gyud ko pwede mag-Binisaya sa kanunay. Kay aron masayod lang ka, Inggles man akong gikuhang kurso sa pagkakaron; kinahanglan pud nako mag-praktis ug iningglis. Ayaw kabalaka, kay himuon nako ni mga kausa sa isa ka semana kay malingaw man pud ko mag-Binisaya.
***
Sus ganiha diay, hastang laguta nako! Kay nakamata na pud ko ug wala sa oras kay saba kaayo ning batang gamay sa among kapitbahay! Buntag sayo magsige na ug tsabaw!!! Utro pud ning lola, lolo, mama, ug papa sa bata kay aron mapahunong ang bata sa iyang pagsinggit singgit, kantahan man hinuon anang "Aleluya" ni Bamboo! Kana ganing sa Pepsi na adbertisment, kanang "WOO-OO-HOOO--OH"? O kana! Mag sige silag kanta ana para siguro mapakatawa ang bata! Lintik na lang gyud! Unsaon na lang man nako pagtubo ani na dugay na gani ko makatulog, matahon pa gyud ta'g sayo pirmi aning "Woo oo hooo oh"?!? Abno man siguro ni among kapitbahay...

Mao to, nakatulog ra pud ko balik kay nindot kaayo ang panahon: bugnaw ang hangin, human natago pa gyud sa panganod (clouds?) ang adlaw! Mao to nagpadayon na ko sa akong damgo--sa dihang nahinumduman nako na Martes man diay karon! Aduna diay ko'y klase karong 9:15! Sus pirteng pamalikas na pud nako kay lami gyud kaayo sa katanan na matulog hangtod udtong tutok sa ani nga panahon! Lain pa gyud akong paminaw, mura ko'g gikalintura kay kalipungon ko human init akong lawas. Naghuna-huna ko: "Unsa kaya kung ma-absin ko karon? Dili man gyud makaya sa akong lawas na maligo karon..." Maayo na lang kay nahinumduman na pud nako na niingon diay si Ser Don katong niaging Huwebes na dili na usa mi manulod sa iyang klase kay hatagan daw mi niya'g oras na buhaton among pradyek. Ha-hay pirte nakong pasalamat sa Ginoo kay gihatagan gyud ko niya ug dugang oras na matulog. Niana ko sa akong kaugalingon na matulog ko'g mga usa'g-tunga na oras, human mumata na dayon dapat ko arong makasulod sa akong 11:00 na klase. Nipiyong na pud ko'g pagka-usab...

***Ang akong ikaduhang damgo na samok kaayo***
Nakamata na pud ko ug usab. Libog kaayo ko, wala ko kabalo unsang oras na--nahadlok ko basi'g nasobraan ko ug tulog. Gikuha nako ang selpon sa akong kilid ug gitan-aw ang oras: Syet! Ingon sa relo 10:55 na! Naloko na, wala na gyud ko'y mahimo, muabsin na lang gyud ko sa klase ni Ser Mac. Mao to, nipiyong na pud ko'g pagka-usab...
***
...Nakurat ko pagmata kay nikurog akong selpon. Gikuha dayon nako ang selpon sa kilid ug gitan-aw ang oras: 9:30. Pagkasamok na lang gyud, musulod lang diay gihapon ko ani ug eskwelahan. Imbes na murag giganahan na unta ko'g huna-huna na dili na lang musulod sa klase ni Ser Mac... Ay oo, naa diay ko'y mensahe gikan kang Faith. Gikumpirma niya na wala gyud mi klase kang Ser Don. Paghuman nako'g basa, nibug-at akong mata, dayon tulog ug pag-usab.

10:25 na ang oras tong sunod nakong pag-mata. Buot pasabot naa lang koy traynta-singko minutos arong maligo, mag-ilis, mukaon, mag-tutbras, ug mag-adto paingon sa eskwelahan! Napugos na lang gyud ko ug bangon kay mahadlok ko muabsin sa klase ni Sir Mac; basi pag adto nako sa sunod na adlaw, di na ko kasabot sa dagan sa iyang lektyur--taasan pa gyud ko niya ug usa ka kilay. Nahuman ko ug ligo sa sulod sa kinse minutos, ilis ug kinse minutos pud. Maski nag bukal bukal akong tiyan, wala na lang ko nikaon ug dayon nag-tutbras. Nitawag na lang pud ko ug Holiday taxi kay dili na ni madala ug dyip-dyip. Nihawa ko sa balay eksakto alas-onse--pamati nako nagsugod na ang klase namo sa Diskurso. Wala ko'y labot, basta musulod lang ko, bahala ulahi.

