Resigned.

Tinamad na kong mag-blog. Seryoso.

Kitams, tagalog na ang post na ito. Kasi nga, tinamad na ko.

Salamat sa mga links ko at sa mga commenters ko. Si Utakgago’y di mawawala, uhh, magpapalipas-oras lang. Lam nyo na, magmumuni-muni. Basta, bahala na si Batman. Sa mga kabarkada’t kaklase ko na nagbabasa ng blog na ‘to: mabuti’t nakilala nyo kung ano yung ‘deeper’ na katauhan ko! Amf. Parang ang lalim! Puta, parang di ako to.

Sa mga kapatid kong gurang (isang trenta’y tres at isang trenta’y uno - parehas babae at parehas na nasa US) - salamat sa patagong pagbabasa ng blog ko. Grabe, alam ko namang binabasa nyo to kahit na pinagbabawal ko kayo, diba!!

Sa kuya ko, bahala ka na sa buhay mo. HAHAHAHA. Joke!

At sa lahat ng bloggers, at mga Paulinians, at sa mga hindi ko kilalang nagbabasa ng blog na ‘to dahil trip lang: salamat. Naka-ilang visits din ako. 28,065 ang huli kong bilang. For almost 5 months, wow. Achievement. WordPress is really better than Blogger [anong konek nun, pare?]!

Anong balak ko sa mga pyutur na araw? Magbasa. Maghanap ng ibang mapagkaka-abalahan. Nakakatamad ring mag-blog no! Isipin mo, araw-araw mong ipapakilala sa madla kung sino ka. Nakakaburat talaga! Hahaha. Kaya eto, medyo lutang ata ako ngayon pero hindi na MUNA ako mag-bloblog. Pansamantala, baka matagalan. Kung mag-bloblog man ako, hindi nyo na ko kilala.

I mean, hindi ako magpapakilala.

Muli, salamat sa mga naging parte ng blog na to.

At kita-kits sa susunod na Blog Parteeh, promise - walang biguan! Tutal magkokolehiyo na naman, kaso sa LB. Hanglayooo. Laguna. Pero balita ko, kulang pa ang sampung tao para yumakap ng isang puno dun. Tsaka sagana ang night life! At frat! Wooohooo! At tambakan raw ng sandamakmak na chicks na makalaglag-brief.

Ewan ko ba kung totoo.

Kay Jun Mark at Brian, LB tayo ha! Hehe, sila yung mga tiga-St. Paul Bocaue na makaka-LB ko. Lolz, wala lang.

Ayun, sige. Tama na to.

Doctor.

Seatmate’s been cheating all the time, and I’ve had enough of her. Either she’d change her answers, or she’d multiply her score by two just to perfect a quiz. She’s smart, yet I can’t figure out why she does that all the time.

A professional doktor.

In terms of assignments (read page blah-blah and answer the activity sheet below); I cheat. I don’t have much patience just to munch a story and force it to materialize in my mind. With seatworks, quizzes, Unit or Periodic Tests; I’m not a cheater. The fact that the subject teacher roams around and might cause me a demerit wouldn’t be nice at all. Hehe.

I somehow wanted my seatmate to be guilty of what she’s doing, but I just can’t. Hindi ka ba natatauhan sa mga ginagawa mo? I asked her. Hinde. I’m not surprised. As graduating students, we’d do everything to pass a subject. Pretty soon, she’ll learn her lesson.

-

Last year, millions of the texting population switched their Sim carsds to Globe: thanks to their Unlimitext promo, it gave Ederlyn and everyone a chance to text all day long. Smart users dissipated; I haven’t heard someone using a Smart Sim nowadays.

Yesterday, Globe switched its 15 pesos a day to 20 pesos. 80 pesos for four days.

Will I switch to Sun or what?

Revivals.

Nowadays, the Filipino music scene’s been powered by local bands (and not to mention, those pop singers). They have their vocalists, their own style of expressing their lyrics, strumming guitars and the chords, implementing various genres to every piece of their songs: it became an addiction that influenced the youth of today. Nothing’s wrong with rock; except if you consider Cueshe and Shamrock a ‘rock’ band: then there’s something wrong. Wait, don’t tell me - Join The Club is a band!!

To commemorate those long-forgotten bands, the bands of today made revivals. But instead of reliving the natural essence of the song, the trying-hard bands end up destroying the song. A massacre.

6Cycle Mind’s Prinsesa, for me, is a total waste.

Well, I have no comment about those APO songs since I’ve never loved their songs.

The E-heads revivals? Baaad. Not only did it gave fuel to the fire with the issues regarding Ely Buendia and the good old bandmates, but it’s a total catastrophe to hear a song murdered. MYMP’s ‘Huwag Mo Nang Itanong’ is somewhat a two thumbs up for me (though I still hate the drama-ish effect). But Barbie’s revival? Tss. That girl’s totally busted.

Before doing revivals, are they asking the permission of the so-called ‘owners’ of the songs? And after they made their own rendition, are they asking the original maker with regards to the execution of the song? They must. I wonder what would ‘The Teeth’ say to 6Cycle Mind with their ‘Prinsesa’.

Talking To Thyself.

A year of blogging. After reading those past posts (April, or even February of last year) - I’ve gotta tell you those posts are irritably, and regrettably, depressing. I’m even ashamed to admit that it’s mine, but who the hell cares about it? Maybe this blog needs a lot of refurbishing; but hey - I don’t need to please the crowd at all since this is uhh - my blog. Yes! My sincerest apologies to readers who insists to change the way I write, somehow raise it to three or more notches. Yes, you are in pain and disappointed. I’d rather not comply with your request rather than to try hard writing a post that would contain delinquency, schloss, flustered or even priapic. Hehe.

I suck at verb tenses, with the subject and verb agreement, with the correct word usage (too tired to use a Thesaurus to find the precise word), and the list goes on. I don’t even know if I’d use were or are, is or was. It confuses me a lot, but I’d rather choose this as a hobby (or even a career) than logarithms and arc tangents.

I imagine you telling yourself, this guy’s fifteen and nuts. Cocaine? Possible.

Blogging is telling yourself that your life’s worth-recording, or the way you write could somehow change the world (feed the poor, world peace). Worth the time and money. But how can you think of something to blog if your life’s senseless? Or boring? The last poem I’ve written last year talks about a prostitute! See?

Another thing, sorry if this blog can’t talk about love. After my recent (?) break-up with my ex-girlfriend (that was last May 1, nagtalo kami  habang nag-rarally sa Labor Day), I told myself to lock my heart and throw the key. I’m also sorry for not giving comments with love posts, or love poems, or love quotes. But if you want to talk about me and you, then you should add me up at Y!M. Then, you’ll realize that I am a boring person.

Yes, I’m graduating! I wonder how my life would spin while I am studying in College; as of now, UP Los Banos would be my choice (it might change, but that’s roughly five percent). I wonder if I’d still blog at those days, imagining myself being kidnapped while carrying my laptop inside a bus travelling from Bulacan to Los Banos. So I need a second-hand car, driving lessons, a student’s license.

I’m spraying mucus over the laptop screen, sneezing. I’m sick. 

Anyway. Seniors rule the Intrams! Yehhh, and we won all ball games! Prom’s near! My birthday’s near! Graduation’s near!

(Still reading ‘The Good German’ by Joseph Kanon, chapter 13, page 326. I’m such a slow reader!)

The Book And The Cover.

For the nth time, I gave a wrong answer to a question who could test a man’s capability of loving someone. Yes, I know that loving a girl isn’t about physical appearances - on how she dresses herself, her twirly hair and the way she walks. But it’s about the deeper personality, right?

Ano ba ang hinahanap mo sa isang babae?

Ako? Maganda, chinita, makinis, blah.

Am I too materialistic to consider girls as if they were Barbie Dolls? No. I just made the wrong answer. As mind-readers would say, if a man happens to answer that question with the physicals, the man is either: a dimwit, or looks at the physical appearance first.

No, not the Melanie Marquez saying - his brother is not a book, so don’t judge him.

Everytime I’d go inside a jeep, I would look at the passengers thoroughly. The watch, the hairstyle, every single piece of material they wear at the moment. Like a baggage checker on those airports, scanning. And vice versa, of course. They would measure me with my looks.

Once, I’m wearing cargo shorts, a black t-shirt, a black cap that seemed like hiding my face, and slippers. I gave my payment to the girl sitting next to me, but she refused to. Deadma. The fact that we’re the two remaining passengers, why not help me? So I went all the way near the driver and gave my fee, and stared at her with disgust, noticing her pig-tailed hair; maybe a Cadet Officer. Maybe she thought I’m a kidnapper or something, since I’m wearing a cap yet it’s almost dark.

