Requisite dose of Quizilla.


What Kind of Pussy Cat Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Last night was spent, as usual, with a bottle of beer in my hands.

I was supposed to go to Libis with Joyce but I really just wasn't up to it. I don't want to have to get dressed and mingle with people who don't really have anything to say. I don't want conversations that are always variations on the usual small talk. Hours and hours of small talk. So I opted out, and just stayed home instead.

Victor and JM came by. Bought beer. Drank. Watched girls get naked on the Playboy Channel. (Sometimes I hold my sexuality suspect.) Talked. Very good.

-------

To Purge. The Sequel.

And here I am again, where I promised myself I wouldn't be.

I hate being immobilized by things that are outside of my control. I hate feeling that I can't do or say the things I want because of circumstance and all the hundred things that are not in my hands.

Because I've always been a very honest person and I make no apologies for who I am and what I'm capable of.

And I like springing my honesty on people when they least expect it, because I like seeing how something I say can make someone else stop in his tracks. I like knowing that I can do that, that I can make someone stop and just think for a second. And I revel in watching people take their various truths.

And I hate it that I can't do that now.

This would have been so much easier if you aren't who you are.

Catharsis

So I'm crying, because I don't want to hold on to any more tears. JR, this one's for you.

Tomorrow
I see you as if you are white blood upon red snow
Burning the ice you touch
I feel you as if you are frost on flame
Hardened and then melting
I need you as if you are the ground that carried my weight
And I shall fall

To feel the scarlet blush run again in your pale cheeks
But I have already crushed you

In my hands you have become
But an empty bed
Soiled sheets
A dent on my pillow

Another Quiz. Again.


Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla

This season always depresses me.

It seems like all the energy people expend on trying to be cheerful and happy and loving for the whole world to see leaves them too tired to actually be happy inside. So at the end of the day, when they're in bed all alone, the contrast between the warm Christmas cheer and the cold blankness they're left with just becomes that much more stark.

And It's a vicious cycle. Because when they get up the next morning, they have their Hohohos thrust in their faces and the world needs them to smile again. Until their faces become frozen into hallmark card pictures. Or else.

Or maybe that's just me.



"How Do You Use Magic?" test. Written by Brimo. Care of Jo

"Hold on to yourself, for this is gonna hurt like hell" -- Sarah Mclachlan, Hold On

Yesterday was saturated with so many things to blog about. Pat's house, seeing my rocker-junkie friends after what feels like an eternity, chronic nostalgia attacks, driving without a license, the rain, almost-but-not-quite getting lost, setting up the Christmas tree in Trixie's house, beer, crying, epiphanies...

It feels good and gratifying and pathetic and sad all at once to be where I am now.

It feels like I'm a volcano about to erupt, but I don't know how or when. Or if it's really going to happen at all.

I feel like I'm about to jump from a cliff, and I don't know if there's anything out there to catch me. And if I want anything to catch me in the first place.

I'm letting go of the hands I've always held. But I'm still constantly surprised by the emptiness of my palms.

So I'm crying, because I don't want to hold on to any more tears.

Sudden influx of blog readers these past few days. Welcome, boys and girls. More people to watch me "flay myself out in public", as Sophie says.

Now for a bit of randomness:

They're going to show The Ring Trilogy (the original version) at Greenbelt and Megamall soon. Someone watch this with me.

Ditto for Atlantis' Rocky Horror Show -- if it's still on. I'm not sure they have December play dates.

Again, Cynthia this saturday, cover charge is probably Php 150.

Pat is leaving tomorrow for the States. So we are reduced to this. Emails and webpages and lots of goodbyes. Some things I just cannot blog about. So today I'm trading in the keyboard for some paper and a pen. Tune back in tomorrow.

I sense throat cancer...

I think the soreness is getting too comfortable in my throat. It doesn't want to go away. It has probably built a house in my tonsils, and invited a girlfriend over. And they are probably already thinking of having babies. Yes, it feels that bad.

Everytime I cough I feel like I'm going to cough out my lungs. And the painful way food grazes down my gullet has made me temporarily anorexic (well, that could be a good thing). Arghh. Seven days and counting...

I just want to put in a plug. Cynthia Alexander also known as the folk-rock goddess (not my words) will be playing at Sanctum this Saturday. Come and watch.