Katong naa na ang akong gisakyang taxi sa kilid sa Bangko Sentral sa dalang Tiongko, nahuna-hunaan nako ug tan-aw sa akong pitaka; singkwenta na lang man gud ang nabilin ato, human nahurot yata nako ang mga kuwins sa pamasahe gahapon. Wala gyud ko nasayop: 50.75 ang eksaktong sulod sa akong pitaka. Gisilip nako ang metro: 48.........--bagang!--ni-49 dayon! Hala, unsaon na ni, dili jud ko kaabot ug Ateneo Claveria ani!!! Tama gyud ko, pag abot namo sa dalang Quirino, atubangan sa Bangko Sentral ug sa Davao Central Convenience, nipatak na ug singkwenta ang metro. Gipahunong na lang nako si Manong sa kilid sa prutasan na Madrazo, human nag-desisyon ko na lakwon na lang ang Ateneo gikan sa dalang Acacia(kanang dalan gud na walay naga-aging sakyanan, igo lang istambayan sa mga bus sa Metro Shuttle sa una. Mabini man siguro na, ambot lang.)

Abog sa dalan, ga-itom na aso gikan sa mga tambutso sa mga dyip, akong palda nag-lupad lupad sa akong kada lakang, akong buhok na wala'y sudlay gikan pa sa pagsakay nako sa taksi--wala ko'y labot basta lakaw lang gyud ko hantod sa makaabot sa geyt sa dalang C.M. Recto(dili na diay na siya Claveria, pahinumdum ni Sir Mac). Gitan-aw nako ang oras sa kompyuter sa mga sikyo--11:26 pa diay. Bakakon jud nang orasan sa mga taksi sa Holiday oy! Nganong magpa-adbans-adbans man daw na sila? Pakulba-kulbaan ra jud nila ilang mga pasahero.

Nag-elebeytor na lang ko kay dili man taas ang pila. Wala na ko kabalo sa akong hitsura, pero basin dili na maayo kay ginatan-aw man ko sa mga nakapila sa akong tuo ug wala. Ay wala na ko'y Kiber, basta nisakay ko sa elebeytor.

Pagduol nako padulong sa among klasrum, natingala ko kay mura ug wala man nagsiga ang suga.

Pag-abri nako sa purtahan, hipos kaayo ang mga bang-ko.

Wala diay klase.

P.S. To those who feel alienated by my post since it's written in the vernacular, I can only offer an apology. For a translation in English, click this

Moody and Snooty-patooty

2006-12-04T23:18:00.002+08:00

Background: This is another one of those silly Japanese game shows.

The Premise: Somewhat like a game of consequence. The participants draw cards on a table. Whoever gets the card with the "skull-and-bones" symbol gets to suffer the penalty, as indicated on their penalty chart. Sample penalties include(as can be seen on the video): 'The Wasabi Roll', 'Slapping Machine', and 'Old Man Bites Tenderly'--I'll leave it to you to find out what this penalty looks(and feels) like.

The catch: This game show is set inside a "real" library, so the participants have to be real quiet while enduring the consequences.

Just a quick reminder: You are not inside a library. Don't get carried away with the "shushing". Feel free to laugh as hard as you want--maybe slap a knee or two.

I don't understand why I'm so moody tonight. I think the only time I laughed today was when I saw this video. A few hours ago, during dinner time, I was such in a badtrip mode because our househelp made me another one of her pork and beans with a whole slew of pork, onions, and garlic thrown in. As you may not know, I only eat the "beans" in Pork and Beans. Garlic also makes me gag. And so, since I was miffed at her and all, I hid her left slipper under the gas range. I was being moody
and mean. And snooty too.

***Earlier that day***

Having had nothing else to do, I spent the entire activity period alone inside a dark C504. I propped my befoot-socked feet on a chair, and I just sat in the dark whilst I listened to music from my mobile. I would've wanted to sing along, but I was afraid some sneaky guard in school uniform might suddenly take a look inside.

When Pam came in, I pretended to take a nap--hanky covering face, chin on hand, occassionally dipping my head for effect. But try as I could, I just could not sleep! Blast it! This insomnia would never have occured if I was inside the library(or during Mgt215)! So then ate Neil came in (with me still feigning sleep at the back of the room), then kuya Jason--until finally an hour and a half passed by with my eyes closed but mind still ultra-friggin-active.

I couldn't take it anymore; my back was killing me and my legs had slept on me(lucky bastards). I got up from my chair and went outside to freshen up for class.