Sometimes, it might be helpful for a couple of instances. A snatcher might not follow you all the way to the carpark because of your beggar-like appearance.

Well, could you blame people for judging someone by its cover?

Or is it just natural?

-

Weather’s crazy. The temperature’s for December, yet it’s almost February. What’s happening?

Finger-combed Solitarian.

So the Blog-parteeeh’s victorious. And I didn’t join the occasion since Bulacan’s too far from Makati? Though I’m familiar with Makati and its mind-numbing west-to-east streets, I decided not to go. We had Saturday as an extension for our Intrams. High School students must have been banned there (kidding). Anyway, congrats to the bloggers who made it. Envy. I’m so jealous. The fact that Billycoy is there! (I don’t care about Hener, I’ve seen him months ago in UST.) And Bulitas, and Benj! All star-studded people. And Ade, and other uhh, bloggers. And the Krispy Kreme. Aww.

Anyway, we’ll see each other in the near future.

For now, I’m still depressed with the fact that I can’t finish a single Solitaire game. Though the game doesn’t have any connection with numbers (the way I see it), but the logic! I can’t just match the figures. Oftentimes, I overlook those cards. What’s happening? Maybe I’m just distracted with my cousin trying to pester me. You know, linking me with a girl. And blah-blah. But still, why can’t I finish a single game! I could finish a Sudoku for like, nine minutes (depends with the difficulty of the game) or less! But with this game, I’m always busted.

Another thought: I’ve asked myself, when was the last time I combed my hair with a real comb? Maybe years ago. I go to school with an unkempt hair - rugged, somehow disordered. I’d comb my hair with four fingers (without my thumb) and voila. Ulam na. [Haha, kidding] But really, I seldom use a comb to decorate my hair with a wax; oftentimes I use my bare hands. It’s more artistic, isn’t it?

And to think that my Dad’s bald, he actually hates seeing a comb in the house.

That’s it. I’m done with my post. Still on page 280-something with Kanon’s The Good German. I’m not yet sleeping, urghh.

Baygonlover.

After I filed my blog leave, my router had one of its irregular mood swings. For four days, the Internet connection’s gone: my blog leave upgraded itself into an Internet leave, causing me to sleep earlier than planned. Quite beneficial. I admit that I panicked like a father finding a lost child, yeah, that feeling of addiction, the surge, the loneliness without it. Well, the router needs rest so I turned it off (for the second time since we bought it) for a whole day. And it worked again.

Like what Arnel says, yes, I am preparing for a new post.

Intrams was fun, after my right hand swollen from pressing the ice cream scoop and scorching my skin in the heat of the sun. Dealing with those elementary students was nasty, since they’re the top buyers of our ice cream booth. We earned 7700 for three days. Half of it for the school, half is for our club fund. Servitude’s something without a salary. Too bad. But the Intrams, great. Except that the most-watched event - Baseball - the Juniors overthrown the Seniors. Mga bading kasi, asa ng asa sa walk. But since the fight’s a double-elimination, they’ll eat dust. Red scumbags.

The newest sport on town, the Basketball Girls. Violations are adjusted, such as the five-step travelling. The game’s actually boring; those girls pinning themselves as topnotchers in backcourt violation, yet their three-point shots were totally unexpected. Nice. Volleyball’s pretty cool. My classmate was actually screaming, not of winning, but inside the clinic: with the nurse cleaning her injured leg, as she defines it: putangina, mas gusto ko pang ma-operahan. She did a nice shove.

With the rides: the Octopus - definitely an appetite-destroyer pero sobrang astig. The way I put it, it’s like “the last ride of your life”, since it’s damn great. You spin and rotate like whirlwinds in the air, you bounce, and the speed’s great! Catterpillar’s too boring, and the flying elephant must be for kids: pretending they don’t fear heights but ending in a disaster of throwing up their lunch.

As the Paulinian Prism (our school paper) layout artist, I am assigned to plot those sports articles and publish three or more copies for the Intrams Issue and the Editor-in-Chief would paste them at the canteen, the lobby, the gymnasium, and so on. And once again, servitude’s for free. Without salary. Yet my almost-numb right hand and my brain clasping like cymbals, vibrating thoroughly inside my consciousness, stressed, and being worried and occupied with so much things: it’s worth it. I enjoyed the Intrams, of being a Senior wherein the Freshmen would tell, hoy, may dadaan. Privileges.

Uhh, the Sophomores won the Cheering Competition. We’re second. Why? We helped the Sophies just to lose those Juniors. We are so busted. All the while, I enjoyed eating nachos. Prom’s near (either Feb 5 or 9).

And I passed USTET. It’s Psychology. And I’m waiting list in Journalism. Sayang, Journ pa mandin gusto ko.

Blog Leave.

I deserve to be on a blog leave. With reasons, of course.

• This week’s hectic.
• Judgment weeks for Entrance exams.
• Merry-making.
• Something. That is, private.

I got a DPWAS course in UP Los Banos. It’s an unexpected case actually, since I just scanned a single reviewer last summer for the Entrance Exams. I got frustrated with the fact that I can’t even answer a single Math question, which my Dad tells me, is natural for our blood. At least, we’re better in English.

And to think that I got a single Merit Card for my whole High School life.

The letter of confirmation coming from the UST, well, it’s not yet arriving. A classmate’s been discouraging me that I haven’t passed the USTET. (Not to brag, but it’s easy compared to ACET and UPCAT.) And she’s been demoralizing me.

Hope she’d be somewhere in hell.

Good grief.

I have decided.

Inuman na! 

Distorted, Twisted.

We were sitting at the sixth pew from the altar. I am a towering five-foot-ten among those devouts. The humongous crucifix (with Jesus Christ) hangs at the center of a huge marble frame. Well, everything’s big and tall in an almost-cathedral. Trapped candles in glass holders, the dusty red carpet stretching up to the entrance. The choir loft singing behind us, almost twenty feet away. Chandeliers with spiderwebs swaying at its slowest pace, the speakers loud, electric fan humming.

Salmong tugunan, awitin po natin.

You happened to know my religious confusion, my instability as a Catholic, and my work in the church as a choir member (a requirement for Graduation: the so-called Parish Involvement). I am glad that you’ve respected my insights and opinions about the Church itself, about God’s authenticity, and my doubts and unanswered questions. Yet, I am still confused. I am searching for a truth with evidence. A powerful one. Not an innate truth (wherein you were baptized as a Catholic so you believe in God), not a Bible-based one, but a real one.

Awakened by the off-tune voice of the cantor singing the Responsorial Psalm, my mind was knocked out by thoughts of yesterday. My Mom would tell me that God made my meals. Diba, niluto mo yan? Yet, she insists that God cooked my meals when I was five. Curiosity killed my faith.

“Bakit nyo po ako hinahanap?” tanong ng Diyos. Ito ang pinakaunang salita na nasambit ni Hesus sa libro ni Lukas. At ito’y napakaimportante.” Says the priest.

The scripted sermon. At the left side of the altar, a big white tarpaulin that displayed the sermon of the priest. Decorated with the necessary pictures for an illustrative effect, made from MS PowerPoint, ran by mouse-clicks, and transmitted through a projector. It’s colored, and an eye-catcher for those sleepyheads.

I tried to read the Bible when I was in Grade Four. As usual, the story of Creation. The first few chapters of Genesis. By the time Eve ate the apple and gave it to Adam, I closed the book and quit reading. For me, it’s a pure myth. So I just listened to my Christian Living teachers until Third Year. Then, I lost my faith. And I have no time to find it.

Comparing with the 90’s, the population of church-goers dropped. I could see several rows vacant. Even the choir population, from thirty-something to ten or eleven. Somehow, I am bothered by the present situation of the Catholic church. People were busy nowadays, so they need rest on Saturdays and Sundays. Alibis were made, until it became their habit. Finally, they declare themselves as an inactive member of the Church.

I believed God not because I want to, but because I am forced. For my brain, believing something without a proof is an irrational thing.

Thank yourself that your brain functions well. Mine’s not.

After the communion, I headed straight to the entrance door and replied those silly text messages. We’re not yet dismissed by the priest, since he is currently dictating the statement of accounts made by the Church. Yes. It happens almost every week, or twice a month. The PowerPoint would display the salaping nakalabas and the salaping nakapasok (sorry, I suck at translation). The crowd, as usual, waits impatiently.

