I can't go through this again. Please, God. Don't let it happen again.

I Fell in Love with a Dead Boy

This song touches me. I play it every night.

There is something really romantic about people who are physically fragile. I remember being really attracted to one of my female classmates in the fourth grade when she suddenly lost consciousness. It was nothing serious. She forgot to eat breakfast. When she collapsed in the middle of our flag raising ceremony, my classmates gathered 'round her. I stood there, in a state of shock (blacking out has never happened to me), and realized that I actually "loved" her. When she got better, I began treating her the way people handle delicate china. I suddenly developed this uncharacteristic fascination toward her. She became so interesting in my prepubescent eyes. One time, I hated my teacher for humiliating her in front of the class for not having studied for our short quiz. How could she scold her like that after what has happened to her??

Now I realize that it wasn't "love," rather, it was worry. It was concern. People who are suffering from diseases really have a hold on me. I have a soft spot for them. I even like to get carried away with my concern sometimes and drown myself in the belief that I am actually in love with them, that I am duty-bound to take care of them, and that it would make a good material for a tragic romance novel. You might say I'm just an outdated (or even extremist) romantic looking for romance in all the wrong places and in all the wrong people. But I stand firm with what I said in the past,

"I want people with frail hearts. They can't break your heart since they know fragile all too well. Because of their frailty, you'd never suspect anything vile or corrupt."

I like taking care of people. I like being needed. I like not being wanted. I like being taken for granted. I like falling in love that way. I think it's the most divine form of loving. 

The One with the Grades

For the first time in my entire uncertain teaching career (what with me being a probee and all), I felt very bad at giving my students their grades. These are graduating students we're talking about. Most of their grades in the finals have decreased. Although only by a 0.01 scale, every millipoint counts since most of these young brilliant minds are vying for honors. I don't normally praise my students, but this time, in my Argumentation and Debate class, they deserve it. I actually appreciate how much they managed to step it up in this class.

After giving them their grades, I got so worried that they might hate me for the decrease. But I also didn't have the heart to alter figures, otherwise every grade I have given, including those in the past, will be questioned. And I wouldn't be able to live with that. I wouldn't be able to take myself seriously. And I also want others to take me seriously.

The worry comes from the fact that I know how it is to hate somebody who has deprived you of the recognition of your success. Need I remind you of the time I cursed the university registrar for failing to give me the title I was supposed to receive? I don't want to turn out like that registrar. I don't want to live with so much hatred toward myself. Add to that the fact that I am a people-person. I live out of pleasing people. I can't stand the thought of somebody being unsatisfied with me. My parents will forever be unhappy with the things that I decide to do with my life. I can never change that. That's one of the constant things in the world. We can't please our parents. But with others, I don't want them to be constant variables. I want to seek the approval that I can never have from my parents from the countless others. This is why I find it hard to say no to other people's favors (aka abuses). This is why I can't pull myself away from personages with dominating personas. I live to please.

But despite the decrease, I want my students to know that they still did a really good job in my class. I'm actually proud that I managed to introduce to them (some of) the intricacies of logic and debate. I have actually caught myself nodding in a mixture of awe and agreement in the countless speeches and points of information (POIs) they made during all the debate rounds we had in class.

Please don't hate me with your grades. You are two of my best classes to date.

The ADHD

Why must I be like most of the youth of today's generation? I yelp at the first sign of doldrums. Stillness never amuses me, in fact I dread it. I always have to be moving towards somewhere; constantly fleeing boredom; perpetually in motion; sailing everlasting.

Help.

"But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near"

Mad about the boy . . .

I know I'm not supposed to have a crush on my students, but I can't help it. I just think this person's smart and an excellent conversationalist (both are unconfirmed traits, though).

This afternoon, student-crushee gave me this:

 Why does it have to have hearts on it? It's so misleading.

. . . And tadaa! Four tasty treats! (Why couldn't it have been three?)

This was probably just his way of showing me his gratitude for lending him my slacks. Nothing more; nothing less. But still, I choose to be delusional. Everybody is allowed to be that way, especially now that it's February. I'll wake up some time soon. Probably out of disappointment or sheer heartache. But since this month is still ripe, just humor me, will ya?


P.S.
I got the title from the movie Sunset Boulevard.

The World Is Too Much with Us

Look at them run! I don't blame them though. I would've done the same thing if I didn't know what was going on.

