There is a story here . . .

Let's Not Drink to That

2012-01-26T01:04:00.001+08:00

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:

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.
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.
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.
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

2012-01-14T12:43:00.002+08:00

"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

2012-01-13T01:04:00.000+08:00

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

2012-01-08T00:07:00.001+08:00

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

2011-12-22T11:23:00.000+08:00

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

2011-12-11T13:00:00.000+08:00

Look at all the fucks I give!

Bumps in the Yellow Brick Road

2011-12-10T11:56:00.001+08:00

Had two casualties recently:

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

NOTE: Items are listed down in order of importance.

The Body Breaks

2011-11-30T13:35:00.001+08:00

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.

2011-11-25T22:45:00.001+08:00

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

2011-11-13T02:09:00.001+08:00

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?

2011-11-07T15:58:00.000+08:00

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 actuallypray. I know It's probably the least thing people would expect me to do. But Ido pray. I pray before eating meals and I pray before going to bed. I also makethe sign of the cross before I take a shower and every time I ride a vehicle. Iusually 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 actuallyenjoy being a Christian. I may subscribe to the belief that being religious isuncool since it restrains you and that it controls the fun (and that, sadly, some ofthe Youth for Christ members are two-faced hypocrites who like to pretend thatnot going all the way cannot be counted as sex, much less a sin), but truth betold, I absolutely love Christianity despite the garish turn-offs.

I may make a lot ofJesus 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 likeChristianity? 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

2011-10-13T19:56:00.000+08:00

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 . . .

2011-10-09T22:55:00.000+08:00

. . . no offense, but FUCK YOU.

Who's Afraid of the Dark?

2011-10-05T21:32:00.000+08:00

Ever since I was a little boy, I have always held a whimsical admiration towards adults. I've been observing in constant awe how these grown-ups manage to sift from their daily activities with such ease and confidence. It's amazing how adults are always so sure of themselves. Never apologetic. Full of authority. Sans timidity. They are never afraid to get humiliated, not like the teenager who gets wrapped up in his own bubble of paranoia and self-loathing.

But most of all, I always envied how these adults deal with being in the dark. They are among the bravest of creatures. I remember how my dad used to go out into the night to head off to his workplace (I would soon find out that this was called a 'graveyard shift'). I remember (when my younger brother was in my grand-folk's place) how my mom would stay up late in the backyard to do the laundry while I had to sit right in the doorway, waiting for her to be done with the chore and watching her all the while ignoring her warnings that I should go to bed because it was way past my bedtime. 'How could she handle washing our clothes at this time of the night? Isn't she afraid that some terrifying creature might jump on her in the dark?' (I later found out that it was still only 9 PM). And I couldn't possibly go to bed yet! No matter how sleepy I was, waiting for my mom while uncomfortably sitting on a stool and desperately trying to ward off my drowsiness sounded a whole lot better than having to sleep alone and welcome the possibly of getting freaked out by the visit of some white lady or mananggal and the like (boy, was I a chicken!).

I consider you an adult if you are able to sleep on your own with the lights off. Thanks to the traumatizing effects of watching too many horror flicks while growing up (Manilyn Reynes, I blame you for this!), I used to never sleep with the lights off except when there's somebody else in the room. Now, however, I've gotten used to conjuring sleep in the absence of a company and of light. I guess I'm one of the adults now. Sure, I still have moments when my sick imagination would betray my freshly developed adult bravery by haply thinking of thoughts with nightmarish themes, causing me to jump right out of bed and rush to the switch as if my life depended on it; as though the darkness were a phagocyte and I was being digested by it, and that the only way to save myself was to turn on the light to thwart off evil and harm. Of course, these moments of cowardice are rare. I am a grown-up now. I am (almost) 100% comfortable in the dark. You can sleep right next to me and find out. I'll even protect you. I am not afraid anymore.

This is what I want . . .

2011-09-04T13:10:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, in my mornings, I experience a temporary forgetting. I wake up, find myself in a moment of daze and confusion. I start wondering why I am here, in this small foreign room, feeling exiled and alone. Until it eventually hits me. I have to constantly remind myself that this exile is self-imposed; that this banishment from all things familiar is voluntary. I am here because this is what I want. This is what I want. This is what I want.

Putting My Daddy Issues to Rest

2011-08-31T20:09:00.002+08:00

Wearing tattered clothes is one of the things I love about being home in Iligan. Here, in Cebu, my shirts are all still in their "decent-enough-to-be-worn-in-front-of-people" stage. I feel more comfortable in my tattered clothing than in any other garment. This is parallel to the comfort I feel about my family. The whole Barangay Maria Cristina knows that my family is not satin. But I like it the way it is. I like the holes. I like the looseness. I like the careless handiwork on the seams. It doesn't, nay, no longer chokes. It allows air in. It encourages movement -- a necessary ingredient for freedom: the option for mobility.

My primary reason for going back to my hometown was to meet my dad, who has come home from six years of working outside the country. I have not seen him for almost a decade. The last time I saw him was when I escorted him to the bus that would take him to the airport, where he would board a plane to the Bahamas. I was secretly celebrating his departure. This was the time when everything was a potential source of teenage angst. All of us wanted him to leave. We were all slowly drowning in his jealousy and irrationality. But that was then. The guilt of not wanting his presence haunted me every single day that my dad did not come back.

You see, I had been both dreading and wanting him to come home for years now; to see how things would work out; to appease my curiosity of how much he has changed for the better or for the nasty. But in my heart, I was hoping he'd come home as the dad whom I dedicated this post to. That was why when I heard he was coming back, I was filled with anticipation, but I managed to trick myself into expecting the worst of him. I had to condition myself for tragedy so everything won't fall short. I didn't want to humiliate my imagination in front of my logic. My heart would never be able to deal with another disappointment. However, no matter how much I try, the optimist in me still couldn't help but long to see my dad as this totally new person.

When the bus that my brother Marc and I rode in reached the first outskirts of Iligan, it was as if the city itself was foreboding me. Iligan remained the same since the last time I left its borders. No significant changes. And since I am quick to be paranoid about any hint of parallelism, I dreaded all the more that my dad was gonna be the same dad I dropped off the bus terminal six years ago. The optimist was gradually disheartened.

Once at home, we were greeted by our parents. The foreshadowing earlier remained true to its cryptic ways. Much to the optimist's dismay, my dad did turn out to be the same dad. But I have the tendency to over-analyze literary signals and patterns. It took me a second and closer reading to notice that even if my dad is still the same, this sameness is brought about by him doing the stuff that I loved about him before. I saw in him familiar and nostalgic bits and sources of adoration. The things that I loved about him before are still in him. As I spent more time being around my dad, everything unraveled. Yes, my dad is still the same dad. But this sameness does not call forth loathing nor bitterness. This sameness has to do with the good things that I loved about him before. It's still my dad with his forgotten goodness in him now shining through (this line is so gay). This was the goodness that was overshadowed by the accumulation of unpleasant things he had done in the past. But all that has been dispersed now. I can see that he has been making efforts to become our dad again. For some reason, he is softer and more tolerant now. He is great to be with and he cares. I'd like to think my daddy issues are now being slowly put to rest. It's a wonderful wonderful feeling . . .

. . . Yes, my dad is still in fact the same dad. Only that now he is making things right. I hope I don't jinx it by writing about it. Please let this continue. I really really really love him this way.

22 Years & Counting . . .

2011-07-24T15:40:00.007+08:00

It just occurred to me that I probably don't want to be involved in a romantic relationship with anyone. Ever. Apart from the fact that it is unimaginable to think of myself as a person who is committed to somebody and synchronizes his personal schedule of activities and cash flow with someone else, I have actually come to realize that solitude is a very very blissful thing.

I know it may come out a bit paradoxical since this is coming from a guy who loves people so much to the point of romanticizing (different from "romancing", okay?) strangers and assuming that everybody is his friend (I'm a f*cking people person); a guy who needs an audience (I'm an attention seeker and I have daddy issues); a guy who always longs for physical contact for fear of finding out that he is actually nada and to reassure himself that he is present -- the tactility of the person he is currently with evidently seals his doubts about not being anchored right here in the now . . . it appeases his worries of nonexistence and keeps him grounded with the belief that everything is indeed real (I don't buy the whole "as-long-as-you-feel-it-in-your-heart-then-it-exists" crap).

But anyway yes, living alone (for about 3 months now) is probably one of the best things that has ever happened to me. And it's still happening. And I intend to keep it that way (that is, unless I can no longer afford paying all the bills, then that's the time I'd find myself a roommate, but until then allow me this serene seclusion I have sentenced upon myself). It heals. It's therapeutic. It is liberating. I can do whatever I want. I can go out wherever and whenever I decide to without somebody pressuring me to get home before the fun even begins (no offense, ma). I can put my to-be-laundered clothes at whichever part of the house I deem them aesthetically suited (usually on the floor). I can cook and eat whatever "dish" I can muster enough enthusiasm to prepare and swallow. I can have people come over anytime I want them to -- not that I ever do. I actually dislike having visitors. I do not know how to entertain them. I'm detached from that whole worldview that Filipinos are hospitable. It's not that I don't want to entertain visiting friends who have good/bad intentions, I just don't know how to, or sometimes I just don't feel like plastering a domestic smile and try to assume a homey character. I'd rather go visit some other people's house than have them in mine. But anyway, the point is that I have choices. These choices are infinite -- although I maintain that no matter how diverse your options are, their execution depends on the finite contents of your bank account. Let's face it, in this world you're nothing without money. Ask the prostitutes, they know that. No matter how philosophical you get and declare that all material things are immaterial, I say screw you I intend to live. And what is living but perpetually breathing through a life-support of material things? But don't quote me on that. I'm probably wrong. Apparently there are some areas in my anatomy that is autonomous to my brain, i.e. my tongue.

I have been going through 22 years of this lifetime without ever being committed with anybody. I see no reason why I should stop counting. I never want to terminate the joys that the single lifestyle has awarded me just so I could have somebody to call my lover. Barf. It just ties you up; demands too much of your time, not to mention your salary (these are all based on my observations of friends who have partners). And right now, I'm in my selfish season. It would take one heck of a climate change to shift it.

I'm still a social being (I'm currently slowly trying to salvage what's left of my social life), but you can't always be around people or else they'd get on your nerves. This is partly why I'm kind of a little wishy-washy regarding the whole idea of having a roommate. I don't want to end up living with an enemy. That would create too much drama in a too tiny battlefield that makes close encounters seem waaay closer than they supposedly should be. And it's just so easy to get either one killed and either one imprisoned that way. So for that, I say no thanks I'm still sane.

Ready for my close-up...

2011-07-09T21:57:00.000+08:00

Is anybody still there? Is anybody actually hanging on to what I'm going to post next? I like to pretend plenty of anybodies of that kind exist out there. After all, "This is my life. It always will be. There's nothing else. Just us and the cameras and those wonderful people out there in the dark." Excuse me for going Gloria Swanson on you. I keep watching this clip on Youtube of one of my favorite classic movies, "Sunset Boulevard". Her character really creeps me out, much like how Tomoyo of Cardcaptor Sakura disturbs me. I mean, the way she idolizes Sakura almost hints obsession. I seriously think she's a troubled rich and only child. The series just never showed that.

So here I am, finally deciding to update my blog after watching downloaded episodes of Cardcaptor Sakura on a Saturday night (I know how uncool that sounds, but I have no other "non-heavy" shows to watch). That's not really my idea of fun. I'm more of an "out-there-in-the-city-spilling-myself-with-my-own-drink-while-squeezing-past-drunken-dry-humping-people-to-get-to-the-dance-floor" kind of person. But lately my social life has been on a downward spiral. My eardrums no longer feel like they're gonna explode due to the loud booming of speakers. I haven't secondarily smoked in months. And what's more, I have not been under the influence of alcohol in the longest time! It's amazing how poor budgeting skills (aka poverty) makes you a less sociable person.

On to the more positive aspects of my life so far, I have a new job. It's utterly amazing! I love every minute of it. It does not feel like I am working at all. (Finally) Being a full-time faculty member of University of San Jose-Recoletos' Department of Communication, Languages, and Literature is nothing like my old "job" (*rolls eyes*). I feel like I'm in a musical every time I enter its gates. Although I have some noisy students who I just want to--never mind, there are a lot who actually intently listen. I can feel my own authority. I feel like everything that's coming out of my mouth is the truth; the word of ME. How narcissistic is that? There's no guarantee I'm gonna get rehired next school year, though. So, guess whose fingers are tightly crossed? x(^_^)x

I'm also living on my own now. It's great. I get to do whatever I want and things are placed where I want them to be. There's nobody to argue or be frustrated with. No one to secretly hate for consuming more food than I do. It leaves absolutely no room for "pagpangwenta".

I actually feel relieved that my brother decided not to live with me. We'd probably just end up fighting about who gets to wash the dishes or who's turn it is to throw the trash. Sure, I have bigger bills to pay since I won't have somebody to divide them with, but at least that erases the whatever possibility there is of my brother and I killing each other (LOL). Sometimes, a little isolation is good. I mean, for somebody who's so afraid of death, being alone sounds a lot like having tequila sunrise on a Friday night. Mmm . . . Tequila. That sounds so good to have on a night like this!

". . . All right, Mr. DeMille. I'm ready for my close-up."

Creepy, huh? Didn't I tell ya?

The Big Brother's Back

2011-04-14T20:29:00.012+08:00

A week ago, I went home to attend my sister's birthday celebration (don't ask me how old she is 'coz I have no idea) and my brother's college graduation. When I arrived home, I found out that my baby sister is being bullied at school. My mother told me that she read my sister's school essay entitled "About My School". It says there that my sister hates her school because she doesn't have any friends, that she sits alone in the classroom, and that one time, on their field trip to Cagayan de Oro, she was placed in a bus with pupils from another grade level. She didn't know anybody from there. Her classmates didn't want to sit with her. When I asked her who she sat with all throughout the tour, she said, "Just my PSP." When she said that, I could tell she was about to cry. And since I am the family's avid worshipper of the deity of drama, I did not let this emotional opportunity pass without milking it. I asked her what her classmates do to her, and I found out that they have been total prepubescent little bitches. They take all her paper. They steal her pens. And they make fun of her. I told her I'd hunt those motherfuckers down on her friends list on Facebook and threaten and torture those good-for-nothing imps who are merely a product of drunken or just plainly idiotic parents who did not use protection or who do not know what a condom or withdrawal is, but she won't tell me their names. My sister is a good kid. She studies hard. And she has good grades. But the one thing she lacks is self-esteem. It doesn't help that my two brothers keep teasing her at home, too (I used to join them on this before -- I'm also kind of a bully at home). She's been going to that school for four or five years now and it's amazing how she has remained mute about it all these years. I can't even be private about what gets my libido going! (Everybody has to know. That's what this blog is mainly for.) The thought of my sister being bullied really makes me grit my teeth and clench my fist. You have no idea how violent my thoughts are right now. I am so ready to grab those little mutts by the hair and just slam their faces against the wall until their faces bruise and their lips are cut. And then I would slap them so fucking hard with my gigantic palms and make them wash their sorry little faces with calamansi. I just wish my sister would find the confidence she needs soon. I really do think she has great potential. She's just really really shy (even around me!). And if anybody would ever make fun of her again (without my blessing), there will be blood and much searing of the flesh. Mark my words, little Hannah Montana's. Mark my words.