Dapat diyan sa mga statements na yan, pinapaskil na lang sa labas. Said by a man behind me. Pampatagal lang yan eh.

The latest gossip in the church is the Holy Water Fountain. I wonder if someone stupid would drop a coin there.

After the dismissal, I quickly stayed away from the church and told myself not to sit at the front rows. Ever. My curiosity cracks my head once again. Well, what I fear the most, is the afterlife.

Before you comment, the following statements above were based from my own opinions. I respect your opinion, so please do respect mine.

Weird Searches.

My site’s turning into a condom shop, or something like a porn site.

WordPress has informed me of these weird searches. The third search was weird. The fourth - is about cockroach. And those vulgar Filipino words! Condom. Condom flavors. Sex. Though, I am not disappointed. I even laughed at the search ‘how to delete friends in Friendster.’ Hahaha!

This is a proof, a living testimony, that the world is continuously exploited by forbidden languages: vulgarity, sex. As of today, youthful minds were exposed to Sam Milby and Anne Curtis. Somehow, it will urge children to do the french kiss with an ice cream, just to know how it tastes like. Teenagers engaging in pre-marital sex. Live-in couples. No, I am not against the act. Go on and indulge life to the fullest, it’s none of my business anyway.

Kung ano pa yung ipinagbabawal, yun pa ang ginagawa.

Cable operators spearheaded the creation of one of the newest channels in TV: Midnight Sessions. It features bold movies; Indian, Arabian, Pinoy. Anything under the sun. Friendster became a nesting ground for nude people, submitting dirty testimonials, displaying cellphone numbers, describing themselves as hot and luscious. Good thing, Yahoo Messenger implemented a strict age limit for chatrooms. But teenagers were too clever: they make new accounts, faking the age, and everything. FHM, Maxim, and other hair-raising magazines were available at bookstores. If below the age required, your Dad will buy for you. Cigarette sticks and liquor would always be available at sari-sari stores, nationwide. And I advise you to buy condoms at 7-11 for safe sex.

(I repeat: I am not against those actions. I myself do some of those things.) The generation today has freedom. And as the elders say, we abuse it.

 -

All of these were infestations of - what? Forbidding people to know something urges them to crave for it. They must know it. Why would it be forbidden, in the first place, if it’s not interesting? 

Blame who?

Not me. I’m just a blogger. And I admit, I belong with those teenagers who drink beer. Not smoking, though. All of these is purely opinionated - my point-of-view. Share your thoughts at the comment section.

Predicted Predictions.

I don’t blame DepEd for the stress, really.

I slept for ten hours before the day itself, bidding farewell to eyebags, cooking my own rice in the cooker, guzzling Swiss Miss with Marshmallows to enliven my feeling. I fried Spam and Egg for breakfast, and Spam for lunch. Syempre, may kanin. I filled a tupperware with Chips Ahoy - the chewy one, for recess.* Sharpened not one, but three Mongol pencils.** Took a bath, clothed myself with school uniform, sprayed, dabbed, fixed - the usual morning stuff.

It was quarter to six when I started to walk from our house to McArthur Highway. I refused to go with the school service since it would delay me for around twenty minutes. Winter solstice. Fog was there, and the frigid air loomed around me. The crescent moon basking as the orange atmosphere swallows the darkness. No revving engines, just the muted main street of the subdivision like Avril Lavigne’s - it’s a dark cold night. If you were keen enough, you could’ve remember the empty street around her. Identical with mine.

I hailed a jeep, gave six pesos, and sang All American Rejects’ It Ends Tonight. I’m such a nocturnal boy that I always sing ‘night’ songs.

During my speedy tricycle ride across the fields, my body shivered like what it was in Baguio. Fuckin’ cold. Dewdrops at the tip of every weed, the orange-blue transformation of the atmosphere, the sun rising. And I arrived early.

We started 7:35 and ended up at 2. I’m stuck in the air-conditioned classroom, almost frozen, numb feeling, head floating from the exam. The mock tests conducted by the school were even harder than the actual test, which is good for me. DepEd must be joking. Honestly, it’s easy, except the Scientific Ability part wherein I dived in a pool of experiments. To my astonishment, the Math part was easy. Anyway, the results were more important.

During the test, all I could remember was me humming Green Day’s deafening Wake Me Up When September Ends, Story of the Year’s And the Hero Will Drown, and Paramore’s Franklin, and Here We Go Again. We made fun of our teacher, who came from a nearby school - Sto. Nino.*** The room was filled with boisterous laughing that we were scolded by a supervisor for two times.

I want to thank the Faculty for torturing our youthful bodies into sin-cosine converters, when in fact, not even a trace of Trigonometry appeared in the NCAE. But at least, we are prepared. For their patience, in spite of our sleepiness while discussions were going on. For giving us almost a hundred brown papers as a reviewer, and for the compulsory fee of almost 600 pesos for the review. It was worth it. Better armed, than empty-handed.

After those bloody recap with shitloads of lessons, Intrams is coming!!! Freedom papers plastered at every corner, spilling students’ hate letters or warnings to someone they loathe the most. My organizations were still busy tweaking some wires for the incoming event. Glee Club would be having Dedication Booth, bringing in massive speakers, acting like DJs and playing CDs. Art Club would be working for a Tattoo Booth. YPS would be selling ice cream. Wonderful. Imagine myself riding in the Octopus and the Ferris Wheel, having a henna tattoo on one of my fingers, that’s corny.

But at least, notebooks were temporarily useless.

Hope there’s a Jail Booth. And hope that Seniors would win the Cheering Competition. Go Seniors!

-

* NCAE rules say that once you entered the room for the test, you are not allowed to go outside. We are obliged by the school to bring packed lunch and recess, and water. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring a bottle of water. Good thing, salivary glands are auto-built.

** Still complying with the NCAE rules, a student must use a Mongol #2 pencil. Bring extras in case of twisted fate.

*** Teachers to supervise the students should come from a nearby school. In that case, it’s Sto. Nino. I thought their teachers were extra-strict, and collegiate-looking (read: professor-like) single women with ages ranging from forty to sixty. Worse if wheelchaired or with crutches. I’m wrong. They’re more like twenty-something. Doubtful stability and loyalty when it comes to their job.

Description.

Describe me.

In your own point of view.

In your own words.

Kahit hindi nyo ko kilala, what do you think about me? What are your first impressions about me? At the comments section. Negative, or positive - I don’t care.

Spirited Bicycles.

During a friend’s birthday bash yesterday, we hopped on his BMX outlined with rust. A slightly crooked handlebar, tattered pedals, rotten paint, and the chain left ungreased with a lubricant for years. I suppose, its size fits for an elementary student. All of us (out of six girls, two knew how to do it) were longing for a bike scene amidst the bushes and humps of the local roads. I hopped in first, and my childish spirit went back to life.

I could still remember my first bike. Four wheels; one at the front, one at the back, and two for both sides of the rear wheel. Since I was an inexperienced driver, I need those two little wheels at the back for maximum balance. After months of constant training, I could balance myself. The next bike would be the famous street bike ‘BMX’, for rocky roads, perfect for tropical terrain. The bike was splattered with green and black, with a handlebar, perfect brakes, and fat wheels.

Once, I tried to become a racer with my BMX. The result? Boom. I collided with a garage gate! The impact was nice and hard that the car behind it had scratches. With fear, I picked up my bike and went away. Until now, I still remember that house and it’s good that they failed to recognize my face as I sped away.

I also got my first and last taste of violence just because of the bike.

Due to my extreme generosity, I lent my bike to a stranger and went home walking. He borrowed it, and since I am raised as a kind-hearted boy (sweet), I complied with what he wants. He insisted, so I gave him the bike. I just told him to bring it back (as if he knew my house), and walked away. The next thing I remember, my Dad gripped his belt and smashed me in the butt (where else?). My Mom stopped my Dad and clarified the situation, redeemed the bike, and advised me not to be a Samaritan.

My fear with dogs (though not that intense since it’s not a phobia) increased since my weekly stroll over the neighborhood would always be pestered by stray dogs; mouth bubbling with rabies, hungry for human meat. Good thing, I haven’t lost a single race with those creatures since they end up tired or lost. Haha. With every unfortunate encounter, I make sure to mark those roads as dog-prone zones.

I entered High School and bought a mountain bike. Superb design, thin wheels, lightweight (aluminum alloy), stainless, Shimano brakes (and when you say it’s Shimano, the brake could kill somebody if gripped with maximum force. Either tumilapon ka at mauna ka sa bike or other worse-case scenarios), a gear shifter (whatever the name is), and a flashlight installed infront of it for night journeys.

