Friday, August 3, 2012

How July ended

There I was at the hotel lobby, sitting on a couch that reeks of disinfectant spray and what I assumed to be a mix of perfumes of a thousand hotel guests. I sat uncomfortably, checking myself out over a huge wall mirror adjacent to the couch. A slew of guests started coming in, passing by me, but I was generally oblivious to my surroundings. I checked my phone, and the time read a few minutes past nine in the evening. If I wasn’t so sure about it, I still had a few minutes to flee. Escape. Would I rather spend the night bouncing from one website to another or drinking with a person I was going to meet for the first time? I chose the latter. Or rather, time chose for me, because moments later, as I was checking my teeth on my phone’s screen, a figure appeared in front of me.


I looked up and saw the person I was meeting with. His smile revealed confidence and his face showed a younger image compared to the one in the pictures he’d sent over the Internet. I stood up and shook the hand he extended. I sat back down, and he sat next to me. I wasn’t good at first meetings, especially when it was something that had the possibility of casual sex written over it. But that was the thing—I agreed to meet up with him because he didn’t seem like the others; he had just the right amount of libido coursing through his glands that talk about sex or anything that leads to it was scarce, if anything. I liked how he didn’t ask me to take off my shirt the first time did a video chat. I liked how mature beyond his years he was. I liked how I wasn’t attracted to him. After moments of awkward pauses between what seemed to be a question-and-answer segment and a few caught glimpses here and there, we decided to head to the bar and revere shots of Jose Cuervo.


The dimness of the hotel bar seemed to have pulled away whatever sheet of awkwardness that covered us; I, for one, felt completely at ease and insanely familiar with someone I had just met. During the first couple of shots, as if some sort of assessment, we talked about the same things we had already talked about online. He was consistent about the things he had told me. A few shots more and any trace of uneasiness and reserved behaviour was just fiction. A few more tequila shots and I’d find his hands on my thighs or shoulders when they’re not arrested by his mobile phone or a cigarette or a shot glass. All attempts at resisting were futile; the alcohol had stripped me of logic and whatever qualms I had about committing the same mistake again. Two or so hours, countless tequila shots, a few bottles of light beer, some fries, and a pack of cigarettes later, we found ourselves outside his hotel room.


how july ended


You would think that I’d learned my lesson, but no. Hell no. I have this strange habit of disappointing myself, I guess. And I came to realize that perhaps the reason why I keep committing the same mistakes is probably because I didn’t get the lesson, or I’m just one stubborn kid. It’s got to be the latter. When you think about it, really, not every mistake teaches us a lesson; some mistakes just are mistakes.

Friday, July 27, 2012

The finger

the finger


It’s raining again. The sky is dark; the wind seems to be dragging the rain away and then back again. Back over our house, that is. For some still unknown reason, I’d like to spend the remainder of the day with my fingers harassing the keyboard.


My computer mouse stopped working last night. It had been acting up for weeks, and finally it met its end. If you ask me, it might actually be happy that it’s no longer at my service. I can be a careless tool when it comes to gadgets with wires; wires in general, really. Not having a computer mouse is inconvenient; I’m not used to it, and somehow I feel punished and deprived for having to use the pointing pad on my laptop. And the heels of my hands seem to always find its way over the pad, bringing the cursor to unwanted parts of the screen. It’s a nuisance, especially when I’m typing. If my aging memory doesn’t live up to its reputation, I’ll buy a cordless mouse when I’m at the mall. Bluetooth, bitch. Cordless!


I cut my middle finger while I was slicing carrots at lunch. I could be such a klutz, too, when it comes to sharp objects. Imagine the horror when blood started pouring out of the wound like water coming out of the tap. My arm felt numb for a few moments, and I thought I would need stitches. That was an extreme thought, yes. But the blood just kept oozing out that I thought for a second I was really going to die, that somehow I’ll be drained of all the blood in my body. Now that I’m typing, it appears as if I’m giving the monitor a dirty finger as the wounded part is raised at an angle. Speaking of dirty fingers—I haven’t really given anyone a dirty finger in a really, really long time. I think, unconsciously, it occurred to me that dirty fingers had lost their vigour.


