Halloween.

I used to really, really love this day. When I was little, my cousins and I would seriously try to outdo each other when it came to costumes and makeup, and after trick or treat we'd try to outdo each each other with the quantity and quality of our goodies. When we got older, we tried to outdo my cousins' posh Alabang neighbors with house decorations, and we'd hang wolfmen and skeletons and whatever crazy thing we could find in the house during our bursts of creative inspiration. There was even this one time the ABS-CBN news crew took shots of the facade of the house , and we all scrambled to the loft so we could watch our creation being broadcast on TV.

Then came the parties and Malate and expensive body decor. I remember in my senior year in high school, a bunch of us went around Makati in all our halloween glory, much to the amusement of the people we'd pass by.

I've always equated this day with creativity, spontaneity, and just a little craziness. I love it when people let everything loose, and not think of what other people are thinking. Besides, you're in costume. Whatever you do today doesn't count. It's a sanctuary of sorts.

Alas, not anymore. Now I'm just pissed because candies are so expensive and I have to go with my little sister as she goes around getting sweets that will probably rot her teeth. I hate the traffic this event creates in my village. I feel pressured to go out because I know if I don't I'll spend the rest of the night thinking about what fun my friends are having.

And now it's just tiresome and there's too much work to put in. There's also the fact that the next day -- All Saint's day -- will be spent mostly at the hot and humid cemetery (as required by familial law), being cranky and bitchy because no one got enough sleep the previous night, and doing absolutely nothing. And the thing is, it's not even a real holiday.

So yeah, Happy Halloween.

Boy, aren't I in a writing mood today?

On Friendship

I am again reminded of how little friends I have. By friends, I don’t mean people I can go out with, or people I can talk to, or even people I like doings things for.

By friends, I mean people who truly and absolutely accept me, baggage and all, and are okay with that, and aren’t trying to change anything. I mean people I can talk to without having to try, who will challenge me without fighting too hard, and who will not get mad over all the hundred stupid things I do, because she/he knows that’s the only way I can learn.

I used to think good friendships were measured by how many catastrophes you’ve stood by each other, or how many times you’ve weathered how many storms, or how often you’ve held each other’s hands during the thousand little dramas life has thrown both your ways.

But I’ve learned that sometimes it’s harder to be with someone when the plains are dry and the countless tomorrows all seem like imitations of each other. Sometimes it’s harder to stand by someone through the rigors of everyday and to help her pick up the pieces after some devastation, than to bravely hold someone for a few minutes as the disaster rages on. And it seems less heroic, less beautiful, less poignant to be together when nothing is happening, and all you want to do is nothing, but that doesn’t make it any less profound.

Some friendships are found on moments where the ground beneath your feet has collapsed and the roof over your head has caved in, and you are in need of a hero. Sometimes you hold on to each other, and you find comfort and solace in each other’s arms. Sometimes those moments grow and you know you’ve stumbled on a friend for life. Sometimes they don’t, and suddenly you wake up and realize that one brave moment is all you have. And you know that isn’t enough.

Some friendships are found on proximity and accessibility, and the sameness of your worlds. Sometimes, when everything is just right, you form a bond that feels as thick as blood. But sometimes when the landscape of school/office/social circle changes, the friendship slips by through the cracks, and you didn’t even notice it was slipping.

And then there are the mystical ones. The friendships fate seems to have brought to you on a silver platter. The ones you find and never let go, because your life has forever been changed by that person. The ones where distance is only distance and time is only time.

Some friendships are found and you don't know why. The only thing you do know, is your soul has stretched out, and you feel free. All of a sudden, life seems better, and tomorrows are full of promise, and you have someone beside you. And you are no longer afraid for the dust of reality to clear and the mist of past promises to lift. And you are still friends. Even if you don't know why.

I am again reminded of how little friends I have, and I am thankful that I have even this little.

Around four this morning, I was asked a question that irritated me.

“What are you scared of?”

I am scared of a lot of things, I answered. I scream and lose all sense of poise when confronted by the smallest of mice (I literally lose consciousness when confronted by the largest of rats), I hyperventilate when put in certain confined, enclosed, or crowded places (mild claustrophobia), I’m afraid I’ll end up living a mediocre life or becoming merely ordinary, I’m even a bit anxious of how I’ll turn out in ten years.

But of course that’s not what he meant.

“I mean, why are you so scared of getting into a relationship?”

The question was just a façade, of course. The real question is, why, aside from my meaningless flings, I’ve never been in a relationship at all

Here I go again. Why, pray tell, are people so scared of being out of one? Why do people automatically assume that when you reach a certain age, you should’ve at least had one boyfriend? I’m comfortable in my own skin. I like being by myself. I don’t need anyone else to “complete me” or to make me happy. And I’m not sure I can “complete” anyone either. I’m a self-contained unit. Another self-contained unit won’t make me whole, it will only mean I’ll have company.

No, I am not a lesbian (although sometimes I want to be), or a monk, or a hermit. And yes, there’s a certain amount of fear involved – you know, of it not working out, of losing myself when it took me all of 21 years to find me, of letting go of my power and a little of my control. That’s what I’ve been telling people for years, actually. My excuse to the world. And I, for one, stand by the validity of those excuses.

Then there are the shiftless, unsure guys who are otherwise pretty nice and smart. They’ll start pretty good, but somewhere in the middle, I’m suddenly not “what they need”, and then they take off and it’s someone else riding with them in the sunset. A couple of years down the line, I see them again and then we have a little clandestine tete a tete when their girlfriends/fiancés/wives aren’t looking, and they spill their guts and tell me I’m the “Big What if” and the “could’ve been”. And then I smile and sip my coffee and tell them I need to leave early because I have a meeting in the morning.

I see couples fighting about the most inane of things, like being late five minutes and I’m relieved I’m not answerable to anyone. I watch a friend being scolded by her boyfriend for wearing a skimpy top, and I’m glad no one has dibs on my body. I wait with my cousin for her husband to pick her up, and I thank the fates that no one has control over my time.

And I do see the love, and the passion, and the intensity between two people, and I do become a little envious. But I know my envy will pass, and at the end of the night, it’s okay.

Because more than anything, I’ve come to know who I am apart from anyone else, and I’m pretty proud of who I am. I know I’m worth the loneliness, and the cuddle-less nights, and a little envy.

