Saturday, December 31, 2011

Boire excessif non plus

I woke up at 4 a.m., thankfully in my own room, with no clear recollection of how I got home. I felt my pockets form y wallet and phone but they were empty. I started to panic, head throbbing like a jack hammer. I started letting out expletives, and was later told by Bags, our help, that my mum has my phone and wallet. I went straight into her room and found what I was looking for. Then I went straight back into bed after I changed my clothes.


I woke up again at around 9 in the morning, and the silence was a warning and a reminder that something awful did happen last night, and I was about to get reprimanded for it. When I reached the dining area, my mum looked at me and said I should eat breakfast so we could talk. Talk—that didn’t sound good. I said I wasn’t hungry so we just talk. I headed first to her room and she followed. I swear to God I thought I was going to be bitch-slapped. But I couldn’t even remember exactly what happened.


Mum said Mikel brought me home, with some other guy. And that Mikel told her everything that happened last night—mixing drinks, talking to a Korean, unintentionally breaking a glass, our tricycle crashing (which explains the scratch on my knee). And my mum, without any hint of anger in her face, asked, “What’s your problem?” I didn’t know what to answer. Because I didn’t know what was wrong with me. But I felt extremely lost, and at a loss for words.


Last night, I gathered, was a complete and utter disaster. Disaster might be an understatement, I think. I know last night; I have subjected myself into public humiliation. And yes, I don’t care what all those people who’ve seen me at my wasted worst think but— I’ve had enough.


I cannot promise anything for myself, but I know a part of me can never be brought back. And I am not just talking about this because in just a few hours, it’s time to change calendars. It may be timely, yes, but this is not only because a new year is on its way.


This year I’ve been wasted so many times I stopped keeping track sometime in the summer. Yes, I’ve reached my full drinking potential this year. And by full potential, I mean countless—no, COUNTLESS!—bottles and glasses, and vomiting, and hangover and swearing not to drinking ever again. And I am not proud of it. Well, not entirely. It’s just that, I guess I can now say, “been there done that” like my friend Ruth joked about when I told her about wanting to quit drinking. There are many ways to stop, drinking. But there’s really no point in wanting to quit per se because I am not addicted to drinking; I just like to drink. But I think I’ve reached the end of the drinking line. I may need help from friends to steer me clear from drinking, but more importantly, I just need a constant reminder that it isn’t me. I need a constant reminder of who and what I am. And that when I die, I don’t want my tombstone to read: ‘died of alcohol overdose’.


And really, where’s the fun in welcoming a new year with a hangover?

Friday, December 30, 2011

I shot myself down in public

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If you want to end the year with a bang, ask me! Chances are, if your year doesn’t end with a bang, you’ll end up with a scratched knee, sore muscles, dry throat, a splitting headache, nausea, and a bucket or more of blurry memory from the night before.


The day is 30th December. I met up with Mikel to get some drinks live we had planned weeks ago. We were supposed to meet at night but I got a text at 1pm saying we could start drinking immediately so we wouldn’t have to go home late at night. Globe Telecom says, “Go lang nang go!” and that’s what I did.


We started off with light beer, and followed it up with Kamikazee when a friend of Mikel’s joined us. Then later, we had another pitcher of Kamikazee before we headed out of the bar to grab some dinner. And then everything became a blur. So blurry, that I still cannot remember the entire thing. But this I remember:


As we headed back up to the bar, I noticed a familiar face whose back was pressed against the mall’s atrium’s pillar. Oh yes, why did he look familiar? Because I knew him. By knew, I meant I used to be head over heels for him. Used to—operative phrase. I’ve been meaning to be friends with him but I guess, given certain circumstances which no one can really be blamed for, we can never be friends. People can’t seem to let me live down the fact that I had an earthquake of a crush for him since high school up until sophomore year in college. And I hate it that people would always throw that at me like some ghost I cannot escape. I think that may be one of the reasons why we can never be friends, or at least be comfortably civil in public. Or simply, he just doesn’t want to be friends, not that I could blame him and all; when you received messages from someone who can likely pass for a creepy stalker, you wouldn’t want to be friends with that person, right? Don’t answer that. I guess what I’m trying to say, is: for the love of whoever is up there, people, give it a fucking rest! Yeah, I may have asked him if he was going to meet one of his friends, when I just wanted to say, “Hi. Happy new year!” But that doesn’t matter.


After that sort of foot in my mouth incident, I lost my friend and so I had to go around the mall and find him, which I did after a few minutes. So we headed back to the bar and when my friend and his friend went to the restroom, a Korean man started talking to me. He was looking for a girlfriend and I kind of said I could try to help him, blah blah blah, this city doesn’t have any Korean shop that sells authentic kimchi, blah blah blah, Filipino culture is different from Korean blah blah blah. And before I knew it, I was back at the bar, ordering Martinis and talking to a friendly waitress who was getting married to his boyfriend of three years. She was dishing out some gossip about a certain waiter I used to have a tiny crush on until he turned out to be jerk. I was talking to the cashier, their supervisor, and we talked about tattoos, piercing, olives, cherries, and I’m sure a lot of other stuff.


I remember waving my hand and—bam!—a cocktail glass fell, and so I had to pay for it. I don’t remember most of that night. I don’t remember how I got home. Or if anyone at the bar knew me and was probably judging the scandal I made myself.


It’s a small city, yes. And so if anyone that night ever saw me in such compromising state, all I can say is: je ne donne pas une merde. But I don’t think I’ll ever go back to the bar any time soon. I don’t think I’d ever want to drink again. Something died inside me that night. And I realized, albeit belatedly, that certain things change, some people change, and we change despite not wanting to.


I don’t know. I’m still trying to make sense of it all.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Bacon baby

I think I’m starting to get used to having this allergy. While everyone else is eating squid, I’m eating bacon. And I’m not even whining about it. I guess like some other things, you just have to get used to it.


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Wednesday, December 28, 2011

A black wedding, charity

If you know me personally, you’d know that I hate attending formal gatherings such as weddings. I feel it too rigid, for lack of a better adjective. But you’d also know that if it’s a friend’s or a relative’s wedding, I’d gladly put up a smile and go through the ceremony without fainting.


Today, I attended a friend’s wedding. A black wedding. Yes, black. At first I thought it was ludicrous, that such black motif could only be possible in movies and fashion runways where designers try to get attention, something like that. But yes, it was a black wedding, and I thought it worked. It did.




The priest’s sermon jumped from one topic to another: same sex marriage, struggles of married like (of relationships in general, really), forgiveness, and some other things that has escaped my memory.


At night, I met up with some friends for drinks at Miravilla, some place that’s got a swimming pool, and some KTV rooms, and a stage where a band was playing. The band was an ultimate disaster, not knowing the lyrics of the songs they were playing. The female vocalists dancing like some prepubescent bags of oestrogen waiting for some dirty old man to pick them up.




We later transferred to La Vista at BQ Mall where a fund-raiser event was being held for he benefit of the victims of typhoon Sendong. And at first I was complaining because there was an entrance fee which was not consumable. And so a friend had to remind me that it was for a cause, and that it was better that I was the one helping rather than being the one helped. I stopped complaining and just drank bottles after bottles of beer.