Fifteen minutes after the start of Debate and Argumentation class, I finally felt the pangs of drowsiness kicking-in. Unfortunately, I couldn't bear to sleep since no one had asked Atty. Cortado for his policy on sleeping at our first meeting; I was afraid(why am I always afraid?) he might suddenly flare up and send me out. Suffice it to say I felt like dying while I fought to keep my eyes open for the next 45 minutes.

This(sleep deprivation) may have been the reason why I was so irritable and grumpy the entire evening.

Success!

2006-12-03T13:32:00.000+08:00

It's not much, but it's a step towards...I don't know where.

Frustration

2006-12-03T02:27:00.000+08:00

I have been trying to replace my existing template with something prettier, to no success. This is totally exhausting! I keep getting xml error messages after I try to save my new template...

So much for complaining. My apologies for the lack of a note-worthy post. I was supposed to publish a post on memorable commercials(which is still in the draft stage), but I presently have my hands full trying to google my predicament.

I feel so helpless. Sigh.

Feeling Nostalgic over Tropang Trumpo

2006-12-02T15:21:00.000+08:00

While I was rummaging through the net last night, looking for photos of Zoren Legaspi, I stumbled upon a thread on Tropang Trumpo. Aaah, those were the days. I think I was 7 or 8 when ABC5 started airing Tropang Trumpo(if I'm not mistaken, that was in 1995), but some of the funnier and more memorable skits weren't lost on me. Who can forget the "Chicken" dance? Or the Battle of the Brainless? Ha ha, BOTB really was funny back in those days. Here's a sample of one BOTB session:

Ogie/Quizmaster: Sino ang pambansang bayani ng Pilipinas? Ang initials niya ay J.R.
Team A: (Bzzzz!) Jeric Raval?
Ogie: Mali! Isa siyang doktor!
Team B: (Bzzzt bzzzt bzzzt!) Aha! Doctor Jeric Raval!!!

While reading over the thread, I was surprised to know that someone still remembers Tropang Trumpo's 'Caronia' jingle spoof--much more the lyrics.

"caronia, caronia
ikabufini, manigura
puntang makati, manigura
caronia, caronia
confucius says...it's caronia!" ....CHICKEN!

ABC5 aired re-runs of Tropang Trumpo I think just last year. Unfortunately, I only got to watch 2 or three episodes because I kept forgetting to tune in. I just found it sad how I really couldn't appreciate it anymore; at least, not the way I did more than a decade ago, when I was watching it with my brothers inside my parents' airconditioned bedroom on a Saturday night. I don't know, maybe the reason I found it funny in the past was precisely because I was watching it with my older brothers. The saling-pusa that I am, I always wanted to laugh along with whatever they found funny and hilarious.

But when I saw Tropang Trumpo again, it just seemed...old: the jokes were old, the mid-90's clothes Ogie, Michael V., Earl, Gelli and Carmina wore were old, the grainy visuals were old, the camera movements were old, the keyboard effects(that provided background music to every segment) were old. Corny and Old. So I was just surprised that the participants in the forum discussion on were all praises for this pioneering Philippine gag show. Like they never outgrew it all.

Ah, maybe it really is a good show after all. I don't know--maybe I'm being saling-pusa again.

P.S. Here's a post I found lying around among my countless drafts. I just posted it here coz I feel so guilty for not writing a more substantial post for this night. I don't know why I'm so pathetic tonight!!!

Friday Night at the Movies

2006-12-02T01:05:00.000+08:00

Went to Chino's around 7:00 this evening to fill-in for Mother Dearest(who's at Cebu attending the PICPA convention) at the register. To my surprise, it was closed! Sheesh! What a waste of a bath! Since I was already dressed-up anyway, I rode a jeepney to NCCC Mall to eat and maybe watch a movie.

First off, I went to the 3rd floor to check out the "Now Showing" flicks. Hmmm, slim pickings. There was: Flags of our Fathers at Cinema 1, Inang Yaya at C.2, Happy Feet at Cinema 3, and Casino Royale at C.4.

I was trying to decide between Happy Feet and Inang Yaya. I ended up booking an 8:00 ticket for Inang Yaya, due to these reasons:

I was still clinging to the hope that our barkada's Saturday get-together will push through(despite tentative commitments from Cha and Claire). If and when it will, then seeing Happy Feet will definitely be in the itinerary.

Inang Yaya was the only Filipino film in the line-up. I was feeling patriotic that time and thus decided to raise the banner for the Filipino Film Industry.

I looked at my watch, and saw that I still had 45 minutes left before the movie starts. I headed off to Greenwich since I was craving for a heavy dose of carbs. So, I ordered a solo Greenwich Supreme, and a platter of their Premium baked mac, and a glass of Sprite. The damage: P154. Nice.