And it irritates me that people don't see this side of things. It irritates me that after 21 years of not giving them cause to expect me to follow "the" dicated path, they still don't expect anything else. It irritates me that in this day and age, a part of you is still judged by something as outside of you as that.

But you know what really gets to me though? It's the knowledge that in my heart of hearts I know all these issues are all peripheral. Because the main reason I’m not in a relationship isn’t really fear, or because I’m a strong, non-commital person, or because guys are all jerks, or because I’m still searching for myself (although all these things are true too).

The main reason I’m not in a relationship, dear boys and girls, is because no has asked me. And that is the simple, basic truth.

First things first: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM

Okay, on to the current events. Jane and I went to Gayuma today, to get our fortunes told. Gayuma, which is at the back of the Barn in Katipunan, is a pretty interesting place. It sort of reminded me of an eccentric lola's house -- the kind you always see in horror flicks but rarely ever have as your own. We had dinner (which was okay, everything considered) and the infamous Better Than Sex for dessert which, I shall assume, is not better than sex because sex can't just be above average (or is it?), while we waited for the tarot guy to finish divining someone else's fate.

Finally, after 57 minutes, he came up to our table. My turn at last. It took him all of forty-five minutes to come up with these basic truths about me that I could have told anyone who bothered to ask:
* I can be autistic
* I can be a snob
* I love my friends
* I am going abroad to take my master's

He also told me some basic non-truths that are so far-fetched Jane couldn't make her eyebrows stay in place:
* I've had a lot of relationships (never had a boyfriend)
* I like to try everything that's new and I get addicted easily (I'm open about things but I also get really bored, really fast)
* my greatest fear is to become the person I was in the past (first of all, I didn't know I had a "past" -- at least not like that, and I don't remember doing anything that I regret enough to be all scared about doing again).

That experience, I think, will rank in the top ten of the most expensive loads of bull I've ever heard. But you know what's really psychotic? I'm going with Jane to get my fortune told again. It was pretty fun hearing someone try to psycho-analyze you, and try to seem mystical and believable all at the same time.

But then it was Jane's turn and I felt that I couldn't really take listenning to another 45 minutes of that, especially since the subject matter wasn't going to be me (self-centered bitch), so it was a good thing Ibarra passed by with a supply of cigarettes. It was pretty funny how Jane put him in the hot seat. Hehe, poor guy, and its his birthday tomorrow -- I mean today. But then again, she did that to me, so it's just fair. The really juicy part is that Jane (and probably Beena and Arlyn) thinks Ibarra and I have, ahem, "something".

See what happens when you have no life? People start making one up for you. I admit I like talking to the guy, and he seems to like talking to me too (I hope). And yes, I ask him out and vice versa and sometimes it's just the two of us. But. I do that with other friends, from all genders. And truth be told I don't even really know him (at least not in that way) because we always manage to evade personal issues in our conversations. Maybe it's a mutual dislike for (melo)drama. Maybe it's because we're both a bit guarded. Or maybe it's because we're really just friends who happen to like each other's company .

Yes boys and girls, platonica is possible.

I will indulge my "inner kikay" and tell you all about Sunday, which was spent shopping. Yes, boys ang girls, shopping. My mom and my sister, the serial shoppers, dragged me to the Cuenca bazaar in Alabang. Most of the things they had on sale were boring, because, as we all know, every other girl in this city is in a peasant blouse, but some of the stalls were eye-catching enough to make me wish I had a job and a matching salary.

A stall outside was selling outrageous jewelry - big accent pieces, Native American "feather" chokers, and intricate silver armbands. I would have bought something, if I had found anything under Php 1800. Sorry, but I am not going to spend that much money on something that's merely interesting. You got to make the blood rush to my head in ecstasy if you want me to part with that kind of cash.

Inside, there was a really, really beautiful top. It was in a subdued red print, and all sheer and lacy. And, it was one of a kind. Alas, it was also four sizes too big.

Not having bought anything except wrapping paper (for Christmas), we decided to head on to Town Center. More of the same blandness. There were the requisite peasant tops in all kinds of prints and colors, the stretch jeans (which I already have too many of), the macrame belts, and the turqouise jewelry -- which kind of makes me angry because I used to love turqouise.

And then we hit People are People. On display was a gorgeous tan top that I knew I would never wear under normal conditions, as it was too MTV Awards for me. (Haltered, neckline down there, backless piece of flimsy material.) I looked at it wistfully, until I figured that since halloween was coming up, I could use that as an excuse.
someone: "What are you supposed to be?"
me: "A little conyo bitch."

I looked for the same thing inside the store but was told that their stock had been sent to Makati. Good thing the one the mannquin was wearing was in my size. I tried it on, it fit me pretty well, although I am now officially on a diet.

I think my most recent alcohol fest finally broiled my brain.



BTW, according to EMode, this is my flavor:

Mmm ... licorice! Strong and edgy, you're the flavor of black jellybeans and Good 'n' Plentys. Some people absolutely love you (in fact, they might even find you addictive), but you're definitely not for everyone. But that's okay with you — you'd rather pick and choose your companions. When you have time for friends at all, that is. Powerful and very potent, you're goal-oriented and ambitious — you don't let much stand in your way. There's nothing sweet or sugary about you; you're a serious taste that's best suited for the truly focused. Lingering, enigmatic, and a little hard to pin down, you're a truly tantalizing treat.

Oh yeah, Trix picked me up and Anton brought me home. I am still immobile.

Cynthia's gig at Crowded House (UP) left me hanging. Her guitar (and its strings) was acting up so the band stopped playing at 11.30. The thing is, they started at 10. And they had a Php 150 cover charge! Argghhh!

But it was an interesting night. We went to QC's Preppy Central (Eastwood) in all our be-slippered and be-sandoed glory. I was in jeans and my younger sister's undershirt, Trixie was in a tank top, capri-surfer shorts and flip flops, and Anton was wearing a black shirt with the words "Haha, Fuck you" emblazoned across the front. Needless to say, it seemed we stuck out like very sore thumbs amidst the sea of skimpy tops and stilletos, especially when we were walking through the crowd. We told ourselves that we didn't care, but it's hard to really feel that way when every other conyita is eyeing you from head to toe.