Some eons ago, giving someone a dirty finger meant that you are enraged beyond your senses, or that you seriously meant to shove that finger of yours down the other person’s throat so as to keep him from breathing, or bawl his eyes out with a swift scooping move of the offensive finger. Before, giving some a dirty finger actually meant giving someone the dirty finger; it basically meant, “fuck you!” But then suddenly it all changed.


I forgot when it started, but someone is given the dirty finger and he smiles like it was a greeting instead of a sign of disrespect. Dirty fingers started losing their fundamental purpose—to inform someone that you had been offended and that you wanted to get back in the fastest, most convenient way you know; or to warn someone that hell was about to break lose—and hell did almost always break lose when dirty fingers were given.


Then some prepubescent pseudo-rock stars and their equally questionable fans started giving dirty fingers at concerts, to no one in particular. They’d raise their dirty fingers up in the air, as if to replace the lighters you’d normally see on big, legitimate concerts. Then some other prepubescent tools started greeting each other with dirty fingers. And some other breed of tools started posing in pictures with the once-infamous offensive symbol.


I don’t think any man with half a brain still gives the dirty finger. Because it’s laughable, ineffective, silly, and simply useless. Nowadays, when people are offended or enraged (or simply not in the mood for anything), they just say it out loud and spare their fingers the extra work. And I personally like it that way; I express my anger and frustrations and childish tantrums through the power of profanity.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

No louder than heartbeats

no louder than hearbeats


I would think
when stars collide in midnight sky and my fingers
smell of dead cigarettes and my mouth tastes
of folded coffee blankets
that you are curled up in bed thinking how
wonderful it would be if a sigh could build
bridges over seas and mend the distance.

When a breeze blows past and whispers explicit
in my ears, when I stand so tall yet feeble in beliefs
and I'd wither like leaves fallen off branches
you are somewhere holding a torch, hoping I don’t
lose myself as I lose hope.

When friends lose their touch and family loses its security
at times when silence cuts not sharper than wild grass
and bees buzz no louder than heartbeats
there is you at the end of the tunnel, waiting
until I've crossed the darkness and reached your side.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

28 none the wiser

There was an uneasy feeling in my stomach last night. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to read, which used to put me to sleep in half an hour tops, but that didn’t help. Turned on my laptop and watched episodes of Nigella Bites, which also used to help me sleep, but that didn’t help either. Since smoking past midnight sans liquor always had its somnolent effect, I searched beneath the pile of unmentionables in my cabinet but not one fag was willing to meet its untimely demise between my lips.


Why sleep, it seemed, was so elusive—why my mind was too restless to allow my tired body to get some rest didn’t sink in until around four in the morning, when I realized it was already July 19th and I was already a year older. I was born at around two-thirty in the afternoon so I dismissed the thought. I was still 27. Damn it, you’re still 27. Get some fucking sleep—I told myself.


28. Twenty-eight. Holy fucking myth gods! Existential crisis was once again knocking at my door, sadly without any alcoholic beverage in hand. Having admitted the fact that I was indeed two years shy off reaching the milestone age of 30 should have put my to sleep, but no. Instead, questions started popping like corn in the microwave. Pop, pop, pop! But there was no smell of butter or cheese.


What am I living for, really? Am I living for something at all? Is there a reason I’m alive? There are no answers yet. I don’t know if there are answers. You know, some people go through life with questions unanswered until they die. I’ve turned a year older, but definitely not wiser. I will probably commit the same mistakes, because I’m a stubborn son of a bitch who refuses to learn. I will trust the same kind of people and will most probably end up fucking up the same things. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what my twenty-eighth year has to offer.


I remember what my one of my workmates from eons ago said about certain people who experience a not so productive life when they reach the age of 21 until 27. It made sense. When I turned twenty-one, a lot of things didn’t go my way. And since 21, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to find the path that would make me feel like I was worth something. I think I wanted to believe that it made sense. You’d probably think it is bullshit. And it probably is. I know it’s silly to believe in things like that. Well, if it’s indeed true, then my life will probably change for the better now that I’ve turned twenty-eight. If it’s not true, then there’s only one word to describe that hour-or-so long discussion between eating pancit and kimbap and chugging down tequila—bullshit.