Anyway, aside from the fact that I remembered to be the protective big brother again with regards to my sister's confidence issues, I was also very much surprised when I found out that my younger brother Marc, whose graduation was part of my coming-home agenda, actually has friends. Who knew, right? He has always been the reclusive one in the family. The one who has little contact with the other members in the house. The one who spends most of his waking and sleeping hours with earphones on (I already warned him about the possibility of him going deaf if he doesn't take off those plugs before he sleeps. I dunno if he ever listened). He spends more hours with his music more than I do with mine. And he rarely goes out on weekends. Fatimah and I even branded him as the stoic one. So you can only imagine my shock when a herd of DotA players (I later found out that they were his usual crowd) came to our house during his graduation celebration dinner. He has a life! HE HAS A LIFE! He has friends! FRIENDS! That's plural! And they are testosterone-bearers! Some are actually good-looking. I should really start getting to know my brother's friends more.

This was my second trip back home after I decided to live in another nest (and I had to choose one that serves lots of kimchi and made me addicted to samgyeopsal). And it reminded me how little I know about my siblings. They even had funny stories of my other brother Vaughn that I didn't know about. They have inside jokes now. And I just felt like an outsider trying to look in at their own private source of gaiety. It's hard to keep up sometimes. But one thing is for sure, it always feels good when you are surrounded by familiar faces. That for me is what makes me feel at home.

P.S.

Just because I ended this post on a lighter mood doesn't mean I've already forgotten about you, little witches! I WILL MAKE YOU EAT JUSTIN BIEBER'S HAIR! DO YOU HEAR MEEEEE??? I SO WILL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Let's Get This Over With

2011-03-31T10:59:00.004+08:00

Two of my favorite students (twins) are going back to Korea for good. One of them, the ultra-sensitive one, is already caught up with the whole drama that goes with separation. I understand him, for this is not just an ordinary separation. It's a permanent one. And it's making his naive teenage psyche swell up with sentimentality. He's already messaging everyone he knows if they would miss him. He's doing a countdown of the time that's left of his stay here in the Philippines (they leave on April 2). He also has Westlife's "My Love" playing on a loop since yesterday (memories of my 2nd year highschool self keep poking my brain, forcing me to remember what bad hair I sported back then, and what ridiculous clothes I used to wear). And he suddenly discovered this hidden audacity towards telling his female classmates that he loves them. Aawww puberty. It's cute. The reason why he's all fearless now is because he knows he won't have to face these girls anymore. The closest contact he'll ever have with them is through Facebook. Oh how the internet has bred brave individuals out of chickens!

I feel kind of guilty for not being sad that they're leaving. It's supposed to be a big deal since I love them and all. But now I just can't wait for them to go. Am I sad? Sure, but not too sad. I know I'm gonna miss them. They used to worship me. I used to love them like hell. Now they don't give me idol status anymore but they still give me the proper regard, and I love them just the right amount (not as much as before but still notable). But it hasn't sunk in yet. I'm more preoccupied with what is to follow after they've gone. I'm more concerned about my future (wow, growth). I've been wanting to quit this crappy job a few months after I started it. But my attachment towards these kiddos held me back. So, I chose to stay and to let them finish. And now that they are done, I can't wait to start anew. I just want to get this over with. Can't wait to live on my own like alone alone, make better choices, be more professional, and hopefully not as utterly clueless as before. It's exciting, yes. But this silly Westlife song is starting to pull my heartstrings . . . Oh, crap.

Here's looking at you, kid.

2011-01-14T20:04:00.002+08:00

For months I had been wanting to get a breather, away from the evil forces of Cebu City. It wasn't long until I realized just recently that 'tis indeed the season to be jolly. I've never been so happy and grateful for the fact that we have to change our calendars after that pesky Christian month of December. I love New Year. It's my most favorite holiday ever. Christmas is okay. But the celebration for it is too restrained, unlike New Year's. Christmas for me just means that you have to be all good and Christian-ish -- and for starters, I don't usually go to church.

And so, the minute I had my leave approved, I packed up and set off to Pier 4. Now, although I love traveling (alone or with my friends), I am scared of riding airplanes and ships. I always feel that gravity would make the principles of aerodynamics for fall him and betray me and my fellow aircraft passengers. Or that when on a ship, I would be convinced that something would blow up and that we would all have to abandon it and rely on our own contact with buoyancy by swimming to safety -- something that I can only do for only less than a minute, which means that I'm not gonna be able to stay afloat long enough for rescue teams to save me. To push away those fears, I just think that if something does ever happen, at least I won't have to face Death on my own. By thinking that I'm going down with everyone if bad things do happen, I feel a little relieved. Dying alone is probably the most melancholic thing I could ever think of.

But if I were to choose the lesser evil, I'd pick traveling by boat. I actually like sea voyages for as long as it would be during nighttime so I will not be able to see clearly the sea that I know full well is eager to swallow me. If it's an overnight sea trip, I'll only have to sleep it off and then in the morning, "Land ahoy!', my heartbeat is back to its normal rate.

There's an added romance to sea-traveling. With the sea breeze blowing your hair, you look at the dock helplessly and desperately try to cling on to the image of the place that holds your memories. You can do nothing but try to keep a mental picture of the glowing city lights and the silhouettes of buildings and houses. And you ask yourself what could the people (anonymous people) there be doing right now. You wonder and assure yourself that they're having a good time and that you're missing out on it. You stare and ponder on until the lights of buildings and cars grow smaller and smaller, and you can no longer make out the shadows of infrastructures, and everything you had set your eyes on are all carefully and ultimately covered by the evening mist. The whole thing works like preservation and decay. Preservation is when you try to take a mental picture of the place, and decay is when the vessel you're in gradually carries you farther and farther away. Both are equally romantic.

Race You Home

The days that I spent in Iligan are probably the happiest that I've ever been since I started to take on the role of being an employed adult. It's true, what Juno said: "I never realize how much I like being home unless I've been somewhere really different for a while."

Prior to my vacation, I was too proud to admit that I was homesick. I was utterly convinced that my distance from home was not enough for me to say that I was, and that it did not give me the right to long for home. I keep saying to myself, "You're just in Cebu, dimwit! It's not that far!" But the budding unsettling feeling that I had inside kept growing and growing until my heart burst with the truth, in the form of nostalgia. It came up to me tete-a-tete and gave me a sockdolaging jab.

It felt so good to see my family and relatives. But it made me feel a tinsy bit guilty for not buying them anything. I just don't like the thought of bringing home otap. And it's the only pasalubong I could think of. Besides, I suck at buying souvenirs. It's either keychains or otap. Beyond those two, I'm blank. So, when my siblings greeted me, their excitement quickly disappeared when I told them I didn't have any goodies for them. This was when I realized (once again) that I have to find a better-paying job, fast! I was so consumed by guilt that I ended up giving them the new clothes that I bought for myself. See? There's still a good big brother left in me.

I was only away for seven months, and when I came back, I found out that I'm already the shortest member in our family. My siblings were all towering in front of me! I was the only guppy in a fish tank of arowanas. Was I adopted? Sadly, no. It pains me a little bit that I'm the eldest in the family, but I'm the shortest. I hate it. Deep down, among my other wishes, I want to be a few inches taller. To me, all tall people look good in anything that they wear, like mannequins. And I've always been enamored of the mystery that lies in what those giants see up there.

My height insecurities aside, have you ever had that feeling when there's so many things you want to do but you don't have enough time (and money) to do them all? Every single day of my vacation was like a ticking clock. Sure, I do enjoy myself to the bone, but then I return home in the wee hours of the morning worrying about having to go back to Cebu, before finally dozing off until 12 noon.

....

.......

.........

..........I miss Iligan.

............I miss it so much.

Among the things I miss about being home is "sleeping through people's mornings" (thank you, Dave Eggers). For me, mornings should be devoted to slumber, and the afternoons are for intense activities (like, say, partying?). I also miss "ingesting my meals with" episodes of a TV series I enjoy watching (I'm nearly done with the final season of Alias). At home, we never eat our meals together. My mom eats on the dining table, my brothers and sister in front of the TV set in the living room, and I inside my room with my eyes glued to the laptop's monitor, excited about what Jennifer Garner would do next (I could never get enough of her). I miss how I can go from one place to the other without having to worry about traffic. I miss the cold, sweet water. And most of all, I miss hanging out with my friends.

I don't know how to end this post. I've been a scatter-brain these days. I can't seem to organize my thoughts. I seem to be sleepy all the time even if I usually spend most of my day snoring. All I know is, I'm Bessie the Cow waiting for the catapult's release. I can't wait to get out of here. I can't wait to try something new. And I can't wait to go back home.

The Ballad of the Sad Cafe

2010-12-30T12:33:00.004+08:00

I've recently been reading this book by Carson McCullers. I like it more than her "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter". And since I am such a sucker for well-phrased passages, I've decided to share to you McCuller's take on what probably is the most overrated topic of all: love.

"...The time has come to speak about love....First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons -- but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best as he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world -- a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring -- this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

"Now the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love....A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant.....A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

"It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain."

Discovered Strikethroughs

2010-12-17T16:30:00.001+08:00

Back in the day when I held a strong inexorable fascination for kids, I always thought that seeing them go through puberty is the most exciting thing in the world. You know, the thought of me being there when they wake up one morning, shouting with glee for they have the first and barely-even-noticeable strands of "manhood" sticking out on certain parts of their barren prepubescent flesh, gives me ~~an erection~~ joy. Sure, seeing kids have trouble with their new-found friend named libido gives me pleasure (mine is very trusty). Maybe it's because I want to lord over them and wave the age advantage "been there done that" banner right in front of their oily faces (Welcome and I hope you will soon belong to the club of people with eternal oily and pimply faces so that we will all be discriminated together!). Maybe it's because of that...but I'm sure it's mainly because of something else I do not know how to put into words. All I know is, it excites me (if you know me well enough, you'll know why).

However, it's anything but ~~erection-worthy~~ pleasurable if you see adolescence's recent recruits act like a grown up, like they know everything and that they're mature and all. They welcome the initiation of life's mysteries with open arms because they wanna grow up so fast. At first, it's cute. But if it becomes frequent like a lowbrow noontime drama or like eating chicken all the time, you get fed up. You get tired of saying "Aaaawww". Some things just don't stay cute (see my list of crushes in high school).

Add to that someone who has barely even gotten past the late-adolescent period, but already browbeating it to the ones who are younger. He brags the fact that he can drink beer and shows it off among the ones who are not yet allowed to, when in fact, he gets all red and sleepy even just after one bottle of (get this) Tanduay Ice. He acts with feigned virility, as if he knows a lot about sex when actually, he's only done it once and don't know what to make of it. He tries to be the tough hyung, when in front of his hyungs, he can't grow a pair. It's painful to watch. It's pitiful. It's clumsy. It's desperate. I've been there before. I've taken a dip on those roles. I don't wanna be reminded by it.

Time for me to pack up.

A Good Man is Hard to Find, Part II

2010-11-23T14:15:00.007+08:00

Being here in a city where the cinemas are up-to-date, unlike the ones we have in Iligan, which seems to be at the bottom of the list when it comes to scheduling flick releases, I have developed an interest of going to movie houses to give myself a treat of what Hollywood has to offer.

It's actually a good thing that I'm not surrounded by people who share my interest in certain films. Nobody wanted to watch Salt with me (watching a girl kick people's ass is always fun for me). Not even Toy Story 3, or Going the Distance (Christina Applegate is in this movie! That means it's funny!), or You Again (Jamie Lee Curtis? Hello?!), or Easy A (have you seen the trailer?!). Even with rebuffed invitations, I always end up being satisfied with the movies that I watch without being accompanied by anyone.

It actually always works out for the better. When I'm on my own in a movie theater, I don't get annoyed by my companions asking me, "Unsa daw?" or "Naunsa diay to? Ngano to ui?". I'm also more focused on the dialogues since I know there's no one with me whom I can ask, should I miss any. I don't feel obliged to make small talks. It's better that I laugh on the jokes on my own without having to look towards the direction of my companions to see if they're laughing too. It's better that my head is turned to the screen alone rather than trying to check if my companions are enjoying the movie too or not, and in order for me to know that for sure, I have to make out their faces in the pitch-black darkness, and that always strains my eyes. Aside from that, having a movie experience and being spatially remote from people I know means that I can just go wherever my feet lead me, in sync with my priorities of course (uh, I have a job?). I don't have to ask anyone what to do after the movie. So, yeah, I enjoy watching movies by myself.

That was always the case...until I decided to watch Megamind...and something similar to this happened again.

The Sequel

At first it felt good having the whole cinema to myself. I felt like Richie Rich in his own private cinema. I admit I did feel a bit worried that creatures you hear from ghost stories (the ones that just never go away even when you're already 22 years old) might jump out from one of the still rows and columns of seats all around me. As it turned out, those creatures were the least of my worries. Just a little while after the movie started, a man in a pink-collared shirt came in and sat right in front of me. He kept looking and smiling and "pssst"-ing at me. He then sat next to me, unzipped his fly, and jacked off. The paranoid person that I am, I kept screaming, "AIDS! AIDS!! AIDS!!!!!!!" in my head. He kept on asking me if I didn't want any of "this" (he was referring to his penis which, sorry to disappoint him, is the last body part he should be bragging about) and tried reaching for my crotch. I did my best to take his hands off me. I transferred to another seat but he followed suit. I transferred again and still there he was. It felt like I was nine years old again, playing Trip to Jerusalem, only this time, I was hoping I could bash my competitor's head with one of the chairs. I would've wanted to leave the theater but I've already fixed my mind into watching Megamind like an obstinate child. No sexual predator will ruin my self-built tradition of watching movies in solitude. No, I decided to stay and finish the movie. Besides, I already paid for the damn thing. It was a long and painful process. Until finally, after uttering "dili lagi ko" so many times, he finally let-up. His parting words were, "Sige, didto nalang ko sa ubos magmasturbate."

After he left, I felt sick. I've read about people doing it in movie houses, but I never thought I actually came across a person who breathed life into the fictional characters of some stories I've read in pinoyliterotica.com (What? Don't judge me! They're fun to read! A good idiotic break from the intellectual metaphors of Kundera and the like). A few minutes later, the movie ended. It was funny, but I still wish I could've fully concentrated on it. I went home and took a looong shower and scrubbed myself down to my bones. I am never gonna watch a movie there again!

P.S.

Fats, I will tell you every detail when we get together. Singing room napud ta!!! :D :D :D

Show Me the Money

2010-10-18T09:31:00.008+08:00

Out of the 718 people on my friends list, only 100 something posted their greetings on my Facebook profile's wall. I should really start clearing out some of the clutter. I am well aware that some of those who greeted me never really meant it. But still, being someone who yelps at even the smallest sign of attention (I mean, you did waste a couple of nonrenewable seconds of your life), I obsess over it and now I feel much obliged to greet you on your birthday. There are those who greeted me because I also greeted them. And I appreciate that. I have a liking for people who respect the value of reciprocity. There are also those who merely greeted me to gain publicity. There might be a chance that some pretty girl or handsome boy on my friends list might see their post and their pic on my wall along with their birthday greeting and add them and get it on. Well, I'm glad I played such a vital part in updating your libidos. Yes, I know that some of you are using me but that's totally fine because I do that, too.

To those who did not greet me, may the ground crack open and swallow you whole and pull you like an unfortunate bolus into the depths of the living earth's digestive fluids straight into it's very core underneath fully-evolved higher beings like me whom you have shown disrespect to (erm, should that preposition be there? O_o?).

I know my birthday was like a week ago, but what can I do? I just turned 22 and that means another step closer towards dying of old age -- assuming other variables were kept constant (*knock on wood*). That has gotta be worth blogging about, right?