Good thing we were saved by our various superiority complexes. After a few minutes, we were right smack in the middle of yuppie (and pseudo-yuppie) heaven, laughing and inventing our own lyrics to whatever eastside-brother-gangsta-raver song was playing and doing kungfu king karate to boot. To hell with the conyitas. At least we were having fun.

Bit of Data: Some of the people manning the sound booths there have slightly warped ideas of music genres. I mean, playing some Hiphop "bling-bling" thing in a supposedly Jamaican bar? Or Seventies disco in a "chill-out place"? Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

No car day. The Opel has a broken timing belt. The Lancer’s plate number ends in zero, and it’s a Friday. I am not even going to think about bringing the rickety old vanette to a place as far away as UP. And the Benz, is, naturally, off-limits. (As if I’d want to bring that kidnap-dream car with it’s annoyingly lowered body anyway.)

So, how does one get to UP – at the end of the Manila universe – from provincial Paranaque without a car?

This is one of those rare moments in my life that I wish I had a phalanx of suitors ready and willing to drive me to wherever my heart desires. Or at the very least, a nice chauffeur.

So many of my batch mates are in the States and living together . How fun is that? Some of them are in the same apartment, some in the same building, some in the same compound, and some are dorming together.

Arghh. When I leave, I shall be totally alone. I won’t even know anyone in the same city. Or in the same state. Or for several states around.

I must be brave.

BTW, still no relevant mail. I am going to lose my sanity very soon, and it’s all going to be because of the postal service.

I've been craving for Katipunan comfort food. Tapika bangus and laing, a bigass burger with cream cheese and pesto mayo, Gilligan's Sisig, Mang Jimmy's Tapa Mix, and shit, even coffee from Odd Manila. God, there are just no decent alternatives here in the province (read: Alabang-Pque area).

I want under 20-peso beer! I want to sleep in the apartment. I even want to laze around the bench and wait for people to pass by. Oh god, college withdrawals. Who would've thought there was such a thing?!

I know I said I'd stop with the online quizzes, but I got so bored and just couldn't resist. Besides, doesn't this just look like sin done in chocolate?

Ahhh... the creamy temptation, the seduction of sweet softness sliding down the tongue...






Take the Dessert Quiz



I didn't even know I was goth to begin with:



What Goth Are You?

Yay, Aisa and Pat are finally members of that all-encompassing club, " the great UNEMPLOYED".

Last night Trix, Pat, Ais and I drank in Aisa'a house in Ayala Heights. I picked everyone up and brought the beer. God, I so love Aisa's house, if only for the food! Porkchops, and macaroni, and liempo, and lumpia and ice cream and doughnuts and so many other goodies. I also got to see Josh after the longest time, and he's so cute! He's also so big already. The last time I saw him he was barely talking, now he's a regular socialite. (Mental Note: Josh's fourth birthday on Nov. 7.)

Can I just say that Aisa's house is so conducive to not doing anything? It took all of us a good half hour before we rolled off the bed, and only because Josh was trying his best to wake us up ("Ma, there's food! Tell them to wake up, Ma! Now na, Ma. Now!")

When we finally went down to eat (again, gloriously scrumptious food), Aisa's dad was just coming in. I love it when my friends' parents not only remember my name, but also some bit of trivia about me: "Wanda, I thought you had your car fixed already?"
Actually, I love all my parents' friends, because they already feel like family. Maybe I'm just really thick-skinned, but I feel so at home in my friends' houses, that I can talk to their parents even when their not there. Come to think about it, my friends are like that with my parents as well. I guess it's because we all sleep over each other's places so much.

Anyway, I went with Trix to Ateneo a little after lunch, because she had to fix some stuff. Oh boy, she still has one sem to go. A sad, friendless, benchless sem.

The trip to Ateneo was a little surreal. They moved the School of Humanities to the Soc Sci building, and the SOM to the Gokongwei. Plus they totally revamped the caf (it now has Wendy's, Domino's, etc). It was a bit weird going up SocSci and being told that the space once occupied by the Management Dept was now the English Dept. I wonder which departments are in dela Costa now, though.

Tomorrow is another potential Cynthia night, this one over at UP.

I was surfing the internet, to feed off the plethora of ideas running all over the place, when I stumbled on this. I don't believe I'm superstitous, or anything, but the occult and alternative beliefs fascinate me. I like reading about tarot, and mysticism and the pagan practices. (I said reading about , people, so my dearly beloved fundamental Catholic friends -- can we say Opus Dei? -- don't get all your panties in a bunch just yet.)

Anyway, I'm an Aquarian. I would love to believe that tha Aquarian description is me, but I'm not quite sure I wouldn't be lying. Although, in all honesty, this is the only sign that comes close to my perception (and a lot of my friends' perceptions) of who I am.

I went to Sing India! night at Sanctum yesterday with Trixie, Ej and Wingey. It was fun, a nice break from all the mindlessness that's been the staple for the past few days.

I invited my parents, and I think they enjoyed it as well. -- Yes, I have a weird relationship with my parents. Yes, I invite them to gimmicks and whatnot. And yes, most of my friends are okay with that as they can do pretty much anything in front of my mom and dad anyway, and not have to pay for anything to boot.

Went to hapchang after the show, and finally took out the twenty something hairpins that seemed all to stick out from my head. Crashed at Trixie's, more beer, and ended up talking until 6:30 about suction and hygiene.

I wrote something in my journal that would be really nice to blog, so you can have an idea of what's running through my head right now, but the transcribing process is daunting. it's about four Cattleya pages long and I have small handwriting.

We shall see. For now, that is all.

Sorry, for the lapse in blogging. It's been a busy weekend.

My bro's party last Friday was fun, even though I was forced to play my ate role to the hilt as my brother was the first one wasted. Forget what I said in the previous post about being a pseudo host. Scratch the prefix. Ten cases of beer, two lechon baboys, five lechon manoks, 2 bilaos of pancit and a dozen assorted bottles of drinks passed into the afterlife before I could declare the whole thing over.

Special mention to Vic, JM, Pao, Och, and the brother (and Company) of Guia for helping me clean up. Special mention plus plus to Kuya RJ for helping me clean up, and sweeping the floor, and driving Niko's car home.

Trix, Pat, Chito, Kathy and I played charades -- complete with exagerated body movements to the curious looks of other guests.