I’m twenty-eight, and I’m taking on the world—yet again.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Closed doors, I'm gone: A letter to friends

Some of my friends have this attitude where when they're having some sort of personal crisis (otherwise known as 'I-need-to-find-myself' bullshit), they shut people out of their lives. Who doesn't have that kind of bullshit, right? I, too, have that kind of bullshit, except that it's more like 'I-fucking-need-to-find-my-fucking-self'. But when I'm in that kind of bullshit zone, I don't shut people out. I may become a grand bitch to them, but I don't ever shut them out. Each of us has his way of dealing with things, I know. But, fuck it, shutting people out just because you feel lost or really despondent is such a self-centred, immature thing to do.


I was once told that the reason these so-called friends feel like they can simply shut me out of their lives when they're having issues is because they know that I'd be waiting at the door until it opens and I am let back in; that, in the same manner, people walk out of my life any time they feel like it because they know too well that I'd take them back in a heartbeat.


Suffice it to say that people do change. Pain changes people. I used to bend over backwards so people would stay, but those days are gone now. Because what on earth do they take me for, really—a doormat? What in Merriam’s name is their definition of a 'friend'? I don't want to only be there for them when they're OK. I want to be there, too, even when they're going through hell. Godfuckingdammit. I want us to share bullshit just as much as we share laughter.


Yet again I realize that life is too short to want people to be a part of your life when they really couldn't care any less. Love is too precious to give to someone who doesn't really want it.

And so, dear friends, I say: Go ahead, if you must "find" yourself alone; but I’m not going to sit and wait for you. Leave if you want to leave, but don't, even for a second, expect you can come back any time you want; that's if I even want you back in the first place.


You either allow me to be there with—and for—you through thick and thin, or you stay out of my life for good.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Hundred days

It has been over a hundred days since I last wrote something. “Over a hundred days” sounds more forgivable than three months. I tried to write something, but it seemed my muse had escaped my literary cavity, wandered off into the streets, and got hit-and-run by a bus called ‘Distractions’.

My attempts at writing for the sake of having something to post were beyond futile. I tried my hand at writing absolute fiction, but realized at the fourth paragraph that I sucked at it. I gave up and admitted that I couldn’t write complete fiction if my life depended on it. When I write, there has to be some degree of personal reality to it, I reckoned.

I celebrated Valentine’s Day with my friends. We had a post-Valentine dinner followed by drinks, and gabbed about—what else!—relationships. It’s funny how when there is talk about ‘relationship’, the first (if not the only thing) that comes into people’s mind is having a boyfriend/girlfriend. Like, whatever happened to the other kinds of relationships? Weren’t we taught about ‘symbioses’ in school?  Parasitism, anyone? Commensalism, perhaps? I can very well elaborate on parasitism because our society is populated with parasites—figurative and literal. But don’t ask me about commensalism.


So, hell, why is that? There’s even a relationship between me and my mobile phone. Can’t we talk about that the next time we talk about relationships?


hundred days

In Cebu—after I finished my business, partying with friends followed. And by partying, I mean getting sloshed—no!—wasted. In fact, the drinking started even before I attended to my business. After we had coffee, I got wasted at the mall. Sure, our plan was to “prepare for the night,” but what was supposed to be a few bottles of beer became two buckets—for three people. If it wasn’t for that darn hot shower, I wouldn’t have been able to leave the lodge we stayed at. I remember going all drunk and melodramatic for a guy I’d just met who turned out to be a jerk, and suddenly I was bathing in hot water. I yelled profanities, much to my friends’ amusement.