I am in a really, really bad mood. Rotten. I feel like I've been staring down a telescope for too long, and I've gotten eye cramps a hundred times over. This is what happens when you become too focused and too immersed in whatever you're writing. When you finally resurface from the fiction, you reel away from reality. And you think I must get away. To wherever. Right Now.

I just blew up on my little sister and my mom. And even though it felt a bit good because it was, after all, an emotional release, I also felt evil. And annoyed. And guilty.

I hope they finally understand that I'd really rather be left alone when I'm writing. That this isn't just something I do because I'm bored or whatever. Writing, at least the kind of writing I want to be associated with, takes a good deal of work. It's a craft. Stories don't just emerge from my head in perfect form. Sometimes you have to coax it out, and sometimes the coaxing can take a very, very long time. So when you finally reach your Eureka! moment, or your zone, or the "white heat" as some people call it, it can get very frustrating when you're forced to plummet back to Earth because you're sister is whining in your ear, and your mom is making you pick the sweater that goes with her green capris.

I guess this is the downside of coming from a family that isn't really "into" art. Granted my parents know who Monet or Manansala is, and they listen to good music (sometimes), and they've been overwhelmingly supportive with everything I've gotten myself into, but that's it. My parents don't read the kind of books I read, and neither does anyone in my family. They don't understand my concept of artistic integrity, or that it's a "craft". And they don't get the notion of a "creative process". They haven't even read anything I've written (published pieces included). It's just alien to them. And that would be fine, except I always suspect that it may mean they don't really get me either.

Because contrary to their expecatations, I'm not getting my MFA because I want to become the next JK Rowling, or Stephen King. I'm not about bestsellers (although money's always welcome). I'm an idealistic upstart who still thinks that making people think, and feel, and letting them see new paradigms is better than all the fame in the world. That continuity and respect and leaving a legacy of good literature is still the goal writers should strive for.

It's just that sometimes it feels like an unnecessary hassle to explain myself. So I let people think the things they want to think. Sometimes, I'm okay with people not understanding me -- that is, if they'd just let me be.

Sixth fucking day of my stupid sore throat. Maybe I have throat cancer.

Trix and I were going to watch "The Importance of Being Earnest" at G4 (in the theater reserved for art films), but we both backed out. Trix because it's Christmas Tree day and she wants to finish some things for school, and me because I just realized I have deadlines looming very large in the horizon.

But I'm taking a break from another one of my rounds of frenetic writing. Yup. So I could show you this:

You see "31 Flavors" as the ideal place to work. You can get unequivocally turned on by eating Cheese 'n Crackers - taking the little sticks from the wrapper and sliding them into the cheese. You are definitely a sexual glutton, taking as much as you can ;)

More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva

Eh heh? I'll leave you to your thoughts now...

Obviously nothing better to do. Right now I should be out with a beer in my hand. Or at the very least, a cup of coffee.


What Is Your True Aura Colour?
brought to you by Quizilla

"I can see her features begin to blur as she pours herself in the mold he made for her" -- Ani Difranco

Sometimes I feel like I can conquer anything they put in my way. I don't need anyone, or anything. I can make it on my own, and I will make my dream come true. Because I am strong. Because I have passion. Because I know who I am.

Until I see you staring at me, and I feel lost in your eyes. You remind me of promises and fairytales. You speak of stability and comfort. You are warm homes and gentle laughter, and the 2.5 cars in the driveway. And for a split second, I imagine another kind of life. Where the paths are clear and long-used, and the walks are safe. Where I will have my beautiful children, and my nine to five. And I will be smiling in every picture, and I can be the pretty girl everyone wants me to be, finally saved from the dragons of all my dreams. And for a moment, I think about my uncertainty, and the fear of my unknowns cascade into my mind.

And it becomes that much harder to plod on. That much harder to try and make my dream come true. That much harder to remember who I am inside.

I do not want to lose myself to anything or anyone. Damn you.

What Type of Villain are You?
mutedfaith.com <º>

Oooh... I've crossed the 2000 hits mark. Thanks to all my blog regulars. May your tribe increase.

My sore throat is on it's fifth day today. (Arghhh.) It's slightly better now though, people can actually understand me when I talk.