I ended up having a four-day birthday celebration because it's hard to gather people in the same venue these days. That's the trouble with being employed. Every absent is worth a fraction of your salary. The first one was on the 16th with the dorks. The lesbian lovers who were also dorks were never there due to some lesbian-related emergency. We had karaoke and had our usual laughs over racist and green jokes (the latter mostly coming from me). The second was the night after that (October 17th), which I spent with my other college classmates. There was karaoke and booze still. The third one was during the actual day (October 18). My students did a (moderately) sweet thing. They prepared cake and fruits and ice cream and gifts and cards. I was touched. But that initial reaction was soon replaced by guilt. They shouldn't have done it. I've been planning on leaving them this month! I felt like a traitor. But I was a traitor worthy of release. After that, I went out into the invigorating lighted darkness of Cebu City's night with my workmates and the same people I went out with the night before. I coerced my friends into buying me cake and surprising me about it for it was the actual day of my birthday, so something more meaningful should happen. I have such respect for tradition no matter how much I try to make fun of it sometimes. I don't care if some people say that birthdays are "childish ploys for harvesting attention and gifts". That's exactly how birthdays should be. It's the one day that being selfish and demanding is justified! You can't be a bitch on Christmas with all its religious ceremonies and symbolisms. Besides, I think we've all learned a lesson or two in "The Night Before Christmas".See, in birthdays, the attention and gifts that people give you assure you that someone cares enough to cry at your funeral (again, *knock on wood*). And I'm glad I have friends who are too afraid of me haunting them if they don't make me feel special that day. The fourth and I-had-no-idea-this-was-still-part-of-my-birthday "celebration" was last October 24th.That one was a bit expensive, but I got another cake (albeit small)! :D

People from my bloodline kept on calling and reminded me (for the nth time) that I should take good care of my health (when will they ever get that I have no intentions of ruining it deliberately, since I am too afraid of dying. Heck, I'm probably the last person on earth to ever consider committing suicide). Everybody whom I expected to call did call me except one. My dad never called. He never uttered the customary line, "Naa koy gipadala na kwarta para sa imu. Kuhaa lang sa. . ." as what he usually does during important occasions. I really thought our relationship was on the mends. But him not calling at all before, during, or even after my birthday, kinda sends a different signal.

I've been 22 for over eight days now. I am 22 and I am still materialistic; I keep listening to songs that I associate to certain memories; I am a little alarmed because I am no longer fat; I am alarmed a little more because I have a receding hairline; my job sucks; I still have trouble with prepositions; and I cannot fully commit myself to the present because I am still hung up on the past and too afraid of the future (oh God, I'm gonna be bald in the future!). Do you see how sending me money would make things a lot better, dad? Do you?!

First chance I get, I'm outta here.

2010-10-12T14:29:00.001+08:00

Coupling my semi-independent state of living is the incessant inward phenomenon of discovering and rediscovering truths. I also get to spend more and more time with my emotions while being away from the anti-climactic intrusions of family members who had deprived me of my privacy by not fixing the lock on my bedroom door, thereby prohibiting me from any "intense activity" every eventide since they might accidentally walk in on me while I'm high (metaphorically speaking, of course). The only downside of this set-up is that one tough realization (and re-realization) is harder to accept when the comforts of your home (the delicate and measly privacy that I was left to enjoy) are remote. No distractions like complaining about how mundane the rural area that I live in is.

One such lesson that's doing an encore is "Be careful what you wish for". Classic. Terrifying. Maxims like that bombard us day after day. Most of which, if not all, we relearn over and over again, thus, the re-realization.

Just the other night, I posted something about wanting to strangle my students for their unbelievable talent of stubborn incomprehension. And under it, I wrote the comment, "f*cking kids". Just when I thought living with kids I barely even know would be utopia for me, after some time, some things just find a way to get into your nerves.

For instance, you know for yourself you're being a good educator. You give your all (to the point of getting parched at the end of lengthy and comprehensive discussions on verbals, the dark and light reactions of photosynthesis, and some other lesson), but still they come home from school with a 5.5/20 or a 2/10. They fail miserably in Math-Elective. They do not participate in oral recitations. They have the abominable Red Mark oompahpahing on their report cards -- a clearcut sign of incompetence.

But I refuse to believe that there are people within my warm and homey circumference who are dumb. And that is why that bitch from CBAA is a hopeless case. She's not even in my radius. All she has going for her is her non-uncanny ability to flirt around, act like a cutie on camera, and pretend that she can easily get away with anything academic because she is (relatively) pretty. And that, for her, is beauty. Beauty that disintegrates after every orgasm that she scores. Gamit na si ate. Lucky bitch gets to screw the one guy I really really like the most.

Anyway, since I don't want to resign to the imminent fact that my students are not of exceptional intellect, I end up mocking my capabilities even though I don't like it. Doubting my own talent is nauseating. And so, I start hating my kids, thus, the desire to strangle them. It's better that way. It's only a spur-of-the-moment reaction inspired by frustration and disappointment. I know for a fact that the following day, I would love these kids again, although not the same as before. Maybe a little less ("If you hurt people, you make them love you a little less." - Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things).

It just goes to prove that yearnings really are fleeting. Emotions like anger are ephemeral. This is especially true for me since I never stay unhappy for long. And by unhappy, the emotion that I mean is any emotion other than happiness. For who ever declared sad as the sole opposite of happy? You can be not happy but not be sad. The same as when Kahlil Gibran said, "If you are not good, you are not necessarily evil." Or something like that.

But what if the heart never knows fatigue? What if desires (to choke people to death) can never be satiated even for a moment? That the blood-pumping muscle is unyielding to entropy? Such carnivores in search of juicy meat we'd all be. Like some man who sleeps with many women in search of the ideal one (don't look at me. I got it from Kundera). Eternal spilling of blood. Unquenchable thirst for revenge. Echoing sighs. Bottomless orgasms. Never-ending tearing of the flesh. The possibilities are endless!

Back to my newfound hatred. My students now seem to be asking for your ordinary, run-of-the-mill strangling. One student, in particular, seem to be such a drama queen. He gets irritated easily. Nobody knows why. He blames it on hormones coz he's supposedly "growing up". At first, I thought it was cute. But now, it's kind of annoying. He does the cry-baby act whenever he has a hard time studying, but he's all happy every time the opportunity to show off his muscles and his acrobatic prowess presents itself. He reminds me of some character from one of those Step Up movies (I cannot believe I let myself be tagged along by people who are into this type of flicks) who keeps on blabbering about how dancing "changed his life" while a montage plays in the background, dramatically presenting footages of him laughing with his friends showing off their dancing skills on the street despite their struggles (which are not that heavy, by the way. Something akin to the plot and subplots of Gossip Girl. Give it up, GG characters. Nobody believes that you are truly suffering. But I love Blair. I can be forgiving when it comes to her). But what wasn't shown in the video is how that dance aficionado actually sucked at school because he spends too much time smoking pot and/or having sex in-between dance practices. My kid also reminds me of pretty girls who turn to fashion and photography to mask the fact that they're dumb; acting as if a garment or a glamorous photo-shoot can help save the world. Pfft! Puh-lease.

I just want to grab his shoulders and shake him to his senses. Do not make puberty an excuse! Stop being so super sensitive for crying out loud! They're just hormones! Ever heard of masturbation? Try it! That might help with your lack of self-confidence (okay, this might not be a good advice). I just don't get how he thinks his whining and sulking would help him. I like that he's sensitive and all, but he has got to toughen up a little bit. Let me be clear, he's my favorite among the bunch. I just don't like this bit about him. I don't recall ever having that much problem in dealing with puberty. But then again, I was too busy with other matters such as dealing with my broken family and finding my identity and my own place in the world to the point of crying my eyes out and thinking about committing suici----Nah, I can't pull that off. I actually didn't care about all those things that time. I was too preoccupied with my pimples and with my belief that my crush and I are gonna get married someday. I was just learning to take life seriously. And that was a long process. And I'm still at it. Caught up in that loop because of my defiance to grow up and act my age.

I know I don't have the right to bitch about my students. But I guess I'm just trying to find a good reason to quit them and this job. I'm waiting for a call from a university. I'll find out this month whether they want me or not. And now I am living in a state of "suspended animation" where I can only do so little: hold my breath until the third week of October (that's the time they said they'd call); gather enough hatred to give me a reason to leave my current job; and muster enough courage to tell my kids and my boss that I want out.

. . .Finally, an update. :)

My Life, Updated

2010-09-01T14:09:00.020+08:00

These past few weeks, I've been a stranger to the "New Post" section of my blog's dashboard. That's what you call it, right? Dashboard. I'm just using some jargon that I picked up back when I was still a bum with only a thesis paper to worry about and whose eyes never left the monitor of his computer in his bedroom staring at other people's nakedness. That was about a year ago. I'm not in my own room anymore. No more naked strangers, although I am a little bum-ish. But I don't know if I used the term right.

My poor blog which, to my surprise, now has 22 followers (what were they thinking?) is a compost (what was I thinking?). You can see that the subjects of the "latest" posts fall into decadence. That's because the author (ooooh, dare I refer to myself as such?) is now a vegetable. I am a heap of decaying possibilities. I cannot germinate. And so, I have decided to change the name of this scum of a blog -- this alluvial fan of sediments of shame and recklessness -- from "Snapshots of an English Major" to "There is a story here". I did so in the hopes of refueling my passion for blogging about my categorized (or categorized-ish) thoughts about my endless complaints about how unfair the world is; how some people, like this blog, are scum; how I enjoy scum; and how I sometimes feel like this all-too-wise person, who is right there way up above everyone else's logic and common sense, giving some faceless reader out there some philosophical insights -- or at least some insights that have some semblance of philosophical elements in them. Well, I try.

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DISCONTENT. This is something that I have been trying to ignore since last last pay day. But it's not about the pay. It's about growth. And I can't seem to feel it here where I am right now. The people are good. The kids are the best (that's always a given). But . . . (I don't want to put the succeeding thoughts into words lest I might end up putting them in an undeserved negative light and for fear of actually waking myself up from the delusion that attachment is enough reason to stay). . .

These days, I just find myself thinking "what if I never stood up that offer on teaching at a university?". And there is a nagging voice in my head (no, it's not mom this time) that says, "You could be happier." Oh, the sweet, always-superior, but horrible-sources-of-sulking what ifs!

About a month ago, I plurked "This strange unsettling feeling feels a lot like unhappiness. I hope I'm wrong." As it turns out, I wasn't. Sure, I'm happy. But, succumbing to that righteous voice in my head, I feel that I can be happier. And I hope to accomplish that without having to get entangled in a lawsuit about breach of contract, paedophilia, and the like. :p

Suffice it to say, I am stuck. And I say that in the least emo way possible. I can't go home because I am nowhere beyond successful and there is an unspoken rule about leaving the nest: you need to come back with plenty of worms. In my case, I have metamorphosed into a worm that dug itself far beneath the earth and only the self, which is currently half-unwilling, can stimulate another transformation.

I miss home, though. I'm worried about my brother's failing grades. He failed Values Education. Can you f*cking believe that?! Values! HOW CAN ANYBODY EVER FAIL VALUES?!

That's the trouble with being away from home. You have worry lines on your face because of your concern over a younger brother's academic performance and you really wish you were there to help (and by help, I mean "give him a good beating for soiling the good Mamugay name in the field that you yourself have been trying to make good at for over 20 years"). Other than that, you are overwhelmed by the sudden freedom that you find yourself having. But as soon as you try to make the most out of that freedom, you suddenly learn that freedom depends on the contents of your wallet. And so you decide to stay at home or make utang from friends who make more - and who are better at handling - money than you (in my case, Fatimah Imam). You convince yourself that spending the remaining money you have on Friday and Saturday night-outs is justified because these nights call for it. Respeto sa gabii. Moreover, you worry about the racy magazines and DVDs that you've carefully been keeping in your clothes cabinet back at home for over four years now. And the thought that you can't do anything if your mom decides to clean up your room and accidentally discovers your "holy grail" is just an embarrassment beyond comprehension! And then you wish you had been more clandestine. Or that you should have thrown them all away or burned them before leaving and becoming an adult. The only relief you find yourself heaving is that it's a good thing you brought with you the condom that your friend, who works as a secretary for the secretary of the Department of Health, gave you. That may be the smartest decision you've made. For a moment you savor your indications of being wise...until you remember that incident.

. . .oh, yeah. I think I need to find a more "stable" job. I hope USJR still has a room for me. T_T

*braces self for the struggle that awaits*

I go to sleep . . .

2010-08-04T10:30:00.001+08:00

As I look at this girl's picture on her FB profile, I notice how happy she looks with her boyfriend. The twosome looking cute and cuddly and sweet. Pretending not to know about sex and not to have done it yet with the way they both grin. And for a moment, I believe that . . . and then I remember. The guy's smile is so toothy. I look at him trying to be comical; trying to show people he's the perfect boyfriend. But then it doesn't work for me anymore. What a cheat. Does she even know?

This just proves that as time goes by, commitments are getting harder and harder to keep. I'm not only talking about a heterosexual relationship but as well as the "unconventional" ones. Although for the latter, I think it's probably because there aren't too many things that same-sex couples can do. No variety (if you know what I mean).

I'm not gonna make this a tirade against couples that's inspired by my jealousy towards them. Neither do I intend to use this afterwards as my reason for not being in a relationship. No. I know better than to claim that I "push people away" or "shun myself from anything that reeks of commitment that may hamper my being a free spirit"; that I'm a "commitment-phobe"... 'Pshaw!

I am not a commitment-phobe. I just haven't been in a relationship yet. It's as simple as that. I never go looking for someone to tie myself up with or to pattern my daily schedule with let alone to divide my salary with. I can't afford that last part.

It doesn't help that certain people like Justin Carbonilla, society's ultimate bane, exist in this world, either. But I kid. He's a good guy. And he's not the one I was referring to in the earlier paragraphs. I'm a better friend than that. :p

The ones who present themselves are too, uhh, banal. And that's true. They are. But to the ones who make me wanna bite the bullet and join the list of couples in the world, I'm the one who's too plain. And maybe that's also true. X_x

But I am not at all in a rush. I don't lie awake in bed in the most unholy hours of the night thinking about not being taken at all. I think about other stuff. Like dying. Saying goodbyes. People whom I haven't heard from in a very long time. Oh, why are we so susceptible to the saddest thoughts and memories come night time??

Man, I need to think of other things before I go to sleep.

Don't make me blog you.

2010-07-23T00:40:00.013+08:00

Once upon a time, there was a boy who dared block me from viewing his and his (_______)*** girlfriend’s Facebook profile. The nerve! Although I do admit that I had been his avid stalker before (that was like a year ago. Dude, I’m over it!), for as a foolish mortal susceptible to foolish deeds (i.e. stalking), I too am no exemption to the foolish behavioral patterns of those who are (dangerously) in love. But I never view his profile (let alone his girlfriend’s. *sigh* There are just some people whose existence make you feel sorry for their being a victim of this country's poor educational system). I never added either of them on FB because I don’t think being poetic would do well for me. I guess there just comes a time when you get weary of making a person's rejection of you a reason to torture yourself, especially if that reason’s IQ isn’t even half his height. And plus, even if I did add him, I don’t think he’d add me…after everything that happened. Yes, if you paid close attention to everything that I’m saying here, it’s my fear of being rejected (twice) that’s stopping me from pressing the “Add as a Friend” button.

Now you might wonder how I found out that he blocked me if I don’t view his profile. Well, watch me wiggle my way out of that hole. Months ago, his sister sent me a friend request. I never confirmed it. Neither did I reject it -- just one of those people whom I’m not sure how to classify yet. So I left her request pending. But then just recently, a number of posers and people I don’t know and I don’t remember that I know have been adding me on FB, so that when I clicked on the pending friend requests to see if I missed confirming the people that I do know, I chanced upon his sister’s friend request and, right there and then, got catapulted into the time I was so all about Mr. 5’9 (or is it 5’11”?). At a brief moment of weakness, I decided to search his profile but got no results. I tried searching for the ______’s*** profy and got zero output as well. So I asked Jazz if he and it have realized that doing FB PDA (*yawn*) is well, uhh, despicable and shameful which led them to delete their accounts, but she said their accounts are still alive and are still at large, spreading all their chiiching-and-miimac-calling around every possible “common friend” that we have.