The night sure didn’t disappoint and our attempt to “prepare” for it by drinking in the afternoon worked. At least for me it did. Two huge bottles of Jose Cuervo for four people. Make that three, since one friend got wasted after about her sixth shot, what with drinking on an empty stomach. My friends and I thought it’s different when you’re partying away from home, where no one you know could see you, and see how you get wasted. I still got wasted from the tequila, but not as wasted as I would have been had we not drank in the afternoon. We danced like idiots, and screamed “Bohol! Bohol!” on the dance floor while stepping on people’s feet. The highlight of the night wasn’t getting some sort of celebrity treatment from a good-looking waiter who saw to it that the moment I put a cigarette between my lips, he was ready with his lighter. It wasn’t seeing my friend dancing with someone from another table. It wasn’t even laughing like a hyena at the door of our room, arguing that the key didn’t fit the lock. It wasn’t puking in my own hands because the toilet bowl was helplessly accommodating my friend who was so wasted she could barely walk. The highlight of the night happened at the bar, or rather at the restroom in the bar, when after I’d taken a leak and was in the drunken process of zipping up, a cute stranger who I reckoned was around my age, approached me and grabbed my balls. Yes, my dear balls got unsolicited squeezing from a stranger. My eyes grew big, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t open my mouth. After that, the stranger smiled and proceeded to a urinal to pee. I walked out of the restroom feeling rather… Hell, I was inebriated. I couldn’t have cared less. Did I feel even remotely harassed? No.


In Tagbilaran—my friends whom I went to Cebu with are the type of friends who’d push you to get out of your comfort zone. It’s a good thing, trust me. One night, they encouraged me to take the bait that was standing before me. I was hesitant at first, but those two just know how to challenge me. And besides, if a hot bait approached your table, asked for your name and number, wouldn’t you take it? I wish I didn’t have to say, “And the rest, as they say, is history,” but that was exactly it. After all, what could one ever expect from a one-night stand? Sure, it wasn’t your typical one-night stand as the bait and I have gone out a couple of times after that, and he texts me up to now, but I’m not an idiot. And I don’t believe in fairy tales. So, yes, the rest is fucking history—literally.


I finally went to a dermatologist to ask for professional help regarding my allergies. Thankfully, I found a good, accommodating, and friendly dermatologist who knows what she’s doing. I went to a dermatologist some years ago for a fungal infection on my toes, and ended up wasting money. My blood boils every time I see that jackass.

One Saturday night at a disco club, I was mistaken for a callboy by two very horny guys who wanted a ménage à trois. I was lost on the dance floor as my friends weren’t in the mood to grind and shake and wiggle, when these two boys sandwiched me with their bodies, and asked how much I wanted for a night. I left the dance floor.  Did I feel insulted? No. I was in fact flattered, because even when I don’t have a well-toned body (hell, it isn’t even toned at all), I’d been asked to be a part of a threesome. It’s not something to be proud of, but it was a first. I wasn’t completely shocked, though, as some cute guy had been telling his friends we had already slept together. And I haven’t even met him. He knew my name, though.


In the coming months, people will violate my privacy at the mall and ask to have my picture taken with them, then I shall have our car windows get a darker tint just so people don’t trail behind me on the road. In the  coming months, I will no longer be able to have private sessions at the coffee shop because hordes of fans will be taking candid pictures of me while I have my Espresso. In the coming months, I will have to file TROs against stalkers who will go through hell-lengths to sleep with me. In the coming months—


I’ve been feeling rather picked on by the universe this month. Like it’s been playing some sick, sick joke on me. I accidentally ate fried pork chop that was placed in the same plate with friend chicken. I thought someone in our house wanted to kill me. I suspected it was our help, because I’d been complaining a lot about her utter lack of passion for doing the dishes. I had to pay a visit to my dermatologist again.

My BlackBerry phone died. It’s of the renowned Bold series (Bold 9700), so I expected it to last for years. It lasted for almost two years, alright. Apparently, I’d been unlucky enough to get a faulty device. There’s one in every hundred, you know. Although I’m not speaking statistically, you should know that. I had some technical issues with it during the first few months, but dismissed it on the account of the device being just moody. Stupid, I know. But I was told that when the earpiece didn’t work for a few weeks, I should have brought it in for repair, when it was still under warranty. Too late for self-blame now.