I don’t know but, drinking with the knowledge that I was also helping people made me feel good. Or maybe that was just my excuse to drink. I don’t know.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

On Twitter

Yesterday, I reached 666 tweets on Twitter. And I was really happy about it.




I’ve always been amused by 666, maybe because I’ve always known for a fact that there are still people who cringe at the number. To each his own, but I think it’s really laughable. I started tweeting on July, and it surprises me how I’ve adapted to it. It’s more of a therapy for me, you know; to keep me sane. Because there’s this satisfaction I get over posting something online, something I know better than to do on Facebook, and something that no matter how I try I cannot seem to do as a blogger. There’s that feeling of glee after posting an expletive. The feeling that I don’t have to talk to myself and risk looking like a loon in public in case someone saw me, not that I ever cared.


I think the line, "It's not about being read; it's about being written," is far more appropriate for my using Twitter than for blogging. Because, hell, I don’t care that only a few of my friends can read my tweets. All I care about is that I can post something online—brutal, insane, stupid, mean, offensive—and I am able to express bits of my twisted mind for my own benefit. Oh, yes, and Twitter gives me that ridiculous feeling of being a celebrity.


Yes, I guess I’ve become addicted to Twitter, and I am not ashamed of it. And I think that if people wanted to know just how often I curse, how much I hate or adore something or someone, how childish I can be, how twisted I can get, they won’t have the slightest idea unless they’ve read my tweets.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Twin blue afternoon



My friend Eva and I met for coffee. We talked and talked and talked about how crazy we are for wanting things that could not be ours even if it snowed in the Philippines. And it was amusing that we were both wearing blue. We gave each other obligatory slaps for our being adik, reminisced about college, hoped to see familiar faces at the mall so we could entertain ourselves, and rolled our eyes towards anyone who we thought was worthy enough for a double-take. We talked about how awkward we looked in college; how we would, according to her boyfriend once, run around the lobby. We gabbed about certain things and discussed about romantic stuff, which I admit I’ve lost all hope for. But she said there’s that someone for me. Everyone says there’s someone for me. Yeah, yeah. I just don’t want to think about it anymore. I know that some of my friends, including Eva, understand why the talk about romance is quite a sore topic for me. She’s one of the very few people who knows my attempts at romance. She pretty much knows every guy I ever liked, and she knows the type of guys I’m attracted to. And unfortunately, most, if not all, of the guys I get attracted to are assholes.


It rained this afternoon, which somehow sympathized with the slight disappointment we felt over things that didn’t happen today. We talked about our BBs, and later looked for cases. We found decent ones but they were too expensive, and so we joked about playing Bingo and maybe winning so we could buy the cases for our BBs.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Get drunk on Christmas day

I knew it was going to be a not so merry Christmas. Almost everyone in the house slept, except maybe for my brother who kept playing on his mobile phone. And our neighbours were also quiet, except for that blue house that sure knew how to make things merry—fireworks! I wondered how much money they wasted. Max, as always, barked hysterically with the fireworks. Sometimes I wonder if he ever gets tired of barking.


Mum decided to lift her cold shoulder punishment when we exchanged gifts, which was at thirty past one o’clock, because we were all sleeping like babies. I finished the bottles of wine I started drinking before midnight, and ate, and tweeted and texted my friends. After an hour of so chatting, we decided to go back to sleep. How merry, right?


When I woke up, it was pretty much like an ordinary day, save for the leftover food on the table that hasn’t been put away. And I spend the whole morning practically pacing around the house, wondering what I should do on Christmas day.


In the afternoon, my friend Mike came over and we decided to have coffee. We strolled at the mall, and commented on how boring Christmas has been. We texted our friends for a quick meet-up and some replied yes.




At around four in the afternoon, we went to the bar and drank Kamikaze , which we both preferred over the cheap Slusher drink, because we thought it tasted far better and didn’t have that much of a kick. I told him about my 9 Martinis solo flight episode, which was most probably the reason why most of the waiters and waitress, and the bartenders greeted and smiled at me with enthusiasm. By the time the second pitcher of our drink was half-empty, people started coming into the bar. But none of our friends were in sight. We complained to each other and talked about girls and boys, and food, and the weather, and other stuff. We decided to leave for dinner, and just come back later in case our friends decided to meet with us. We dropped by McDonald’s for coffee, and an attempt to burn my tongue. Boy, that coffee was scorching hot!




We went back to the bar at 8 in the evening. And there was a gaggle of people that just didn’t seem to belong there. Mike and I talked about how annoying one guy was, and how the waitress and bartenders were talking to me like they were my friends, how some waitresses looked really pretty, how some guys kept glancing at us. We laughed at the idea that people might mistake us for a couple. It was so laughable that I always fell off my chair. There were these guys who kept glancing at us, that at some point, I wanted to approach them and ask if they wanted anything. But I couldn’t care less. I liked the attention. I liked that each time they went out to go the rest room, they’d cast a glance at me.


I decided to mix drinks and order two glasses of Martini. And it was funny that when I approached the bar, one bartender smile and said, “Martini!” I smiled and said yes. After I chugged down Martini, we went home and called it a Christmas night. None of our friends even had the decency to text us that they couldn’t make it. But it’s OK, there’s always a day for retaliation.


Merry Christmas, whoever you are reading this!

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Tis few hours before Christmas

There’s something about today that doesn’t make any sense. It’s 24th December, and in just a few hours, it’s going to be Christmas; but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a merry one. The streets are oddly missing that Christmas vibe that I’ve always felt during previous Christmases. Even at the malls today, that Holiday atmosphere wasn’t felt. It seemed as if people were just buying gifts and food for the sake of buying. You’d look at people’s faces and you don’t see that glow that used to tell you it’s Christmas. Christmas is a tradition. But it seems as though as years go by, Christmas gradually loses its spirit. Or it could just be me.


Count on my mum to get the party started. While they were preparing food for Noche Buena, she asked the help to buy some bottles of beer. And some bottles more, and some bottles more. My mum used to be the best beer drinker I knew. She and her childhood best friend, my godmother, could drink case after case of beer together and they’d still be sober as a rock. But I guess, when you get older, your alcohol tolerance gets lower. Much as I would like to narrate how my mum and her sister, and my cousin, and the help started from cooking sober and ended laughing and babbling like lunatics, I don’t want to ruin my festive mood any further.


My mum called my aunt (my father’s sister) to ask how they’ve been doing since typhoon Sendong decided to amuse itself by destroy towns after towns in the Mindanao region where most of my father’s relatives live. Then mum asked me to talk to her and say my Holiday greetings, but I said I didn’t want to, that I wasn’t in the mood. But, you know, when mum wants her children to talk to people, especially my father’s relatives, she’ll have her way. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t despise my aunt or my father’s relatives (at least not all of them); it’s just that they have the tendency to be self-righteous. And I hate self-righteousness. If you know me personally, you could imagine the faces I made (out of reflex) while I talked on the phone. And then she started asking me about what I wanted to do with my life. And I almost hung up because I hated it when she’d ask me that, and then compare me to my other good-two shoes cousins who are now happily married, and have stable jobs. For the love whoever is up there! Thankfully the call ended before my ears started to feel hot and before I go the urge to pull my hair out.