But you should never anger a Philip Hope Mamugay. You should never do such a condescending act as blocking him on the virtual world. Never act like you’re the only person in the world who has a penis and who can prematurely ejaculate. Wait, that was too much. Got a little carried away. That rated PG part was just a joke (as far as I know. I don’t really know for sure). Never ever taunt him to blog about you because, while I cannot promise that all hell will break lose, still I can’t assure you that it’s all gonna be popsicles and icings either.

Let me just say this to my dear Skinny Boy (I wonder if you’re still skinny right now. Piece of advice: quit staying up late having phone/cyber sex with Ms. Mary Sunshine (God, I could fist her) or who-knows-who. I’m sure you have your own nocturnal secrets. Some of which you don’t share a wet and green commonality with that poor lass of yours): yes, I did stalk you before and I did go crazy (and I mean waaaaay crazy) about you (literally and literarily), but right now, I no longer feel pain everytime I think of the two of you doing the nasty. If before, it kills me to think that you might be having sex with her right now at this very moment, now, not anymore. I even get turned on (I have a thing with voyeurism, something that I share with a certain Justin Carbonilla). So you can have all the, uhh skin-on-skin action that you want, which I’m sure you most probably do since I know (quite full well) how much you crave for it (and that’s okay because everyone wants it too. Right, Justin?).I knoooow. And I know a dangerous lot. ~

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*** - adjectives omitted due to explicit content. But if you are over 18 years old, I might tell you. And the words I’m referring to aren't “bitch-of-a-” and “naturally gifted slut”, respectively. . . C’mon, give me a little credit. You know I’m (slightly) nicer and/or more creative than that.

the daddy issue

2010-06-14T22:43:00.012+08:00

If it weren't for all the banners in the city announcing celebratory promos, I wouldn't have known that it's Father's Day. But I'm not at all that surprised. I've always been bad at remembering dates of special occasions and other things that involve anything numbered (I don't even know when my parents were born!). So, it's nothing new really. It's just that being caught off-guard by the stimulus of remembering (in this case, the banners) always carry with it a guilty and stupid feeling. And I don't like it. It's like getting a head-butt from reality itself and then falling to the ground, crushed, both brows raised in confusion and disbelief, and eyes blankly open but the mind is in a dreamlike state.

Speaking of forgetting and remembering, I don't ever recall an incident when our family has celebrated this event. Father's Day. As I am typing down words, I am straining my brain to think of a memory involving me giving a card or a mug to my dad with the note "World's Number 1 Dad" in it. There isn't. As someone who is easily influenced by what I see in the media, I blame myself for never having done this universal act of cup-giving. Therefore, I have deduced that I am a bad son (I used the word "bad" because it already entails other negative adjectives...and I probably am every single one of those abrasive modifiers).

It's evident from the way I criticize my parents most of the time here in my blog that we are not on the running to win the title of "World's Perfect Parent-Child Relationship". Let's face it, all parties involved are a mess. You probably already know about the relationship that I have with my mom. I'm sure Amy Tan would love to base the sequel to "The Joyluck Club" or "The Kitchen God's Wife" on us and it would definitely be another bestseller -- I mean, there is so much material! Click here, here, and here. See? My life is a living inspiration. It's just waiting for a budding novelist to write something about it. I'd do it myself if I could, but having enrolled myself in a Creative Writing class and blogging every now and then are as far as I could possibly get towards making use of whatever interest I have at being artistic (to the point of being artsy).

I have a pending friend request from my dad here on Facebook (I didn't add him for reasons that I know you guys already know). When I viewed his profile (which is accessible for public viewing), I saw that my cousins have greeted him on his birthday which was last May. I FORGOT ABOUT HIS BIRTHDAY! X_X And when I saw his profile pic, I was very surprised to see how old he has gotten. Has it really been a long time since I've seen my dad? The last time I saw him was when I was a college freshman. That was four years ago. I haven't seen him since. And seeing him now on my office's monitor, sitting there on a wooden bench at some Caribbean dock with a yacht as his backdrop, something seemed to fill my chest (and no, it's not blood this time. I had a medical exam last Wednesday and the findings show that my lungs are now clear. So, woohoo to that).

He wasn't staring at the camera. The shot seemed candid and I'm sure he wasn't faking it because my dad has never been fond of anything that reeks of homosexuality -- except Queen. He likes Queen. He has gained a little weight. I can tell since his head has never seemed this round before. And plus I can see a layer of flab on his belly causing folds on his grass-green collared shirt. I see his enormous hands (just like mine) and I feel something happily familiar. His hands. So strong and crafty and handy. He can do anything with them. Hands that are so big that command power and boasts of its capability of giving safety. And he has protected us. All the infidelity aside, he has been a father to us.

I remember when I was a child, our family used to go eat at a now-defunct place called Pagoda. It wasn't at all a nifty place. But what I liked so much about going there were the caged snakes that they had. Now I'm no daring Nat Geo personality. I hate snakes. I'm terrified of scaly slit-eyed reptiles with creepy long tongues. But that time, I was confident enough to even touch the cage with my index finger because I knew that my dad would protect me. Back then, he was the strongest man I know. But now, in his Facebook profile pic, his back was arched, like he was tired or something. I can barely see his neck. It looks like he's carrying something heavy on his back. Was he tired of work? Tired of being a real-life version of Milan Kundera's Tomáš? Tired of being away from us? Or maybe tired of us? On his face, I saw lines that were never there before. And I know that those lines were Time's doing. Time's mark, an indication that he is Time's possession (just like the rest of us are). I see permanent laugh lines where his smiles have been set for years. But in this photo, it's clear that he wasn't smiling. There seems to be a look of dismay with the way his lips are curled. It was a frown; like he was saddened at something that he has fixed his gaze at -- at something that the picture's corners have deprived me from seeing. I wonder what it was.

I felt something crush my heart even more when I saw his eyes half-covered by his eyelids (this detail confirms the fatigue that I saw on his shoulders). I haven't seen my dad's eyes like this. It was dismal, yes. But also, it looked serene. Where he was in that photograph was an intersection point for "melancholy" (this word has quotation marks since I feel it is too heavy and may not be appropriate) and serenity. But I can tell that it was a solitary serenity, although logic would tell us that he wasn't actually alone when the photo was taken since someone else must have been there to take this stolen shot.

There are furrows on his forehead and his eyebrows are crinkled in deep concentration. I wonder what he was thinking at that moment. I feel guilty of wishing that he wasn't here the last time he was here. I wasn't at all that enthusiastic at seeing him again that time. And I regret not ever hugging him to say goodbye when I accompanied him at the terminal. I held back the urge to be emotional about his departure. This was because I thought that my dad hated emotional spectacles. I thought my dad would see this as a sign of weakness, something not manly. I hated myself for never crying when I wanted to that time. This is one of the reasons why I wish I was born a girl. To make me feel at ease with intimacy. So that my display of heavy emotions would be seen without suspicion; without malice; without the disapproval of the many, of him.

Being a male restricts me (according to my interpretation of my dad's POV) emotionally. There are sentiments that know no particular setting to be exhibited. Emotions that require tears and even affection. Emotions that have to be let out wherever you are and whoever is around. There are a lot of people I want to prove my love for by kissing or hugging or crying or by simply telling them that I love them out loud. But I can't. I'm stuck because I have a thing that dangles between my legs.

That's the reason why I felt so happy (too soft a word; does not give justice at all to the real magnitude of what I felt that time) and light when my dad called me up the other day and told me, before hanging up, that he loves me. And I responded with the appropriate reply, unabashed, not minding the people inside the public vehicle that I was in. We don't say that a lot. I don't think we've ever said that to each other at all. This means we are a step closer to giving cups. That we can actually be emotional! Now I start having flashbacks of the (surprisingly) many times that my father has shown me his affection. And I feel normal. I feel loved. I know I've been unfair to both my parents, pointing out their flaws and putting lighted arrowheads on them for all to see. But I'm trying to change that now. I don't wanna be the person who grows up blaming his parents for everything bad that happens to him. I don't wanna blame it on daddy (anymore). I am my own issue.

And now looking at my dad's picture here tonight, I am overcome by a feeling of wanting to see him in person so bad. I wanna touch his face, feel those lines of old age. I wanna hug him. I actually miss my dad. Although time may give us wrinkles, it also heals wounds. And my wounds have healed. I can't wait for him to come home.

that thing in my wallet

2010-05-31T19:09:00.011+08:00

Originally, I planned to blog about the weekend that I spent in Iligan with my family and friends. You know, talk about nostalgia and how much I love the people there and stuff. But screw that. I'll save that for next time. The entry's just on my phone's "Notes" anyway. And plus the thing that I'm blogging about right now is more recent. It gives my blog an up-to-date feel to it (even if it's already been a week or two since I last published an entry here).

After a month of wearing myself out of worry over the possibility that I might just be another addition to the pile of the unemployed, I now finally have a job. But I exaggerate. It didn't actually take me a month to get hired. In fact, it was only after two weeks of scouring Cebu's insides 'til all that legwork finally paid off. And I had choices, too!

"I'm gonna teach no matter what", was my mind-set during that always-clutching-brown-envelope-in-hand-with-application-letters-TORs-and-2x2-pictures time. Man, was that hard. But I did manage to get hired (well it's about time!). I got accepted at five schools here in Cebu but I chose the one with the least salary. I wasn't being coy nor poetic when I turned down CPILS and the others. It's just that with the school that I work for right now, I've already become attached to the kids and the staff (yes, I know someone out there is gonna scream, "PEDOPHILE!" and my response to that is the same as how I feel about grammar. Now might be the time you learn a few French words. Wait until after this paragraph. You'll find out what I mean). Also, I've always been someone who makes the most stupid of decisions. And more importantly, I am happy. Isn't that what's important? Your job making you happy? (Enricuso, Adonis, May 2010)

Who would've thought that I'd become an ESL teacher? I mean, I know that I'm an English major but it's not because I love the language so much. I actually hate grammar. Our relationship can be summarized into the following words (prepositions, if you're listening, this one especially goes out for you): je t'emmerde!

I took up AB-English because of my love for literature. And also, partly because I got tired of making tons and tons of scientific papers in my previous course as a Biology major. Don't get me wrong (yes, Fats. don't get me wrong), linguistics isn't bad. It's just not my cup of tea. I don't even like tea. But Shimberly does.

And so earlier today, after arriving from my trip back home, I started working full time and with a full load. I did not regret ever choosing this job.

Seeing them all crowding up in the cubicle that I was in during their 10-minute breaktime, them playing with my phone, my wallet, my bracelet, and my hands, me laughing with them, Devin and Kevin making jokes while listening to MBLAQ's "Y", and at the same time while I was struggling to understand the English sentences that they try to make out with the words "Teechah Peeleep" attached to their every remark, I smile with contentment. This is what I love doing. Being able to mold individuals, making them understand the things they need to learn, building rapport (hey, look at me! I'm the cool teacher! La la la la~~). I felt so noble, so important. I felt a lot like the log that you have to pull out to make the whole beaver dam collapse. "That's how vital my role is," I though to myself. I was intoxicated with pride. Tipsy with self-praise. I was in total awe of myself. I was the epitome of an effective teacher; the very picture of what an educator should be; a moral compass and nothing could ever---

---one of them pulls out a condom from my wallet. "Teechah, what's dees?". . . And just like that, whatever pride I was basking myself in prior to that inquisition, all came tumbling down. I quickly grabbed it from one of them and slid it in my pocket. Ralph, the tallest, said "Is that a condom?" (with his voice fading out a little bit on the last word).

An unconvincing "no" was my only response. I was panic-stricken and yes, also hugely disturbed as to why they know what it is. They're only 14 for crying out loud! The small room echoed with all our laughter (mine, mostly). I always laugh even when in uncomfortable situations like this. The bell rang and they left the room, giggling, to go to their respective classes.

In my defense, I forgot that the thing was in there. And I don't know why they love playing with my things (get your mind out of the gutter). They weren't supposed to. And I've never used a condom before--not that I've ever been in a situation wherein I had to use one. I mean, I'm not saying that if the opportunity did present itself, I would use one. I'm not saying I wouldn't use a condom when I--why am I still talking?? That's not making things any better. Anyway, to make things clear, the condom was given to me by my friend (I forgot who it was, but maybe Rei?) just for fun. Or did I ask for it and she (let's assume it's Rei) gave it to me? The point is, it's not mine -- originally. I did not buy it. I asked for it (okay, still making myself sound bad).

A few hours after that, I received my first mini-mini-paycheck for the hours that I spent last week as a trainee. As I held the tiny envelope in my hand, I felt guilt tugging at what's left of my conscience. The incident earlier still replaying in my head. Why do these things keep happening to me? I have a thing with condoms. And to think that they're paying me to teach stuff; stuff that don't involve rubberized and greasy contraceptives. Oh. My. God. This is so wrong. I felt the texture of the brown paper in my hands, pausing for a moment to internalize what just happened. I have corrupted their minds. And it's only been a week since I started here. Now they are gonna grow up as nymphos, as people who worship the patroness of desire. They could, nay, they would, become single parents. The chance of them getting STD, of getting AIDS in the future has just increased. And it's all because of me. I have ruined their future. Some moral compass I am. I'm nothing but a big chunk of immorality. Wretched. Cursed with the ability to corrode young people's minds... I slowly opened the envelope...

...and then I got over the whole drama. I bought ice cream. Ube. Want some? And the condom? Still in my pocket. Lesson learned: never let kids play with your wallet. XD

What is ecstasy?

2010-05-23T07:23:00.007+08:00

No, I did not run out of any original material to blog about. In fact, I have hundreds (okay maybe not hundreds but a considerable unexaggerated amount of them filling the "Notes" of my phone. those who tinker with my gadget with and/or without my knowledge know this to be true. why do I sound so defensive? O_O? wow, this is a pretty long side-comment. i have got to cut off this habit. it makes it harder for people to follow my thoughts. okay, stopping now.) of ideas that I intend to blog about but just could not revisit the desire to do so when I first thought about them. If there's one thing I learned in my literature classes (especially Creative Writing), it's the fact that writing is an organic process. Natural. Not forced. This blog post is forced. I think. It is. It's forced. The series of short sentences is forced. Stopping now. Wow, even that one was forced. A forced attempt at being funny.

Anyway, one of the very good things about being in Cebu is getting to spend a lot of time with the dorks, especially Fats (who is now Loronda) and Kim (who is now Shontelle). That means more jokes on religion, race, and of course, other people. But we're not atheists. Nor are we racists (okay, maybe Kim is a bit). Basically, we're not evil. We occasionally find ourselves in fits of laughter. Ecstatic laughter. Oooh, speaking of the word I italicized on the previous sentence for emphasis (oh boy look how I tried to force the subject in), Fats, being a fellow Milan Kundera fanatic, shared to me the genius' essay on ecstasy. And since I'm such a good person, since no one else out there possesses this extreme amount of generosity and unflawed character that I have, I am gonna share them to you! I know, I know: I'm the best. So read 'ere and have a taste of the god that is Milan Kundera.

P.S.

It's totally understandable if you drool in awe.

This is a quote from Milan Kundera's book Testaments Betrayed (1993).

I recall my childhood: sitting at the piano, I would throw myself into passionate improvisations for which I needed nothing but a C-minor chord and the subdominant F-minor, played fortissimo over and over again. The two chords and the endlessly repeated primitve melodic motif made me experience an emotion more intense than any Chopin, any Beethoven, has ever given me. (One time my musician father, completely furious -- I never saw him so furious before or after -- rushed into the room, lifted me off the piano stool, and with a disgust he could barely control, carried me into the dining room and set me down under the table.)\

What I was experiencing during those improvisations was ecstasy. What is ecstasy? The boy banging on the keyboard feels an enthusiasm (or a sorrow, or a delight), and the emotion rises to such a pitch of intensity that it becomes unbearable: the boy flees into the state of blindness and deafness where everything is forgotten, even oneself. Through ecstasy, emotion reaches its climax, and thereby at the same time its negation (its oblivion).