My body clock is getting weirder and weirder. Some nights I sleep at around 7, wake up at 3 in the morning. Sleep again at 5 (probably because there's nothing to do), then wake up at 7. Other nights I end up sleeping at 4:30 in the morning, then I wake up at around 10:30. I think I have effectively sabotaged my own sleeping pattern.

I think my mom is PMSing, which is why I am gluing myself to this chair. The computer is a much more reliable friend than my mom.

And JR, here you go. This is the latest (late last year to middle of this year). Enjoy.

Blast from the Past: High School life, oh my high school life...

And it had to happen on the night of the AC fair. Trixie and I met up with Odin (the singer of Happy Meals) and Lloyd at Cafe Lupe post-fair last night. The F-boys (Ateneo High, section F). Insert a cut from Trix's audio diaries here: "You know, like, that soiree was sooo much fun. I think I like the tisoy guy in blue." Said with the requisite conyita accent.

We had a couple of drinks, and then we decided to drop by Ad Infinitum Art gallery in Blumentritt for Carlo's (another F boy) show. He's pretty good. In fact, I liked one of his paintings so much I'm trying to convince my dad to get it for me. It's called "If we could, like before, be nothing". I hope my dad says yes.

We saw Jerome (another F boy), and of course Carlo (the artist), and these are guys I haven't really hung out with since my senior year in high school -- which was five years ago. Felt like some bizarre kind of deja vu, especially since they kept on rehashing high school issues, like who courted who, and who went out with who, and all those teeny bopper adolescent stuff. Talk about time travel.

God, I hate sore throats.

It's not really painful or anything, but it's annoying. I sound like a frog gasping for breath, and my voice keeps on cracking so I feel like a little boy on the verge of puberty. Plus I can't smoke or drink.

I'm forcing myself to finish a glass of salabat (that's ginger tea to you), I've been gargling salt and water, and I'm even thinking of downing a cup of cider vinegar. Desperate times, you know. Death becomes me.

I have something very bloggable to blog about, but I'm not sure I should post it.

AC Fair tonight. We were supposed to go to Carlo S's art show as a pre-fair gimmick, but then it's all the way in fucking Blumentritt (did I spell that right?) and noway am I driving that far. So we're thinking of checking out Cafe Lupe instead. I hear you can have yourself a magnificent view of EDSA from there.

I am praying silently to a purple sky but I am voiceless except for the sounds of muffled crying trapped in the back of someone else’s throat.

I should try to sleep, but I can't. Victor and Joyce just left, and here I am plugging away at the computer, trying to let my thoughts fall into place. But they insist on swimming in my head, and the chaos just keeps me awake.

Someone emailed me about Ani Difranco, asking about songs and the sort of sentiments she deals with.

"When you're pretty as a picture they pound down your door. But I've been offered love in two dimensions before. And i know that it's not all it's made out to be. Let's show them how it's done. Let's do it all imperfectly." -- Ani Difranco, Imperfectly

"I am not a pretty girl, that is not what i do. I ain't no damsel in distress and I don't need to be rescued. So put me down punk. Maybe you'd prefer a maiden fair? Isn't there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere?" Ani Difranco, Not a Pretty Girl

"I am no heroine. At least not last time I checked. I'm too easy to roll over. I'm too easy to wreck." Ani Difranco, Heroine

And from my Ani song for the moment, the third stanza of "Dilate":

so i'll walk the plank and i'll jump with a smile
if i'm gonna go down
i'm gonna do it with style
and you won't see me surrender
you won't hear me confess
'cuz you've left me with nothing
but i've worked with less
and i learn every room long enough
to make it to the door
and then i hear it click shut behind me
and every key works differently
i forget every time
and the forgetting defines me
that's what defines me

Nostalgia triggered by Trixie.

Trixie has been unearthing journals and audio diaries lately, and I think I've been infected with the same craving for memories.

So I went through my baol today, and I came across a box I didn't know I had kept through all these years. Inside were things different guys had given me as signs of their so-called affection. And it felt nice looking at them again, because I was able to affirm that most of the guys in my life at least saw me as more than just another girl passing through.

Here are my Top Four (in random order):

1. Poem, from JR. No other words necessary.

2. Sketch of a tiger, from Mark Padernal (now the boyfriend of pop singer K Tatlonghari, daughter of Zsa Zsa Padilla). This sketch was supposed to be a symbol of how he saw me, and apparently, at that time, he saw me as a tiger. As I like tigers, and think they are beautiful, strong, powerful creatures, I took that as a compliment.