Then mum started telling everyone about what she and my aunt talked about. Everyone listened of course, and expecting her to say the whole story a few more times before changing the topic. See that’s how she is when she gets close to being wasted—it’s verbal diarrhoea of some sort. And so, fuelled by the irk I got listening to my aunt’s self-righteous speech, I snapped at my mum halfway through her second narration. And she snapped back. And the rest, as they say, is silent history. She hasn’t talked to me yet. But I don’t care. It’s not the first time she’s given me the cold shoulder on Christmas. Yes, that her—she doesn’t care if it’s Christmas or your birthday or if you were about to be away for a few weeks, if she doesn’t want to talk to you, she won’t. And it’s no use trying to appease her, trust me. I stopped that good son act sometime in college when I thought to myself I’ve had enough. If someone doesn’t want to talk to me, fine.


Anyway, I’m drinking on some cheap bottle of wine while waiting for the clock to strike twelve.



Friday, December 23, 2011

A kid’s meal

I had never felt so good waking up this morning. If 9 glasses of Martini did had anything to do with it, then I had better start a new tradition for myself. I couldn’t help myself from singing that blasted, “I feel good” song. And that’s pretty much the same line I’ve been singing countless times today. I’d be walking and I’d sing that to myself, even if I was listening to a different song on my iPod.


The malls were unsurprisingly crowded; it made me dizzy. Mum said it was a sign that I was getting old, so I had to explain to her that I just wasn’t in the mood to be surrounded by gaggles after gaggles of people rushing to buy gifts and blocking the way and unintentionally rubbing their arms on me and giving me double-takes. And that despite waking up on the good side of the bed, I wasn’t really into seeing familiar faces because I was not in the mood for pleasantries. I did see familiar faces, but thankfully, pleasantries were limited to nods and smiles. But trust me when I say that my smiles were genuine. My smiles are always genuine. Even the forced smile I sometimes give, that’s genuine—a genuine attempt at being amiable, and eventually failing. When I smile at someone and I don’t mean it (blame it on reflex), my face turns bland after about 3 seconds, give or take.


Before heading home, I went to McDonalds to grab something to eat while my mum and her sister went someplace else to eat Palabok. And since I could no longer eat Palabok because of my allergy, I opted to eat by my lonesome at McDonalds. The place was still flooded with people. I guess that’s what happens when a well-known fast food place closes and it puts its patrons into a two-month long crave fest. I waited in line for about twenty minutes before I reached the counter. But before that, there was this crew who took orders from customers who were in line, and I thought I had died and gone to hell when the woman behind me said she wanted a “Yum.” My eyes grew big, and I wanted to turn and look at her, but restrained myself. The girl taking her order managed to say, in what I assumed to be a calm I’m-trying-not-to-laugh way, that they didn’t have “Yum.” And I thought that was the last of  it, but the woman then asked if they had a “kiddie meal.” By that time, I just had to do a 180 and look at her, and I’m certain whoever is up there has already forgiven me for the things that ran through my mind that time. It was torture trying hard not to laugh. Yes, I know it was, most probably, an honest mistake; but I just couldn’t help but react that way. Mental reflex, if I must. Because until then, I thought things like that only happened in urban legends that some silly people made up in futile attempts to make other people laugh.




I had to force myself not to break out laughing as I was eating, because I just kept remembering how she said she wanted “Yum,” and later asked if they had a “kiddie meal.” But I tell you, had I been with any of my friends, I would not have been able to contain myself; I would have been literally gasping for air, laughing.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

9 Martinis and a fucking good night

I had to go out. I needed to think. I needed to breathe. It didn’t matter that none of my friends could—or wanted—to sympathize with the chaos I’ve been nursing the past weeks; I just had to get out. By ‘get out’ I meant ‘drink’.


I headed to the bar thirty minutes past eight. The place was almost empty; except for some tables occupied by rather young drinkers who, from the looks on their faces, were already sloshed pretty hard.


Since I was by my lonesome, I headed straight to the bar, sat on a stool and smiled at the bartender. “One Dry Martini,” I ordered. The bartender wasted no time and prepared my drink. Earphones had been tucked into my ears—OneRepublic’s “Secrets” threatening to damage my eardrums—and I was pretty much oblivious to the world around me. Surprisingly, I wasn’t making faces when I ate the olives soaked in my drink.




I felt like a lost lamb, without a shepherd looking for him. I felt like a walking dead. A stranger to my own world, my own life. I felt in dire need of company, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was aching for someone to hold me. The only conversation I was having with some friends were on my mobile phone. Amusingly, as I had seen in movies and in TV shows which were set in New York, I felt like a New Yorker who’s had just about enough of the Big Apple’s chaos. I felt like my world was falling apart before my eyes, and that no one was there with me to watch it happen.


One Martini became two, then three, then four. And before I knew it, I was on my fifth glass. Five glasses of Dry Martini, and exactly 15 olives. And I wasn’t even tipsy. Hell, I was sober as a rock. When it felt like my ears were about to implode, I removed my earphones and listened to the noise around me. I realized that the place was almost empty because students, which comprises majority of the drinking patrons, had already gone home for the Holidays. Great! I was used to seeing the place filled with people, so it was a change of sight to see it almost empty.




I talked to the bartenders, and the waiters and waitresses. Small talk. I guess somehow I felt like I just needed to talk to someone whom I didn’t know. I had stopped replying to my friends’ messages, and I decided Ryan Tedder needed to rest his vocal chords. I felt like a star, I did. I felt like a VIP sitting at the bar—bartenders, waiters and waitresses smiling at me, asking me inane but well-intentioned, amiable questions. I made it a point to call them by their names. Besides, that was why they had their names on their uniforms, right? They all seemed amused that I was drinking by myself, especially since I had never gone there without my friends. The bartender who has been serving me drinks asked if I was waiting for someone. And when I said I wasn’t, that I was really on a solo session, he looked really amused. I was uncharacteristically friendly, making kind jokes at how one of the bartenders prepares orders, what a klutz one of them is for spilling drinks, and that I could swear the cashier was a classmate in college. They laughed at my remarks, seemingly embarrassed that I was actually paying attention to them. I asked them not to call me “Sir,” because I wasn’t that old, and that being called such while drinking made me feel like a dirty old fag, which I’m not. Yes, for the nth time, I may be a bitch, but I am far from being dirty like some fags I know of.


To somehow offset the Martini I’ve been drinking, I ordered lemonade. It was way too sweet for a lemonade. And after another round of chit-chat with the people around me, I ordered my sixth glass of Martini. It was already around 10 p.m. and the weight I had been feeling on my shoulder had somehow been lifted, although not entirely. There was that voice in my mind that kept telling me to leave everything behind for good. After I chugged down the sixth glass of Martini, and salvaged the flesh off the olive seeds, I still wasn’t feeling tipsy. But I was already writing the French phrase “Je ne donne pas une merde” on a table napkin with the pen I borrowed from the cashier. My bartender for the night (yes, I mean the one who’s been serving me Martini) asked if it was Spanish. I said no, and educated him that what I wrote meant, “I don’t give a fuck.” And that was exactly what I was feeling—I didn’t give a fuck about the world, or anyone—even myself. I thought that the world would end then and there, and I’d be smiling, knowing that all the mistakes I’ve done in my life, all the decisions I’ve made, all the principles I’ve stood for are all my own; that despite what I may sometimes feel, and despite what other people may say, I am what am—and I am fucking damn proud of it; that, yes, I am what I do and what I cannot do, I am what I think of myself and what I think of other people, I am everything everyone else says I am and I am everything they say I’m not; that I really don’t give a fuck.