Ecstasy means being "outside oneself," as indicated by the etymology of the Greek word: the act of leaving one's position (stasis). To be "outside oneself" does not mean outside the present moment, like a dreamer escaping into the past or th future. Just the opposite: ecstasy is the absolute identity with the present instant, total forgetting of past and future. If we obliterate the future and the past, the present moment stands in empty space, outside life and its chronology, outside time and indepndent of it (this is why it can be likened to eternity, which too is the negation of time).

We can see the acoustical image of emotion in the Romantic melody of a lied: its length seems intended for sustaining emotion, building it, causing its slow enjoyment. Ecstasy, on the other hand, cannot be mirrored in a melody, because memory strangled by ecstasy is incapable of retaining the sequence of notes in a melodic phrase, however short; the acoustical image of ecstasy is the cry (or: a very bried melodic motif that imitates a cry).

The classic example of ecstasy is the moment of orgasm. Think back to the time before women had the benefit of the pill. It often happened that at the moment of climax a lover forgot to slide out of his mistress's body and made her a mother, even though, a few moments earlier, he had firmly intended to be extremely careful. That second of ecstasy made him forget both his determination (his immediate past) and his interest (his future).

The instant of ecstasy thus weighed more heavily on the scales than the unwanted child; and since the unwanted child will probably fill the lover's whole life span with his unwanted presence, it may be said that one instance of ecstasy weighed more than a whole lifetime. The lover's lifetime faced the instant of ecstasy from roughly the same inferior status as the finite is facing eternity. Man desires eternity, but all he can get is its imitation: the instant of ecstasy.

I recall a day in my youth: I was with a friend in his car; people were crossing the street in front of us. I saw a person I disliked and pointed him out to my friend: "Run him over!" It was of course only a verbal joke, but my friend was in a state of great euphoria, and he hit the accelerator. The man took fright, slipped, fell. My friend stopped the car just in time. The man was not hurt, but people crowded around and threatened (understandably) to lynch us. Yet my friend was not a murderer by nature. My words had sent him into a momentary ecstasy (actully, one of the oddest: the ecstasy of a joke).

We are used to connecting the notion of ecstasy to great mystical moments. But there is such a thing as everyday, ordinary, vulgar ecstasy: the ecstasy of anger, the ecstasy of speed at the wheel, the ecstasy of ear-splitting noise, ecstasy in the soccer stadium. Living is a perpetual heavy effort not to lose sight of ourselves, to stay solidly present in ourselves, in our stasis. Step outside ourselves for a mere instant, and we verge on death's dominion.

http://userweb.cs.utexas.edu/users/vl/notes/kundera.html

So far…

2010-05-18T12:26:00.004+08:00

In just one week and four five days of being here in Cebu, sighing through life or one portion of it called job hunting, I have been exposed to too much heat, dust, and (the only good thing of it all) beautiful people -- I admit: I do fall for face value (most of the time). I had no idea God's love is concentrated on one area that is Cebu City alone. It's a good thing I don't go to church. That would've been a total waste of time. No amount of attendance at church could batter through the world's injustices. Anyway, aside from all those, I am also a regular recipient of my tita's jokes about my sexuality (this is the same tita who sent me the book entitled "How To Help Your Loved Ones Deal With Being Gay" with the first chapter entirely dedicated to answering the question, "Why is my loved one gay?" *a wave of WTFs, please*) to which I do not know how to respond. For example,

[while at the dining table]

Me: Tita, USC High School for boys lagi to ako na-applyan? Asa diay ang sa college?

Tita: Di pa ka ana, all booooooys??? *laugh laugh*

Me: *dumbfounded for about 5 seconds* ...palihog ko sa rice. X_X

_________________________________________________________________
Me: Nah, wala man nangita ug applicants ang Golden Success Academy tita oi.

Tita: Sayang dong malingaw unta ka dira na skwelahan kay mga seaman ang magreview dira. Seamaaan. *laugh laugh*

Me: *cursed self for still not coming up with a response to jokes like this* . . . . . . . . X_X

...So we're on the "making-fun-of-it" phase now? Since when were we this open about this? I did not ask for this kind of openness. I don't recall ever asking for that. I do remember wanting to live alone. Can I have that instead? :P

Yes, a lot has happened within the past week after haply deciding to finally get out of the rut I'm in and find a job like the other fresh graduates. I have reconnected with my cousins (who have truly been nothing but purely accommodating -- it's almost as if it hasn't been eight years since we last saw each other), waxed my legs with Fats (I never knew I had so much hair) just out of curiosity (and it wasn't painful at all), spent a total of 5,000 php what with all the seemingly never-ending printing of 2x2 pics, resumes, application letters, and TORs -- not to mention the endless jeepney and taxi rides from point a to b to c, all the way up to z and back, and the purchasing of folders and stacks of brown envelopes, and the occasional intake of food (Mom, Dad, your son is starving here. Please, do something ASAP).

I am currently a free-loader here at my Tita's place, my face is thinning (I can't possibly stay here and be a parasite forever), I only have 1,000 php left in my wallet, and worse, I am very close to barfing over the gay jokes. Something has to happen: I have to find a job! Fast!

I am no longer intoxicated by the belief that I am special. That my resume is the best. That I am not gonna have troubles in finding a job. I am a surplus of large-scale ambitions in the face of job-deficits. It's almost two weeks since I've been here in Cebu and I fear that I might render my degree useless. I don't want to be another metaphor for the unemployed. I refuse to be an anecdote regarding some fresh grad struggling to live independently without even a salary to speak of.

I am here, still without a profession, surrounded by older relatives who hate it when I have fun; older people who trivialize the happiness that I feel when I'm with my own age group -- like what I do to my siblings: I don't like it when they're happy about getting a new toy as a birthday present. Mostly, I do that because it reminds me of how I eventually got over that happiness, how now I realize that I was too naive to suspect that a toy stays true to its packaging, too gullible to be manipulated by drawings of flying robots when in fact, inside that colorful box is a stiff chunk of plastic that says "Made in China". But my friends aren't toys. And even if they're Asians, at least they're not "Made in China".

I actually miss being in Iligan. I'm not really ready to leave the (free) comforts found at home just yet, like bathing myself with the cold rushing water, not having to wash my own clothes (including my own underwear), doing unproductive things on the internet while lying on my bed, digesting my meals while watching downloaded episodes of Alias season 4 and 5, and most of all, I miss not being able to see you-know-who...

To that particular person: I miss stalking you. Now I'm here, loving you (out of habit) from an even greater distance. And I like it. There is a heightened sense of romance involved. I am a tragic hero. And I am loving the torture.

Mama, I'm still your little boy

2010-05-09T11:01:00.004+08:00

My relationship with my mom is something that you may call complicated...well, not really. It isn't complicated at all. In fact, it's very simple. But since I'm someone who likes to maintain a daily quota of drama (probably for fear of adhering to the banalities of the suburban life), I usually mess things up with her (mom, if you're reading this, you are allowed to gloat since moments like this are rare: me admitting that I am the one at fault).

I'm not the eldest son mothers would be happy to raise. I am high maintenance, lazy (immediately followed by me being irresponsible), stubborn, a know-it-all, and on top of that, gay. Definitely not the first born any parent would want to have. But since fate (or whatever Higher Power there is in the universe that made things the way they are right now) decided to give them this cursed blessing (that would be me), they have no choice but to suck it up.

They actually had other options. They could have killed me, beaten me to death, and then told everyone it was an accident. Other people can get away with these stuff nowadays. They could have abandoned me somewhere where apes or a pack of wolves would raise me as their own (if, out of some fictional twist, these animals decide not to fill their stomachs with my carcass instead). But they, especially my mom, chose to endure me. My mother, chose to accept me. She chose to be proud of me and make a big damn deal of the things I've done at school. She chose to see me as someone who's competent, as someone raging with possibilities foretelling great things to come. And even if I end up disappointing them (like not being Cum Laude), they swallow spit and eagerly await for my next attempt at wowing them like I used to when I was in elementary. And even if I already feel like such an incompetent buffoon, seeing them -- seeing my mom -- still have faith in me helps.

I'm thinking about how, since puberty (how this period breeds awkwardness and insecurities), I became irritable at her every inquiry regarding school and other stuff that I raise my voice at her and make her feel stupid (because at home, the egotistic author of this blog always thinks of himself as the smartest one). How hard it must be to keep your cool while clearly being insulted by your son. But she managed to, most of the time. She still even worries. She's always worried about her children; how the environment might do something harmful to them, to me. Worried about me and my lifestyle. Worried about me and my history of being prone to diseases. And while I may deem it to be annoying and a kill-joy most of the time, even when I refuse to acknowledge the wisdom that is cloaked under her cloud of worry, it all eventually becomes clear to me whenever I sit back and contemplate. And then I understand. Feel guilty. Thankful. Loved. In that order.

One of these days, I'll give you (and dad and lola and lolo) the life that you deserve. One of these days you will stop holding your breath while waiting for me to do something grand. You will breathe easy. I will make you proud.

I love you, mom. Happy Mother's Day! ^_^

This song is dedicated to my mom and to all the mothers out there (to Lola Edith, Tita Jazz, Tita Melyn, Tita Yvonne, and Nanay Virgie)...

"Home, it might scatter and fade

With time all things must change

The road, it might take it's own course

But at it's end, mama we're still your boys."

lesson relearned (Tadman '10)

2010-05-05T13:25:00.005+08:00

For this latest post, I decided to go old-school. I hand-wrote it first before typing it down on the PC for publishing. It's been a very long time since I have used pen and paper to convey my thoughts (memories of my old highschool journal with entries that start with "Dear Secret Pal" come rushing back at me -- this was the time I decided to keep records of all the flirtations I did which eventually went nowhere; believe it or not, I was such a vestal back then). And once again, I am reminded that I have such good penmanship! I mean, c'mon! How many guys with huge fingers do you know is capable of writing legibly? And I mean this legibly:

[click on image for larger size]

it says, "in case you are in doubt about how great my penmanship is, I decided to post this pic for you, skeptical non-believers. Oh, no! Running low on ink!!!!! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!!! Noooooooobubuchingisstillhatedbymeooooooooooo!!!

The reason why I went medieval is because I realized that I've been hogging the computer for days now. And my brothers need to play DotA (they take their DotA very seriously. They beat me. Every. Single. Time.) I felt a pang of mercy and misplaced generosity for them, thus, I allowed myself to be in the pen-and-paper set up.

Anyway, I recently just got back from a four-day Cebu trip c/o Tadman 2010 (that's right, your money sent us all the way to Cebu free and with honorariums too!). I've been a yearbook staffer for over four years now and I know it's definitely not the coolest thing in the world but at least I get to have fun and money and a free trip from your Tadman fees (yes, I am rubbing it in. Are you jealous yet?).

Cebu is a destination far better than Davao. For one, the idea that I'm no longer in the same island as Iligan is pretty "huge". And for another, it gave me a chance to reconnect with my college classmates, The Dork Squad (also not the coolest thing in the world but, hey, no one makes jokes the way dorks do...yes, I'm trying to defend us. Oh, who am I kidding? We suck 'ats what. X_X).

But to be honest, at first, I never really looked forward to going across the sea to Cebu with the Tadman 2010 staffers. I was never really ecstatic about us going away and spending more time together. While working on our yearbook a few weeks earlier, I never really felt "connected" to them. I used to find them really really yawn-inducing (well, maybe except for Rey and his dimples. No one can resist them). I've always thought of myself as someone who can easily blend in with crowds, the people-person that I am, but when I first met them, my personality felt "constricted". For some reason, my ability to socialize was compromised upon meeting these new breed of strangers. There were old familiar faces, of course (Jo, Icon, Mumcy) but the rest, all empty to me. The truth is, there was a part of me that did not want to engage with them (again, except for Rey's dimples) because I felt that I might disrespect my memory of the earlier Tadman people whom I used to work with. I thought that getting close to these new staffers was a form of betrayal to my friendship with the old ones. Kinda like when I did not watch nor read the Lord of the Rings for fear that my then-beloved Harry Potter would misconstrue it as a hint of disloyalty towards him. Or like the time when I piously stuck to ABS-CBN shows and completely ignored Ghost Fighter and Yu-Yu Hakusho on GMA (even if I was already itching to watch those animes back in the day). Or like when I hated Christina Aguilera for reaching really high notes and clearly underlining the fact that she can sing way better than Britney Spears. I can be firm on my beliefs sometimes even without reason.

I never gave myself the time to observe these new staffers' casual behavior during the weeks we started working on the yearbook. Most of the time, I kept to myself and interacted lightly with the others. For some reason that I can't put my finger on, they make me uncomfortable. Little did I know that I only needed to really try to reach out to them to find out that they actually do matter after all; that's it's okay to be friends with them. That Cebu trip proved just that.

BOTTOM LINE: Another lesson re-learned. Everyone can be likable. We only need to take away the prevailing misconceptions that first impressions bring to people. In my case, after spending time and sharing beds for 4-days with these once-strangers whom I was so reluctant to get close to at the start, I had a total blast. :)

Time after time after time after time...

2010-04-24T07:53:00.010+08:00

Time is a tyrant. It forces us to assume roles we never even want to do in the first place and we can only do so little to resist it.

Just when you've grown used to the people you're with, time takes them all away. Either time sucks the life out of them or time just wants you to be better off not within close proximity to them (and/or vice versa). And we have to ride its waves. We just have to obey.

Time is a complete ass. And that became even more apparent when I had to see two of my good friends off last night at the pier. Just before they went inside, we talked and made jokes and tried to convince ourselves that we're going to see each other soon enough (the presence of other people in the area seemed to make emotional displays humiliating). We started setting dates, making premature plans, acting as if we're excited for that day to come someday God-knows-when. It felt a lot like making a promise you're never even sure of executing only that it wasn't a question of your willingness to do it, it's a question of whether or not circumstances would allow you to do it.

The place had the potential for turning off sentimental thoughts and the possibility of sad goodbyes, what with the acrid smell of urine and other human excretions playing with your nostrils and all the pickpockets hanging about, standing by to rob you at your weakest, most vulnerable moment (you might want to do something about that, Iligan City officials) but seeing my friends walk away with their luggage is depressing. The truth is, the sad thing that many people often talk about goodbyes is there. It's very present and is lodged up in your throat. It's not a myth. There's just something about parting ways that seems to tug at your emotional heart's strings. This is true even when you're not gay. A certain sentimentality exists in every person.

But they have to do it. They have to go away for their future's sake and sooner or later I'm gonna have to do the same. Time never makes any excuses for anyone. Sure, it operates without prejudice but still, it's always too proud to care and make exemptions. It cares little about personal stuff. It never adjusts itself to fit anyone's plan. Time, much like love, is unfair. Abstract things are so unfair.

I don't think I'm ready to leave Iligan just yet. I'm too comfortable being young and carefree, free from any apprehensions in having to find a job, in being a professional. Right now, I'm doing all I can to stall and find excuses for not going out there and act my part, be mature and all. I'm purposefully delaying having to find a job; trying so hard to ward off time and its habit of pushing people around. But I can only do so little. Time is too unyielding that it's even perverse. And I've always been an easy prey by bullies.

Sooner or later I'll raise the white flag. Pretty soon I'll be caving in to time's oppression and to the new demands that it has set for me. And I have no choice but to comply. But that does not mean I am in total agreement to its tyranny -- much like how a Christian tries to be good to avoid eternal damnation; like the butt hole allowing crap to come out from it because it has no choice, it's an obligatory function it has to pursue.