I’ve enjoyed kicking those dogs who had the guts to follow and run after me (yeah, I kick their heads while biking and they’d stop from running). I buy monay every night for tomorrow’s recess - hamburger. I’ve enjoyed the company of nature: I’d go to Phase Five and look at the lake, and stare at the lighthouse and the sunset. A lovely sight, great for a postcard.

Enough with the story. Those nostalgic memories happened somewhere between 2003 and 2005. Now, the mountain bike has been kept at the basement. I lost my interest with biking. I slightly believe that bicycles have their spirits (sorry for my poor and weird imagination). And somehow, that mountain bike must be weeping for years since I never used it anymore.

One of these days, I promise to hop on it again and relive those days.

-

Just a thought: I’d choose bicycles over motorcycles. Pollution-free, safe, and a fat burner. Those motorcycles even killed a batchmate’s father, and injured a servicemate and a classmate’s brother. Plus, the gasoline. Yet, those street guys would flaunt their junk hoppers along the highway.

Bicycles could be out of place in today’s techno-showdown, but for me - it’s not just a one-of-a-kind invention. But a spirited object whom I treasured much.

The Argument.

Tell me, what are your plans for Nicole?

Do you think it’s injustice?

Heck, do you even think it’s true?

Of Being A Senior.

Lately, I’ve been hating lots of Juniors: those Third Year brats with gels on, axe-shaped numbers on their report card, chain smokers, and certified wannabes. I’d love to shave their heads and tell them - who the fuck are you? We’d meet them in a corridor, in a parking lot, at McDonalds, and would exchange looks with those hateful eyes - their insecurity towards us, their helplessness since for now: that’s the least they could do. Seniors would always be above the Juniors.

-

This week, out batch undergoes page-to-page reviews for the incoming NCAE. We were disappointed that of all batches, we were the unlucky ones to suffer those mind-numbing mock tests, those Saturday reviews, and their expectations. Since the school had garnered one of the highest rankings in the whole Philippines for the past years of NSAT (or NCAT, whatever) - they have been expecting us to do it again. So they pulverize our guts with those Doppler effects, Corpuscular Theory, wavelengths, sonic boom, etc. Well, no one can stop me from loving Physics!

But the Math tests? Those f of x is equals to three cube plus blah-blah? That sucks. But I still passed. [Weh.]

-

With all humility and pride, I got 92 percent in the Math Periodic Test. Yes! Me! Me! Ha-ha, and that was unexpected. Those Third Grading test results were wacky since I got high scores in Economics, Physics, Culinary Arts, PEH and Computer. Hehe, still happy.

-

St. Paul’s week is near. Annually held every fourth week of January, St. Paul’s week paves way to the Intramurals, the Field Demo, the Cheerleading competition, and the booths! Plus those fun rides like the Ferris wheel and such. No classes, pure fun. Last year, I played Monopoly with friends at the canteen and stayed with our Serenade booth! This year, I’d be selling Ice Cream! I hope that our booth proposal would be accepted.

-

What else. My McAfee VirusScan alarmed me with messages: VirusScan detects VBS/Psyme Trojan Horse, and is now deleted. As usual, I panicked since this laptop is my life. I do admit it. And for some reason, I deleted all those P2P and file-sharing programs like Azureus, and the upsilon Torrent. The aforementioned virus does great damage in an infected computer. It downloads more trojan horses. Total chaos.

-

Been addicted to Sims 2, though I find it boring.

-

And like every graduating student would say, I need to make the most out of my High School life. I plan to have inuman sessions and make the wackiest moments. I am proud of saying that soon, I’d see my face printed on the yearbook. Soon, I’d go to United States - not to study for college, though (see ‘My Sacrifice’ post) - but to celebrate my summer vacation with Mom and my sisters, and my Dad, of course.

-

Lastly, I want cookies. (1:59 AM - Friday, January 12) Belated Happy Birthday to Rina! Stay funny.

Insomaniac.

Flesh tablets and lipstick-red capsules were scattered across the floor, probably from a certain container that fell from the queen-sized bed. The bottle failed to put a label, but from what he had seen: it’s a combination of painkillers and sleeping pills. As the investigators analyze the attempted suicide, the man wasn’t breathing. Overdose. Probabilities evolve: the suspect (or victim) probably killed himself out of depression, of failed marriage, of life threats. All the while, they were overlooking the simple answer.

Insomnia.

It was me, but that paragraph was pure fiction. Yet the reality is here to stay.

The grief-stricken mixture of hassle and pressure was too powerful to knock out a fifteen year old. Skipping the normal sleeping time, establishing your own time zone, and going against all normal people - I say, is hard. I eat my breakfast, I go online, I post something in my blog, I do my assignments, I review lessons, I play the guitar and I even daydream during midnight. Adik talaga. Gising sa gabi, antukin sa umaga. Computing on how many hours have I slept for the past days: three, four, three. Weekends would be five, or six. Ten hours would be the maximum: that is - if I crossed out something on my planner.

Uhh, I don’t have a planner. It’s just on my mind.

Right now, my brain wants to tear apart. Like a nutshell emptying its juices in a Pyro-olympic form. I have felt its impact long ago: not seizures, but the constant migraine, spiral eyesight (take it literally, it’s like entering a humongous kaleidoscope - after two seconds, it’s gone.), blurred vision, lost of mind, and the swelling eyebags. But it makes me cute.

When you’re insomniac, everything’s a copy of a copy. I can’t sleep so long. And no, I am not visually impaired (vision is 50 : 0). Mine is parasomnia. Once in my childhood, I experienced sleep-walking. Paggising ko, nasa kusina na ko. So far, that was my last encounter. Another thing, I tend to move my body in response to some events within a dream. Kadalasan nga, dun pa ako nagigising eh.

My judgments are not yet concluded. I am uncertain about it.

They say that sleep, so far, is the most attainable luxury a man can simply indulge. It looks simple to you, but on the other way around, it’s one of the most complicated things I can’t do. I force myself to sleep, but I can’t. I force myself not to sleep during class, but I can’t stop my body from doing it.

I need to sleep. It’s 1:37 AM. January 11. And my class is 6:45 AM.

Gulping Chlorine.

Bubbles.

Coerced by my parents, I attended swimming classes back at Grade 3. In exchange of a twenty-peso daily allowance, I agreed. For a kid like me, it gives me a span of an hour playing at the computer shop. Though I know it was a silly decision. It disrupted my normal summer vacation, lost almost twenty pounds (thus morphing me into a walking stick), and tanned me bronze.

First day, I met Ms. Amy; a teacher for beginners. I joined in with those goggle-eyed kids (younger than me) diving their skulls like whales, gasping for breath as they touch surface. Bubbles; one of the basics of swimming. Breathe in with your mouth, and while underwater, breathe out with your nose.

After a day, she decided to include me with the advanced swimmers - Sir Dailo as our new coach. Tougher, and stricter. He defies fear, yet he wanted to see students to face their fears. Swimming, diving at seven feet, doing those suffocating tricks. After weeks of religious training, my feet became equipped with invisible flippers.

I appreciated every crest of wave that bathed my skin. With synchronization and harmony of leg and arm muscles, I began to sweep away and faced every brave current that was against me. The silence underwater - the pressure in my ears, made me deaf for seconds. Then, I breathe another round. And I’d splash my head back to the water, repeating the cycle.

I can’t swim with my head facing upwards. I need to hold my breath, and drown myself.

Harboring three weeks of existence with the swimming masters increased my self-esteem with water by ten or more notches.

And another life-related philosophy. Life is about facing currents and waves, of drowning yourself, and of touching the surface once again.

Need to hit the sack. It’s 1:14 AM, not yet sleeping. Tomorrow’s post is about the controversial Subic rape case, expecting less furious comments, and appreciating the respect you gave with my opinion with my previous post.

Brain Drain.

I could picture Philippines abandoned by Filipinos themselves, who have grown tired of protecting the country’s beauty and wealth. They have stepped away, leaving the archipelago desolated with rubbles of emptiness and despair. They thought that this nation is a piece of junk, that it has no chance of survival against bankruptcy and economic collapse. Nothing mattered. The future happened somewhere away from here.

I could picture those coconut trees swaying lazily as the sun sets, and millions of Filipinos would thrive everyday at airports. Showing their tickets, getting flights to the Middle East, to U.S. and Canada, to Europe. Philippines would soon run out of patriots. These so-called traitors (a shallow-minded point of view) would leave the country and dig for gold in other continents, looking for a nice virgin soil and be a slave of those foreign races.