People looked extremely happy. Even if a minor fight erupted. No one really paid much attention to them anyway.

Saturday was recovery day.

No hangovers, but I was dead tired.

Tonight is Sanctum night, Cynthia Alexander is playing.

Tune in tomorrow for details. Hasta!

Can you believe I actually tutor people in Algebra?! What is this world coming to?

My brother's party tomorrow. Beer, food, and a host of other goodies. Plus I get the perks of being a pseudo-host (inviting people, being in my "turf") with none of the hassles (cleaning up, spending, planning, etc.).

Ibarra's coming over to hand in the "requirements" for the AC fair. Since when have they started "requiring" things???

Still no relevant mail. The wait continues.

I hate waiting for the mail.

Top Three Things I am Waiting For:

* Goddard's I-20 so I can pass it over to the US embassy
* TERI's decision, so I'll know if I have enough money for tuition
* dorm sheets so I can send them my preferences already

Add to that the other hundred "little" things I am anxiously hoping to get a reply for and you'll see why it's a wonder I get anything done with all this peripheral baggage trying to bury themselves in my consiousness.

Waiting has got to be one of the more painful mental distractions known to man. And I don't mean just passive waiting. I mean at-the-edge-of-your-seat, suspenseful, nailbiting waiting. The will-I-get-it-will-I-not? kind of waiting that can drive you out of your skull. Seriously.

Agghh. I even know what time to expect the frigging mailman -- a piece of information I never thought could be so important to me.

Just want to share this. It came from the comments function of this blog.

Okay guys, here is Jamie Lee Curtis' official medical diagnosis: Male Pseudohermaphrodite. This means that her karyotype is XY, therefore, she is a male. What happened is that she has a genetic defect on her androgen receptors (the ones that respond to testosterone), therefore the male genitalia never developed and she was born with female EXTERNAL genitalia (she doesn't have an ovary or uterus, but she DID have testes hidden withing her abdomen). Interesting fact: all embryos have a natural tendency to develop as females, but males produce a chemical that supresses the femal genitalia from developing, allowing them to have male genitalia instead. Since Ms. (Mr.) Curtis didn't have this, her external genitalia appear female.

Must Do:

1. My mom's going to Amsterdam early tonight, so I have to bring her to the airport this afternoon.

2. Plan for Niko's party and make sure they have enough beer, food, etc.

3. Finish my story.


Yes, boys and girls, I finally got started on a story (after how many weeks!), which was inspired in part by the post that was supposed to go in last Saturday. But since I'm "fictionalizing" it, I'll just post the the short story when I do complete it and we'll all just have to forget about that particular entry.

Also, since I am "working" (for freelance writers this is actually work, you know) I'm going to have to cut back on my net time, which means shorter blogging time.

So, adios for now, mis amigos.

It's a really slow day today. I drove out in my pajamas (yes, in broad daylight) because I was that lazy to even get dressed. Plus it's so hot outside I didn't even want to cross the space between airconditioned car and aircondioned room, nevermind traverse the plains of our backyard to get the laundried clothes from the wash. Ahh.. my own cocoon of coldness, right here. I will not move again.

On to the re-telling of last night's events. I picked up Ate Nicky from her office in Makati around 6. Ofourse I missed the turn going into the buildin's driveway, so I had to take a right at some obscure road, getting myself lost in the process. (So what else is new?) What was supposed to be a quick park-ride-and-go turned into a 45 minute search for the end of the Makati labyrinth. And that was just the beginning.

After storing all five of ate Nicky's bags into my trunk, we headed off into EDSA. Big mistake. "Ants crawling down the hill" would be a pretty good description. With buses zooming this way and that, like their sole purpose in life was to throw you off kilter. Add to that the non-stop yapping of my beloved cousin. I felt like a wild animal twice trapped.

When we reached the gates of hallowed ground (Ateneo), I suddenly felt a tinge of worry. Cars were already parked near the overpass, which ofcourse wouldn't happen unless a phalanx of cars had already made their way inside. At seven fucking thirty. From the gate to our little car space way out in the high school area, we went through beeping hell. Thirty minutes of it.

Finally, we were able to go down and start walking. Ahhh, I'm stuck to the grass. Mud everywhere. Sneakers caked with brown goo with some green bits (grass?). Thank god for Nikes.

But where are the roasting spits? Let me just say that I will now forever be indebted to Kathy's family. We joined their "private party" so we didn't have to line up for food like the other mere mortals. Scrumptious. Even if we had different bits of meat and different types of sauce all gobbled up into one homogenous food product.

Then we went walking. "Congressman Chito", ofcourse, knew at least one person in every section of the school. We ended up in the Quadrangle, doing what we have always done best. Yes, we journeyed with the blue mob from Paranaque to Quezon city on a saturday night just so we could shun the rest of the world and talk.

This narration actually hapenned in a cyclical manner, done over and over until the rain god took pity on our dying feet and sent buckets of water down our way. At this point, we just ran to the car and operated in half-asleep/half-awake mental mode, all the way home.

I just got back from the victory bonfire at Ateneo. Roasted calf, roasted pig, San Mig Light, Diet Pepsi and a host of other goodies, for free. It was a bit funny to see a big fire raging on in the middle of Bellarmine Field while the rain was being equally violent.

I'm really, really tired. What with all the walking and talking and scheming to get more food going on. Plus I had to drive as well.

The post that should've gone here yesterday is still stored in a disk in my room. I'll post it tomorrow, I mean later on today.

I just had to write this bit for those people who just rely on this and the comments box to check if I'm still alive.

I feel a sudden desire to ram my head against the wall.

What do you do with a person who has absolutely no concept of responsibility, no notion of consequence, no sense of being answerable for her own decisions? What do you do with my thirteen year old sister?

Her grades are horrendous. A line of seven in almost all her subjects except for grammar (thank god for small miracles). And she's only a freshman in high school. I told her that if this keeps up, she'll get kicked out because she's already on academic probation as it is. So what does little Ms.Teenage-angst tell me? "That's okay, I'll find another school."

That"s okay?! I'll find another school?! I don't know what dimensional plane my little sister is living on, but someone has got to bring her back to earth.