After dinner, I went back to the cinema, just in time to sit through the opening credits.

I'm not in the mood to talk about the movie. Maricel Soriano was believable, at the very least, in her role as Mommy Yaya/Inay; yea, she was excellent, really. The mother-in-law/token contravida, Liza Lorena, was efficiently hate-able (although she did mellow down towards the end). Sunshine Cruz-Montano held the sosyal/kikay Mommy role down pat. Zoren Legaspi was just fine as wall decor for some of the scenes.

***On a more serious note...

Everytime Zoren appears on screen, I am always reminded of his 'signature look': eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed(like he just sucked on a calamansi) but set in a semi-smile. The very image just makes me smile--after which I then stifle my laughter. Ha. Ha hah ha.

***

Hmm, who else, who else? The two kids--Maricel's alaga and daughter--also delivered exceptional performances; fearless forecast: one of them will get an 'outstanding performance by a child actress' award this year. Super Inggo's Makisig Morales can't even hold a candle to either one of them.

Oh yeah, remember Maximo's dad (from 'Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros'), and that guy from the Boysen commercial who painted over his nagging wife? He was there too, as the girls' carpool driver. Didn't even deliver a single line. The first time his profile flashed on screen, I heard signs of recognition from two moviegoers. One of them chuckled, "ang pambansang extra."

The cinematography however, merits a separate paragraph. I'm don't know much about movie technicalities; all I can say is the film's countryside backdrop was just beautiful. The limestone-and-mortar churches, open fields, greenery, and old, wooden houses--seeing those just made me think of Bohol. Sigh.

My tentative vision for the future: After I graduate, I'll make off with Dad's Vespa(after I've learned how to drive, of course) and go to Bohol, where I'll spend my days scooting around the municipalities, eating for free courtesy of the fiestas, and visiting each and every colonial church in Bohol. As to where I'll live and where I'll get the "running-away" money, it's still in the planning stages.

Care to join me?

I'm just no good with titles. I won't even try this time.

2006-12-01T01:18:00.000+08:00

Hmmm...I do not recall much of this day. Why is that? I woke up to lovely weather around 7:00; slept a bit more, and officially got out from bed at 8:15. Mama left for Cebu earlier this morning, which means I have to tend to our humble little karinderya for the three days and nights she will be away.

Anyway, our maid(who also works at the karinderya part-time) has informed me that I have an admirer who has been pestering her for my number the past couple of days. Shit! Anyway, what can I say about him? I do not know anything about this animal, except that he hangs out with the drunks at the Debate Society, and he probably saw me that Saturday night when I was tending the cash register and they were, as usual, drinking Red Horse. Other than that, I really don't know anything about him at all. I just find it disturbing how this guy knows my course. What, has he been trailing me around campus secretly? The creep!

I do not want to be a snob and a cynic; I admit, it is flattering to have someone express interest in you. However, I find the whole thing creepy and gross. Ptui.

Anyhoo, during Features class, Sir Don again reminded me about my 'Neruda' tribute--he wants me to create a title for it. As of now, I still haven't come up with a title; anyway I've got until Monday to come up with one. I don't know about you, but I think coming up with a title is more difficult than composing the poem.

After Features class, I then went on to Discourse Analysis with Sir Mac Tiu. Discourse Analysis? Hah! I think it's Davao History 101 masquerading as a Discourse Analysis class! Can't blame Sir Mac; after all, tracing Davao's history is his current--perhaps life-long-- passion. Not that I'm complaining--I am also quite interested in our own history. And being with Sir Mac has just made me realize that I know next to nothing about Davao and its past. I mean who knows anything about Claveria, Uyanguren, or Datu Bago--aside from their association as street names? Huh, huh? Stumped you, didn't I?

***Another episode of digression:***
I have always wondered why our schools never teach us anything about our own city's history. It's always about Rizal, Bonifacio, Tamblot, GomBurZa, Silang, Dagohoy--but never about Davao's villains and heroes! In college, I even learned about Chiang Kai Shek, Aurangzeb(cool name by the way...Aurangzeb), the Aryans and the Dravidians, the Sumerians, Kublai Khan, the Manchurians, Emperor Hirohito, Akihito, Naruhito, and even more world personalities that I could care less about! Where do we, Davaoeños, figure in all of this?

I think one reason we don't bother educating students about their own history is because they're already expected to have some knowledge about it--at home perhaps, or from Lolo and Lola, or the talkative Tito Boy or Tita Baby. However, the sad fact is, even our own parents know zilch about Davao. It's pretty much the same case with the Cebuano or Visayan dialect; we don't teach it in school because it is assumed that we've already learned it from home. The result of which is that many young Davaoeños' vocabulary are deficient and inadequate--hence, the use of the multi-purpose "kuan" and the resorting to 'Davao Tagalog'.