With people running around like that, who wouldn't get scared?

This was my first earthquake, so you can't blame me for posting about it.

No, I wasn't in the video. I was sleeping soundly when the quake woke me up. Everything was moving. It was as if Mother Earth was using a vibrator (or is the world one big living vibrator?). But that's probably an inappropriate thing to say. So scratch that.

As somebody who has seen my fair share of disaster movies, I instantly thought of the worst. It probably wasn't that strong, but since I had no prior experience to compare it with, I was immobilized in shock. I became one of those stupid movie characters who don't do something right away in a crisis (told you I watch a lot of films). In a matter of seconds, I worried for my safety and my family's. I even had time to worry about dying in shabby clothes.

Classes were suspended. Tsunami alerts were raised. (I seriously need to take swimming lessons.)

But everything passed, like all things usually do. I just know that end-of-the-world prophets are gonna be feasting on this incident later. We should consider criminalizing the making of false predictions about the end of the world to avoid unnecessary mass hysteria and panic.

I just hope nothing terrible will happen to me and my loved ones. As Steve put it, "I don't want to die without having to experience the disappointment of being in a monogamous relationship!"

Let's Not Drink to That

I love parties. I love being surrounded by people, especially if they are all good-looking and mostly younger than my age (although them being just the first adjective would suffice). What I don't love are people who ruin the fun -- my fun.

Although it's common party courtesy to take care of a comrade (I chose to use this word to somehow show that I treat drinking/partying as a serious and noble human activity) who has apparently let all the solidarity and excitement take the form of cocaine and ruin how their central nervous system functions. I recently ended up deleting one person from my Facebook friends list out of the sheer horror brought about by his Drunkenstein alter-ego.

That is why I've come up with a few rules that you need to follow when it comes to going drinking with me:

1. Explicitly state your reason for partying beforehand. What is your night's objective? Do you wish to get knocked up by the end of the night? How many tongue-on-tongue actions do wish to accomplish before our worries get warranted? What is your strangers-fondle-my-breasts request quota for the night? At which point should we aggressively grab you from that suspicious-looking stranger who probably has STD and whose loins are wildly throbbing and rubbing against your Tanduay Ice-stained skinny jeans? To avoid miscommunication and to secure friendships, let people know what your goal is. Objective-setting is best done prior to alcohol intake.
2. Never, as much as possible, become a liability. I learned this the hard way (I'm referring to the night I downed too many tequila shots at Fats' place -- she even had to kick me out of her house). Save the liability card for break-ups and some other similarly themed pity party. I'd gladly humor you and even pull your hair up while you vomit on the dance floor if you were having a rough life. But if you weren't, I want you to know that I did not go clubbing just so I could babysit you (unpaid). You should, as much as possible, be able to take care of yourself and hold your own. It would severely damage our friendship if it would come to a point where I'd have to pick you up from the dance floor because you're too drunk to walk and because you feel like recreating Bambi's first attempt at using his limbs.
3. Do not trouble others with your utter lack of self control and with your incompetence to self-regulating your alcohol intake. Know your limit. This is not a drinking contest. The bar we go to doesn't award  medals or trophies for people who despise their livers so much. So just cool it on the drinks. I love drinking a lot and I drink a lot. Don't feel the need to compete with me on that area.
4. Always have an exit strategy. What happens when it's time to go home? How are you going to get home? Or a better question would be, "Whose home are you going to go home to?" It would be best if the answer to that would be anywhere but my place. I don't like having people over, much less bringing them. So have things planned out before you go out and act like a heathen. Don't be one of those drunkards who have no direction in life (after the bar closes at 5am).

Breaking those rules would require an already well-established bond between the two of us. However, it would hurt our friendship a little bit everytime they aren't observed. Remember, I can be a very bad friend when you're drunk (without valid reasons, of course) and extremely stupid.

Cheers! :)

A Size Comment

"So you're Ana's little friend," Manny said.

-Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao 

*laugh laugh*

I wanted mine to be, "He didn't even bother answering her," but that sentence was on Page 44. Just one page shy from the truth. Oh, well. I like this kind of memes though. Keep 'em comin' Fats!

The Necessary Song

Today I learned that of all of the songs I know by The Smiths, this one will forever be in every playlist that I create (if I had to choose only one, of course):



"The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for looooove."



Oh, all the romance I could share; all the love I could give.