-

Our school-service driver happened to talk about migration. His whole family planned to go with their relatives in Saskatoon, some mountainous place in Saskatchewan, Canada.

My former teachers were now teaching in Texas.

Our neighbor’s mother was still in Jordan, despite the past few years of terrorist attacks that scared the family she left - she remained tough.

A certain blogger plans to have his own job at Singapore, crossing his fingers for great offers, and a nice wife.

My Dad’s officemate resigned from his five-year job, and went straight to Dubai to hunt more sacks of wealth.

Mom and my two sisters were in New York, generating dollars for my education (and the luxury, I won’t deny that). And for the house, and for my future car and condo and stuff.

-

In a small-scale survey - almost everyone encountered someone who happened to be an OFW. They balance the peso-dollar exchange rate. They are the modern-day heroes of our country - enduring years of constant working just to send something to their loved one. For them, they’ve thrown all the cards. No options, no choice.

As of now, people are still craving for money. Practicality says it all; rather than to die a martyr begging for cents in a church sidewalk - use your talents, get buffed up, and proceed to the airport. Buy a ticket. Go away from the Philippines and find your luck in some uncharted place, as long as it’s not Philippines and that it’s a perfect spot to get a job. Most of the college students dream not of true service and loyalty to their motherland, but to work somewhere in Canada or Austria.

Over the next generations, I hope that Filipinos would soon go back to their tinubuang lupa.

Are you next in line?

The First Fist Fight.

We fought over empty Irish Spring soap boxes - does this sounds lame? Well, these soaps came from the Balikbayan box shipped last Christmas. Theoretically, when used on Asian skin, it would give you red spots like little birthmarks. As the brand names it Irish, so definitely it’s not for Asians. I swore myself not to use it again.

–

This was our first major fight ever, like rookies on a boxing match who didn’t even know how to punch each other. Foul reasons were explained, and we end up shouting at each other like what happened years ago with my ditse and my kuya. Though a warfreak son, I hate word fights. I’d rather taste blood dripping from my bleeding nose, or feel the weight of someone’s fist in my face. Words are for cowards. (That is an opinion. With girls, words are their only weapons - other than the bitch-slapping and the sabunutan.)

So I sound like Tyler Durden from Fight Club.

Debates, word wars, or muscle-to-muscle fights uses the same law of ethics: to fight for goodness and rationality. Don’t even care if he’s Bill Gates or some sick old puppy, or a fifty-year old father. Even if you’re just a kid, if you know the right thing - you should fight for it. Prove them wrong if you think you’re right. There goes my battling philosophy.

In this situation, Dad questioned my Economics project - which took me six hours to finish. The project is about using indigenous materials to create something new, to promote recycling and waste management: turning useless shits into something useful. I made a mini-cabinet from cartons. And I’ve used Irish Spring soap boxes for my three drawers.

Where are the soaps? Simple. I stacked them at the bathroom cabinet for future use. Ziplocked.

He suddenly shouted at me like some furious demon from the underworld, nose steaming with anger. I don’t know why my father forbid me to use soap boxes for a project, unless they contain some gold from its embossed cover. Or maybe the soaps are sentimental for my Dad since it was shipped by Mom. Either way, being my father, I obediently removed the drawers of my mini-cabinet. I am pissed off. (I even whispered loud for him to hear: Sayang naman. Anim na oras kong pinaghirapan tapos ipapatanggal lang.)

So I called our maid and asked her to buy four soaps at the nearby sari-sari store. Overhearing our conversation, my Dad went mad once again. This time, I fought back. My tongue’s getting irritated from his blabbermouth.

Ba’t magpapabili ka pa? Sayang lang pera mo!

Ano ba talaga gusto mo?

Huwag ka nang magpabili!

Eh anong gagamitin ko para sa drawers?

For the first time, my father and I fought. It felt odd at first, since we got along well - despite 40 years of age gap. Oh well, there’s a first time for everything.

I went straight to my room and delivered all the anger from my fists at my punching bag: my cabinet. For years, it served me as an honest friend, a weight-receiver, and an imaginary face to pour anger. (I even shouted p.i while pounding my fists on it)

–

Before he goes to work, he went to my room and apologized. I happened to be sleeping at my laptop, fists swelling, tired of my father’s irrationality over my six-hour work. The funny thing is, he toppled me with my four drawers and my allowance. By the time I woke up, I installed the drawers.

It happened last Thursday and until today, we haven’t spoken yet. (January 6 - 4:14 AM)

The Bookstore Chronicles.

The asphalt could fry a fresh egg by the time I arrived at the mall, just to buy the required things for my project. I started hating bookstores when I stepped up in High School, swearing myself not to read a single book and let my demented mind last forever. And a while ago, I swore not to step at that same bookstore.

Well, yesterday - I helped this lady who looks for a tracing paper. Boy, alam mo ba yung tracing paper? I paused for a moment and examined my neurons, screening, and manipulating data. Tracing paper is used in wedding gowns, right? And in architectural plans, I suppose. I do remember our neighbor tracing something in that almost-transparent paper. Is that a tracing paper, anyway? Hindi ko po alam eh. Rather than spilling my uncertain answer to somebody else, I’d rather shut up

Later, I summoned her and gave her ten pieces of tracing paper. I’m such a good ‘boy’ - my new name.

On my way to the counter, I got this bad mood over the cashier. She told me that the Faber-Castell color pencils I got has no bar code in it, and got problematic. And if you happened to know me, I’m a brat customer. I hate waiting for something unnecessary. So I made a face just after she gave me the color pencils, and told me - sir, hindi ko pa po napapunch yan.

I ended up going home at around 6:20 PM - experiencing traffic jam. Good thing I bought myself a book - Youngblood 3.

-

Today’s ignorance was at its height when I went back to the same bookstore and searched for a plastic cover. We have this Math project and it’s needed, badly needed. I almost fell dizzy searching for it - staring at those white erasers, whiteboard markers, special paper, ribbons, short folders (I bought some of it), and those students finding a handful of linen paper. (What’s linen paper, by the way?)

I’ve seen this abandoned cutter and at last! A fat roll of what they call ‘plastic cover’. My heart leapt with joy and satisfaction, as I stood still and examined the area. Is this a self-service thing, wherein I need to get a long plastic cover and cut it with a cutter and fold it and proceed to the cashier? That seems wrong, but I did it. Yeah, it was nasty!

Then this young lady from the bookstore asked me: Sir, san po kayo nakakuha nyan?

Uhh, nakalagay lang dun. Kinuha ko na. I lied. My reputation in the bookstore must not vanish just because of this act of foolishness!

Uhh, sir. Ilang meters po yan?

Uhh, kinuha ko lang dyan. I lied. Oh, please stop asking me. Alam ko namang nakita mo ko na ginupit ko nang walang pakundangan diba! Grrrr.

Sir, kuha na lang po kayo dun sa may cashier - naka-roll na po yun tsaka exact na one meter.

MALAY KO BANG MERON SA HARAPAN! Sa susunod, pwede lagyan nyo ng sign yan!

And right now, I’m feeling so embarrassed. According to Jhed, TANGA daw ako. Tanga. Oh, how I hate the word. But it’s true. I’m so stupid! I promise, this whole year, I’ll never ever come back to that bookstore. Ever. Ever! (2:51 AM - January 4)

Starbucks I.

A solemn morning of drinking iced coffee was a great starter.

Just after I stood up was a girl I barely noticed, or let’s say - a girl I forced not to notice. She was sexy, she had the curves. I know her, and it’s positive. The friction dragged me back to my seat, as she fired a glance at me. Now, I’m helpless. The sun is up, yet my world started to crash in humiliation. As she drew nearer, I bowed my head like an elementary student feeling sorry for cheating. I just played with my cellphone, fingers crossed that this would be a short chit-chat.

The twirls of her hair have melted my knees once again.

I held her once again, not with a hug but with hello. At least, rather than fooling ourselves as if nothing had happened.

Probably, I was her worst boyfriend. That self-centered dickhead who would walk with her inside the mall without talking, was me. The television in mute. The bland coffee. The tasteless, the inconsistent, the die-hard rocker yet the strictest boyfriend. Worse, the flirt-boy who knows no boundaries.