***Whew! Heavy stuff! End of digression***

Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, Discourse Analysis. Oh yeah(part 2), before DA class started, I--along with Faith and Paolo-- was able to talk to Ate Neil and Kuya Jason. Actually, it's more like they talked, and we just listened. See they were letting off steam about Ate Vera, the third English major in fourth year who, according to Kuya Jason, has "attitude problems". I don't really want to elaborate; all I know is that they want to kick her off their thesis team-up, but they can't at the moment, so they just have to put up with her until they graduate. I just wrote about it because I'm glad that somehow we, Juniors and Seniors, seem to be getting along just peachy. Oh, such kind and open people.

So after Discourse, my stomach was growling in protest. With only roughly 30 minutes of break time left(before the start of Business Writing class), I decided to just grab a quick filler of Meat bread and Sprite at the food court(for a grand total of P22.00). The meat bread, at P10.00, was a disappointment. There was not enough meat, no eggs (which made me miss Miami Foods' version of MEATbread), all yeast and air. I think the more appropriate term should be meat BREAD.

After BizWriting, I had to wait an hour and a half more for my 4:10 Philo class, for which I was going to have a quiz. Sir Nice was 30++ minutes late. He came in with his iPod Video, earphones in his ears, and didn't even apologize for wasting half an hour of my life. Ugh, lawyers are just so arrogant sometimes. So he gave us another one of those nosebleed-inducing questions, which I'm sure I'm going to get another 65-68 score for. I decided to exact my own little form of revenge by taking my own sweet time answering my essay--again. And so, once again, I was the last to hand in my paper.
Started my first evening duty for the rest of the week at Chino's and, having nothing else to do, wasted an otherwise-productive night sitting around and watching Deal or No Deal. Saw an interesting sight, which somehow made my night(hey, that rhymes!): three harmless-looking middle-aged men, all looking well-to-do(just your regular bored daddies getting together on the eve of a non-working holiday), drinking SMB Light-- and having Hany for their pulutan. Yea, you read right: Hany, as in Annie's Hany, the Choc-Nut clone. I could only shake my head.

To My Dear Pablo

2006-11-29T23:45:00.001+08:00

I do not want to touch

His things

It is almost like I hear

The voice of my grandmother:

“Much too precious for you,

Child”

With your soft

Young hands

So bare

So small—

Unbearably clumsy

Just—

Do not touch!

You might break it

With your ignorance

Are you sure you understand?

Sure enough

Try as I could

I could not touch it

It was set high on a shelf—

Amongst old wine bottles and

Foreign drinking glasses

Hidden—

though I knew it was just there

Where a child’s curious eyes would not reach

How much I wanted to think

That I would have understood

That it all would somehow grow on me

And cause me to see the world

In profound and lively ways

But I could not touch it

With all my ignorance

My clumsiness

I just –

Could not bear to

---

This was my poem dedicated to Neruda, as a requirement in today's Poetry Appreciation class. I made this around 9:45 in the morning, finished it 45 minutes later, and submitted it to Sir Don at 12:35.

The response to my poem was encouraging. Oh yeah, Sir Don was all praises for it. Although I think he might have read too much into it. Even I was amazed my simple poem could take on such dimensions. I just made that poem as an excuse not to make a more difficult research paper. He however, saw a poem on a person who couldn't discuss Neruda because she has not experienced passion and love. He even called me the next Emily Dickinson too. Hmm, who is this Emily? Must read her. The poem's still with him, and he's thinking of giving it to Sir Mac for possible publication in Dagmay. Could this be the start of my poetic career? Wooh, scary.

Okay, that's the end of one hurdle. Now I have to worry about my Feature Writing project--which is, to interview a famous personality in the city and write a feature article on him or her. Man I hate interviewing people! It's a shy person's worst nightmare!!! Anyway, whatever--I realize that I just have to suck it all in and do this article--or else I won't graduate. I'm thinking of interviewing Mr. Celso Gempesaw of the Traffic Management Center, or maybe April Dayap (I think she's some sort of a junior councilor or something), or maybe the head of CENRO... Hmm, hmm, so many choices. Good: problem's halfway solved.