After the ninth glass, I decided to call it a night. The alcohol still hasn’t kicked in, and it was already twenty minutes past 11. My mental and motor skills didn’t have a dent in them. I ordered one more glass of lemonade, and said “thank you” to everyone at the bar. And it was funny that they all sounded sincere when they said, “Thank you! Come again!”


It was drizzling when I found myself on the streets hailing for a ride. And realizing I might be in for a long waiting time, I decided to just walk home. I tucked earphones into my ears and started walking, without any fear whatsoever that I might get mugged. I walked leisurely as I listened, yet again, to “Secrets.” All in all, it was a good night. No. Actually, it was a fucking good night!

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

I wanna lay you down in a bed of Kimchi



I knew I would regret eating Calamares last night. I meant five hours ago, at around 1 a.m. The allergy is torturing me once again. And I just had to eat egg for breakfast because I needed it to condition my body after drinking way too much last night. Everything has a price, I know. For dinner, I’m eating crispy fried pork and Kimchi which I bought at the mall. The Kimchi? Not even close to the real thing, by the way.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Of Margaritas, Martinis, and horses

Out with friends. At McDonalds for the first time since it re-opened after a two-month renovation period. The place looks better, by the way, but I’m not in the mood to take pictures so, yeah, you’ll have to wait for me to be in the mood to see the pictures of the revamped place. The service is understandably slow, since it seemed most of the crew were trainees in white polo shirts.


At Timeout Bar for drinks, having some catching-up talk with Hazel who came home from Davao for the Holidays. She narrates how she got stranded in Cagayan for three days due to the typhoon Sendong. Before we get drunk on Slusher, Margarita, and Dry Martinin, we’re heading to Metro Centre’s Atmosphere to wobble. Yes, wobble.






The place is almost empty, which I think was kind of good for us because we don’t have to share the dance floor with too many people. Stephen is dancing like I haven’t seen him dance before; I guess he’s celebrating his victory over his past lover who got bitch-slapped by karma. Tonight’s the first time I heard him talk about his ex with a really, really childlike glee on his face. Lilex is taking pictures using my camera, as always. I keep reminding her that it was her “mission” to take the pictures. Yes, I ‘m dancing like an idiot. Sweating like a pig. Drinking like a horse. And eating Calamares and French Fries like a kid. Calamares, yes. I shouldn’t; I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret this.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Tea with Tori

What do you do when you’ve practically been spending three days at the mall? On the third day, you get a good nap after lunch and, instead of heading straight back to the mall to look for gift items, you head to the coffee shop.


Never mind that there’s no parking space. Risk having your left side mirror ripped off by speeding trucks or tricycles. Never mind that you planned on ordering one hot cup of cappuccino and the barista tells you they don’t serve hot beverage today. Smile and order something else instead. Never mind that your hair is a mess and people are staring at you because you look like you’ve just escaped a brawl. Ignore them. Never mind that your favourite table has already been taken by two huge and noisy Germans. Never mind all these seemingly harmless yet annoying things, and enjoy an hour spent away from the mall.


I like going to malls. I don’t know. I guess I like the cold places, although not much. I like watching people, observing them. I like being hit-on by men and women alike, except when it’s an old guy and his stares get creepy. I like making faces at kids when their parents aren’t looking. I like rearranging books at the bookstore. I like comparing alcohol contents of wines and other alcoholic drinks. I like going to the fruits section, especially when there are baskets of lemons for me to admire. I like taking the escalators. I like a lot of things at the mall. I like doing a lot of things at the mall. But I guess, when you’ve been spending way too much time at the mall, either by your lonesome or with your family or friends, it gets a bit dull.


At the coffee shop, I decided to detach myself from the world. I smoke three sticks of cigarette, and cold tea smoothie. I tucked in my ear buds (yes, I’ve already bid adieu to the traditional earphones and bought the in-ear ones—the buds). I listened to Tori Amos the whole time. And I was reminded:




that emotions can get so complex, it’ll change you forever; that there are relationships that defy society and norms; that there are people who change us without our permission and knowledge; that sometimes it’s better to just say “fuck you up there” rather than fool yourself into believing things will be alright soon; that appearances will always cause delusion; that life is not just about the good things, it’s also about the bad ones; that girls don’t like boys who wear more lip gloss; that men are sick; that men are the products of their thoughts; that if you want to know what hell looks like, enter politics; that normal is boring; that people will fuck you when you let them, people will fuck you even if you don’t let them, but that’s OK because you can fuck them back in ways they won’t forget; that love is not for everyone; that some boys are pretty, some girls are pretty, and that we are all beautiful; that god sometimes plays favourites; that the world is full of crap, and it’s full of beautiful things, and it’s full of some other things we will never understand; that despite our best efforts, sometimes we can’t help mend other people when they’re broken; that sometimes you’ll need something hard to please you, but most of the time, all you need is yourself; that feelings mess up things; that fags are fags; that not everything is what it seems; not everything should be taken at face value; that words shouldn’t be taken literally at times; that nothing can be sexier than trust; that sex is just a side-dish; that fairy tales are for fools; that friends need friends, but sometimes some friends would trade their friends for fame, security, lust, and wealth; that people will enjoy themselves, sometimes, at other people’s expense.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Oh no, milk, you didn’t

If anyone was watching me when I woke up this morning, he’d have probably thought I was scrambling for my dear life. Or that I was going to miss a flight or a life altering event such as— a wedding? That’s simply laughable. But in fact, to me, it seemed like I was in fact scrambling for survival.


But no, I wasn’t going to miss an important appointment. I wasn’t going to miss a flight. I wasn’t going to miss a once-in-a-lifetime chance of meeting my life teachers Alanis Morissette and Tori Amos. I wasn’t going to miss the first shower of snow falling from the sky. I wasn’t going to miss that person who was about leave for good, and who was waiting at the terminal for me to say those three magic words. I wasn’t going to miss an orgasm. Hell no, I wasn’t going to miss anything because I already missed it.


I missed the third morning of the Misa de Gallo (rarely called by its literal translation, “Rooster’s Mass”). I missed it and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for it. As soon as I opened my eyes, I reached for my mobile and—bam!—the clock read 6:45 a.m. I was so stunned that I didn’t even have time to utter expletives. My head pounded, and my eyes caught the light that peeked through the curtains. No matter what I did, I knew I couldn’t make it to church. Who on earth could—the mass concluded almost two hours ago?


Out of frustration that I missed the third morning, just when I was so determined to complete the nine days of Misa de Gallo, I pulled the comforter over my head and shook my body like an idiot. I pulled the bed sheets off and I threw the pillows at the wall. I almost also threw my mobile, but realized, before I could even pick it up, how many times I’ve tried but couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine how I could live without it. I sat up, but quickly dropped my weight back on the bed.


What happened? I had my mobile’s alarm set, and when I checked it, it had been dismissed; which meant it did go off— but— but I surely must have done so half-asleep. And then I remembered: I had milk before going to sleep, and I had cookies (but that seems irrelevant). I had milk and I drank an anti-allergy pill, which must have put me in some sort of coma.