I don't know if I ever will be ready for every instance that Time creeps up on me. But one thing is for sure, I will forever be oppressed by it. I will forever adhere to it with a kind of involuntary obedience that I sometimes do to authority figures (hi Mom, Pop!). For true enough, time excuses no one. It never negotiates. Unlike gender, it is forever unbending. Time is not mamayutay ug nawong. And now I'm the saddest gay person in the world.

Thoughts of a sick person..

2010-04-15T22:06:00.007+08:00

When you're sick, you do anything you want just to make yourself feel better. In my case, I like to abuse my being vulnerable and try to demand more from the people around me. I've never recalled ever getting this sick and having this many phlegm before (gross, I know). The only comforting thing about it is that I get to order people around to give me a massage, buy me this and that, the things that I long to eat. Yes, the attention is overwhelming.

But having a fever means having to lie down inactive and vegetable-like in bed for the whole duration of it. That means I can only do so little. For the rest of the day, I feel dizzy and sluggish. I'm idle most of the time (this must be how being pregnant feels like and look, I can totally handle it. I think I'm totally fit to be a mom. LOL) and being that way is dangerous for me because it makes me think of things that I'm afraid to think about when I'm well and up and about.

I thought of death, of loss, and of Skinny Boy (yes, he is an entirely different category because I am foolish and still hung up). I've come to learn that you can't force people to like you, no matter how strongly you feel about the many positive effects this attraction would bring to both parties. You just can't. Sadly, the world doesn't work that way.

I also thought about how my memory has been working these past few days. I seem to remember only very little about the past. And whilst the past isn't always such a good place to drop by, it has moments and little details that I intend to keep stoned and preserved in my head. I'm very bothered about how hard it is for me to recall things. I've learned that a person's memory is very important and now I'm biting my nails out of anxiety... So every wonderful little thing that I've encountered in the past is just going to go away? I'm freaking out. I feel like I've lost so much already. My brain is dehydrated, my memory spilt.

My dysfunctional memory isn't the only thing I've come to worry about these past couple of days. In addition to that paranoia, I've been tormented by my worry about having to be a grown up as well. I am slowly becoming intimidated by the entropy of the world which I'm bound to make certain whether I like it or not. And the nagging voices of people I know does not help (stop pressuring meeeee!!! T_T). Many of my classmates have already started passing resumes and scheduling interviews. And what am I doing? Nada. I just can't see myself as a professional. I can never picture myself out as someone who's independent and is confident about everything he does. I only want to go to school forever. To be graded forever. To be carefree forever, much like how that character from "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" feels. I refuse to grow up. I refuse to grow old. But no matter how hard I try to fight the course of physical science, I'm still oppressed by nature's cycles.

I don't have a solid plan for my future. I've been avoiding making one all my life. But ever since I graduated, the situation has been calling me for one. My dad wants me to take up law. But I don't want to be a lawyer. I only want to stay in school, maybe teach literature? That seems more likely. It's not for the possibility of me molesting my students. God, no. Teaching makes me feel young. It gives me the illusion of still being a student since I'd still be surrounded by the four walls of the classroom. I believe it's the only fighting chance I have against my fear of feeling old; to be surrounded by youth in a place intended for the youth: the academe.

I'm worrying and thinking of all these things while listening to my nostalgia-evoking playlist. To Graham Nash, Joni Mitchell, Lucinda Williams, Casey Shea, Elvis Costello, Norah Jones, Alison Krauss, Jim Croce, and Bob Dylan, thank you for keeping me company. Only with your aid, my memory can function fairly well.

You Win Some, You Lose Some (thanks to some)

2010-03-29T15:44:00.010+08:00

Last week, I was summoned by the school registrar to discuss my school status. As it turns out, my name had to be removed from the list of honor students since I only had three units in one semester and that's not allowed (I had no idea this was a rule; had I known then, I would've been glad to quit school for one semester and apply for a leave of absence).

I only had three units (one subject) that time because I got sick. No, I did not have AIDS. I rarely ever have sex. No, I was not confined to a mental institution (even if it seems that I need to be). And lastly, no I did not kill someone and served a term in jail (why would I friggin' do that?!). Okay, I will be blunt about it once again. For some weird (karmic?) reason, I acquired tuberculosis of the lungs. Ah yes, tuberculosis: the cause of the romantic death in the 19th century. Back when I was recently diagnosed with the disease, I was afraid I'd fall right next to the names of Honore de Balzac, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, Elizabeth Browning, Albert Camus, Anton Chekhov, Stephen Crane, George Orwell, Alexander Pope, Sir Walter Scott, John Keats, Dylan Thomas, etc. But who was I kidding? I can't even write a decent poem!

Just when I thought the whole ordeal was over when my recent X-rays have shown that my lungs are now clear, that one sem that featured my sick old self fresh from the hospital still comes back to haunt me and ruin everything. As if being left behind by my friends and classmates wasn't hard enough.

When I first found out about the possibility of me not being able to graduate with honors, I took a long and solitary jeepney ride. It felt a lot like not digging the new packaging of your favorite junkfood and you can't do anything but still buy it anyway. I went home. I did not smile nor utter any word. I changed clothes, took some money from my hidden safe (somewhere buried beneath the heaps of unorganized stuff in my room), went back to the city, and finally locked myself in a hotel room. My bedroom isn't a place strategic enough to express my grief. And I knew then that it was a messy grief. Inside room #7 of the third floor was the real breakdown but at the expense of a shoe's life that's now in need of some serious repairing (or maybe even replacing). Once I calmed down, I fell asleep in difficulty since I had one of those psychosomatic asthma attacks. Kim called and tried to ease my pain. The pain became tolerable.

At about 10 PM, my system wanted alcohol so I went out like a lonesome rat in search of somber cheese. Misery loves company (preferably someone who also drinks) so I texted some friends; misery loves a pity party. And however much of a cliche drowning problems with beer sounds, that night, it did not lack the poetry (maybe because I used to have TB and that most poets died because of it).

At 7 AM, I went home. My mother was furious at me for having to make her worry. And then I broke the news to her. At first, when I told her I had bad news and that I have a big problem, I knew she was again thinking about me taking drugs (for the last time, mother: I am not into drugs, okay?). I could see the evanescent relief that showed on her momentarily unmet eyebrows when I told her it was something else. But her frown was back because she had been expecting me to graduate with honors ever since she and dad first sent me to school (dear old, St. Therese Community of Learners...why art thou so secluded?).

The teachers (I can never thank you guys enough for trying your best to help me with this "predicament") in the department heard about what happened at my meeting with the registrar and helped me write a letter of appeal. But the efforts were all in vain. Earlier today, Mumcy (our department chair) told me that the people upstairs are firm on their decision and that my request has been rejected. So bottomline, I really won't be graduating with honors.

I only want the award since my parents want it so bad. I couldn't care less about what I'd get (okay, maybe I do care a little bit but not as much as my parents do). I think that the only reason why they're spending so much for me is because they thought that I'd actually graduate with honors (magna even...but fat chance, dad). For me, being awarded as Cum Laude is a recognition of my parents' efforts in sending me to school; a recognition of them being able to raise a kid like me who's such a pain in the ass (and who's also gay, by the way...it just occurred to be that I am now way way down the disappointment tunnel). For my part, that award was supposed to be my proof to them that I am not a screw up. But I guess I'm just gonna have to prove that in some other way.

The world is ganging up on me, I tell you (because I'm self-absorbed just like that). The world is my bully and it's winning. What's worse, Bubu Chiing is on the world's side -- geez, world! Couldn't you have picked a much better ally?!

But since I'm someone who has strong ties with happiness, I just keep on thinking that my fate is nowhere near worse than not graduating. My baggage is trivial next to that.

So in with the happy thoughts even if some of them are merely shadows that my grudge against the registrar casts. I may not stay unhappy for long, but when it comes to holding grudges, it's indirectly proportional... *thunder and lightning and evil laugh*

...oh how violence soothes my soul...

This isn’t me being melodramatic…okay, maybe it is.

2010-03-20T23:09:00.004+08:00

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

There is no sigh, no smile, or any act of compensation that could possibly give justice to the gratitude I feel for the people who have helped made this research into the tangible bulk of (hopefully recycled) paper that you hold in your hands right now (I keep hearing Wordsworth's "The World Is Too Much With Us"). Nevertheless, I shall try to make an estimate of my appreciation for the assistance of these rare kind-hearted souls by trying to put into words my gratitude (I know I'm being wordy but what can I do? I just love words and this is the only part of this paper where I can be "very expressive" – a subtle term for gay).

To my adviser, Prof. Maria Teresa S. Villabona, who has been nothing short of supportive to everything that I wanted to do with my study. She made me feel at ease until this study came into fruition. She never nagged, nor scolded, nor got irritated at me and my knack for procrastinating (I know I'm not exactly the advisee everyone would dream of having). She never resorted to corporal punishment or to any harsh reprimands. Instead, she tirelessly kept on reminding me of the things that I needed to do and thoughtfully kept checking up on my progress. She has been nothing but patient all throughout. I picked the right faculty to be my adviser (rowt). Thank you for the little pep talks Ma'am Tess and thank you for believing that I can finish this study.

To my panelists, Prof. Faith O. Miguel and Prof. Lorna T. Caponong, thank you so much for your help in making this thesis worth being called a thesis. I really appreciate all the suggestions and corrections that you've made for my paper. Thank you for making time for me. Thank you for never being mean to me. Thank you for being my midwives as I gave birth to this thesis whilst Ma'am Tess held my hand as I went into labor. You all have made me a proud mother of this paper (LOL).

To Prof. Lynnie Ann DeOcampo, my incredible Research Methods teacher who has always been ready to assist me in any way she could ever since this paper was still too puny to matter (in other words, back when this was still a thesis proposal) and even until it became passable enough to be an actual thesis study. I have really learned from you, ma'am.

To the rest of the English faculty and staff, especially to our department chair, Prof. Nancy Q. Echavez, thank you for the support and understanding. You have never been hostile to me everytime I enter the department to consult with my adviser and panelists (well, except maybe for Ate Mimi's fits when she's in a pickle but it's still okay). Thank you, thank you.

To my blood and kin, my family, particularly to my parents. Thank you for creating me. Thank you for never demanding a financial report of all the expenses I've done to "cover" the costs in making this paper. I know you know that I lied about the real amount. But thank you for giving me money anyway and for allowing me to indulge on earthly pleasures; on the things that I want. Thank you for knowing that I deserved it. Thank you for thinking that I'm old enough to be free from any suspicion. Even if at the back of your heads you know I'm asking for more than what is needed, you trusted me enough not to question me about it for you know I won't waste the money into something that could damage my well-being -- except maybe for the occasional beer sessions with my friends, but still, thank you for allowing me to live life once in a while. Thank you for granting me that liberty. To my siblings and my other relatives, thank you for understanding that everytime I say "I'm busy with my thesis", you back-off without second thoughts just so I could go on doing it in peace (even when most of the time I was just FBing). Thank you for knowing when and when not to bother me. I love you guys! *sniffles*

To all my friends in the different clusters that I belong to, i.e. Primaryang Amega: Syrah, Monette, Mai-Mai, Bing-Bing, Ruby, Tin-Tin, Jesus, and Junrex; The Dork Squad: Rimberly Royce (I would've loved to get back at you for not mentioning me on your thesis' acknowledgment section but sadly, our friendship is too strong for that. You're lucky I have a conscience! LOL), Ratimah (aka Mither H, for the online support), Jidai (for being pretty and for the 36 photos), Pheyth (for being gay), Ken (for referring to me a statistician when I needed one), and Joey (I know you're out there somewhere); and all my batchmates including Rei (formerly known as Fedayeen). Thank you all for reminding me that "graduating" is an end goal by perpetually telling me to "Hurry up and finish school already!" at Facebook, Yahoo Messenger, and in your starting-to-get-really-annoying text messages (but please don't stop texting me otherwise I won't need a phone. You all are the reason why I still buy load. You're all I have. LOL). Thank you for the support and for making sure I always have the daily dosage of it. Thank you for the (cyber) laughs and for making sure that I'm still a part of your lives; that I'm still your batchmate; that I'm still your friend (rowt). Thank you for the nostalgia. Thank you for making me long to graduate (you all know how much I don't want to leave school, the loser that I am).

To Ma'am Mary Jane Blasco for letting me observe her classes. Thank you for the trust and for the top-notch hospitality. She has treated me like a son and has always made me feel comfortable during my classroom observations. Ma'am Jane, a big thank you!

To the students that comprise MSU-IIT Integrated Developmental School's two senior classes: IV-Quasar and IV-Laser, you guys have been great. I'm not saying that just for the heck of it. Seriously, you've been great. And I wasn't just there to drool over your cute classmates (although that was kind of a secondary reason). You have no idea how lucky you are for being immersed in such good literature at an early age. I really enjoyed your take on the short stories. There were times when you left me in awe at your answers. Thank you for letting me videotape and observe your discussions -- it's not like you had a choice, though since Ma'am Jane already said yes but still, thank you for giving me a seat comfortable enough to gather my data. Thank you for not being spiteful of my presence (or if you were spiteful, thanks for not showing it) and another thank you for being natural about the observation process (you were never bothered nor nervous about the fact that some stranger with mushroom-shaped hair was recording the proceedings of your discussions). That's just what I needed and thank you for giving me that.

To my current classmates, thank you for making me feel like a part of your batch. I have never been ostracized by you. Thank you for never minding our one-year age gap. To the Amegas (who taught me gay lingo even if I could never use it properly -- sober or drunk) who have served as this thesis' loving godmothers: Don-Don, Shan, Scrib, Eva, Joyce, and Regine. Thanks for making me a part of your circle. I seriously thought I would never enjoy not being with my real batchmates but you proved me wrong. Thank you for relating to me and for being the people who I can relate to. Together, we stood unbent by the pressures of thesis work which tested the depth of our friendship in a lot of instances (inside joke: "I heard everything"). For that and for all the other things I don't have to enumerate since you already know which ones I'm referring to, I owe you a lot. Thank you!

Also, a fat and brightly beaming thank you goes to my beloved "Skinny Boy" for being both a distraction and an inspiration. For being my source of insanity and sanity. For enabling me to cross the great divide of the human brain condition without peril -- because we all need a fix of craziness every once in a while and thank you for making me feel that way (even without you knowing it). For being the first person who automatically pops up in my head everytime I listen to any song. For being the end goal apart from graduating. You are the best imaginary lover anyone could ever hope for. You have fathered this thesis. This is your (illegitimate) child. This is our child. For that, thank you.

Last but not least, to Lord God Almighty (yes, there is still a Christian left inside me), despite my efforts of trying to become an agnostic, I still can't help but go back to recognizing Your existence. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for the words and for the moments of giving my mind clarity, my life a purpose, and my heart hope; for letting me stay true to the name my parents have baptized and given me: HOPE.

To everyone who have been involved in the making of this paper, THANK YOU! Salamat! Merci boucoup! Arigato gozaimasu! Kahnsamnida! I can say that in different languages but I can still never say that enough. But please do know that I am truly truly grateful.

THANK YOU!

Flipt

The Thesis Blues

2010-03-13T01:41:00.006+08:00

Thesis. A word so short and when you pronounce it, it seems kinda soft and kinky (maybe it's because of the /th/ and /s/ sounds). But it's not.

Last year, when my real batchmates (the ones who graduated ahead of me...I'm getting really tired of explaining this all over again) were busying themselves with thesis work, I never could understand why they were so flustered about it. It's just paper work, I used to say to myself since I didn't wanna mock their agitation and at the same time trivialize the source of all their academic suffering. I thought I could just bluff my way out of it like what I always do in my other requirements. I used to think I'd never have as much difficulty as they had about thesis. Nah-uh. I'm better and I'm confident that I'd graduate (see, I told you I have these self-proclaiming moments).