3. Coin with engraving on both sides shined off, from James Soto. (I never heard from him again since my very rude episode.) He knew I was doing the same thing for my DWTL weekend, and he just wanted to "feel my pain".

4. Kidnapped and brought to Tagaytay Highlands, from Rij. That was really fun. He just showed up outside my pre-apartment dorm at around 10 in the morning, and told me to cut all my classes. Which was very easy to do as I had no classes that day. He tried to teach me play golf, but since I'm so athletically challenged, he gave up and we spent most of the day just talking, swimming, eating, exploring the place.

I've never been big on flashy (but all too prosaic) gifts. I have too many stuffed toys as it is. I know I've griped about not receiving the ubiquitous cheesy rose/candy/teddy bear for valentine's (or whatever sentimental occasion), but I'd probably not take anyone who gave me those things seriously (except JR, so there you go). Chocolates and flowers, though nice, are not the stuff of which I will remember people by. I like gifts that are well thought of, and are worked hard for. I actually genuinely like self-made gifts the best (just take a look at my top four), and I end up sincerely liking the people who give these gifts to me, because it shows that they took the time out to think about these things. It also shows that they do know me, even just a little.

AND yes, magrathea is still up. Although it hasn't been updated since June.

Okay, boys and girls, I admit it. I'm a frigging quiz junkie. In the span of one week, I've taken about a dozen quizzes already. This can't be good. At all. Especially since I really hate the concept of online quizzes. I find it moronic. (Does that make me a moron by default?)

But on to better things.

Assumption Fair this weekend. Good bands and good company all under one roof, and all for under 150 bucks (I think it's 130, but I'm not sure). Now if the nuns would only loosen up a little and let us smoke and drink beer, life would be perfect. Then again, making that even a remote possiblity will probably entail some dimensional portal sucking us into an alternate universe akin to the twilight zone. Hmmm... could be fun.

Stolen Summer is playing in one of the Ayala Cinemas in Makati - the one reserved for art films. Trix, Kathy and Chito saw it already, and they said it was pretty good. Trix indulged in a crying fest, apparently (I love you Trix!). Produced by Chris Moore, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. Directed by Pete Jones.

And guess what? For the months that I don't have to be in Vermont for school, I am going to be in LA, living with my aunt, in her apartment, which is just a block away from the beach. God loves me so much, it's overwhelming. Sabi ko na eh. Spoiled talaga ako kay God.

"I don't want to be lonely, I just want to be alone." -- Silverchair, Across the Night



how would you commit suicide?

No Boxes

I had coffee with Trix at the old Odd Manila now renamed Oz cafe yesterday afternoon. She was ranting about how people are trying to put her in a box just because she can sing and because she actually enjoys singing. She knows people mean well, and that they want her to use her talents. But. Singing is not all she is, and that's not all she wants to be. In her words, that's not her passion. It's something she likes, and it's something she's good at, but it's not what makes her world go round.

And I have to sympathize.

We've been surrounded by "artists" for the most part of our college life. We've seen them live their lives and we've seen them take the whole Carpe Diem philosophy to heart. We've seen them fly off like the free spirits they believe themselves to be, and they feel like they are living on some higher plane, beyond the reach of us mere mortals.

And I say, good for them, because apparently they've found their calling, and their purpose.

But do not put me in the same box.

Life has endless possibilities. And art is only one of them. I cannot close my doors to everything else just because I like to write, and I like to immerse myself in books and music, and I indulge in tete a tetes with people who actually have some measure of truth and profundity in the things they say. The picture of a starving artist is all noble and praiseworthy, but it doesn't always have to be that way. That's a stereotype. And art shouldn't be about the stereotypes.

It's funny how the very same people who preach about stripping yourself to the bare essentials, and discovering yourself always need an artsy result to be satisfied. What if you've done your own bit of soul-searching and the epiphany you get at the end of the day is that you'll be happiest as a cog in a well-oiled corporation? Does that make you less of a person? Does that invalidate your truth?

Sometimes it feels that people can get so hung up on artistic independence and creative freedom, that they've taken those concepts to mean the be-all and end-all of existence. And they aren't. At least, I don't think they should be.