I don’t usually drink milk, especially not at night. And you know how milk is supposed to give you a good-night sleep. And you know that anti-allergy pills usually make people drowsy. So there. Knowing that certain factors caused me to miss attending the dawn mass doesn’t make me feel any less frustrated. But there’s nothing I can do about it, except smoke a cigarette stick or two.

Saturday, December 17, 2011




I’m still recovering from the mess I got myself into. I’m not sorry, I’m just angry at myself. I feel, yet again, like I don’t know myself anymore. Like, somehow, because of wanting to be let in by someone, I end up losing a piece of myself. I but I am done. Maybe I will change my mind someday. But I am definitely done now. And I have never been so resolved in detaching myself from a world I was never a part of to begin with. Some people belong there, not me.


And for a change, instead of having coffee before I sleep, I’m having milk. Yes, I drink milk, but once in a blue moon. It tastes awful. I want to throw up. And I’m having cookies instead of having a heavy second meal for the night.

Friday, December 16, 2011




Today, I learned that being honest to someone about your feelings will get nowhere. I can’t even talk about it, because it pisses me off to no perceivable end that someone so smart and mature could take honesty against me. But perhaps it was completely my fault for expecting to be let in so soon.


Fuck it. Fuck it big time.


I thank my friends Abegail and Ayesha for comforting me, and making sure I did not make an even bigger fool of myself in public. I sincerely thank them even though I felt like an even bigger fool when they started reprimanding me for having such a seemingly weak spine about it. And I thank my friend Eva who took my call and listened to me blab for almost an hour, for constantly figuratively slapping my face to remind me that I deserve better, that I shouldn’t let it ruin me.


Today, Stephen surprised me. He came home for the holidays, and headed straight to our house to say he misses me, and gave me a brotherly kiss on the cheek, squeezed my arms and chest real hard after, and said that I had gained weight. I do miss him a lot. Yes, he can sometimes be brutally honest about his opinions, and he can be really traditional with his beliefs—which oftentimes contradicts my modern and somehow deprave beliefs—and he can be really strict about certain things, but all these years, I’ve always known that he genuinely cares for his friends. Yes, it;s true that these days there are only a few good man; Stephen is one of them.


Today, I lost a friend—although such a word may be a little too much to use—but I am reminded that I have real good friends I can always count on.

Thursday, December 15, 2011


This is perhaps one of the very few music videos of a Filipino artist that I just adore. It’s a masterpiece. A beautiful yet tragic story, which I think I may have already gone through, although not in the exact same situation. Because tragedy is everywhere; it’s around us. Different colours, different heartaches, different people—same tragedy.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Soldier down

My brother has been sick for three days now. He lies in bed all the time—like, seriously all the time. He hardly touches his phone, which I’m sure is a good thing. He just watches TV, eyes droopy, until he falls asleep. He doesn’t talk much. He hardly ever eats anything.


It seems odd that I can’t hear him and my mum argue early in the morning, because they just can’t seem to agree on anything. It’s odd that the desktop computer hasn’t been used in days, and there’s no complaint about the food on the table. It’s really odd that you walk into his room and the only ventilation is an electric fan; not the usual zero degree-like chill that you’d expect. He hardly touched his favourite cookies—Chips Ahoy!


Somehow the house seems quieter. And definitely dull.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Dear John



Dear John,


You are brilliant. And your brilliance arouses my mind. Not so many men can do that. Not so many people can do that. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of your brilliance. And for as long as someone out there can express pain and love and joy and frustration and discontent and passion and being lost and being adamant and being happy and being ambivalent and being indifferent without sounding desperate and pathetically broken and hopelessly still, brilliance will always be justified.

Monday, December 12, 2011


When my friends and I get together, we’re usually very noisy. Noisy doesn’t even begin to describe it. Cacophonous is more like it. And there is no specific subject matter that we talk about. I guess we’re all mentally disorganized because we jump from one topic to another seamlessly.


Can you imagine being the only BlackBerry user in your group of friends? Or in any group for that matter. When your friends start talking about the “wonders” of having countless applications available at their fingertips, and all other blahs about the notorious iPhone, you start to feel like you’re the brilliant one in the group. Or at least that’s what I felt when we were gathered at a friend’s house tonight. I felt the brilliant one because (I may have already said this before) I don’t see myself being a fan of touch phones. Especially the iPhone. Never that one of your friends, who is a BlackBerry user (albeit not at heart) starts to mock your reasons for “adoring” the BlackBerry. Never mind that while they gab about the almighty iPhone, you’re in a corner fiddling with your ‘outsider’ phone, contented with your chat with some other friend over BBM.


Who knew Osama was actually a prince of Saudi Arabia? I didn’t. But one friend says so. It was hard to entertain the thought because my father hasn’t mention it to me, and he’s somehow versed in Saudi royalties because he works for the royal family. Sort of. I guess I might have to ask him when he comes home for vacation.


The Germans? Yes, they like their beer. They’re huge people, and yes, they like their beer.


Choice of libation? It doesn’t matter. Some of us like it strong, some of us like it light, and some of us do not discriminate. Because we’re all up for drinking anything as long as it keeps our throats hydrated, it keeps our energy high, and no one passes out before midnight. The brutal Red Horse will always make its way on the table, even if the drinking session started with some other beer with lesser ‘kick’, so to speak.


Dogs are a man’s best friend. Especially when the dog was purchased as if it were some jewellery on display at the pet store, or at your mother’s friend’s house. When you’ve developed an attachment towards your dog, there’s no breaking that attachment. Even if a dog’s illness will cost you thousands of Pesos.


Politics is a dirty business. Politics is something we all like to think we know well. It brings out the best in people, and it also brings out the worst in them. The leaders we choose are a reflection of how much we know about politics. We demand progress, and yet we don’t’ strive to learn what there is to learn about what makes a good government.


One friend shares the same sentiment about traffic violators. They’re a pain the ass. And so, when they commit a violation and you are on the road, especially a bumper apart, sound your horn so loud so they become aware of their offence.


Cars are like people. Some are shiny, some are dull, some have good suspension, some have a commanding posture. Cars are cars. Some men like their cars better than they like their partners. Why? Because cars don’t complain no matter how often and how ignorantly you steer them. Driving a car will add pogi points to a boy, ganda points to a girl. But points are only points, you don’t love the points.


A man can have a thousand sexual encounters with women, and it won’t be called cheating unless there is emotional attachment. Our idea of infidelity has been skewed by all the trashy movies and TV shows we watch. Infidelity is a choice.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Dreamer, masochist

dreamer, masochist


A boy can dream, and will continue doing so despite all attempts at learning that with every dream, there is a risk of being disappointed. Needless to say, I never learn. Or perhaps I do, but I am a stubborn son of a bitch who can’t seem to get enough pain. A masochist? Perhaps. Perhaps there is something more to it. There’s got to be something more to it.


A boy will dream despite not wanting to really dream at all. And there will be times when dreaming is all he can hold on to. When dreaming is the only thing he will wake up for every morning. When dreaming is the only one thing that keeps him from letting go of everything. Suicidal tendencies? Not close. There are far more logical things than suicide. Suicide is too sweet. And a boy isn’t much into sweets.