Of course, I was wrong again (as it always turns out). I'm not better and there's a very big chance that I might not graduate (I can already picture out all the disappointed faces of people I know). I recently just found myself in my real batchmates' shoes. I never thought I'd be echoing their frustrations about thesis. I've become a cliche! I never expected it. And what's worse is that I had the entire semester to worry about just that single requirement. But what did I do? I PROCRASTINATED. I never learn. I always always always try to sabotage my own life. I have got to really learn that dallying with deadlines is like playing with fire. And fire can burn. And I'm no phoenix. I don't have scales and I most certainly can't rise up from the ashes. Do you hear that self?! You're not invincible!

As of late, my statistician is not keeping in touch. My paper is three days late from my supposed date of submission for editing. My schedule for my final defense keeps on getting moved (thanks a lot, seemingly non-existent statistician). My study, I no longer understand. I'm losing my confidence about it. I have betrayed my trust on it that I'm even considering taking on a new study. Regrets came out late as usual just like the cops do in Philippine action movies. It's weird. I was so sure about my thesis in my proposal defense but now that I think (and worry) about it more and more as I get farther and farther from the actual deadline, I realize that I should've spent lesser time gallivanting and should've just stuck it out with my first instinct: doing a literature study.

God, I so wanna cry but my prideful self is holding me back and is teasing me for being such a baby.

Oh, well... *finds a list of good-paying jobs that don't require a diploma*

all the world's a stage...so screw you, stage fright!

2010-03-09T21:19:00.009+08:00

Acting isn't really my strongest talent. In fact, it can't even be considered a talent at all. But as someone who likes to believe he can do everything (what? I used to be God), I went on with it anyway and tried to squeeze myself into another box I'm not wanted (it's actually not that hard and you'll get used to it).

Sure, I've always loved playing "the extra guy" on my classmates' plays back in highschool (and stealing the focus in the process) for humor back-up but that does not mean I have a flair for acting. Yet, I do have moments when I'm a self-proclaimed something-something. Because of that, I made (nay, forced) the stage to open up to me. That's right. Good girl.

My first official theater experience was when I was in 3rd year college. This was when the Iligan Women's Desk decided to include the third sex in their yearly production of Eve Ensler'sVagina Monologues. I was cast as one of the transsexuals (go figure) and my favorite line was: "You have a beautiful daughter!" (with matching kinky voice). We performed in three different schools in Iligan and we even went as far as Cagayan de Oro. Imagine that. Me, spreading my gayness clad in all that make-up, fake boobies, wig, little black dress, and high heels (which REALLY hurt, by the way) around all the while shouting "BILAT! BILAT! BILAAAAAAAT!" along with my fellow vagina warriors in our every performance (this was our finale). If you must know, my parents and relatives do not know anything about this. I couldn't have possibly told them, "Hey, I'm gonna be so gay in a play and tell the world in one of my lines how much I wanted a vagina. I wanted one. I wanted one. Promise me you won't miss it. Let's pinky-swear on it!" So to save myself from my family's awkward inquisitions, I did the right thing: I let them continue on being ignorant about my affairs (one of the most sound decisions I've ever made in life).

After my stint as a Vagina Warrior, the next production I was in was "Walang Sugat". This was for our Introduction to Drama subject (still in 3rd year). I was supposed to be just one of the Stage Managers at that time (Ami was our Director) but then some actor got sick and so I had to fill in and play the dying old man. During my scene, I coughed and breathed heavily as is my idea of an old man about to go gentle into that goodnight. I was well aware that I was inviting and welcoming humiliation with loving arms while playing the part. Instead of the scene being serious, it turned out comedic. Apparently, making people laugh is the one thing I'm good at (even without intending to). Little did I know that all that coughing was a foreshadowing of a fate I was soon to suffer (and for those who are new here, this is the reason why I'm one semester behind; this is why I still haven't graduated -- not because I failed in one of my subjects).

And then Lysistrata came along, the sly revolutionary. I joined in on this production much later than the others and just so I could be given lines, Ma'am Peñola split the herald role into two. I became Nameless Herald #2 which was fine. Toss me any role and I wouldn't complain except when it involves nudity (I'd rather see other people naked up there). As the great Milan Kundera said, "There are no small parts, only small actors." Although I gotta admit, the play still would've existed even without my character. But let's go back to me being positive about my role, shall we?

All in all, we delivered five performances for this production. And that means five times I had to wear a lot of foundation, screw up and forget the dance routine, and suck at my delivery. Okay maybe it wasn't entirely that bad. It's just that pretending to be all masculine is hard for me. Being all macho and exuding testosterone isn't exactly my area of expertise ("I wanted a vagina" in my previous role for crying out loud)! I had to make my voice sound manly, too which was a consistent area for improvement in the play. I also had to go around with a fake erection (kudos to those at the Props Department) sticking underneath my robe and to add to the manic, I accidentally got my lower lip cut and bruised in front of a full house! That's raw entertainment for you!

In our last showing of Lysistrata, I found myself in an actual comedic play that's entitled Real Life when I saw Skinny Boy and Skanky Bitch in the audience seat. I suddenly became aware that, as Brooke Davis put it, "I'm the donkey in a big stupid Shakespearean mix-up." Just when I thought pretending to be tough was hard enough,I found it even harder to fight my urge to beat Skanky Bitch up with my false erection. To this very moment it still comes as a wonder for me how I got through the play without doing just that.

But even if regrets came puring down like rain after our showing of Lysistrata, there were also things that I'm grateful for like friendship and experience (all the cliches). And knowing that people's eyes are set on you (even if you know they're only doing so because they're required to watch the show) is always a thrill.

I know. You don't have to say it. I'm aware I have issues.

I can't believe I'm talking about high school!

2010-02-23T03:17:00.007+08:00

I was gonna type down "plurk.com" on my browser when my clumsy fingers missed the "P" and went straight to the letter "L" and, with the wonders that computers do, the browser seemed to suggest to me a previously entered URL (www.lip---.blogspot.com). It was the address for my blog in high school -- the blog I have blocked from memory and I'm so embarrassed to death about.

Being someone who's a sucker for anything that wreaks of nostalgia, I clicked on "Go to site" and let myself have some.

High school wasn't at all great for me. I know that back then I've been swearing to all my friends about how I'm never gonna forget high school and that college will never be as sweet as it is (songs like High School Life are totally misleading. I've always disliked Sharon Cuneta). But now, looking back, I once again realized high school sucked for me. I'm ashamed of it. I even lie about it to people (yes, I'm an IDS graduate. No, I'm not gonna let go of my denial).

Going through the shallow contents of my ancient blog, a lot of things came rushing back to me. Like how me and the gang liked to subscribe to anything that talks about friendship, about being true to yourself (anything that has "identity" as a theme was a big hit to us in high school), about love (this never grows old) and more so, about high school itself. We were utterly convinced that we're never gonna see each other again once we graduate for college. We were as utterly convinced as well that the people in our circle are the best people we could possibly meet in life. Ever! Apparently we took pride on our belief that we rule the teenage world; that what we strongly feel about anything at that time was bigger than just hormones; that the pituitary gland was just another something-something we learn at school and will never be applied in the real world like derivatives and conjugations. No, not in the real world where friendship is the most important thing and where nature weeps with you when you're in love (for a naive teen, nothing pinches the heart more painfully than unrequited love). *oh, Ken*

We used to prepare ourselves for the inevitable goodbyes. We worshiped the movies and songs that tell us that the end of high school is the end of an era. We really believed that. The idea that we're never gonna see each other again for a very long time seemed to click and gave us all the reasons to be sentimental. And so, the division between girls and boys wasn't as thick as it was anymore back when we were freshmen for we were now conscious about the idea of "making the most of our time together". And so platonic relationships were fostered, away from the malicious primeval thinking that we used to have about girls and boys coming together when we were first years and knew little about sex. Boys were now protective of their girl classmates (even the gay ones too). Girls were then at ease to get close with the males. Malice was drowned in the looming tears of farewells. The talk about sex and masturbation was of course still there. But that was a vestigial topic compared to the imminent goodbyes we were so sure we'd exchange come graduation day.

The search for identity became such an important issue. It has always been in human nature to categorize things. There are some who try to fight it, thus we have people like Justin, Rei, and me (those with filthy, disorganized rooms). But there are also those who go overboard and let being organized succumb them (Kim and Fats and Jidai). In high school, with our pubescent impulsive minds and center-of-the-universe mentality, we organized ourselves with our best of friends, who appreciate who we truly are, into groups and thought of some collective name that would sound "unique". "Important". "Cool". Newtonians, Linnaeans, Kelvins, Einsteins, Maxwellians, Maxteins, tsebs (this one's really really tacky), the ape 4 (I dunno why on earth did we think this was cool then), and Griffyndors. Harry Potter was a high school deity.

Speaking of Harry Potter, I remember how very possessive we used to be about Daniel Radcliffe and other pop personalities. A battle was regularly waged between the Westflife fans and those who were avid A1 followers . I always made sure Westlife won in the seemingly never-ending skirmishes (Mark Feehily and I used to do crazy stuff in my head). I was talkative as hell with a 4x4-inch haircut, glasses, and braces to boot. My ears were always wary for some Westlife hater's negative remark against the group who sang the soundtrack of my everyday life.

I remember being extremely disappointed at my graduation day. I found out that we weren't gonna have to say those goodbyes after all; that I was still gonna see the same faces in college! It's frustrating and anti-climactic even to find out that something you've prepared yourself to happen doesn't actually happen.

Remembering all these things now, I can't help but feel embarrassed and a bit angry. I do not ever want to go back to high school! The actual farewells are in college. And I learned about that when my batchmates graduated ahead of me because of my frail body. Now that's isolation. This is how my high school was supposed to be. In college are the real goodbyes. High school? Meh.

sweating for the world

2010-02-18T20:41:00.006+08:00

Taught English 4 (Introduction to Literature) the other day and the short story in focus was Ryunosuke Akutagawa's Rashomon. This has always been one of the subjects that I really really enjoy handling (suck on that, English 2!) aside from Biology (God, I miss that subject).

The set-up seemed good, in theory: me teaching one of my favorite subjects to an audience of students who are three years younger than I am -- a pedophile's personal heaven. But then fate, with it's sick appetite for giving out surprise twists (hello, Maguindanao Massacre; hello, countries under serious humanitarian crises; and hello to you too, May 2009), came into the picture: Skinny Boy was there and he was late!

Okay maybe it wasn't entirely fate on the works. Maybe I had a little hand on it, too since life hasn't exactly been giving me bonus instances of bumping into him more often these days. Sometimes, we need to defy the stars just like what Romeo Montague tried to do (although he died at the end...but at least he died with his Juliet. For all we know they could have made lots and lots of sweet lovin' posthumous style. Maybe they also made an after-life family. Maybe they had eleven kids. Maybe Juliet got into the real estate business and Romeo became an accountant and had an affair with his officemate. Maybe Juliet found out and took the kids with her and punched that good-for-nothin' passionless romantic so hard right in the kisser...Wow, that's a lot of maybes). Anyway, you get the drift. Sometimes, we need to take control of things (good news for power-gluttons); make things happen. Sometimes. Even if we know that deep down, Christianity has forced us to swallow the concept of predeterminism, of fatalism. But that does not mean they can stop us from trying to stick a finger down our throat. We could be bulimics of the Christian faith! How's that?!

So there I was, trying to explain to them what the story means (and according to Kalel, I was stuttering) and all the while sweating. He was there, right in front of me and what was I doing? SWEATING! X_X

This always happens. I sweat when I get nervous. I sweat when I'm excited. I sweat when I'm on the move. I sweat when I'm standing still. I'm like the perpetual perspirator! And I'm not even that fat, yet. I look at me, my shirt showing signs of condensation and then I look at others looking fresh and cool and I wonder if there is an exclusive humidity that surrounds my body. Am I wrapped up in a personal heat wave or something? Or maybe I'm really just that hot? LOL.

Damn these wretched pores! But as a consolation, I'd like to think that I'm sweating for the world; that I'm sweating for those who can't muster up the courage to actually sweat (huh?); that every drop of my sweat increases the value of the peso; that whenever I sweat, a person from Africa gets to have something to eat. As to how my perspiration leads to all those, I don't know exactly. Let life preserve some of it's mysteries. We don't always have to know everything. Yes, CSM people. You may put down those test tubes, keep those microscopes, and take off those lab gowns now. Everything's still gonna be alright. Here, let me give you guys a (sweaty) lap dance.

And as for Skinny Boy, this one's for you:

... I do. I really really do.

the unsent "i miss you too"

2010-02-16T20:49:00.007+08:00

Kimmy texted me seconds ago telling me she misses me. I would've sent her an "I miss you too, dearest" with an added "so much" for an undeniable cathartic effect had Globe not taken away my 15-peso load for no apparent reason (yes, I am on to you rotten capitalist maniacs!). And the idea of taking a trip to the nearest loading station while already having settled cozily in my bed didn't appeal to me much. All that getting up and using a lot of my muscles! Oh yes, my indolent self prevented the moment from getting uncontrollably sentimental. I'm not even sure if I have enough energy to suddenly go weak and be depressed out of longing. We all know that sensitive moments like these are exhausting. I should know since I frequent them, the emotional sadomasochist that I am.

The Self-Centered Paragraph (in case you're wondering, it's because it has a lot of "I's")

I do miss her. I miss them (Ami, Kim, Jidai, and Pheyth). I miss the dorks I lived with for the whole week of last week while attending the 2nd Philippine Writers Festival aka Taboan. Yes, I lied to my parents about going on a "compulsory" field trip to Cebu (we all do something like this once in a while; don't go all judgmental on me). I just had to get out of this place even for just a couple of days. Besides, attending the workshop-seminar is a good addition to my credentials. But on top of that, the reason why I had to get away from Iligan City is because it's too small for all my dreams (even if my biggest dream lives here, i.e. Skinny Boy). And I'm one very ambitious person (would've said "guy" but it's too awkward a word).

Sure, Iligan is home. But I've always been the restless type. I never settle in one place. Restless. Fugacious. Shifting. I'm only here in Iligan as a product of my fresh-graduate-from-highschool-self's foolishness for never wanting to be far away from "my first (albeit one-sided) love" instead of going to UP. Don't bother mouthing the word "stupid" after reading that line coz I've already said to myself many times even up to now. That one regrettable decision I made about five years ago still haunts me even now, causing me to always wonder what my life would've been like had I left Iligan when my book's chapter for college was still left unwritten.

Welcome to the Whore House. We are pleased to please you.

It's actually a "Cum Laude" house since all three of them who live there, i.e. Ami, Jidai, and Pheyth, graduated with that title (and now they've been pressuring me to graduate with honors as well so that the house will stay true to the prestige it carries). I'm actually worried that I might not live up to that but it's good to know the house has another nick that I can easily associate myself with: "The Whore House". Headed by Mither Harlot (Ami) and backed up by her army of skanks (the other two). Together, they and their quite similar physiological design (boobies and curves and all), sleep together in one room, rubbing their skin and whatever it is that they can rub against each other while dreaming some exotic dream as in some perverted schmuck's fantasy.

Like all feminist plots, the man or someone with some semblance of masculinity (that's me -- sorry, Pheyth) always comes in to ruin the equilibrium. During the week-long stay of the chunk of testosterone that is me, it has been agreed by them (or rather, they claim that I have) defiled their pure and sacred place of dwelling. Nevermind that they were even too lazy to dispose last month's garbage sack filled with rotting trash and turned-to-liquid wastes. Sadly, I had to do the filthy deed myself. And not to withstand the fact that with their threesome, the bathroom drain already looks like a hamster with all the hair.