I tried talking to her. I even wrote her a nice, long, heartfelt, sister-to-sister palanca letter (that's a letter you give on "spiritual" retreats). For awhile it seemed to have worked. After all, she did pass her Math finals. But that's about all its done so far. She's grounded now, because of her abysmal grades, but I'm not really sure what good that can do, because the problem seems to be much, much deeper than that.

My sister has no drive.

To her, excellence is redundant. "I know their better, and I'm okay with who I am", she says. I don't know how long she thinks she can hide under that veneer of resignation. I don't know how I can even begin to convince her to look beneath that complacence so she can take a long look at what's holding it up. I don't know how long she thinks she can lock herself up in her own little world of make-up and boys and N'Snyc videos.

What gets to me, really, is that all this mediocrity isn't even camouflaged. It would still be irritating, perhaps, but if she could have only clothed all this apathy with some pseudo-underground attempt to decry the establishment, then at least it wouldn't have been so scary. Unfortunately, this isn't about priniciple, or an ideology, or a need to discover herself apart from the rigidity of the traditional classroom (or some such comparatively well-thought of excuse). My sister has no such illusions of philosophizing her way out of this. It seems my sister has no philosophy at all.

She's just "not into it". She would just "rather do something else". Like her nails. In pubescent pink.

It irks me no end that someone with her talent (she's a very good dancer, classically trained, good swimmer, artistic, etc.) can have so little passion for everything. It annoys me that while I am struggling to make the best out of my one (meager) "gift" in life, she dismisses all of hers with careless nonchalance. But what's worse is that she doesn't seem to think about things. Actually, truth be told, it seems she hardly really thinks at all.

And that scares me even more. I'm scared because it seems like we don't really understand each other. To a certain extent, I know where she's coming from. She's thirteen. She's invincible. That's okay, I went through that too. But on the other hand, when I look at her, I mean really look at her, I get this feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. It's not because I know she's different from me. I have lots of friends who are very different. I can appreciate uniqueness and individuality. The thing is, she's turning out to be too much of the same. And if this keeps up, I know she may end up becoming the type of person I can't really have that kind of connection with. Apart from being sisters, we may end up with nothing to hold us together.

I love her, and I will always love her. But the truth cannot be hid. She's turning into the kind of person I never imagined anyone would want to be.

Oh god, my sister, the ditz.

It’ raining really, really hard.

I'm so tempted to write about how rain is so magical and beautiful and cleansing and feminine and mysterious all at once, but I won’t (at least not here). Because although I love the rain, too many pieces have been written about it, a lot of which were brilliant and churned out by authors who are much, much more gifted than I could ever wish to be, so until I find my tattered self-esteem I’ll just keep silent.

And write about something a bit more mundane.

Like why I’m short three bottles of beer for our own little bacchanal tomorrow night.

When you set out to buy a case, and you ascertain that the said case was carefully stowed in the trunk (rij says boot) of your car, and you are absolutely positive that this same case - untampered - was hauled into the kitchen, then wouldn’t it be a logical assumption to expect to see the same case, in all its complete splendor, that same afternoon, right after waking from your much-deserved nap?

That’s what I thought too.

What’s strange about this disappearance is that hardly anyone drinks beer here, least of all San Mig Light. I would blame my brother (wouldn’t we all?), but he was in school the whole time. My sisters would be next in line, but little Ms.high-school girl abhors the taste of beer (preferring cocktails ) and the other one is only six.

So I have just lost three perfectly good bottles of beer to the unknown. Somewhere out there in the great beyond, my legions of lost socks and ballpen caps and algebra homework must be falling in line to take swigs from these three brave fellows.

And the really sad part is I have no more money to buy three more bottles to fill up the sad, empty hole that has been left in the dilapidated green crate.

By the way, I didn't know that people were saying Mike Cortez threw the game. I didn't know they were saying he got paid (something in the neighborhood of 500k - 5M) to intentionally screw up. Read what coach tin has to say about the UAAP's delicious new drama and all that here.

Just to clear things, I am not a Nietzsche follower. I do not believe in eveything he says. Hell, I don't even like most of the things he says. That wasn't my point.

You know how some people's sheer difference from you will make you realize why you are the way you are? That's what he gave me. So although I don't like everything he says, I like him because he grounds me. I don't want to accept something just because the rest of the world thinks it's good. I want to know why. I want to know if there is an innate compelling desire to be good. I want to know if there is an objective good and evil. I want to know if being good does any real good in the first place.

And for me, boys and girls, that was Nietzsche.

But on to less painful things.

Finally, a quasi-social event I can look forward to: drinking with Trixie, Polots and Pat. Another round of alcohol-induced nostalgia with the (no longer) usual suspects. God, I really miss living in Katipunan. I miss college -- all of it. The bad with the good. Fr. David's 12 page (font size 10) papers and Laing at Tapika. Calassanz's profound analogies and the monotony of researching for my thesis. Danton Remoto's passion and his students' apathy. Gilligan's sisig. Twenty-three peso beer. The Gate 3 guard who would always tell me off for not wearing my ID. And yes, even the administrative assistant who said my shorts were indecent (and her blue and yellow ensemble wasn't?).

I still have about two and a half months before I have to migrate to a land far, far away, and I'm already homesick.

Two and a half months before I exile myself to rural Vermont. With a herd of sheep. And below zero weather. And graduate students who will all probably be much older than I am, and who will know much more than I do, and who will make me feel like an inadequate, untalented piece of shit.

Oh boy, where has my ego gone?

* Ateneans: there will be a victory bonfire on Saturday (Katipunan, Bellarmine Field) and a mini-homecoming on Friday (Rockwell, Rm. 204). Friday is RSVP, 7pm dinner. 426-6001, ask for the alumni office.

Read about Nietzsche.

“I know my destiny. Someday my name will be associated with the memory of something tremendous, a crisis like no other on earth, the profoundest collision of conscience, a decision conjured up against everything that had been believed, required, and held sacred up to that time. I am not a man; I am dynamite.”

What I wouldn't give to have the arrogance to say something like that.

And this man not only said it, he made it truth.

Granted Nietzsche is not the most beloved philospoher in history, but he did challenge (destroy?) a lot of paradigms and belief structures that lay idle in society, thoughts that were lazing around in this world just because no one had thought of thinking otherwise. He shook the world just when it needed shaking.