I didn’t have a phone for three days. I didn’t have my BlackBerry for three days, and I felt like a part of me was missing. Silly? You wouldn’t understand unless you’ve established a very personal relationship with your phone. See? There’s that kind of relationship I mentioned earlier. I wrote poems on my BlackBerry. It would sing me to sleep, figuratively. It was my companion on solitary wanderings. It was my eye on the world—Facebook and Twitter, at least. For almost two years, it has helped me beyond being a communication gadget, and beyond what any shallow-minded phone user’s comprehension would allow.

I have a new BlackBerry now, still of the Bold Series. The Bold 9790. It’s six days old, and I’ve already started forging a bond with it. It’s more ‘powerful’ than my old phone. And it’s supposed to of higher quality, so I’m really, really hoping it doesn’t disappoint. I hope it lives up to the Bold reputation. I still miss my old phone, though. I’d have it fixed when I go to Manila (or Singapore, perhaps?). I miss the feel of it in my hands. The 9790 is slimmer, and feels rather fragile compared to the 9700 which was just of the right size and felt really tough. And I’ve switched networks, much to some of my friends’ dismay. I’ve switched from Globe to Smart. Globe will always hold a special place in my… somewhere in the recesses of my brain, but most of my friends are on Smart, so I think it’s only practical as some of them are beyond frugal so as to not reply to messages from other networks—even when it’s important. As for my Globe friends—it’s not like they’ve been texting me a lot lately. So there.


These past weeks, I’ve been feeling like I trusted and cared for the wrong people all these years. These people have been really distant lately. I understand that they’re going through changes. But, hey, who doesn’t? All I know is, I don’t want to keep people who don’t care about losing me.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Cold change

It’s a sad, awful fact I wish was just fiction, like those stories I dearly loved when I was young; when I was naïve enough not to know and not to care. But it’s the truth, and there’s no running away from it.


People come into our lives, and be it for a brief, fleeting moment or a long and worthwhile period of time, we are changed—for the better or for the worse. People leave, and I have come to terms with that. They become part of you and you, in turn, become part of them; but that’s not always enough to make them stay. It’s never enough. And it sucks, yes. But what sucks even more is when they promise they’d stay. I guess I was a fool for believing them. I was a fool for opening up myself and keeping both feet in. I was a fool to build my life around the idea that nothing will ever change; that those people will always be there come hell or high water; that even if their priorities change, I’ll still be a part of them. I’ve realized that it’s all bullshit, most of the time.


But you grow wiser and realize it’s indeed a fact of life. And after it happens for a number of times, you get accustomed to the vicious cycle like some pastime that turns into a hobby.  And you feel less. You care less. You trust less. And, eventually, you love less. You unconsciously give less of what you’re capable of giving, of what you truly want to give. You develop a certain defence mechanism that helps you avoid getting hurt in the end. And I guess it’s for the better. Hell, it may be for the best.


So you keep people at arm’s length. You don’t trust easily. And when people get too close, you push them away. When someone tries to open himself up to you, to let you in, you scoff silently at the idea. When you find yourself starting to care for someone, you move away. You keep your distance, you don’t let anyone near. Because the only way people could ever hurt you is when you let them get too close. As with the people who left, you forget them. You forget them like they’ve forgotten you. You grieve, then let go, and forget.


You don’t become numb, you just grow cold. You change.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

The paramour



“Or we can order room service?” I suggest, pulling myself up to sit and rest my back on the wall.


“You want that?” he steps out of the bathroom; a white towel wrapped around his waist, his upper body bare, water trickles from his head to his chest and down to the trail called happiness. Arms akimbo, he looks at me from the bathroom door with a mischievous grin, revealing a tiny dimple under his lips.


“Yes,” I pull the white blanket over my bare chest, feeling cold and uneasy. He suppresses a chuckle.


“What? It’s cold.” I can’t help grinning.


“I’m not going to molest you or anything, you know.” he walks over to his opened backpack and pulls out a shirt and a pair of plaid boxers.


“Molest is too gentle a word for what you’re actually thinking,” I laugh silently. He laughs with a tone of genuine amusement or perhaps of acknowledgment that I was indeed smarter than I look, as he said to me once.