After wading through the muck of confusion and insecurity, the only realization people should be concerned with, is the realization of who they truly are. And this, I think, is the only thing people should really be faithful to. Everything else just follows. Beliefs, values, needs, wants, passion -- they fall into place. If self-realization means being a starving artist, then so be it. But the same goes for being a corporate whore.

Because anything other than that is just posing. Anything other than that is a lie.

And life is too short to waste on lies. Or boxes.




click HERE to see what kinda druggie
you are!



What's YOUR Writing Style?
brought to you by Quizilla

One of the blogs I regularly read is closing down. Read why here. (If it doesn't work, scroll down the left side and click on sophie in my blogosphere). In my opinion, it was one of the more intelligient, interesting, and amusing Pinoy blogs around. Sophie, at least you had a good run.

My student visa has been entangled in red tape. BUT. God loves me, so I know this will work out. Eventually.

I feel the slightest bit sick today. Sick enough not to drink or smoke, but not sick enough to get bored out of my wits. JM picked me up and we ate at Shakey's in BF, and then went to Palms, the country club in Filinvest (that's in Alabang for the north people).

Nice day, even with my colds and slight fever and all.

AC fair this weekend. Carlo S's (art) show as well on Saturday. I hope I get well by then.

Tomorrow I'm going to Rockwell to tape Pat's goodbye video.

I know I haven't been blogging like I used to lately, I attribute this to the sucky weather which is wreaking havoc on my general well-being. Especially since I haven't been sick in a really long time (like years).

Anyway, that's all folks.

Okay rundown of events, including what happenned at the Embassy this morning:

1. Beach Weekend. Spent the weekend at White Cove, Nasugbu, Batangas. We even had a little problem leaving because Kathy's mom blew up when she saw that we didn't have a driver and that Aisa was at the wheel. Weird, we know. Since Kathy's mom can be as obstinate as God knows what, we had to look for a "fake driver" we could show her mom. Rij to the rescue (thanks so much dude!). We picked up Eater at Courtyard in BF, and then went back to Kathy's place. Lo and Behold. When we got there, Kathy's mom was asleep, and she didn't need to see the driver after all.

2. Tanned (or at least tried). I now have very faint tan lines.

3. Had my interview at the US Embassy this morning. The Consular officer tentatively approved my visa, pending Goddard's submission of a post-9/11 requirement. And then I can just call them up and have the courier service pick up my passport together with the letter of tentative approval.

I shall blog a little more later. That's all for now.

I had a really good time last night. But since I'm not in the mood to write about it -- not yet anyway -- that post will just have to wait.

Last night, Trixie, Wingey, EJ and Cris picked me up at around 10:30 and we went to Gilligan's in Alabang for beer. Twenty peso beer. Ahh... memories of Katipunan. It was really fun. I haven't felt so hyper in, well, weeks. Unfortunately they closed early (I think they were asking for last orders at 1), so we went to Petron (with the Starbucks) -- the one you pass when you're going to Tagaytay.

Oh yeah, and I got to show off my room.

---
I’ve followed one rule through most of my life. From the start I’ve thought of the things that I’m willing and not willing to do, and I’ve learned never to cross the line. There’s a part of me that just won’t talk of compromise. And it’s been easier on me that way.

So I smoked, and drank, and partied, and made out, and gone to Tagaytay just to see the sunrise, and stole a few street signs, and done the hundred crazy things that we take up as the burden of our youth. But at the end of the day, I know where I am, and I know who I am, and I’m still in control.

Maybe from the outside you don’t see how they are different from me, but I do.

Because I don’t lose myself in the trappings of “fun”. I never wake up in a stranger’s bed, not knowing where I am. I pay with money, and not little bits of myself, handed out by default, without thinking. I know exactly where I am and where I’ve been. But more than that, I know exactly where I’m going.

I realized early on that I’m in for a lonely ride. It’s so easy to get lost in the haze of a pampered independence, and you can turn sick with envy if you’re not strong. I’ve seen girls re-invent themselves better than Madonna, without knowing who the person underneath the image is. I’ve seen children discard their innocence like used up filters in a dirty ashtray, and from the top of the stairs, the forbidden basement looks like so much fun. I’ve watched little boys and girls get lost along the way to growing up because they took a shortcut through the backseat of their parents’ car parked at some dark alley, and they tell me “no regrets”.