We have fought over simple things: over her father’s problem, over a misleading text message, over a band member. Over anything that includes the two of us. From the start of our newly-built relationship, things were in a whirlpool. Spinning faster, getting dizzy, until all’s a blur. Until we fought, spitting cuss words, blaming and cursing each other for our (generally, mine) faults. With my sadistic personality, I haven’t realized that I would always give her a weekly bruise: not a physical bruise, but an emotional imprint in her heart.

Soon, the story ends. The final night happened in an open carpark, with the orange lights on. We argued about my instability as a boyfriend, with my irrational mood swings, and my numbness as a man. I stare blankly as she cried and mumbled her angst as my girlfriend. Her regrets, her pains. She walked nearer and finally, delivered a slap on my face. The disgust. Revenge.

My eyes went bloodshot, as tears fell to my face. I was awakened by the impact of her angry slap. Shocked by her move, like a resuscitated coma victim.

She hugged me for the last time, and I whispered my truthful sorry for what I’ve done. I hugged her tighter and told her that I’d let her go. You didn’t deserve me as a boyfriend.

So I broke up with her. I’ve wounded a precious jewel. I won’t let her be crushed.

I know she needed a break from hell. Hell, happened to be me.

The mocha frappucino plastic bottle fell off from my hands, crushing it with my shoes, telling myself: I’m the blandest coffee ever made. The ice was dominant, and when it melts, the flavor disappears. Indeed, it was true. I am numb, and my whole personality became a stuffed toy. A body without a soul.

-

And the short chit-chat? It was the closure. Not all rock songs end with a bitter story.

The Sacrifice.

Both of us wanted the opportunity.

She won, I lost. I’m the youngest, therefore, I need to fit in a square in a circle. 

While fountains and Luces splash its fiery tongue, while hundreds of festive colors fill the sky, the night failed to captivate me. The earbleeding noise diminished. The winds of change whirled away from me. My plans have been ruined. She wanted to study Nursing, despite her degree in BS Nutrition. My mom chose her. After two years, she could be a family asset - generating income for my studies.

I’ve been a well-bred bunso. I have learned the fact that I must respect their decision.

My plans are totally in pain. Blocks of dreams came rushing down, somehow blaming me for thinking about things that are not to come true. After four weeks, entrance exam results would soon flood my consciousness. With those results, I need to choose one.

I want to study in U.S.!

But then, I have to stay here, and study four more years in College.

My eyes were shrink-wrapped in tears, though I forced myself not to cry. I am slowly learning the fact that the wheel turns upside-down in a swish of a moment. The bloody realizations in life comes hand-in-hand with me last night. My world crumbles as the legendary New Year celebration unfolds. And the countdown begins:

Five. Five more years to spend studying in the Philippines. Of being an independent teenager, of making decisions. To buy a car, to rent a dorm, to choose between this and that. Five more years would be freedom from notebooks, and joining the workforce.

And, five more projects to do before school starts once again.

Four. Senior life, so far: is a one-of-a-kind achievement. Fourth year is the happiest, the most memorable, the kick-ass year of my High School life. I’m looking forward to enjoy the Intrams, the last Prom of my life, the Finals. The judgment day.

Three. Three more months before tossing myself to the skies, screaming and being proud of myself for getting my High School diploma. Three more months to cherish every face, every moment, every teacher I met in my four years of existence in High School. Three more months to reconstruct broken friendships, wasted time, and heal wounds of betrayal and anger.

Two. Two years and I’d be voting, getting a driver’s license, undergoing interviews and filling up forms to renew my Visa once again. Two more years.

One. One chance, one opportunity. Yet, I missed it. I am not destined to get it. I guess, I’ll just let it slip away like a paper swaying away from me. “Swim against the current, let it slip away.”

Boom.

Now, what’s happy in my New Year?

The Parable of The Little Prince.

This New Year, I’d start to make reviews from movies, books, or anything. Uhh, read at your own risk. There are lots of details in this post which you can’t really relate (except if you read the book).

At first, I thought that The Little Prince of Antoine De Saint-Exupery would simply lull me to sleep while unravelling its first page. For one, the book cover illustrates an unprofessional drawing by the author himself: a kid standing in a gray planet with three volcanoes. (Heck, one of it is even used by the Prince for cooking!) Another would be the appearance of the book: the glossy pages, the informal approach of the author to its reader. The drawings inside somehow induced me to consider it a children’s book to be donated elsewhere.

But then, I remember a chatmate last December (her name was Gale) throwing me a quote of this French aviator and author: Saint-Exupery, a name still unknown for me.

“What’s essential is invisible to the eye.”

It could have been derived in this book, so I bought it.

Sure, you find the book weird. (A volcano as a gas stove?) But the content was really heart-warming. I threw away Joseph Kanon’s The Good German for this book, since I could easily digest its content. (As for Kanon, his words were too collegiate.) The first four chapters compelled me to wake up and read more. It’s not the usual book wherein you’d stare in the ceiling for moments and tell yourself that you’re giving up and sleep right away.

The conversation between the pilot in the Sahara Desert (whom I believe, depicts Antoine) and the Little Prince, I thought, would be corny. Similar to those fairytale stories wherein you have no choice but to read the first sentence: once upon a time. But this one’s different.

–

Somehow, children see things we do not see.

In the book, the Little Prince was begging for the pilot to draw a sheep for him. The pilot have tried to, but he sucks at drawing. Instead, he drew a box with holes. With his amazement, the Little Prince bursted with laughter and contentment because inside the box was a sheep, sleeping. They see what’s invisible.

“Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters like what does his voice like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies? Instead, they demand: how old is he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from those figures do they think they have learned anything about your friend.”

The concept of the book (though I’m not yet finished reading it) includes the difference between grown-ups and children. And so on.

A must read for me.

As Of Now.

Saddam’s dead. And I finished John Grisham’s King Of Torts for four months (September 4 - December 30): the result of endless procrastinating and my tight schedules. At least, before the year ends. Haven’t I mentioned that my Dad gave me a book before Christmas, entitled ‘The Good German’, which according to him - would soon be a movie.

For days of being squeezed in my room, I haven’t heard much about the earthquake in Taiwan. I’ve been playing the strategic game I’ve mentioned before, chatting and joining conferences and voice chats until 5 am. And it helped a little with my health, adding up another layer of eyebag.

For this Christmas vacation, I need to do six projects. And I’ve started none of it. At least, I’m done with my Term Paper. Well, I could finish all of the projects except the Economics project: we are required to make a handicraft - made of indigenous materials. May it be a wooden condom, a plastic pencil holder, or anything.

Any suggestions? I’m running out of ideas.

Recently, I went to an optical shop and the result: may grado daw akong 50 sa kaliwang mata, sa kabila naman - 0. Pano kaya nangyari yun? Either I watch movies with my left eye open, or have been reading a book with my left eye only? Huh?

And I’ve been thinking, bakit tumitilamsik ang baboy kapag pinirito?

Okay. Answer my questions, and much thanks to Tina for providing me the answer with regards to the hotdog thing. Now I know.

The Sphere of Influence.

It’s nice to swallow words of persuasion, of creative ideas, and of funny experiences from bloggers. The ever-constant varieties of posts written by people with different lives; a striving mother, a college drop-out guy, a journalist, a High School student. These people I met before.  It has been one year of blogging and the way I see my blog before and after, I somehow enjoyed every single day of my Internet life; the life wherein you turn on your computer after school and rant about the things that pissed you off, or even share your Hittite lessons, or even copy-paste the lyrics of your favorite song!

Yes, I shamefully admit that I did that in the past (maybe once or twice).

I have read Jamaela’s post about ignorance, and Still’s post about being a roughed-up lady (in a slight way). And somehow, their posts ignited my sense of theoretical thinking. And my theory is that we, bloggers, evolve. We depend on other blogposts: we read - learning from their experiences, adapting their writing skills, or even getting ideas for a new post. We influence each other, and day by day - we grow better. We write better.

Wala lang! Nagmamarunong lang.

With regards to my past blog, I’ve read it a while ago. I’ve read my December 27, 2005 post and it was about me and my friends going to Alex’s (a guy, not a girl) house - I could still remember their Mazda 3, their house full of condiments but no food, his offline Ragnarok installed in his laptop, and his bathroom-sized bedroom that only 5 or 6 people could fit in. And that was also the day where I splurged our Greenwich pizza with hot sauce!

The way I see it, it’s not a year ago. It’s like yesterday, but according to the calendar - it was one year ago. And it was. [Haha, ang kulet.] Well, I couldn’t blame humans for deriving a calendar. Though I’ve been asking myself today the question - why is a hotdog shaped like a phallus? Uhh, not a phallus. More decent.