He shakes his head and begins to dress. I feel my shirt from under the blanket and wear it just as he throws the towel over to a chair. He sits at the end of the bed, and lets his upper body collapse on the soft fluffy mattress. He stares at the ceiling. Silence except for the sound of the AC, and his deep breaths. Then he rolls over and starts making his way beside me. I cross my brows.


“What?” he pulls himself up to sit beside me.


“Nothing. You didn’t have to do the Sadaku crawl thing, you know.” He laughs loudly. I punch him on the arm. He cups the top of my head with his hand, messes my hair and rests his head on my shoulder.


“Hey,” he mutters. I clear my throat and he lifts his head off my shoulder. “I’m hungry.”


“Me too.” We look at each other. And it is when I realize, yet again, he doesn’t look anything like his age. He looks way too young to be 34. He looks just about my age, which was why I asked to look at his driver’s license the first time we met. I figured it must be the genes, or that it could have been his milk when he was a baby—they always say it’s either of the two. Sometimes both, I guess. His lifestyle doesn’t have anything to do with it, I’m certain, because he smokes like a prostitute, drinks like he didn’t have liver, sleeps late most nights, and he eats too much fatty foods. He’s not extremely good-looking, not the type I’d swear I could die for just to have a one-night stand with; but he’s smart, funny, and communicative.


“But you just ate,” he casts a dirty look at his crotch and laughs hysterically. He laughs like he’s high on marijuana, something I’ve always found contagious. I laugh and attempt a bite on his shoulder; he avoids it by clipping my nose with his soft fingers. We continue to wrestle playfully, and slamming pillows on each other’s face and pulling each other’s ears. It’s like that show on TV where two guys try to beat the crap out of each other, except we were only trying to nibble ears, arms, shoulders, feet, and whatnots. And yes, minus bruises, but plenty of giggle instead.


Sometime between my trying to push his face away from mine and his trying to dislocate my hands, his mobile phone rings. We stop, and he reaches for it from the side table. He answers it with a cough and a “hello,” and in the middle of the conversation reality flushed the giddiness out of my body. I feel a sudden sense of embarrassment—at myself—and guilt. I know who he’s talking to. After the call ends, he looks at me, lets out a sigh and widened eyes of disappointment. Without anything to say to each other, we get dressed.


I sit on the side of the bed, tinkering my mobile phone as he wipes his eyeglasses clean. He wears a good pair of jeans, matched with a blue-and-white striped polo shirt. With his glasses on, he looks older than I find him to be, but still not as old as he actually is. He picks up his backpack. I stand up, and he places his arm around my shoulder.


“Raincheck?” he asks casting me a glance.


“I suppose, yes,” I look at him, and he smiles. I try smiling back, but he notices the disappointment I failed to hide.


“Or we can grab a quick breakfast at McDo,” he squeezes my shoulder as we head for the door.


“Nah,” I mustered nonchalance. “It’s OK.”


“Thanks,” he smiles. And just as he’s about to reach for the door, he stops and pulls out something from his pocket. I almost forgot. He slides his finger into a golden ring, and reaches for the door. And as I step out of the room ahead of him, reality sweeps over me, and I choke.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

SOPA/PIPA—what I can say for now

I haven't really grasped the entirety of SOPA/PIPA, but from my understanding, if these two bills are passed, the world would be a dark place—well, darker than it already is. Putting a stop to piracy and protecting intellectual property rights is one thing; imposing censorship on the Internet is another. If these two bills are passed, access to things we have already assimilated into our lives, things we have been devouring all these years like food—social networking sites, information (valuable or otherwise), entertainment, whatnots—will be restricted. I am certain that innovation of certain forms will plummet. It's a nightmare. It's unthinkable! Now—a cloud of paranoia hovers over me and I am certain it will follow me for days, maybe even weeks.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Coffee to go



I am immune to coffee; I think that’s a fact. I drink a lot of coffee. I used to drink ridiculous amounts of coffee. I don’t know when it started, but I remember that in college I used to drink at least seven cups a day. No kidding. I usually drink about three cups in the morning, then two in the afternoon, and two or three cups in the evening. I don’t think that’s to be blamed for my insomnia then, though; I just watched too much TV then, and I texted like a maniac with my friends.