But I'm not complaining. Let that rant not be misconstrued as an expression of ingratitude. Otherwise, Ami is gonna retaliate by bringing up all the grammar and sentence errors I've been committing in this blog. X_X

Be that as it may (have I been using the proper transition words and phrases?), I enjoyed my stay inside the Whore House. It's where I spent Valentines (Valen-what??). Let's skip that part.

I'm gonna miss that God-forsaken house. With Jidai always sleeping (she slept for almost 48 hours); Pheyth always awake (she never slept for four straight days!); Ami middling (always the Mither Harlot) and cooking us really good food; and Kimmy visiting us once in a while to check if we haven't tried killing or groping each other yet.

It's kind of ironic that the house is called "The Whore House" and yet no one, including me, has been getting any (except maybe for Pheyth; yeah, that girl has got it plenty!).

The Not-So-Distant Future

It's looming over the horizon, coming closer in such a fast pace like the date for our Thesis Final Defense (uh-oh! which reminds me, I've lost my soft copy and my hard copy is nowhere in sight). The future is imminent and doesn't mind any of your excuses for not being ready for it. It's frustrating and mortal-becoming to know that there are things in life that you can't control, i.e. time.

Pretty soon, I'd be graduating (hopefully as Cum Laude - if I can't have Skinny Boy then at least let me have this one...although giving me some cute high school kid would do, as well) and then I'm gonna have to go find a job. I still don't have any plans for my future. But I do know that I wanna teach. I've always loved teaching (and not just because there's kids involved). I could probably go do that some place else; be away from Iligan in a longer span of time; away from the mistakes I've done in this provincial city; away from the mindful eyes of those I respect; and maybe, just maybe, away from the guilt and regrets?

But a part of me still wants to stay and stand watch. A considerable part of me wants to continue hanging out with the people I've grown to love who haven't left this place. At the same time, a significant other part of me wants to be with the other people whom I also love (like the dorks in Cebu, for example) and who are across the seas. But I've learned to love so many people. Generally, I'm a people-lover (why else do I like going out of the house?). If only I could bring all of them with me in my future.

So in toto, that Cebu trip, by far, was the best thing that has happened to me this year (it's still February, anyway). Last year, it was Monette's wedding. But I should probably tell you another one of my many motives why I was determined to go (back) to Cebu: to change the memories I left there. The last time I was in Cebu, I came back to Iligan in a gloomy mood, with a broken heart, and with nothing but an arsenal of depressing love songs at my disposal.

Now, looking at the remains of the blue nail polish that night when Ami and I decided to do girly stuff (this includes gossiping), I've finally evened that sad memory with happy and lighter ones (and someone's 36 photos belong to this category -- inside joke, don't bother figuring out why this one's funny). But that doesn't mean I no longer listen to those depressing love songs anymore...

hello, negligence...

2010-02-09T01:26:00.000+08:00

It's weird how the human drive can run out of fuel every now and then; how we lose our momentum once in a while. Take me, for example. I thought I was on a roll: updating this blog twice, thrice the past week. Until I felt like I've done enough for now and started saying to myself, "what harm could a little negligence do?". And so here I am, finding it real hard to get back on making a new blog post. A lot like new-born Bambi with his scrawny fawn legs wobbling. I'm wobbling. My mind is wobbling. No, wait. Scratch that analogy.

Lately, I've noticed that this blog is filled with posts that are loaded with negative emotions, i.e. bottled grief, veiled anger, unsatiated desires, and the like. And then I realized that I've been bitching and sulking way too much these past couple of months and that this blog needs a breather: a post that says "my life isn't as bad as the scorned blogger in me has made it appear to be". Maybe it's because people respond more to tragedies rather than joys and have the tendency to over-sensationalize these circumstances for (forced) catharsis (*guilty*...well it's too late for me to be saying that now). But, there are actually a lot of things that I ought to be thankful for. So all worries regarding "Bubu Ching2x" (i. loathe. her.) and "Skinny Boy" will just have to be put on the backseat for now.

The Short Story Class

Since I only have my undergraduate thesis to worry about this sem, I started attending Prof. Ortega's The Short Story class (Wednesdays and Fridays). It's fun -- almost as fun as mooning over highschool kids. And listening to the 2nd year students's take on each story and taking part in the discussion is always a treat.

Even if I've already taken the subject before, I still get confused once in a while as to how I'm gonna go about in answering Prof. Christine's questions (c'mon self! give justice to your 1.25!). There always seems to be something new in each lesson. But nonetheless, the class is still, undoubtedly, a lot of fun. After all, I am literature's persistent lover (even if it doesn't love me back).

Everytime I sit-in (or is it seat-in?) on this class, I get a pang of nostalgia and I get reminded of my old classmates and of my old younger self three years ago: oily-faced (so oily you could fry an egg right on my forehead!), pimples abound, hair double its current size, physique as skinny as my pinky. I'd upload a picture of my 17-year-old self but I'm afraid I have "opened myself up to ridicule" more than enough in this post. Yes, for me, puberty stayed a lot longer than it should have (and even now, it still lingers).

This class is nostalgic. And all of a sudden, I empathize with the character in Milan Kundera's novel, "IGNORANCE", when she no longer viewed time as the present engulfing the future but as the present slowly being taken away by the past where the roads are confused with new roads and with jeepneys whose routes have been changed. The past gradually dragging thethen-present farther and farther along with it, causing me to vaguely remember once-precious moments.

The (Family) Trip

I've never been on an out-of-town trip with my relatives before until just a few weeks ago when we decided to go to Dapitan and try to "bond" while being cramped up in a van on our way there and back as we travel with the cold crying weather that makes you think of sweating as a faraway notion and of humidity as something that's nonexistent.

Who would've thought that some place as boring-sounding as Dapitan could have such fun-inspiring places as Dakak, Gloria's Fantasy Land (lumalaban, by the way), and the whole Rizal thing?!

All throughout the trip, as the eldest child (my titas and my cousins were there too), I was possessed by a certain spur-of-the-moment responsibleness (yes, I am aware that it's not a word) and acted out as the dependable and easy-going kuya. I know. I, too was surprised at myself. Speaking of surprises, my brother (Marc), wasn't there of course. He stayed home with his solitary emo self, content with playing PSP and PS2 games over and over again (okay so this isn't really a surprise; this is typical Marc behavior). I sure wish we could take Lolo Ludo and Lola Edith with us on our next getaway. They deserve to have a break.

We don't always have to take it to the streets: Debate

Never get into a conversation with me 'coz I could get really chatty (if you think I talk too much in my blog because I rarely ever talk in person, you're wrong)...But when it comes to debating international issues, you can take the floor all to yourself and I won't even try to rain on your parade. But during the recent Mindanao Parliamentary Debate Championships (MPDC) which our school hosted, even if I haven't matter-loaded enough for the competition, I found out that there are still things that I can say about certain motions like the ones regarding Afghanistan and the Taliban groups. That was our quarter-final motion and we lost against XU. I'd like to think that it wasn't because I had nothing to say. It was because the responses of our team came out too late (and this is supposed to make me feel better?).

But even so, being the Top 5 breaking team in the competition suffices as a pat on my back. A pat that says, "I know you can do better", and "not bad", and that "you'll get 'em next time". Besides, I finally got in the Top 10 Tournament Best Speaker list and got a medal so it is not that bad should this be my last debate competition before I graduate.

And of course there's also this kid...

*another "K" to add to the pile...lol*

P.S. I haven't actually seen Bambi yet. And click image to view larger size.

all because of yesterday...

2010-01-05T22:39:00.010+08:00

Just yesterday, my mom found out that I lost my watch. That very same day, I found out she's been reading my blog. That's how she knew about my missing Tissot. And luckily enough, she didn't go ballistic over it. I guess knowing that my clumsy self lost it was better than what she probably had in mind: me handing it over to the nearest pawnshop.

I know my mom has these crazy ideas about how "lost" I am, but this isn't how things used to be between us. She used to trust me. But over time, that trust was slowly eroded by suspicion. Now, if something is wrong in this house, say, a furniture got broken, or there was something missing (which later turned out to be misplaced) like cash or any gadget, I became the default suspect. They automatically assume that I am the source of all evil in this household. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy their twisted revere towards me as the resident bad-ass Jimmy Conway but sometimes, it just gets to me. Like Coco Martin's sex appeal (I get it, Coco: you're hot. Come to bed already!).

Like yesterday, she wanted me to take a drug test. She thought I was into shabu. Oh, for the love of God! Can she get any more paranoid than this?! Apparently, she didn't want to bank too much on my "No, ma. I'm not taking any drugs" reply. Would it hurt you to believe in me, mother?

On some level, I do know that maybe this might just be her way of expressing her concern for me. I appreciate it. It's a bit touching, I must say. It may be psychotic and leaning towards insulting but still, it's a teensy bit touching.

But that's alright. I want to take that drug test. I want her once again to know how wrong she is about me. I have no secrets on that department. And if you think about it, with her knowing about the lost watch and all (I've been making up a lot of excuses everytime she asked me why I wasn't wearing it), now I have no more secrets to keep.

I remember the last big secret I had. I kept it for about three years. I deceived someone, made up intricate stories, and learned to concoct excuses just to cover up those technicolored lies (yes, I'm that good). I was the boy who cried wolf; only older and, well, gayer... x_x You would not believe how far I've come with my deceitfulness. It's a wonder why I wasn't a poet. I kept thinking these immoral efforts were for a higher purpose: to make someone and myself happy. My chest felt heavy with love, treachery, and guilt. I blame Ami for making me remember this. It amazes me how one memory entails both good and undesirable emotions. That's how dangerous my secrets were.

They were all about lies. And I never stopped making them and I never said anything about them because I thought there'd be enough time to undo them. I thought that maybe in the future, when the victim had already gotten used to it, I could just as easily say "Don't stop loving me now" and we'd all just laugh about it while having a romantic finish: us riding off into the sunset. Just like the movies. Just like the cartoons (I told you I'm the gayer boy who cried wolf x_x).

But no. Secrets always find a way to make themselves known. They are hungry for exposure. Exhibitionists, that's what they are. And once they're out, more often than not, they attract justice and yes, consequences.

But now my chest is devoid of (major) secrets. No lies block my superior vena cava anymore and thus my blood is free to circulate properly and nourish the rest of my body. This might just be the very reason why I'm fat now. And I couldn't be happier with my body. This is what I've always wanted for so long. But much like the lyrics of a song, "I'm all meat but I still have a heart" and that heart, even if it's one major secret short, yearns for the love I lost sometime last May. It took me a lot of time to recover from that heartache. That was when I learned the hard way that abstract things can be so unfair. Love is unfair. Even I (again, big thanks to Ami) was unfair.

I got so depressed and was convinced that I would never recover from it until...I had a great day not too long after that. I found out that my ability to laugh hadn't been fazed out; that my talent of not being unhappy for too long is still in tact; that there are still many great days up ahead and the world never runs out of them.

But I'm a masochist and so sometimes I like to pretend that love songs are written after my love story. And so I'm stuck here listening to love songs because I feel like being in love at the moment.. And for that to work, I try to reminisce about my most recent love interest to go with it. It's like eating fries. It's not complete without the sundae. They go together. Just like sadness and happiness. Black and white. Frankie and Johnny. Me and "Mmmmm" (huh? O_O?)...

So to you and that friggin' drug test, Mom: BRING IT ON! (*taunts like Tekken's Xiaoyou*)

never been happier

2009-12-29T11:55:00.009+08:00

My friend Monette (21) tied the knot with Khalil (24), her boyfriend for over four years, last December 27. People's reaction with the highest frequency was: "Is she pregnant?". Well, if you must know, she isn't. Apparently, people CAN still get married without the bride getting knocked up first. With marriages like this one, we might just be able to breakaway from the ongoing trend of having children out of wedlock. But that's a long shot.

[click on image to view full size]

Monette has always wanted to marry Khalil even before she graduated in college. He was her first (and now, most probably her last, too) boyfriend. I bet a lot of girls (and gays?) would want to be in her pretty pumps.

As someone who spent a lot of time with her in school back in the day, what with us belonging to the same clique called "primaryang amega" and all (see her blog post entitled "THE TESTIMONIAL") I got really excited for her. You would've known if you noticed how restless I had been these past couple of weeks.

But I'm not really such an avid fan of marriage (the ceremony takes too long and you have to slip yourself into some uncomfortable Sunday's best attire -- not to mention the gift!) but I still want it to exist "out there" to know that relationships have destinations; that there are no dead-ends; that they're actually going somewhere. No matter how much I say "carpe diem"; that I live for the moment, I can't help but be concerned about what's in store for me beyond the realm of the now. And so planning, however "organized" that connotes, is something that I can't ignore (no matter how messy my room is). Maybe it's not really planning since I rarely map out every single step but maybe it's "picturing the goal". I do that all too well, the imaginative person that I am (you'd be surprised how my knack for imagery has done me wonders). This marriage is important to control the cynic in me (thank you, parents and people like Justin -- special mention). The reason why I was so hyped up with the them-getting-married thing is because that would mean the other members of "primarya" would be there. That's why ever since the holidays started, I've been throbbing with delicious anticipation for them to arrive.

Excitement always leads to tears (Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things). But with them, this isn't the case. They manage to transcend and become exemptions to the ruling human dogmas such as those.

But when the wedding was over, when it was time for my friends to leave, while I was watching them sleep in my bed, knowing they'd wake up soon and get ready for their trip back home from whence they came, it felt like someone just crumpled my heart. Let me be clear, the most important thing for me is friendship. My family, they're only on top of the list because of obligation (this does not mean I don't love them). They're supposed to be top priority. But with my friends, it's unconditional. Pure love. Fillers of the void that's in need of romance.

Tonight, I'm gonna have to sleep alone in my bed. No Devie. No Syrah. No Mai-Mai. No primarya. Just me. All I have is the thought that during their stay here for Monet's wedding, before they (and my batchmates) graduated ahead of me, I've never been happier.

the Christmas mutiny

2009-12-24T21:32:00.004+08:00

For this Christmas, my dad sent us a package (he RARELY ever does this) containing gifts for each of us.

We all got money to buy new clothes and stuff but my younger siblings (Vaughn Dovanne and Mari Leigh Zyalcy) also received new cellphones (they're only in elementary for crying out loud. What could they possibly need cellphones for??) and a PS2. My brother Marc and I each got a box of David Off: Cool Water products. I would've been alright with just that. But Marc was given another extra cash to have his cellphone repaired (funny, there wasn't this much fuss when my N95's LCD needed fixing. Had to wait for four months to finally get a new phone) and on top of that, he received a PSP of his own. Just great. Now I'm the only one in the family who doesn't have a PSP. x_x

So let me get this straight, they're prematurely giving my younger siblings more money to buy gadgets they don't even need but I, the one who has always given them straight 1s (okay, maybe except for a few subjects like French and History), who actually is in dire need of contact lenses (I don't even feel confident hailing jeepneys anymore coz I can't make out their signboards) they shun and turn frugal on? You have a very weird punishment-and-reward system going on.

Is this because I'm not straight, dad? Am I punished because of my sexuality? You used to find this cute when I was six. I'm sorry I grew up and became susceptible to malice.

I can't be contended knowing that my other siblings are getting more. I'm greedy. I never grew up to be contented with just a "thank you".

So much for being king in this household. This is an uprising! A mutiny! There is a greater-power involvement. My seat of power is in jeopardy. I'm not giving it up without a fight.

It's a good thing my old classmates are finally here in Iligan (the others are still on their way). I miss being around them. I'm not even excited about Christmas. I'm more excited about spending time with them. I hope they still have their less mature selves with them; the ones that laugh at the most trivial jokes; jokes that I am often a contributor of.

Sorry Christmas, but my friends' being around just kicked your butt!

Happy Christmas, still!