Uhh, why is a hotdog shaped like that? And it’s red! I just wished it was blue. Or orange. Why red? And why that shape? They should’ve made square-shaped hotdogs, or star-shaped. Or free-form, like those hamburgers.

Forgive my curiosity. Just please answer my question.

Wait, is that ringing sound from our phone downstairs?

The Superstar.

To my surprise, the glass cabinet has been unlocked.

This glass cabinet has been locked by my Mom years ago, before she left Philippines for New York. I could see figurines  of angels and souvenirs from weddings and baptismal ceremonies arranged in each shelf, below would be shoe boxes. I thought it contains my Matchbox collection, but I was wrong. It was more than I expect.

A Christmas gift for myself.

Comparing the statistics from the previous seasons of gift-giving, I drown myself with gift-wrapped boxes and pile them like a mountain. Then I’d go to the center of my mountain and would have been feeling great. There would be new toys to play, to throw away, and to destroy. Though, of ten gifts - only one or two survive the test of time. These things, not money - because I do not know how to use money back then - is my contentment.

With my present situation, the place below the Christmas tree is desolated. Vacant, not even a single greeting card or a present. And when I remember those days of being the Superstar of their lives, I want to crumble. I want to face down with knees bent, hoping to relive back those days of tearing down those glorious gifts.

I went to the glass cabinet and it was unlocked. Not just unlocked, there’s not even a single padlock. I scanned through those figurines and have finally seen the shoe boxes. When I opened it, it was my baby pictures. I brought the big box of memorabilias in our sala and flashed those pictures at my face like a humongous projector, wanting more memories. I’ve seen my baptismal pictures, my 2nd birthday cake, me and my brother with the ‘peace’ sign, me posing with my brief in Waikiki Beach - Honolulu, me tossing a coin in some fountain in San Francisco, me blowing on my 4th birthday cake, me with my Tito Ady, me hugging my sister, me sleeping, me.

It was me.

The joyous me. I thought it was impossible to keep these old pictures! These pictures aren’t even scathed, not even destroyed or disfigured.

At that Christmas Eve, I have enjoyed my fifteen years of existence here in this world. Those pictures says it all. (To be uploaded on my multiply site, for now - you may visit it to see my Hyatt pictures.)

At least, this Christmas - I met happiness.

The Driver-Preacher.

Hailing a jeep to Bocaue gave me ten minutes of constant waiting, cursing packs of commuters who filled in every jeep I see. After occupying a seat and paying for the fare - an unexpected traffic jammed jeeps going to and from Bocaue crossing. I am so busted.

Twenty blocks away would be the crossing, yet - the jeeps turned off their engines to save oil. Light bulbs were off, and the darkness was evident. Stranded with a wallet in my pocket, I have no idea what to do to fight boredom. At this point of time, I should’ve brought my cellphone (the cheap one, not the expensive one). I’d rather play Bantumi or Snake.

The jeepney driver told us that he’s going home. Time is gold, and more expensive than oil. If he’d continue this long journey of waiting, he’s dead. And his only choice? Abandon the passengers. Give them their corresponding payments and go home. In this way, you fought fair with regards to time and money.

I planned to walk until the crossing, but it may take 15 minutes for me to swallow dust and carbon monoxide. What an uncomfortable feeling.

The driver gave 18 pesos to three of us. Yes. A father wearing a black polo-shirt carrying an SM plastic (maybe he enjoyed shopping less), a College student, and me. We all went to another jeep and gave the money: isang Bunlo, isang Sta. Maria, at isang Bocaue. Too bad for the college student, the jeep is headed to Malolos - Sta. Maria is out of the itinerary. But he chose Malolos, anyway.

For ten minutes, I’m swallowing my saliva. Though it was cold, the baby inside the jeep cried louder than the raging horns of other jeepneys. Hunger, and impatience. People began talking about the traffic - why was it happening? I pursed my lips, silent. McArthur Highway’s Sin City became alive. The glimmering lights of Villa Veronica, Sargie’s, and other famous clubs started to serenade the bored passengers. Including me, of course.

The driver then laughed hilariously with regards to the prostitution in this certain part of McArthur Highway. We found it absurd, he found those almost-naked women a disgust towards his religion / belief. He began his speech and thought nobody was listening with his speech, but everybody listened carefully.

Hindi ba alam ng mga ‘yan na kasalanan yan? Dapat dyan eh - parusahan! Aba, ganyan ang ginawa ng Diyos sa Sodom at Gomorrah, pinarusahan niya yung mga masasamang loob doon. Nako naman.

It’s ironic that the humble classes of our society knows the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Afterwards, the jeep collided with another jeep - resulting to a broken side mirror. After the traffic, we found that four lanes were swallowed up by the southbound vehicles (and only the sidewalks were left for the northbound vehicles) - thus creating a mile-long traffic. There are no traffic enforcers, only those concerned street people.

Who to blame?

Entropy.

How will I start this post? Fuck. I’d make a sentence, then I’ll delete it. Then make another one, then I’ve changed my mind. Then why am I making a sentence if I’d be deleting it soon?

Ha-ha! Physics’ Law of Entropy could be applied in so many things. Combing your hair inside a speeding tricycle, or maybe applying anti-pimple solutions in your face when you know that soon - you’d still end up with big, red pimples. Or ironing your clothes, or taking a bath, or putting some gel in your hair.

Enough.

These days of Christmas vacation, I’m really meditating on some ideas. I’m really serious. I tend to think upon random statements or imposing my own weird questions that only soothsayers could answer. The following includes:

1. Plantains. They’re like bananas, but they’re not.

2. Why my Mom sucks in terms of style? The Balikbayan boxes were delivered two days ago. She gave me an orange (or brown) checkered polo. I just hate checkered polos! It transforms me into a 50-year old grandfather abandoned in the Home for the Aged.

3. Why my Dad bought three packs of assorted sausages, including Kielbasas, Frankfurters, and other German words?

4. Carbonara. I’ll be cooking Carbonara tomorrow for Christmas Eve. I’m imagining the firm pasta with white sauce and crisp, toasted bacon! Wow. Nyam nyam!

5. You know Steve from Blue’s Clues? I am wondering (though wala na si Steve) why they get all the answers! I also wonder why they tend to see all the pawprint marks of Blue! And they get the answer!

Yung tipong - glass, fish, tsaka sand: ang sagot - aquarium. Pwede namang iba diba? Pwede namang beach, o kaya swimming pool! Nako.

6. Why kids sing songs even if they don’t know the lyrics. They tend to produce their own words, thus nullifying the lyricist’s work. Poor lyricists.

7. I had a conference yesterday at YM and we discovered that there are fifty-four (yes, 54!) holes in a single cracker of Sky Flakes! Yeah! That’s lame!

That’s it. I’m done.

The Columnist.

Ten blocks away from our house would be me, walking and longing for sleep in a couch eating self-made Mojos dipped in mayonnaise and mustard. It was then that I’ve heard one of the coolest drunkards ever to sing Laklak. Only, his version goes like ~ kabilin-bilinan ng lola, huwag uminom ng serbisa…

I gave him a great laugh. He deserves it, anyway. 

-

I want to be different. Not too weird. Isn’t it irritating to look at yourself and look outside and see that you and him were almost the same? Same haircut, same brand of T-Shirt, same shades, same hair color, same chinita girlfriend, same cellphone unit. Same, same, same. It’s just humiliating, as if my conscience would laugh and tell me that I belong with those trying hards.

What’s with stereotyping nowadays?

Well, I prefer wearing a plain T-Shirt with a shout-out like these ones.

1. “It’s hard to show I care SINCE I DON’T.”

2. “I won’t lower my standards just to raise yours!”

3. “Are you looking for Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now?”

4. “Your girlfriend was my biggest fan.”

5. “My PenIs Big.”

My apologies for number five if it contains explicit nudity or something. In the T-Shirt I’ve seen at SM - there’s a BIG ballpen separating the words PEN and IS. Get it?

I adore those companies [designers] who made these significant t-shirts. No matter how plain the color is, no matter how lousy you are - you’d still captivate the eyes of many. May angas. May dating. Ayos!

-

I’m done. Finally, a random post. Ha-ha! I’m currently occupied with playing Heroes III of Might and Magic. Yeah, if you guys know that game! Released last 2000! or 1999! Haha, but still loving the poor graphics.

Wire-twitching.

Forgive me for not updating, but this may go for days. I’m compiling all my blog posts and I’m fixing it. That’s all. He-he. I’d be back just after I fix this problem.