As usual, I rode a Maa-Agdao jeepney for the trip back home. The schoolgirl in front of me was eating sliced green mangoes; it just reminded me of the time I sat beside two women eating green mangoes with bagoong. Inside a small, cramped Multicab-of-a-jeepney, mind you. The stench nearly drove me to tears--no kidding. Anyway, it was a good thing the girl was eating her mangoes with vinegar; at least the stench wasn't as overpowering. Why am I writing about her, you ask? Well, actually it's because of what she did after deciding that the mangoes were too sour for her taste. She just threw it right out the window and onto the street!!!

I really, really, really hate people who have no regard for the cleanliness of their surroundings!!! Disgusting individuals! What are their schools teaching them anyway? Oooh...that incident really worked me up. I indirectly chastised her for her misdemeanor by throwing a shocked glance at the pieces of mango lying by the road--and then raising my eyebrows at her (ala Tita Celia Rodriquez).

Oh, but of course, my fellow Ateneans will not be spared from my tirade. You'd be surprised at the number of complete savages making their way into the school. Just consider these tell-tale signs of uncouth-ness in campus:

the mess of C2 bottles, Yakisoba containers, turon wrapper, empty sachets of Muncher, Ding Dong, at the numerous tables at the Finster building
neatly folded candy wrappers skillfully crammed into any available crevice on desks inside classrooms and at the library
clumps of tissue paper smeared with lipstick stains, foundation, or--God forbid--snot, beneath the 'vanity mirrors' at the Women's comfort room

Ugh, all savages I tell you. These students make me sick; acting as if the janitors should be indebted to them for giving them work to do.

I don't want to talk about trash anymore. I'll stop now.

The effect of "not thinking"

2006-11-29T01:04:00.001+08:00

Got a 68 for our quiz in Philosophy103 this afternoon. At first I was devastated; I don't think I've ever received anything close to a 70 before. Oh wait, I take it back; just last week I received a 65 in Business Writing class for forgetting to sign in my business letter. But Philosophy is something else. I thought I winged that quiz; in fact, I was the last person to finish my essay since I was making such a career out of it. But instead, I find out that my essay is no better than the rest of my second year classmates who also got 68's, 65's, and 60's.

Why must Philosophy always bite *ss?

Before handing us our pitiful scores, Atty. Solis delivered a litany on how NOT to answer a quiz in philosophy. Adda yadda yadda, "one-paragraph essays aren't enough to answer a philosophical question," blah blah blah "long answers pain my eyes"--bottom line is,there's just no pleasing the gods that are Philosophy instructors--like they're always finding potholes in your answers, taking every opportunity to ask "Why is this?" "What does this mean?" "How can you say so?"...sheesh. Anyway, after that, Atty. Nice said something that caused me to stop cursing my crappy score. Quoting Fr. Michael Moga (his former Philo prof and author of "Why are We Not Thinking?"), Atty. Nice asked us: "Will you be happy if I gave you a 95 instead?". Of course the usual answer would be "Heck yes! I'd take a 95 over,say, 68 any day! A 68 in your transcript is just like a zit on the verge of eruption--it's disgusting to look at and calls a lot of attention to itself!"

...I can't remember what he said next. Whatever that was, it made me feel better about my 68. Well, it didn't really make me feel better--it just made me realize that maybe I did deserve this score. I think Atty. Solis' point was that sometimes we need to get crappy scores to knock us off our comfort zones. And when we are rocked from our comfort zones, we can then "think"! And this "thinking" will then allow us to better ourselves!

Okay enough about that, it's making my head hurt. Right now I must compose a reflection paper on any of Pablo Neruda's poems.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

2006-11-27T01:56:00.001+08:00

Saw Claire in church earlier this afternoon. She passed by in front of me twice: first, at the start of mass (although I noted she was late), then, as she and her family left (right after communion). I was itching to call out to her, but in the end I decided against it for the following reasons:

1.) She was with her family. This means if I call her attention, I will have to greet her mother and her father--and perhaps even her brother--out of formality and courtesy. That alone is a massive obstacle for me.

2.) The venue just wasn't conducive for "friend-greeting." I mean c'mon, we were in church; I just can't slap someone on the back and say "HOY!!!" while everyone's praying. And don't go telling me that I can always greet someone with a subdued "Huy..."-- I just don't function that way.

3.) I couldn't think of anything to say. Things might get awkward fast if I just say "HOY!!!" and follow it up with nothing. And also--again--Claire was with her family. Their presence will just serve to heighten the awkwardness.

So, in the end, I just let Claire pass by. I did send her an SMS after mass, but she hasn't sent a reply as of this typing. Claire you discourteous girl.