This morning, my sister treated mum and me to coffee at McDonalds. That’s after breakfast, when I already had two cups of coffee. After I finished my coffee, I drank the rest of my mum’s that she couldn’t finish. But I still felt sleepy, even yawning as I sipped the coffee as I strolled at the mall.


Coffee has never had any effect on me, now that I think about it. It’s even gotten to the point when I just couldn’t sleep without having coffee. This coffee addiction is perhaps best explained by the fact that everyone in our family, with the exception of my brother who’s not allowed to have his caffeine fix yet because he’s still 15 years old, drinks too much coffee.


I’m not particular with the kind of coffee I drink—instant, brewed, café-bought—although I do prefer freshly brewed. And I don’t think I can pass for a coffee connoisseur; my tongue’s been burnt too many times to be able to tell whether the beans are Arabica or Robusta, or whatever else it may be. And I can’t even answer questions about the history of coffee, and similar stuff, if my life depended on it. I just love coffee, and I don’t think I can function well as a human being without coffee. My mood would be greatly affected, too, I’m certain. Caffeine deprivation would most likely drive me up the wall, and everyone else around me.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Fogging, reading, layout

I’ve been thinking of changing the layout for this blog. And by ‘thinking’, I mean probably an all-nighter event of editing HTML codes, finding pictures for a banner, deciding on the appropriate font face and size, and all that blahs. But eventually ditching the whole new layout design as my eyes are about to fall off its sockets, and realizing that perhaps it’s not such a good idea—that’s happened many, many times before. But if I get extremely bored, at night—which is still a possibility even with a really good Internet connection, cable TV, a good selection of electronic books, copies of my favourite TV shows—I just might get myself into trouble. Trouble being the changing of the layout. Or the attempt, that is.


There was a fogging service in the neighbourhood today. It turned out that our neighbourhood has a high number of dengue cases reported, so the local government has issued a compulsory fogging service for every house—for free! I think it was really helpful, especially since it’s been raining quite a lot lately and the mosquitoes are already having some sort of party, buzzing on my ears and all.


I started reading ‘Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl’, but stopped because there’s just too much distraction at home. And I remembered I still haven’t finished ‘The House of the Seven Gables’; I think I might need to finish it first so I could put an end to my being a January reader. Perhaps I should read at the coffee shop, so I don’t get distracted a lot. I don’t’ find reading at night such a good idea because I always end up on the computer after just a few pages, or I end up drooling on the book.

Monday, January 2, 2012

Uneventful, uneventful

I wanted to sleep early before I fetched my sister from work. Earlier, Betia and I were lounging in the living room, where we had rolled out the comforter, and watched some show about predictions for this year. We had done channel surfing, but most of the shows had that—what I gathered, in a way, to be an obligatory segment—prediction segment thing going on. We then settled on a local channel after finding the anchors and the guest psychic utterly funny.


The psychic was vague, saying that this year is good for seeking romance. That was funny. Betia was mocking the psychic for being so positive about her predictions, and I was silently asking myself why I even bothered watching in the first place. I never really truly believed in psychic predictions; I find way too—I find it bullshit. But I don’t have anything against other people who believe in that sort of thing.


So if what the psychic said was true, that this year is good for seeking romance, then that doesn’t really interest me at all because, as I have said in my previous posts, I have already shut the idea of romance out of my life.


At around 10:30 p.m. my floor-mate Betia (in the literal sense) had already fallen asleep. I was to pick up my sister from work at 12 midnight, and I badly needed at least a good 10 minutes of sleep so I don’t go driving like a zombie in the middle of the night, in the middle of the road, and risk running over some poor animal. So I tuned into Cartoon Network because it was showing ‘Tom and Jerry’. And I don’t know what it is with that show that makes me sleepy. And I felt sleepy, but as soon as I turned off the TV, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I tried watching the show again but it was no use. And so, the result? This.

Sunday, January 1, 2012




2011 has been a year of coming undone, literally and figuratively. One can only hope that any coming undone for this year doesn't involve figuratively putting myself up in flames publicly. I did some terrible things last year, and I'm not proud of it. But to deny it would mean denying who I am, and I cannot, for the life of me, deny the only true thing I know.