Another One Wipes the Dust

Earlier today, my brother and I decided to clean the house. I've been itching to do it ever since I got back from my Christmas vacay at home. I swear, familiarity has a way of tightening its grasps on you once you decide to meet up face-to-face with the source of your nostalgia. In my case, it was Iligan. A place which I once deemed to be too little for my dreams. But nothing ever beats being home. It's like what Juno said, "I never realize how much I like being home unless I've been somewhere really different for a while." 

Iligan was a sad sight. Everyone was in mourning. I could feel the cloud of tragedy still lingering in the air. People were on edge. A slight drizzle could arouse panic and fear. Like most people belonging to my generation, I expect things to gratify me (usually in the form of merriment -- decadence is optional). So this somber look of the city I used to spend many nights (and sometimes days) being youthful and carefree seemed, uhh, new to me. But of course I soon realized that these are times that need to be taken seriously. And I'm just very thankful that the ones I love are safe. I still keep praying for their safety up to now.

Anyway, let's go back to what I'm supposed to bitch about in this post. I guess I have a little anal in me. No matter how messy others may think I am, I like my place to be neat and organized. That does not mean I clean my house every single day. It just means that when I see something that's obviously dirty, I clean it.

The house has been covered in dust in days weeks now. I was supposed to attend my masteral classes today, but the thought of school (that school) just made me a manic-depressive and born-again truant. So I decided, like I have in the past Saturdays, to be an irresponsible graduate student. Out of guilt, I consoled myself by aiming to do something productive today. Compensation. So I decided to . . . (wait for it) . . . CLEAN THE HOUSE! It took a while for me to get my brother's cooperation. He's not exactly the type who seems to have a heightened tolerance towards dust particles. He's just plain lazy. Lazier than I. That's the worst kind of lazy there is!

I wanted to rid the house of all the dirty things that belonged to the past year. It just didn't seem right that it's already the new year, yet our place of dwelling is unflatteringly decorated with 2011's clutter.

So there I was, in one of my sporadic fits of heeding to the call of responsibility. Cleaning. It's hard to "maneuver" things when you're not alone in doing something, especially when the things you want done are never done (properly). My brother, with the idea of rebellion growing bigger and bigger inside his head, refuses to adhere to the pecking order. He's stubborn and hard-headed. He never follows (most of) my orders anymore. I have lost my dominion over him. Gone were the days when I used to let him do my bidding. All because of rebellion. A nasty by-product of puberty, next to acne and awareness of individual freedoms.

It's a sad day when an older brother realizes that he can no longer play the age card to his advantage. I am currently relishing what's left of my control over my younger brother. And not a lot of adherence to me in him is left. Nevertheless, I'm still happy that the house is squeaky clean; happy that he wiped the windows like I told him to.

But before I end this post, here's my adieu to the year that has passed:

2012 is sooo going to top you. Or at least I hope it will.

Le Deluge

It's probably one of the most tragic events in the history of my hometown Iligan. We normally don't get affected by typhoons and other natural calamities. We used to take pride in that. But now, I guess we'd have to be proud of something else. Because of the tragedy, many people have lost properties. Others have suffered a fate far worse -- they've lost loved ones.

I don't mean this as an insult to other people's misery, but I am just relieved that my family and the people I know are safe. Living a half hour away from the city finally had its advantage. I used to complain about it when I was still schooling. The distance was one of the reasons why I was always late and/or missed anything fun because when it's already nearing midnight, transportation becomes a rarity.

Nobody expected this to happen. Demanding others to take responsibility for bad things that happen to us is humanly easy. That's what we all get for embracing democracy so much. The essence of a democracy is that we elect a particular set of people so that we'd have a whole bunch of persons to aim our blame at. On the other hand, putting the blame on them is justified on some level because these folks are eager to earn money out of it. It's an occupational hazard, like drinking lots of alcohol with a client to close a deal, or getting syphilis 'coz you're somebody who works at a street corner.

One thing worth being celebrated amidst all the destruction and finger pointing is the fact that there still exists people who have initiative. Many rushed out to evacuation centers to offer help. It's a touching scene. Of course there are others who are faking it; merely joining the bandwagon because most of the youth are doing it, and because it's a good thing to brag about in their recent Facebook statuses. [Remember what happened during the recent halalan? The whole concept of the youth taking part in the election and guarding the ballots became such a fad and was too commercialized (they sold shirts and bracelets and stuff). Everybody was feigning nationalism.] And there are some who extend help because they subtly or subconsciously want others to know how able and powerful they are -- "show-offs" is an abrasive term for them. These are the people who unconsciously make it clear that altruism truly isn't real.