After mass we proceeded to an uncle's house in Toril for a fiesta--to celebrate Christ the King, I think. I spent ten minutes eating, and the remaining three hours were spent waiting on my father who was there drinking and socializing. Damn how I hate parties/fiestas/social functions, specially ones where you don't know enough people to have a good enough time. Fortunately, my brother was with me, and so we both stewed in OP-ness.

I'm always uncomfortable coming to this certain uncle's parties. Their huge house with the spacious driveway, the landscaped front yard, the pedigreed dog (I don't know the breed but dad calls it the "Hush Puppies" mascot), the chandeliers, and the three sala sets--seeing it always makes me feel so poor and un-'cultured'. Like it's always screaming: "Look at this!!! See how we're so much better than you." But anyway, that's just me--my uncle's not really evil or anything. (He is a lawyer though. Hehe.)

And I guess my father feels the same way, too. He didn't really hang around much with my uncle and his Rotary Club-slash-golf buddies at their table with the overflowing Johnny Walker's. Instead, he drank with my uncle's brother-in-law, who also wasn't part of my uncle's golf-Rotary circle. That's one thing my father and I have in common: we're both very masa.

So we went home around 9 in the evening. Before that, we heard that someone had been stabbed dead somewhere in the subdivision. I hope he's not another one of those 'My Way' casualties.

In the car, on the way home, my mom and dad talked about the 'days of the movement' (my rough translation of "kapanahunan sa kalihukan," as my dad put it). You see, the relative my dad was talking to earlier--his policeman-dad was gunned down by rebels during those "days."

Here's how their conversation went on, as I remembered it:

Ma: Ang papa ni Gatsi, gipusil man to no?

Me:(looking out the window but listening intently)

Pa: Oo...Kuan to... tong panahon sa kalihukan.

Ma: Grabe jud tong panahuna to ba. 'Asta si Papa gud, murag dili pud mahimutang ato. (note: my lolo's also a policeman.)... Apil man si Pepe ato diba?

Me:(I don't know who this Pepe is. One thing's for sure--he used to be a policeman, and he used to be alive.)

Pa: Oo.

Ma: Sa Magallanes man to siya gi-tira ato diba?

Pa: O. Gapili-pili lang to siya ug pan sa Magallanes. Gi-posisyonan dayon ug tulo. Gipusil sa ulo...patay.

Me:(imagining Sunny Point Bakeshop in Magallanes...)

Pa: Kahinumdum pa ka atong sa PLDT?

Ma: Ah, O...

Pa: Katong sa Bankerohan pud. Padulong pa ko'g trabaho ato. Nag-kape lang tong duha ato...

Ma: ...Human gibaril la'g kalit. Pilit dayon ang utok sa bungbong ato...

Me:(appreciating mama's penchant for imagery)

Ma: ...Grabe jud to, mga tulo ka pulis jud to kada-adlaw ba. Makaingon jud ka ato sa una, "Mahurot na man siguro ang mga pulis ani..."

Pa: Kakita ka sa City Hall sa una? Ang flag ato...dili jud...half-mast jud to pirminte adlaw-adlaw. Naa ma'y pulis pirme ihaya.

---

After (and while) hearing my mom and dad's conversation, I felt uneasy--somewhat like a combination of nostalgia, pity(for the fallen policemen) and anger(for the rebels/activists). Maybe it was because I was thinking of my late grandfather while they were talking. The thought of kindly old men being shot down with bullets just saddened me. Anyway, it made me think of the relativity of it all. Leftist groups/communist sympathizers are foaming at the mouth over "political killings" when their hands are not free of blood either.

Ah whatever--the bottom-line is I just don't like leftists and activists--period. But I'm not saying "Kill 'em all!" I just don't like noise of any kind, that's all--thank you.