And I’ve watched people drive off to places I know I can’t go, so I just nod my head and head on home. I've felt sad, and insecure, and lost. I've asked myself why, and for what, and I've gained and lost friends. I've felt alone and I've had a fair share of doubts.

Sometimes, when the world seems to be conspiring against me and I feel that everything I've ever done is pointless, I know I'm dancing on the precipice. It feels like I'm always walking on a ledge with the world on either side, and I am constantly haunted by a powerful, overwhelming desire to say "fuck this" and just give in.

But I don't. Because I know I'm worth it.

The depth of my relationship with someone is directly proportional to the amount of caffeine/alcohol/food we consume while talking. This is an indisputable fact. A very sad fact, but also very indisputable.

Since I am noticeably losing weight, I must also be losing contact with my friends. This is what happens when you live in the South, and you used to study in the North. After graduation, distance becomes the huge barrier that impedes you from having a life.

And so, enter the surge of online quizzes. Lack of friends = boredom. Boredom = Quizilla.

Enjoy.

Out of all the quizzes I've taken, I'm sure this one takes the cake. I am such a loser.

Which Amelie character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

"What Sexy Girl Are You?" I got this on the first try. Seriously. Ahhh... Everyone knows I'm in love with Angelina Jolie. I'd have showed the image that came with the results, but I didn't like how it was done. They made her look too prosaic, and "manufactured", when the reason I like her is because she exudes so much mystery, and strength, and animal charm. So I put in these pictures instead.

You're dark, twisted and gorgeous. Angelina Jolie.
brought to you by Quizilla

I cannot believe they have this quiz! It's called "What Angelina Jolie character are you?" And apparently, I'm Legs from Foxfire.

brought to you by Quizilla

Ahhh... I tried and failed.

I'm talking about purging the alcohol from my system by self-deprivation. I did pretty good the whole week but I caved last night. I had around 6 bottles at this guy's party (the friend of my friend's boss). Then I had another 2 or 3 at Gilligan's. And then 2 more at a friend's house.

But I'm not alcoholic. Honest.

I'm just thankful I have a pretty high tolerance for beer, and that I very rarely get hung over.

All for now, sorry. I really need to catch up on sleep.

I finally caught the suddenly ubiquitous Paolo Santos last night. I picked Trixie up and we went to Rockwell. Yes, boys and girls, you read right. Rockwell. The infamous land of conyotica itself. They had pillows and mats strewn around the fountain where Dish and all those places are, in an attempt (I guess) to get some bohemian, artsy-fartsy vibe going, but the presence of all these people in full corporate regalia, primly sitting in their high-backed chairs kind of negated the whole atmosphere. Plus, it was way too bright and the flickering blue lights dancing around the place was distracting. Then again, that's just my opinion and I'm admittedly biased.

He was, at the very least, entertaining. Trix, Pat, Pao and I laughed our heads off when he began singing Julia Fordham. And amazingly, he could really hit the high notes. It was just hilarious.

The whole environment was a bit weird, though. It felt like we were right smack in the middle of all these people trying to look cool because they knew the words to Ani D.'s "32 Flavors" and Dave Matthews' "Satellite". We'd be all comfortable and our normal "What-the-hell" selves, but then you just can't let loose all that much because you catch yourself remembering that this is not your turf, and when you look around you feel like some sort of alien. But to be honest, our outfits were partly to blame. I was in my usual tank top and jeans, and Trixie was in a bonnet, a semi-big, boho shirt and flip-flops. Maybe we felt we were sticking out like sore thumbs, because we actually looked like we were.

Don't get me wrong, though. I love conyo guys. I seriously do. It was quite refreshing to see guys who looked cute, and clean. It's the girls I have problems with.

The verdict? Well, he's too mainstream (for lack of a better word) for me. Granted, he can belt it out, but he doesn't have originals (at least that's the impression I got). He's a very versatile singer, and he's an okay performer, but I want more than that from the people I drive through traffic for. I'm not demeaning him or anything, but I want to feel inspired when I listen to music, and I want to feel the singer's intensity and inspiration. And I just didn't get that.