A boy can dream. But dreaming can be exhausting.


I don’t want to dream anymore.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Haven’t met you yet

Some people are really lucky to have partners who love them dearly. I’d like to know how that feels. I am not in a hurry, nor am I desperate. Although I admit that sometime it feels like I’m only fooling myself. That maybe, just maybe, it’s really not for me.


The guys I like are either jerks or blissfully taken. And I don’t want to sound like I’m whining about it, but FUCK! Sometimes it just feels like, there’s so much love in me and I want to share it with someone.


I want to give my heart to someone who wants it. I want to be there for someone.


“I'm not surprised, not everything lasts
I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track
Talk myself in, I talk myself out
I get all worked up, then I let myself down

And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get
I just haven't met you yet”

Friday, December 9, 2011

Fast food, changes, BlackBerry Social

Sometimes, when my mum gets these food cravings, there’s no stopping her. Today, we ate at Jollibee because she wanted Palabok. Then she wanted Grilled Pork Tenders but it wasn’t available. She was so disappointed that she complained even as she ate. As always, since I could no longer eat huge portions of chicken, I ordered burger and fries.




There was this guy who kept looking at me from a table, and I was certain he was looking at me because the only thing behind me was a wall, and I would have been bothered had it been three years ago. But some things have changed in me, for the better; like, I am no longer bothered by stares from strangers. I can now give a genuine smile at strangers who smile at me first. When a security guard greets me, I return the courtesy.


Today, I registered for the BlackBerry Social service of Globe. Because the holiday season is coming and I can’t be bothered using my laptop like usual because there’s something about the holidays that make me kind of ambivalent. Because my friend Eva is a recent member of the BlackBerry world, and we thought it’d be wicked to be on BBM; I’ve always wanted to use BBM before but none of my friends were BlackBerry users, except for Abegail who doesn’t want to spend money for the service. I’m hoping she changes her mind, even for the holidays. I registered for the service because I’m on Twitter a lot. (Yes, I know what I posted about Twitter before.) I’ve gotten the hang of Twitter, I must admit. It’s kind of a therapy, in a sense. But I shall try to explain further in a different post, because it needs a different post. I registered also because I’m hoping to chat with friends and relatives abroad, and I’d like to be doing that even at the mall.


bb social


If you’re on Globe and a BlackBerry user, and you’d like to register to the service, then go visit Globe’s site! I’m not going to feed you that information! Nah, I was kidding. Or I was trying to be funny.


To register: text BBSOCIAL ON to 8888.


For P300, you get one month unlimited BlackBerry Messenger, Facebook, Twitter, and Instant Messaging, which is cool and not ridiculously expensive. But yeah, do visit Globe’s webpage for more information. Of course it’ll help if you get all your friends (or maybe at least some of them) become BlackBerry users. It’d wicked!


Now, it’s like my mobile is glued to my hands. But I like it.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Higher resolutions

At the coffee shop —




Life can get really dull at times, and when that happens, all you need is a reminder that you have your friends—the family that you choose—who are always there for you—and with you. Nothing beats the feeling knowing you’re not alone in this sick and twisted world.


And oh fuck, it rained!




I have decided to increase the sizes of the photos I will be posting. And yes, I took these photos on my mobile.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

No entry

no entry


I get this odd satisfaction seeing traffic violators being caught red-handed and receiving tickets for their offences. And I hate seeing these offenders get away with not obeying the simplest traffic rules. We keep complaining about the government not doing its job, and yet some of us can’t obey traffic rules. Yes, it might not have an adverse consequence most of the time, but by not obeying these simple laws, we create a ripple of offences that might lead to complete disregard of the law. How hard is it to follow traffic rules, anyway? That is why I get really riled up when drivers blatantly violate laws that govern such a public territory as the road.


Take for example the tricycle drivers who seem to be getting a kick out of not following traffic signs. It says ‘No Entry’, and still they go, driving straight past the sign. ‘No U-turn’, and they make such manoeuvre immediately right after passing the sign. The list goes on, really. Sometimes I imagine having a bow and arrow and aiming at those drivers and it makes me laugh, and I forgot about it until I remember I really don’t have a bow and arrow. And that even if I did, there is no way I could shoot without consequences.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

GMA, not yet

I’ve been meaning to write about Former President Arroyo’s condition and the issues attached to it—why wasn’t she allowed to seek medical aid outside country? Was the manner in which she was treated at the airport humane? Is De Lima getting too big for her shoes?—but until I am confident that I have learned what there is to learn about it, I choose to keep my opinion to myself. There are different sides to this matter, and I have to admit I’ve barely scraped the surface.

Monday, December 5, 2011

At the vet’s



I was worried last night because our dog was kind of coughing, and when I looked at his record book, he was supposed to have been taken to the vet’s two weeks earlier. So this afternoon Max was taken to the vet’s. If you’ve read my past posts about how restless our dog is, and how crazy he can be, you’d pretty much have an idea of how the visit to the vet’s went. He barked like a maniac when he saw one dog that, according to the owner, was sick with diarrhoea and colds. Yes, I try to strike conversations with complete strangers. Well, it was kind of making up for the noise that Max was making. I chatted with the receptionist, and the vet. As it turned out, Max had another overdue shot. And since the vet doesn’t give two different shots to dogs, it needs to be done after three weeks.


Today’s visit took longer than I had anticipated because Max had a high body temperature. I reckoned it was because of his restless running and barking on the way, so his temperature was taken again after fifteen minutes. The vet said he had a slight fever, and explained that it must be because of the cough. I badly wanted to get home, so I was relieved when the vet administered the shot, saying dogs are physically weak during rainy days. Yes, well people get weak during rainy days too, you know—I wanted to say.

Sunday, December 4, 2011




In some now-forgotten site on the Internet, I read about the connection between allergies and breastfeeding. I read that those who weren’t breastfed as babies are more likely to get allergies when they grow up. Now it makes sense that I have developed certain allergies. Now, I no longer feel like a complete freak for getting red itchy patches on my neck and face when I eat shrimp, too much chicken and other poultry foods. Now it makes sense because, according to my mum, even as a child, I was so stubborn and maarte that I refused to drink breast milk. She said that I would hysterically cry like a maniac when forced to take milk from her, and that, at times, I would not open my mouth. I guess one could say I hated breasts even as a baby. Oh, breasts. I’ve proven that a man can live without it—in more ways than one. And it now makes sense that I used to get sick a lot. It makes sense that my sister hardly ever gets sick because she was glutton for breast milk.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Sober and out



I think I may have found a way to avoid getting sloshed when I’m out with friends; a couple of hours before going out, drink two bottles of beer and sleep it off. I think that might do the trick. I noticed that such practice (Oh, I think ‘practice’ makes it sound a little less dreadful to the ears of goody-two-shoes creatures.), which has happened more a number of times, lowers the risk of getting sloshed later at night. Must do more study on it.


So there I was, at 5 in the afternoon with a friend, chugging down cold bottles of light beer while waiting for some other friends to join us. When another friend arrived, the company became two girls and a boy. Yes, idiot, I’m the boy. The jerk waiter I’ve written about twice was the one to take our orders. I didn’t have to play unaffected by his presence because I was unaffected by his presence. And that’s when I realized (for the nth time after having forgotten countless realizations that had occurred to me before) that no matter how good-looking a person is, if he’s a jerk, he won’t be able to maintain his appeal to me.