Requiem for a Stress-filled Week

2006-11-25T01:37:00.001+08:00

Friday. Sweet word. Beautiful.
Woke up at 10:32 a.m. I slept so well I couldn't remember what day it was. Then I remembered: today's a Friday. Sigh. It's all good anyway. Before I went to sleep, I set my mobile to silent so I avoided the mysterious phenomenon of my phone coming to life at 8:30 without my permission. So, I slept around 2:30 a.m., then woke up at 10:30--so that's...eight hours of uninterrupted sleep!!! Nice!!! Haven't sleep that long in weeks!!!
I came to Sir Don's Poetry class half an hour late. That's because I left the house with only 5 minutes left before the start of class. I figured I was better off riding a taxi to cut commuting time by 10 minutes. The irony of it was, I spent so much time waiting for a vacant taxi to come by that I ended up wasting around 15 minutes in the process. Realizing too late that my attempts at finding a taxi were futile, I took a jeepney instead. The time: around 12:40. I was officially already absent from class. Good thing we don't have a beadle, tee-hee.
I must take a few moments to digress. I really can't wait for the day when I'll get to have my own wheels. For months I've been bugging my dad to let me use his Vespa, but to no avail. It's the usual reason: two-wheeled vehicles are dangerous; you're better off driving a car--that way, if you ever get into an accident, you won't end up with a hole in your skull; girls aren't meant for riding scooters("You sexist!"), etc.
Me: So dad, can I use the Revo?
Dad: No.
Me: The pick-up?
Dad: Hell, no.
So I guess that was Dad's not-so-subtle way of telling me that I will have to commute for the rest of my college life.
--End of digression--
So anyway, I came to school huffing and puffing. Came inside the classroom while they were already into their second poem.
After class, I ate, attempted to read The Art of Argumentation and Debate(for next class' quiz), and hung out with Cleng at the gazebo for a while. While Cleng was listening to music from my mobile, I amused myself by watching a couple of laborers dig a shallow trench a few meters from where I was seated. Then suddenly I felt something crawling on my elbow. Out of impulse I swatted it with my palms; that's when I discovered it was one of those huge ants that hung around the trees around the gazebo. But instead of flying off the ant stuck to my finger. By this time I figured the ant must've been pretty pissed and ready to go into attack mode, so I tried to shake it off. However, after one bout of vigorous hand-shaking, I could still feel the tingly end of it's legs on my ring finger--which I mistakenly thought was the ant's jaws ready to pounce on my flesh. So I swatted it with my free hand--I must've squished it before it flew off my hand. After realizing what I just did to a poor, innocent ant, I just felt so bad at the unnecessary violence and injustice I inflicted upon it. If you must know, I have a pretty soft spot for those huge tree-dwelling ants(as opposed to the small red ones so common around the house whose bite is awfully painful--then itchy). I've never been bitten by one, despite the many encounters I've had with them at the gazebo, so I don't think they're that hostile. However, I've seen some sick, sadistic students impale those defenseless creatures using pens and bamboo skewers, and I just can't help but shed a few tears for their senseless deaths. With what I just did this afternoon, I just put myself in the league of those demented 'harmless giant ant'-killers.
As for cockroaches, I have totally different sentiments. The very thought of them...ugh--totally disgusting creatures. Baygon is my best friend.
Anyway, back to the afternoon's events. I met up with Cha at the Jacinto gate shortly after parting with Cleng. I originally intended to just give her the book I'd borrowed from her last semester, since I still had a quiz to study for. Instead, I ended up spending the rest of the activity period with her. We decided to just walk around the campus since every place we went to was swarming with students. I also showed her the 'hidden library' behind the chapel. The rest of the afternoon was spent talking about Donna's retreat, Sir Jess(whom we encountered as we were 'strolling') and how he looked dashing in his light yellow polo, Cha's embarrassing experience during BA day(where she was forced to strut on stage for a costume show), Cha's classmate in Philo104 who supposedly looks like Jun Matsumoto, my classmate in 'some' class who doesn't look like any popular actor I know--but still is 'hot' nevertheless, and a bunch of other stuff that didn't require much brain-flexing. Talking to a friend with just about anything is a nice way to a cap a stressful school week.
I must've gotten too carried away talking to Cha because I totally forgot to study for my Debate class. By the time I came back to my classroom, Atty. Cortado--our teacher--was already on his desk. Whoopsie. I did some quick reading and took the test; finished it and submitted my paper with a couple of blanks on some numbers. I don't think I failed though. And after that, I flagged a jeepney and went home.
Looking back at the days that have passed, I'd say this week just ravaged me with all the early-morning sleeping I did. I'm just glad I endured it without collapsing from exhaustion or getting seriously ill. Yes, I survived this week, and with only a huge zit in the middle of my forehead to show for it. Beat that.

Not an Addict

2006-11-24T01:26:00.001+08:00

I can not be very healthy at this moment. Everything I lay my eyes on moves and floats when it really isn't. Just right now, I was staring at a blank wall. Then suddenly I thought I saw it move. The wall appeared to me like it was a curtain softly billowing--or like a pond rippling. I know, it's crazy!

It can only mean that my body is telling me that I should seriously get some sleep. Oh, anyway, it's a Friday.

Seriously though, I really should rest.

Oh Sweet Slumber!

2006-11-23T03:29:00.001+08:00

Finally finished my Feature Writing homework. I'm so glad that, this time, it didn't take me until 5:00 am to finish my article!!! Two hours, oh how precious these two hours are...

Okay, I won't prolong my agony. Good night.

Subdued

2006-11-22T00:13:00.003+08:00