And the bottomline is, this guy makes you think. And thinking is always a good thing, no matter what anyone else says.

Besides, don't you just love a man filled with contradictions? This guy has them. And then some. But I'll leave you to find that out for yourself, so read this introductory essay and think a little.

And updates on the MFA thing:

* ISLP loan is looking good. They're just waiting for my visa, then we'll be all set.
* I-20 from Goddard is (hopefully) on its way.
* I got a letter from AAUW (American Association of University Women) telling me about a scholarship-grant they give to international graduate students. It's a pretty big grant at $ 18,000 /year. Application due on Dec. 15.

I can’t see the stars.

It’s been months since I went out at night, something I used to do a lot. And I don’t mean going out with a particular destination in mind. I don’t mean out to a party, or out to drink, or out with a man. I just mean out. Out of the door to feel the wind on my face. Out to the park that’s just a stone’s throw away. Out of the car to look at the stars.

I can’t see the stars.

I am getting stale. My mind is thinking second-hand thoughts, and my dreams are tired imitations of each other. I am asking the same questions and I am getting the same answers, and it feels like I am breathing the same air all over again.

I want to get away, but I’m not sure what I want to get away from. I feel like my brain is restless inside my skull, and the insides of my skin are crawling deeper into my flesh. I want to suck in the world in one passionate breath, but it feels like my lungs are too small, and my chest will burst.

I am not sure what makes me want to run away, but I know where I want to run to. I want to run to the place where the images are clumsy and I can feel ecstasy over a seamless metaphor. I want to go back to where not all things must be caught shining on the edge of a gilded phrase. I want to go back to where depth is not a duty, and I am still free to be just like them.

My eyes are tired of seeing the same brilliant images. My mind is tired of hearing the same profound thoughts. I am tired.

I want to get in my car and drive to wherever the stars take me.

But I can’t see the stars.

I happily sank into my favorite chair by the "mini-garden". I was feeling terribly proud of myself for being able to tear away from my computer and finally get in a bit of reading. But in the middle of patting myself on the back for freeing up time to take up "Veronika Decides to Die", I turned cold. I freed up time from doing what, exactly?

Oh god, I have turned into a web junkie. I don't need to sit in front of my computer all day long, and yet I do. What "freeing up time" am I talking about? I'm jobless for heaven's sake! I have tons of free time! Hell, all my time is free time! Then it just smacked me in the face: I have been swallowed by the vortex of eternal internet.

I haven't read the books I promised myself I'd read during this "forced vacation". I haven't written anything of consequence (by this I mean real literary work and not blogging) in about a month. My current life has revolved aournd this monitor, my geeky non-existence marred only by sporadic (and I mean sporadic) drinking sprees, most of the time with people I don't even really like. Shit, this does not bode well at all.

Scary, really. Another thing to add to my ever-increasing list of fears.

Oh yeah, I'll blog about the book when I finish it. It promises to be a nice enough read.

Did you buy me a "love spell"?

I found this weird thing in my inbox today, about how I could claim my "love spell", a love spell which I supposedly bought some time ago. God, we live in a crazy, crazy world. Made even crazier by the fact that I had purportedly paid good money for a love spell.

Let's not even get to the dubious notion that a few words strung together chanted over colored candles can make you a love goddess, or that people actually pay for this, or that it isn't even sanctioned by most genuine Wiccan practioners.

The thing that bothers me the most is the matter of how I fucking paid for this love spell. Because here it is, in big bold letters. A receipt for the bank draft that I apparently mailed out. I didn't even know I had $25. Hell, I don't even know how to get a bank draft.

Which gets me thinking, did someone else buy this love spell for me? Now, why in heaven's name, will anyone want to do that? Most of my friends, although not exactly scraping for cash, will consider this a very ludicrous luxury.

Boys and girls, I may not have a boyfriend at this time, but I do not need a love spell. Neither do I need a boyfriend.

Now if only you could get a refund on this and send me the money instead, then we can all live happily ever after.

I am completely mystified.

Self discovery: I am DEFINITELY not a gym person.

I was huffing after 4 minutes of this rowing-treadmill-abs thing. And it was on the lowest level. And it was unbelievably boring. And the place was filled with crazy people talking shop about BMI and muscle proportion -- things I really do not care about. And the instructor said I would have to 1. go easy on the beer, and 2. stop smoking.

Hah. Fat chance.

I told him that San Mig Lite and my Winstons are friends that have been there for me through and through, and I do not dispose of friendships just because liver disease, lung cancer, heart problems and emphysema loom large in the horizon.

Also, I hate that gym instructor. "You're heavy-boned. You cannot aspire to be thin. You can only be healthy." Himself being the size of a bloated beanpole. I mean what was I doing there if I cannot aspire to be thin?! God knows I already look healthy. I do not want to look healthy. I want to look like a clothes hanger.

Hah. Another Vogue-induced fantasy down the drain.

Ooohhh... Wil Wheaton has a blog. And I had a crush on him back when they were still airing Star Trek TNG here. (I know, no accounting for taste... but hey, I was young...) Don't forget to read his charmingly amusing "warning" on how lame he really is. Ahh. I hereby declare myself hooked.

Yes, I was (am?) a trekkie. (Oh boy, my geekiness is showing...) I loved the idea of space travel, and life out there. I loved all the escapism and the imagination. I mean, the idea of untapped worlds, and strange philosophies, and a deliciously unimaginable alien way of life was just too intriguing.

Of course, when they started coming out with the other trek programs, I lost interest. I still watch some of the reruns once in awhile (like Voyager and DS9) but the influx of these shows just over-saturated the Trek universe. Suddenly they were too human, too relatable, too now.

For me, at least, they started becoming not-too-good imitations of themselves. Which is, of course, the worst kind of imitation to become. A pity, really.

Another online test result:



take the nerd test.


Hmmm, so I really am a nerd. Awww....shucks.

I do love books (with a passion), but I abhor pretentiousness... at least, i think I do. And I am not an English major (although I have around 24 units of lit and I'm (hopefully) taking my masters in creative writing in January). And my grammar and spelling are not immaculate, especially in this blog. (Which is actually due to my innate laziness to edit, more than anything else.)