But regardless of that fact (that the people helping those in need are not really doing it out of the goodness of their hearts), the bottom line is that the victims are being given aid. And that's what's important right now. The effects of people's motives are something to be worried about in the days or weeks to come. And we've always been good at dealing with that.

For now, with or without ulterior motives, let us help the victims of Bagyong Sendong. Help help Iligan and CDO. Here's how.

Daddy's whore

Look at all the fucks I give!

Bumps in the Yellow Brick Road

Had two casualties recently:

1. Laptop (You put up a good fight, old pal. Thanks for all the internet stalking and porn-watching.)
2. Trust in (and respect for) dad

NOTE: Items are listed down in order of importance.

The Body Breaks

After consuming two beer towers at Mooon Cafe, my college batchmates and I went some place louder and wilder. We ended up in this new club in the city's notorious party district.

And then in the darkness filled with intoxicated people, someone says, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure. What's your name?" I don't like it if I can't put a name to a face. I find it insulting to others who can actually profile me.

"_______." A pause. The noise and the alcohol weren't much help in trying to locate a memory.

"Umm . . . Doesn't ring a bell. Where are you from?"

"Butuan."

"Butuan? Oh, right!" One of those people. It was so awkward. But it would've been a lot worse if I had not drunk beforehand. It's moments like his when you know that alcohol is, in fact, essential in the affairs of men. "I remember now! I had no idea you were so tall!" Tall people have always fascinated me. I'm really curious about what they see up there.

My hand was held and I was led towards the bar. We talked, the way drunken people do: with half-thought-of words, random touching, and some kissing. Like most people, I fall for face value. Like most people, I lose myself in another person's kisses. Like most people, I don't think before I act. And like most people, I blame it all on alcohol, when in fact, I was still sober enough to walk away and worry about being seen by my students who were also in the same club that night. So I did the only human thing possible: I merely reacted to stimuli. I did not initiate anything. I have always relegated myself to the role of being the one who responds. I just let myself get drowned in the moment. It was the only reasonable thing to do.

"Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"To your place."

"What??" Alarmed. "We can't. My brother's there. And it's a really small apartment."

"I don't care. Let's go."

"What about your place?"

"No, we can't. Let's goooo."

And I let myself get dragged along. I left my friends (and my cousin) behind. They'd understand. Friends should never stand in the way of a comrade who's about to get lucky.

We rode a taxi. There was much heat. And then a brilliant idea: "I know a  good place where we can go." I surprised myself. Why was I acting as if I've done it all before? Why was I acting like such a pro? I kept ignoring the voice in my head saying, "You are not ready for this. You will never be. Remember what happened the last time? You are never emotionally suited for things like this." But I was defiant. Maybe this time I'd be able to handle it. I'm a lot older now. Feeling assured, I shrugged off the thought that this was going to be one of those kinky one-nights that I'm gonna be obsessing about the morning after.

And I was right.

But in toto, yo it wuz uh pimp-tight night you know das right!

There is no such thing as altruism.

There is a fundamental moral difference between a man who sees his self-interest in production and a man who sees it in robbery. The evil of a robber does not lie in the fact that he pursues his own interests, but in what he regards as to his own interest; not in the fact that he pursues his values, but in what he chose to value; not in the fact that he wants to live, but in the fact that he wants to live on a subhuman level.

. . . Do not confuse altruism with kindness, good will or respect for the rights of others. These are not primaries, but consequences, which, in fact, altruism makes impossible. The irreducible primary of altruism, the basic absolute is self-sacrifice–which means self-immolation, self-abnegation, self-denial self-destruction–which means the self as a standard of evil, the selflessas a standard of the good. Do not hide behind such superficialities as whether you should or should not give a dime to a beggar. This is not the issue. The issue is whether you do or donot have the right to exist without giving him that dime. The issue is whether you must keep buying your life, dime by dime, from any beggar who might choose to approach you. The issue is whether the need of others is the first mortgage on your life and the moral purpose of your existence. The issue is whether man is to be regarded as a sacrificial animal. Any man of self-esteem will answer: No. Altruism says: Yes. 