So there we were, two girls and a boy. And despite my lack of interest in local celebrities, I got reeled into my friends’ chatter about a certain celebrity couple whose recent break-up seems to merit more interest from people than, say, The Reproductive Health Bill.


I got hungry and, realizing I had started drinking on an almost empty stomach, ordered siomai and Pad Thai at Wok Express. The girl at the counter was far from accommodating, but I guess I wasn’t hungry, or nearly tipsy, enough because I managed to smile while giving her a tone.


We waited for our other friends to arrive, but the only one to join us was one of our in-a-good-amusing-kind-of-way flamboyant gay friends who had earlier declared depression over breaking up with his boyfriend. As soon as he arrived, we couldn’t stop laughing at his stories and his playful attempts to catch guys’ attention at the bar. And sure enough, he did not disappoint; he was able to get a really handsome guy’s number.


When one of our girl friends left early to catch the last trip home, we decided to his the disco. And there, a guy friends joined us, offering to buy a tower of Slusher. I would have chugged down all four bottles of beer on the table after he made his offer, but I was feeling rather sleepy. I got annoyed at the fact that I had forgotten it was a Friday and that there were going to be bands playing, which meant less dance floor-time for me and my friends. What’s worse was that the two bands played the same songs. The same fucking songs! Not wanting to freeze ourselves, what with sitting close to the air-con vents, we started dancing. Yeah, more like shaking our arms and legs, and nodding our heads to the music. I didn’t even sweat. Half an hour after midnight, we decided to call it a night. I decided to call it a night because after about nine bottles of beer, I was still sober and I was so darn sleepy.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Flat tire, again



The right front wheel had been pierced with a screw, yet again. It’s always the same wheel, which I find amusing. I had to go to the auto shop to have the tire sealed. I hate having to go to auto shops; it’s crowded with cars, and old guys with grease on their hands and faces. But being at an auto shop, seeing men work with cars—engines, accessories, hood, flat tires, jammed doors—reminds me that I enjoy fixing things myself. I am like the unofficial handy man at home. I like the satisfaction I get when something’s gone kaput and I’m able to fix it. I like fiddling with electronics, as well—DVD players, Walkmans, computers, electric fans, phones, all those kinds of stuff. I like to fix broken switches and electrical outlets, too. Any chance I was an electrician in my previous life?

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Grown-up list

christmas list


The local TV news is counting down the days to Christmas, which I find rather absurd because they started the countdown last month, you see. So if that’s not absurd, I don’t know what you can call it. Aren’t countdowns supposed to commence, like, 10 days before an event—10 hours, 10 minutes, 10 seconds?


So, yes, Christmas is twenty-four days away. But one cannot deny that the Christmas spirit is still far from hovering over our heads—or at least for some of us. There still aren’t any children singing Christmas songs in the neighbourhood; there are no bastards taking advantage of the season by handing out envelopes that are supposedly for church, when everyone knows it’s for a drinking or pot session; and there are still no Christmas gift wrappers on my mum’s cabinet; although the malls have been decorated for the Holidays, one still can’t feel the spirit of Christmas; I’m still not buying Christmas gifts, and I still haven’t heard anyone talk about buying.


Christmas gifts. When we were little, we were made to believe that gifts come only in the form of boxes and paper bags. It’s nobody’s fault, really. We have all been misled.


Needless to say, for me, gifts come in different forms. Yeah, yeah. And so, I shall list down my Christmas list—the gifts I want to have this coming holiday. I am certain that some, if not most, border on delusional. But a boy can dream, you know.


1.    Snow—I want real snow. Not some artificial snow that comes out of a machine, although even that one is far beyond possible for me. I did not wish for snow when I was younger. But now I just want some darn ice crystals to fall from the sky. Never mind the cold, and the fact that a huge number of people might die from hypothermia because we’re not used to extreme cold environment.

2.    A BlackBerry Bold 9900—I can’t really explain why I want it, because the old Bold that I have is in great condition. And even if I could afford it with my own money, I still wouldn’t buy it. I just want it, you know.


3.    Certain people to drop dead, literally— because this world could use fewer idiots.


4.    A gun—I am not really into firearms, but I think it would be wicked to own a gun. A huge badass gun. You know, in case someone up there decides to grant the next one on my list.


5.    Zombies—I seriously want an outbreak that kills people and turns them into zombies. I guess I’ve been watching too many zombie films. I just want zombies! But, of course, this means that I want to be immune to the outbreak as well; otherwise, who would kick zombie ass? I already have an elaborate plan as to how to exterminate the zombie population, who I want on my team, the kind of people we will save, certain people I’d be more than willing to feed to the undead… all that blahs.


6.    Our dog to get laid—so he stops barking at almost everything that moves.


7.    A compulsory rigorous seminar for all the tricycle drivers in the city—I think it will do everyone a huge—I mean, massive!—favour. Most tricycle drivers are a pain in the crack for both pedestrians and drivers.

8.    Selective amnesia—it will greatly benefit me, yes. But trust me, it will also benefit the people around me. It would be nice to forget certain things, certain people, and certain memories that draw out certain emotions in me.


9.    Someone from Canada to come home for the holidays—it has been years since I was able to spend time with her on Christmas. And I could really use her gift of empathy now.


10.    Doors in our house to be torn down—because listening to doors being slammed countless times each day doesn’t get being used to. It’s auditory torture, like nails being run down on a blackboard.


11.    An overhaul of our government—because we are in an even worse situation now. It may seem like it’s starting to look good for our country, but it’s not. The real state of the nation is only being candy-coated. But this doesn’t come without.


12.    Filipinos who are well-informed about politics and their responsibility as citizens of the country—because unless we Filipinos don’t change our mentality about what good leaders are and what we need to do to help our government, there will be no progress for our nation.


13.    A bottle of really good vodka—Smirnoff or Absolut perhaps? Just a bottle—enough to get me through the Holiday. ‘Tis the season to indulge and be merry.


Were you expecting me to wish for world peace? Aww, come on. You’re being delusional, don’t you think? But whatever. When it comes to Christmas, despite our best efforts to act and feel like the grown-ups that we are, we are all just children at heart.


Today marks the first of December. I will begin my task of posting at least one blog entry each day, for the whole month. And with that, I will start posting more pictures on my posts—preferably ones I take with my mobile phone. Perhaps I might start posting pictures of myself, family, and friends; it will make this blog more personal—the way I created it to be.



Today —

I will text someone I miss without telling him I actually miss him.

I will delete and update contacts on my mobile.

I’m updating social networking accounts.

I will drink more cups of tea, more glasses of water, less soda.

I’m going to ask questions—mature, important, relevant, silly, rhetorical.

I will smoke a cigarette—A cigarette.

I shall gaze at stars.

I’m going to throw out old underwear.

I will try to be kind.

I’ll cook pasta.

I am organizing my iTunes library and listen to news songs.

I’m going to continue writing my first book.

I will let time fly—no worries, no care.

I will share my blog to more people.

I’m going to smile at strangers.

I will take deep, liberating breaths.

I’m cutting the cord.

I will build and burn bridges.