Sidenote: Did not drink a drop of alcohol. (Whoop Dee Doo.)

After Paolo Santos, Trixie and I headed back to her house. Nostalgia attack. She unearthed all these boxes with memorabilia she kept from high school, and we spent the entire night going through them and listenning to her audio diaries. Let it be said that I am now absolutely sure that I have acquired some semblance of maturity through all these years. I cannot believe some of the things we did -- and thought of doing -- back then. Shameful. Those boxes are incriminating evidence of the extreme folly of our youth.

Finally got my I-20 today. Also set my interview appointment for November 17, 7:30 am. The last time I went to the US Embassy for an interview, I was still 10 years old. Oh man. Wish me luck.

One more quiz. Hmmm. I'm not even a guy.


Which Empire Records Character Are You? Find out @ She's Crafty

I want the sky beneath my feet, and no earth to keep me down. I want to bathe in the moonlight and not have to sneak around when it's over. I want to walk like I own the universe. I want to dream like I am god. I want bring the sunrise over to my bed, and watch it over and over again and never get tired. I want eyes that can see into souls, and hands that can make people free. I want thoughts that can rule the world. I want to float and fly.

I want everything, I want to taste and see and feel and know everything.

I feel so free. And in a really weird way, giddy. It's like I've been drifting in and out of some surreal high these past few days. Just a few hours ago while I was in the grocery buying some ice cream, I saw my reflection in the glass door of the freezer. And for some reason, I was smiling. And we're not talking some half-hearted little upward tilt of the lips here. We're talking full on, big, wide grin.

I must've looked completely stupid, but the stranger thing was I didn't care. I still don't care. At least I feel happy, and, well, uplifted. Yes, boys and girls, uplifted.

You guess is as good as mine.

Falling is Like This (Ani DiFranco)

you give me that look that's like laughing
with liquid in your mouth
like you're choosing between choking
and spitting it all out
like you're trying to fight gravity
on a planet that insists
that love is like falling
and falling is like this

feels like reckless driving when we're talking
it's fun while it lasts, and it's faster than walking
but no one's going to sympathize when we crash
they'll say "you hit what you head for, you get what you ask"
and we'll say we didn't know, we didn't even try
one minute there was road beneath us, the next just sky

i'm sorry i can't help you, i cannot keep you safe
i'm sorry i can't help myself, so don't look at me that way
we can't fight gravity on a planet that insists
that love is like falling
and falling is like this.

I have not read a decent book in months. My brain is seriously craving for mental stimulation.

I've been blog-surfing and I got so envious when I saw all the costumes people had. Great pictures here and here. Wow. Trix, Anton, we should have gone to Tim Yap's Halloween bash. People looked so cool, especially the "raped Assumptionista". Someone was even in a Rainbow Brite thing -- complete with the yellow wig and rainbow belt.

Goddard emailed me regarding the I-20. Apparently, they sent it already (Oct.21), but it just hasn't gotten here yet.

Day after day of indulgent tributes to Bacchus have finally passed. My body needs to recover now.

Brief rundown of events:

Halloween: Malate. Listenned to a few bands, mingled with the valium-popping, alocholic, eccentric, crazy-rocker outcasts we call friends. Of course, a highlight of the night -- at least for me -- was my outfit. It's been so long since I actually took the time out to dress up. Felt nice to know you don't look like shit, but it felt a bit weird too.

All Saints' day: Cemetery. Trixie slept over and we woke up at around 10. I brought her to Tropical where her parents were waiting. I woke my brother up, then we headed off to join our family, who were "picnic-ing" and swapping funny stories and lewd jokes at the graves of our dearly departed. A very warped Filipino tradition, I sometimes think to myself.

In the afternoon, we went to Batangas. Unwound. Relaxed. Drunk beer. Times like those, I know I'm just so easy to please. A beer in one hand, something to lean on, and a couple of people to talk to, and life seems good again.

All Souls' Day: More of the same. Tried to tan my untannable body. Succeeded only in getting a light "amber-ish" color. More beer.

Nov. 3: Time to go home. Was out of there by 6:20 am. We had breakfast at Jollibee. My little sister has apparently taken to Victor. Very cute to watch.

All in all, a pretty nice weekend. I missed out on Ibarra's party, and a few gigs, but I guess it still came out even. I'm going back to bed now.