Ayn Rand

I Lie

I hadn't talked about the May 2008 story in a long time; not until earlier tonight. It's amazing how casual conversations can take certain detours and can sometimes help unearth issues in the subconscious. It's weird (for lack of a better term).

Tonight, after revisiting the said incident, I got reminded of how deceitful and manipulative I can be. I am a dangerous liar. I seem to have been endowed with the ability to make up intricate layers of lies. Sometimes, I even fool myself into believing the alternate reality I have created. This was exactly what happened when I was in college. 

. . . But still here I am, lying my way on a one-lane street towards getting caught. After all, all destinations lead to the truth, whether or not you started the journey with such falseness. Everything will end up getting solved, and then I'll feel myself exposed; naked with my own lies that cover up my body. Nudity is such a terrible thing. Being predictable, pellucid, vulnerable. Everything in its nakedness is susceptible to anything, most especially to shame. That is why people wear clothing, to conceal what is unlikeable (or dear) about them: their naked selves. And everyone wants to hold a naked body. You'll never know how people would handle it, your body. Some of people's grips can hurt you. That is why we choose the people we can be naked with. That is why we spend most of our lives being clothed. A lie is completely different. Lies are not garments. They never keep you warm (even if you think they do . . . feigned warmth, that's what it is).

I am well aware that my knack for telling very believable lies can't land me in the world's Top 10 Liars of All Time. I mean, that list is probably gonna be full of names of politicians and lawyers. And I'm not that ambitious. But should there be a compilation entitled, "The Greatest Lies Ever Told", you'll probably find a Philip Hope Mamugay in that list.

That was one big messed up lie. All for love. At least, that's what I believe it was for. I find it romantic in my head. But when I say it out loud, it is anything but that. Why do most things always seem better in the realm of the imagination? Why do I have to be such a romantic maniac?

The sad thing is, I still think of the same person every time I listen to love songs. What is the deal, self? Move the f*ck on!

Who's the Christian?

Fats and I went to Robinsons one day. I was chattering about how I wanted us to eat samgyeopsal, and I remembered that she can't have one because her religion forbids her to. It took me quite a while to process that.

Me: Omg, I totally forgot you're a Muslim!
Fats: I don't blame you. Why would anyone associate me with that religion? 

Why would anyone associate her with any religion for that matter? But wait a second. Do people also think of me that way? Do they think I'm a heretic?

They probably do. But every night, I actually pray. I know It's probably the least thing people would expect me to do. But I do pray. I pray before eating meals and I pray before going to bed. I also make the sign of the cross before I take a shower and every time I ride a vehicle. I usually tell people that I only do it out of habit. That's partly true. The thing is, I have a really strong spiritual foundation because of my grandmother. I mean, we're talking about being-lead-angel-in-some-Holy-Week-festivity kind of foundation. I freakin' sang in Latin y'all! Latin! How's that?? Yo mama knows Latin!

No matter how hard I try (and pretend) to be an agnostic, I always fail miserably. Deep down, I actually enjoy being a Christian. I may subscribe to the belief that being religious is uncool since it restrains you and that it controls the fun (and that, sadly, some of the Youth for Christ members are two-faced hypocrites who like to pretend that not going all the way cannot be counted as sex, much less a sin), but truth be told, I absolutely love Christianity despite the garish turn-offs.

I may make a lot of Jesus and other religious jokes (along with a few racist ones) with the dorks, but I still cringe at every blasphemy I commit. I mean, how can you not like Christianity? It's probably the most tolerant religion there is! It gets mocked all the time, yet it still stands. Plus, it has Christmas on its belt! And who doesn't love Christmas? (Uhm, I may be defending it with wrong arguments.)

Last night, while at Fats' place, she stuck this "The Lord Is My Shepherd" sticker on my back.

I didn't want to throw it away. That would be sacrilege, right? So I kept it. Besides, we just finished watching "The Exorcist" and "Dead Silence" that day, not to mention that my periodic recall of the movie "Insidious" still sends ripples of fear down my spine. I felt that I needed protection, so I brought the sticker home, and now I have it on my front door. I guess that pretty much says I am a Christian, just not one of those who signed a contract with Disney.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

- Philip Larkin (1922-1985)

To those who sent me scary links . . .

. . . no offense, but FUCK YOU.