I’m ignoring negativities.

I’m taking it all in.


Saturday, November 26, 2011

What goes around



Despite the various hair-splitting definitions of different religious beliefs on Karma, I think it can be maintained simply as the fruit of one’s actions—you do good things and you’re rewarded with good things, you do bad things and bad things come back biting your ass. I believe in Karma. But if I were to explicate as to how much I believe in it—how greatly I allow my belief influence my actions—things could go awry.


There are countless passages that try to approximate what karma is, but nothing says it better than karma being a pain in the crack—yes, “Karma’s a bitch.” The most vivid—and perhaps the earliest as well—recollection I have of karma getting back at me, dates back to when I was just in kindergarten. Yes, the fact that I can clearly remember it amazes me.


My parents took me out to a modish little fast-food place that evening. It was known for its spaghetti and burger. It had an alfresco set-up, with white-and-red picket fences surrounding the area; the tables and chairs were made of steel; and on a corner was a small playground that had a couple of swings and a sliding pond. Like any other normal kid, I went to the playground and sat on a swing. It was fun, I am certain; although now that I think about it, I can’t quite understand why kids are fond of playgrounds. On the other swing was a girl who had been there before me. We were playing by ourselves. I was in my own world, that I am certain of. The next thing I knew, the little girl got thrown off her swing face flat on the ground, and I remember laughing so hard at her. Yes, I was mean even back then. I kept laughing even when she was starting to cry. And I only stopped laughing when someone pulled her up. I guess I stopped laughing because I was afraid of being scolded. I continued to push my weight back and forth like a pendulum. And then karma got back at me—I got thrown off the swing as well. And the moment I hit the ground, I remembered how I laughed at the girl. Had I been older and educated about Karma then, I would have scolded myself and muttered “Karma’s a bitch” with clenched teeth. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night; every time there’s talk about Karma, it always comes to my mind like reflex.


We generally associate Karma with the bad things. We don’t go doing good deeds and thinking, ‘hey this is good, I’ll get good Karma’. I think there may have been a time in a not so distant past when I thought of Karma before I did something I knew was bad. Now, despite the primitive knowledge that a deed is bad, I rarely think about Karma. I rarely put into consideration the socially accepted cosmic belief that the bad things I do will eventually—and certainly—come back to me.


But Karma has its ways. It has its ways of reminding me that no bad deed goes unpaid. Sometimes it strikes back at me so soon that I can’t help but feel terrified. Like after I say profanities behind my mum’s back after an argument, I’d hit my foot on the side of the bed or I’d burn my tongue while drinking coffee; I let greed and my hunger for revenge take over my mouth and I don’t leave food for others because I was mad at them, I get a tummy-ache; I scheme my way out of family gatherings so I could go to a bar with my friends, and I either get stood up or I get shitfaced after five bottles of light beer.


But sometimes, Karma doesn’t seem to be doing its job at all, especially when it’s supposed to get back at other people for doing me wrong. I can’t help but think it takes sides, so I sometimes give it a little push, you know. When it seems to have forgotten a few people on my list, I don’t complain—I take the ‘bitch’ part into my own hands; it comes out naturally after all.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Smoke and pans and touch phones

It is twenty-eight past 11. I am writing this down on my BlackBerry. And with such trivial information, I am trying to convey my mobile preference. Today my brother got the Samsung Galaxy Ace which he had been eyeing for weeks. Patience was wearing him down as the stores ran out of stocks; he had set his eye on the Galaxy that he pestered me on the weekend about doing a follow-up at the store for the availability of the unit. I got to fiddle with the phone the whole afternoon; I wasn't that into it. Except maybe for the fact that it runs on Android OS, which practically screams, “Apps, apps, apps!” I played Angry Birds, but only for about 3 minutes because I got bored.

I must say I still don't like touch phones. I doubt I ever will. Why? Because I like to type. To me, tapping just doesn't do it. I have this attachment to physical keys, qwerty keyboards, which gives a sense of relationship between my fingers, err thumbs, and the words I type. Fiddling with the full-touch gadget made me appreciate my mobile even more.

My room smells of cigarette. I smoked one stick by the window, making sure all the smoke I puffed went straight outside. Failure. Because I couldn't control the wind. Some of the smoke I blew out my mouth and nose came straight back to hit my face. But I like this room smelling faintly of cigarette. It smells like a cabin room in a ship; a hotel room; the entrance to a bar, where the moment you open the door, cold air with a hint of cigarette greets you. I like the feeling those kinds of places evoke; I feel safe, in an odd and totally twisted way. I turned the AC full-blast, in an attempt to copy the total feel of those places. Success. My mouth tastes of cigarette, what else. But I am too lazy to brush my teeth again. But somehow, perhaps a tooth fairy is rejoicing. Sort of.

Some burglars took some of our pans which were kept outside, much thanks to the limited storage space in the kitchen. I woke to my mum's worried tone this morning. She was annoyed, that was more like it, really, that the items stolen were still in tiptop condition and were still supposed to serve their purpose for god-knows-how-long. She was alarmed that someone was able to get into the vicinity, to climb the wall. She got paranoid and had some storage drums, which contained valuable electrical stuff, moved into our help's room. Boy were they heavy. I thought my arms were going to snap. She had the walls at the back reinforced (for lack of a better description) with old aluminium steel sheets, which would make it harder for anyone to climb. She said that the rusts on the steel sheets will hopefully give tetanus to anyone who'd attempt to climb it. In the afternoon, she bought a new set of really huge pans to replace the ones stolen. I think she’s no longer fuming now, but she’s still a little paranoid.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

A sneeze, not a flu

twitter sneeze


Four months ago, I signed up for a Twitter account. And I find it only fitting, given the reasons why I signed up in the first place, that I post something about my personal take on the micro-blogging platform.


At first I was biased against Twitter because the fact that it only allowed the user a 140-character post was beyond mean. And for someone who seems to have a lot to say about anything and everything (which most of the time borders on being logorrheic), I didn’t find it useful. But I wanted to try it on for size; I wanted to actually use it before I completely dismiss it as trash.


Twitter is a tool for expression. And its potential is best maximized when your friends are also on it. It is for people who have the pathological need to post status updates on Facebook every half-hour, and those who like to post quotes and useless bits of information about their daily lives. Because on Twitter, it is socially acceptable to post updates every 30 seconds, sometimes 5 seconds. On Facebook, however, it is a nuisance.


Twitter is an information tool—given that you subscribe (“follow”) to reliable accounts such as @inquirerdotnet. When Bohol was placed under storm signal last month, I got immediate updates via Twitter.


I am still not a big fan of Twitter though, mainly because of the 140-character limit on each post that I still can’t get over until now; because even its message feature is limited to 140 characters. I don’t think I’ll ever be a big fan of Twitter, because more than it being a tool for expression and information, it is where useless information flows steadily like honey out of a jar. But I am keeping my account because of certain accounts that are worth following—informative, witty, provoking.


And, yes, I am keeping my Twitter account because I have delusions of grandeur—of one day being able to publish a blook, of receiving hundreds and hundreds of follower requests from people who will have read the blook and who think I am brilliantly mad.


And lastly, I’m keeping my Twitter account because sometimes I, too, feel the need to post updates every half-hour but I know better than to post those on Facebook.