But I take the nerd thing as a compliment. Nerd-ism implies intelligience, passion (bordering on obsession), and an "Iam-not-average-but-superior kind of attitude that lets the nerd not be caught up in the pettiness of the rest of the world (bordering on autism).

And another one:.

You drive an Integra Type R. You are savy, stylish, and down
to earth. Although sometimes on a budget, you are ahead of
most cars in performance and handling, and you are the
envy of most Civic drivers.

Find out which car you drive!

And another one:




Who are you?


A hippy-nerd with a Type R has got to be something else.




What Was Your PastLife?


And a past-life philosopher to boot.

Let me just say that on principle, I really don't like online quizzes. They are obviously inaccurate, and stereotypical, and on the rare point that they actually do have something true to say, they become so eerie that you'd rather they didn't say it anyway.

Okay, I promise this will be that last online test for the week. I will be strong and not succumb.

I'm done with the idiocy. Seriously.

I do not want to live in this country anymore.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. I love Manila. I love growing up in this tropical climate. I love our values system and our close family ties. I love hearing chickens crow in the morning and even the hundreds of askals and pusakals roaming the streets. I love sinigang and fishballs and kwek-kwek. I love our social idiosyncracies and even our outdated traditions. I love our humor and our faith, and the singular way the wheels turn in our collective heads. I love this fucked up, economically-retarded, talented, friendly, beautiful collection of "The Beach"-worthy islands, and all the insane people who inhabit them, but I am getting scared. Very scared.

I can't help but glance at the social disparities that are a part of my life. I shirk at facing this country's future, because the future seems bleaker than the present -- or even the past. And this bleakness is all I've ever known. What does tomorrow have to offer me here? More worry? More strife? More Eraps and FPJs?

I am afraid of what's going to happen to home.

So I tell myself, that I can find a new home, far, far away from all this madness. I can find a place where I can see the logic of things. Where it is considered normal to have at least three square meals a day, and I can walk to my car without being confronted by the jarring possibilites screaming from the vacant eyes of a very hungry child.

Maybe I also need to believe for my self that such a home can exist.

Most older people say that the youth are ingrates, and have no sense of nationalistic pride. Well, most of the youth have never experienced anything they can sincerely feel proud about. EDSA I was not our fight. EDSA II was only a glorified party that apparently didn't really solve anything. We were born with dirty roads and polluted air and corrupt officials. We don't remember Manila Bay sunsets or walking fearlessly in the city streets. It seems the bottom has been sliced out of our downward spiral, and we never even saw the top to begin with.

The fact of the matter is, we are just getting scared.

We are scared of rasing families here and we are scared of the way of life they may have to endure. We are scared of increasing inflation and the Abu Sayaff. We are scared of kidnapping and bomb threats and companies downsizing left and right. We are scared of unemployment and staring at poverty in the face, every single day. We are scared of losing hope and wasting our idealism and our talent in a country that seems wasting away. We are scared that this is all there is.

And yes, we are even scared of having to try to make good on the half-spoken promise of lands far, far away.

We are scared of the fact that there must be something contemptibly moronic in the composition of this country if Fernando Poe Jr. is actually contemplating on running in the 2004 Presidential Elections.

We are terrified that he actually has a huge chance of winning.

Because if that happens, we Filipinos must be a sadistic race. If that happens, there must be a dominant lunacy gene in our make-up. If that happens, maybe we should all just shoot ourselves. Seriously.

And I am sorry, but then I say screw patriotism (at least for a couple of years).

I'm packing my bags -- and my family's -- and taking the first plane to somewhere other than home.

Freezer burnt vanilla. Read what Anna has to say over at ducksauce. And I changed the comments function. This one is more reliable. The other one was "a pain" as someone put it, and I would really like to hear what you boys and girls have to say.

Please make your presence known.

My dad just got back from Singapore. He bought me a really cool black silk Chinese shirt, handpainted, and very, very nice. He also bought a lot of techie stuff. Those of you who know my dad know that a computer/gadget shop is a slice of heaven for him, so can you imagine him in the Tech Mall there? Bliss. Utter bliss.

He got a really state-of-the-art digital camera (it hasn't even been released in this country yet), some accessories to go with it, a pocket hard drive with 20 gigs of RAM, optical mice, and a shit load of other geek paraphernalia that I absolutely cannot wait to see. Oh, and he also got a couple of pairs of shoes for him and my brother, a very expensive caftan for my mom, a Singaporean costume for Kyra, and a semi-avant garde top for Lia.

And he also got a teeny tiny FM radio (in transparent orange) for $9 (Sing).

Uh oh. As I've said before, idleness is the devil's playground. I am now actually answering online psycho quizzes.
Quizilla's "What Kind of Box Do You Get Put In?" analysis of me:


I want to be pyscho-analyzed too.

Oh boy. It seems I always translate into a loser on online tests. Now I remember why I hate answering them. Although I don't believe I'm that much of a dork, the only thing that maybe doesn't really ring completely true would be the part about classical music. I do not like classical music. Wait, let me take that back. I don't think I can even say I don't like it, because I don't hear enough of it to actually take a stand. The only pieces I remember -- and this because of school -- are Canon in D Minor by Pachelbell (sounds like a wedding march), and Vivaldi's Four Seasons (Tantantanantantantan). Uh oh.

Well, at least the geeks like me, so I'm not a total outcast of society. Hah.

Some silly stuff. Here are a couple of flash animations clips. Have a laugh: Spiderman will make you gay (cute little spidey), Vikings to the tune of Led Zep's Immigrant Song , and finally, the how-tos of a google bomb.

And here's a link about writing a good blog.

I've been thinking. Most girls have some list of the kind of boyfriend/husband/life partner they'd like to have, but not a lot of people have a list of the kind of "significant other" they'd like to be. So, out of boredom tinged with a little insomnia, I've written up mine. Subject to change without prior notice.

The kind of girlfriend I'd like to become -- if I ever find myself actually wanting to be a girlfriend:

1. Not a nagger-possesive type. I know how annoying this can be not only for the boyfriend, but also for the boyfriend's friends.

2. Bestfriend/ first on the speed dial. My strongest argument against girlfriendhood is the way the girlfriends start acting like guys' mothers. I want to be someone he can confide in, and not feel the need to hide anything from. I do not want to be relegated to the shelf of girls adorning a man's past. I want to be there for someone, to mean something great to someone, to have a karmic, mind-blowing connection with someone, so that even if things don't work, he will always remember me and think we had something really special.