To say I have been a bad boy would be an understatement. I schemed to have things my way. I always put my needs before everyone else’s, which isn’t always a bad thing; but the extremities I went through to satiate my personal needs first cannot be put into words. I took revenge on people who’ve done me wrong. Yes, revenge, I still believe is a beautiful thing, so long as it doesn’t leave you wanting for more. But with each retaliation, I wanted more. I couldn’t let any offence pass unpunished. I lied to other people, but mostly to myself, saying everything was rosy, when everything was just falling apart. But I did it to keep those who care about me in the dark about what a monster I’ve become.


I’d look at myself in the mirror (and trust me when I say it’s not just something they write in books or for the movies) and I simply couldn’t recognize the person staring back at me. I have lost myself in hoping to find myself. I lost my place among my friends, the people outside my family who have been a sturdy platform I stood on all these years. I simply couldn’t understand everything. And I took on the risk of unlearning everything I’ve ever known about my life and myself. I lost myself and thought, blindly, that I could fool the world and eventually make myself believe that everything was fine.


Last year, I went through lengths to break myself with my own undoing. I pushed people away—my friends, especially. And it’s sad to realize, yet again, that some people treat friends like jumper cables. That these same people don’t exert the same effort as you do, to find time to catch up, mend gaps, or strengthen bonds. But I am so done trying to fit myself into a box just to please and keep people. I learned that there’s just no point in holding on to someone who’s done nothing but push you away. People will change, yes; but it doesn’t have to get to the point when that change will have you as its price. Or does it?


I met someone who made me realize that the person I’d like to be with exists. In such a short time I spent with that person, he taught me that love is not something you work for to get—it just happens. I gave up on love last year. And I was determined as hell to shun it out of my life that I just couldn’t even, for a minute, allow myself to think it’s ever going to happen to me. And I just couldn’t understand how someone with so much love to give can’t seem to find someone else to give that love to. And you know what else I couldn’t understand—and still can’t understand, really? How other people can preach about such a thing called love with so much audacity just because they have been or are in a relationship?


I think, as with the previous years, I was desperately seeking myself last year. Because I’ve always been the type of person who wants to delve deeper into myself rather than be a self-righteous creature who acts and speaks like his hands are free of any dirt. And last year, I confess, my faith has been shaken, and it’s gotten to the point when, just as how The Script puts it, I was praying to some god I didn’t even believe in any more. My visits to church were mostly plagued with questions—why, why, why. But of course, there was no answer. But there are times when you see God’s hands at work, even if it’s not for you. And you just have to try to see that ‘work’ of His and hope that one day it’s going to be for you.


I don’t aim to be a better person this year; I aim to know myself better. I will continue to delve deeper into my core, so I’d understand just what it is I’m living for, and what I’m here for. And hopefully, I’ll see even a flicker of light at the other end of the tunnel. And yes, I hope to do this all without the aid of alcohol. Good luck to me! But yes, I’m quite positive I’m going to be sober for the most of this year.


Now – to anyone I may have offended in anyway, I apologize. But know that you probably deserved it anyway. And thank you to everyone who’s stayed with me during my monstrous moments.


Know that I will not change for anyone. I am the boy who doesn’t give a fig about what other people think of him, I will use expletives—fuck it!—anytime I want. I will roll eyes at anything or anyone that merits disgust or disapproval. I will continue praying for zombies, or some other epidemic that will bring forth the best and worst in men. I will continue sharing my truths, personally and via Facebook, Blogspot, and Twitter—regardless of how I may deliver them. I will continue to seek harmless albeit satiating retaliation. I shall try my very best to avoid alcohol, seafood, and poultry products. I am going to keep dancing and singing in the shower. I will smoke when the need arises. I will blog as if I people can’t and won’t read my posts. I will drink less soda, more tea and water, and more coffee. I am going to listen more and talk less. Blahdi-blahdi-blah.


I cannot deny that I am broken, and that it might take some real hard work to fix me. Not that I need fixing of whatever sort. But know that sometimes people aren’t broken by choice. Oh, enough already.


Happy New Year, everyone!