3. I want to be the girl who doesn't care if he's in slippers and a sando (as long as I don't look like his amo), or that he hasn't brushed his hair (just do NOT wear tight baston jeans). I want to be the girl he can bring to the fishballs stand, take to a beer (lots and lots of beer) fest, and drive to tagaytay at the spur of the moment to watch the sunset/sunrise.

4. I want to understand his passions, and let him be free to explore himself. I want to be one who constantly amazes him because I'm so understanding, and open-minded. I want to be trusting yet strong, and sensitive enough to anticipate his needs.

5. I want to be girl who pushes him to the edge of who he can be, the one who opens up his world, the one who brings him to places he otherwise would never go to. I want to be the one to help him in his self-discovery, and his soul-searching, and his quest for epiphanies and meanings and definitions.

6. Lastly, I want to be the girl he will never forget. I want to be the "big what if?". I want to be the measure by which all other girls will be measured, so that his life will be divided into the days before and after me.

Hmm, okay, maybe I am being too hard on myself...

It took more than 24 hours for the news to really settle in. We Fucking Won.

Post UAAP

I am not really a basketball fan.

I only watched about four or five games while I was in college, most of them on TV. Before that, the closest to the UAAP I’ve gotten was being classmates with Enrico, most memorably in Great Books under Ma’am Sol. (Hehe, Remember the Communist Manifesto?)

It feels weird to look back at the last couple of days, and realize I was that into it. Me, the sports ignoramus. Me, without a single athletic bone in my body. For the last two finals games, Kathy and I became dangerously aware of what an impending heart attack was. We watched both at the Araneta, although we barely understood what we were seeing -- official calls of the referees were totally meaningless to us, so where others saw cause for fear, anxiety and much frustration, we only saw a lot of body movements oddly akin to interpretive dance.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s a late-blooming, deep-seated love for the colors of Loyola, or the media propaganda, or maybe it's just the crowd's searing sense of school loyalty, but after watching one game (the now infamous Game 2), we were suddenly made aware of just how blue our blood really is. Suddenly, we were caught right smack in the middle of eruptions of a once dormant capacity for continually jumping to our feet and screaming like banshees with megaphones. I found myself a part of the (pantone royal -- apparently the official shade ) blue crowd with my fist in the air, chanting the same words (at least I think they were the same words) that everyone else around me was chanting.

It’s fun to just ride with the wave sometimes and not think about the world, or the state of the nation, or other equally depressing things.

It felt really good to see the players play their hearts out and give it everything they had. It felt good to see the crowd respond the way they did. It felt good to be part of that, and to know that you all felt the same pride.

It felt good (and a bit surprising) to see that people I went to school with, who were usually cynical and apathetic about the world around them, were there too, cheering just as loud, praying just as hard, wanting just as bad.

It felt good to be part of something that was bigger than myself – even if it is just some measly basketball series.

And I just have to say it, but it felt really, really good to be an Atenean.

Wow, who would've thought I'd end up loving that school on the hill so much?

And to my green archer friends reading this blog, fun game wasn't it? See you next year?

I've been surfing some, and I came across a nice online dream dictionary. I tried using it to analyze the dream I had while I was napping earlier (I think I flew too high last night), and amazingly, it made so much sense, especially in light of recent events.

I am going up my room, which is detached from the main house. I notice that the door is open, and I see an old woman, a stranger, who seemed familiar only because she looked like she was made to order for an old woman labandera role in a Tagalog flick. As i finally entered my room, I noticed a big black doberman racing down from my bed, and running past me through the door. Surprised and a little angry, I asked the old woman why she let the dog in. She answered that she didn't know it was already inside. I go up to the bed and notice pawprints and the dog-smell.

Apparently, dogs signify personal boundaries and for some interpreters, male energy. The old woman is supposed to symbolize the bigger picture of my life, maturity, and all that. And the bed is the way I see myself, my relationships. So then, a male person trespasses into my space (mental and physical...), tramples on my bed (leaving dirt, thereby staining and tainting it -- and consequently me), and all the old woman can say about that is she didn't know (lack of direction, understanding, weakness).

Therefore, men are bad for me. They contaminate me and make me weak. The Great Beyond has spoken.

FLY HIGH!



And the Blue Eagles are King! God, that was exhilirating! What a rush! We actually won, and we won by a fair enough margin at 8 points. Hats off to the players, they really did it this time. You could actually see the hunger, the desire...

Who would've thought I'd absorb this much school spirit?

We were already supposed to sell all the tickets we had and just watch it on the big screen, but coming to Araneta, we saw the players' coaster and they all looked so intense, so focused, so hungry for the win. We had to see them in action, and at that exact moment, I had a hint of a feeling they were going to make it happen.

One Big Fight! The way the sea of blue just never let up felt so good. Nakakakilabot.

Needless to say, Katipunan was alive last night. People were blowing their car horns left and right, shouting at everyone in blue (presumably Ateneans), and just being in a euphoric, the-hell-with-the-rest-of-the-world celebratory mood. We went to the newly-built Church of the Gesu for the thanksgiving mass and boy, it was packed. Parking at the school was a bitch (at 9 pm!). The church was really nice, a good place to bring people together. Very conducive to the overwhelming unified atmosphere. And there was just a lot of people -- old alumni, current students, yuppies, priests, everyone who has blue flowing in his veins was there. Everyone was shaking everyone's hands, slapping each other on the back, screaming and cheering each other on.

What a welcome for the players. When their bus finally came, people erupted into cheers and they were literally swarmed (is there such a word?) by the crowd.

The victory bonfire won't be until next Saturday though, and I'll be sure to be around for that.

Fly High. Fly Proud. It's good to be blue.

Oh shit, it's already 11.21. I promised Kathy I'd be in her house by 12 and I haven't even taken a bath yet. I just want to say, I've been re-reading my blog entries and I just realized I have so many typos. I'm not mentally disabled, boys and girls, I just don't notice these things when I'm trying to type really fast. Besides, you're not stupid either, so you can probably get what I mean. And I'm too lazy to change the things I've already written, but I promise to try to be more careful in the future.

Okay, Rij? --> Unless, ofcourse, you have a spell check program I can use with this?