Metamphetamine.

I’d rather go with my friends back when I was fourteen. My old man’s in Honolulu, San Francisco, Tokyo, Dubai, those out-of-the-blue cities I’ve heard from his sermons. Mom would either go to nearby towns and get busy with her rice business - calculating ledger books, cooking food and driving away to her office. My sisters were studying in Manila, going home late, catching up for some sleep. I am the warm little center of life in the house. Blemished with boredom, and always out of place with the females.

My barkada hugged me like a brother.

There goes Marlboro who once soothed my chilling body for minutes. Then it became a habit. Mouth to nostrils. Let that nicotine harm me. The warmth it gives me is exceptional, I just can’t stop it. From two to three sticks, it continues and grows up to a case emptied by my chain-smoking.

Fifteen, I was kicked out in our school for my bloody marks. If it meant disappointment to my family, it became the very start of enjoying life and diving into something real and wild. Burned my book, tore down my notes. I’m sick of studying Theology or Geometry or any school work. I’m tired of dealing with white, veiled women mouth-fed by biblical spoonfuls of beliefs. I’m over with their sanctimonious ways of discussing what is good and bad.

Sixteen was when I dropped all my subjects in another school, thus telling myself that education is shit. Schools are cemeteries for fun. My parents gave up, realizing that their enrollment fees are going down the drain without any benefits for me. For normal students, being incubated in a room full of discussions and writing lectures means an honorary job. But I want to explore out of those walls. I want to break free from rules. I want to have my life with my own rules.

I met San Miguel when I was eighteen. Nineteen, I’m head over heels for Mary Jane. I spend my nights away from home, inhaling this addictive herb that somehow gives me comfort and numbness to pain and depression. Twenty was when my Mom discovered that I’m doing a terrible mistake. Bloodshot eyes surrounded with stress, burned lips. Pierced my left ear. Got a tattoo at my left hand for my nickname. Scars all over my body - bruises, contusions, blackened spots. I was rehabilitated in a rehab center. My family wanted me to be clean; pure from wrongful ideas and addiction, and stop me from abusing freedom. Abundant food, lots of friends whom I could cope up with.

Months after, I went out. Father wanted me to be free.

Twenty-one was when I met Lovely, dated her for some unknown reasons, and had sex with her. Eight months have passed, my parents blamed me for the kid. Minor birth defects, but still a healthy man of dreams. Named after me. Twenty-two, I went to US with my Dad for a nice vacation - leaving my son and my illegal wife. After I went back, wife was pregnant.

Three years after, my kids were four. I’ve experienced another rehab. Then, I was jailed thrice. I fell in-love with Shabu so much, I stole my younger brother’s belongings and sold it to the pawnshop for some money. For three years, the list goes on. The Playstation, the G-Shock, his branded wardrobe, tons of cellphones with different units and SIM cards, two wallets, MP3 player, and all his luxuries.

Here I am now, having my third rehabilitation. Wife went away with two kids and left the other two in our house. Father took charge of it, as he always do with my hearings, with pawnshop deals, with diapers of my kids. The last item I stole from my younger brother was his white-gold bracelet.

The next thing I know, I’m in this place. In a place with electrocuted barbed wire, high walls, and a fake freedom. Today’s our Christmas party. Dad, Brother and my eldest son visited me. For my long stay in this center, conscience knocked me out.

Tears flowed while I saw my brother growing up without me. I hugged him and told him, I’m sorry sa lahat. He hugged back, harder, and sobbed. I felt his anger, he felt my remorse. I want to reconcile. I want him to forgive me for I destroyed our family, I made his life incomplete.

Then, this jolt of brotherly love came in. 

I don’t think he deserve me as a brother. So far, it was one of my biggest mistakes. I let him grow up without a brother who would teach him how to be a young man, how to shoot some hoops, how to love a girl.

Time is over. He said goodbye, I told him to take care. I just hope he knew the right thing to do, and not to follow my footsteps.

Exorcising Money.

WARNING: Materialistic post ahead. Please bear with me. 

Given the opportunity to have my personal money this Christmas (and believe it or not, this is my first time to obtain such Christmas bonus), my mind was completely hanging in long wire-like threads; wherein I need to balance my insights and search for the wisest decision. A bag, or a wallet, or a cap, or maybe a polo shirt, or a perfume?

Of four siblings, three of us are gastador.

When I have money in my hands, there’s this instinct of spending it away with the blink of an eye. Hindi ganong tumatagal ang pera sakin. I hate Math, and I definitely hate budgeting. Come what may. I hate computing how much money have I spent in a day.

Yesterday, I went to the mall and treat myself with material things to somehow suffice my temptations. This would be the first time I’d buy my own clothes. I always depend on annual Balikbayan boxes. Plain t-shirts, and the boring designs.

Well, I still appreciate it. Iba pa rin kapag ako ang pumili.

So I bought a T-Shirt, a perfume for me. Another perfume and a wooden bracelet would be for the exchange gifts this December 19 - the last class day of year 2006. I realize that my mind is too focused with materialistic ideas. I’m as crazy as hell in picking the right shirt or smelling the perfume testers and sense what’s right for me.

It’s as if I’m in an episode of an all-time wish-granting show (maybe Wish Ko Lang would be better)! Though they say that money earned is sweeter. Good thing that at present, I’m not yet working for money.

I just hope that this epidemic would stop.

Anyway, the title is from ’The Exorcism of Emily Rose’ (which I’ve watched a while ago). It’s not horror. It’s comedy! The way the character was possessed - it’s funny! I’m actually imagining myself screaming at a public place like Emily Rose! And with the epileptic moves and the retina shaking! Haha.

It was a nice movie, though. The court scenes were great.

My Kind Of Myx.

After four or five days of not posting, I’m back. What kept me so long? Simple. My eyes refused to get laid in a Mozilla Firefox window to feast WordPress’ blue theme, proudly proclaiming: Hey, I’m blogging again! That simple disorder lasted for four days, so now I’m back. Feeling busier, wanting to slip the school days away.

I picked up Embrace (Urbandub’s album that was released long ago, yet their current) besides the radio in our classroom. (Yes, we have this radio that provides us enough music during breaktime.) The drums made me admire Urbandub. From Alert the Armory, up to Frailty - they wanted decent rock music. I just hope these guys wouldn’t be commercialized like what happened to Orange and Lemons (enough of the PBB theme songs), or super popular like those bands who had lost its luster as months go by. I thought this rock band would just avail a dusty place in my CD shelf, but they proved me wrong.

Now, I admire their drummer. So much.

Itchyworms’ new single, Love Team (thanks Karla for the title) made me love their music again. I thought that Beer would be my first and last with them, since I’m disappointed with their Salapi.

And my ears were bleeding a while ago with Fergalicious whatever.

Uhh, I’m loving Jeopardy. Yeah, that game show wherein you answer questions with a question. It’s a trivial game better than Wowowee or Game Ka Na Ba, I suppose? And I’m gonna fix the school paper’s layout tomorrow, while reading John Grisham’s King Of Torts, solving bits of Stone puzzles, and chatting with nudgers online.

So that’s it. I didn’t mean to disappoint you guys for this lame post.

First.

One year of blogging. Three hundred something posts.

Boredom made me do this. Boredom gave me the reason to exist in this imaginary world of bloggers. And yes, it helped me a lot. A therapy, a pacifier, a boredom-killer, and the melting pot of different personalities. My chatmates and my online friends increased rapidly, as well as my intelligence over certain things (from other blogs, of course), and enhanced my capability to write stupidity.

And the MAIN reason: to release shits and problems of life. To express feelingd, and not to impress people.

Leave your messages, comments, or good lucks, or violent reactions.

Anything. At the comment section.

Cords Of Deprivation.

Spam and Heinz never fail to captivate my taste buds. It seems like they made a secret pact at each other to transform a plain evening into a dinner meal I can’t forget. It’s a damn cold night. Woo, Avril Lavigne’s singing in my player. Perfect. Won’t you take me by the hand.

Hold on if you feel like letting go. Good Charlotte rocks with their first single: Hold on.

The dusty guitar, the mirror with cracks of anger from my fists, the dim lampshade, and the electric cords of this laptop: the extension, the AC adapter, the Internet extension cord, the cellphone charger. The smell of Spam fried and toasted to perfection. I still enjoy the company of my room, no matter how messy it is. This completely describes the way I live my life: the way I arrange my clothes in the closet (which is a complete turn-off for girls), the way I alphabetize books, the way I wax my hair. This is me.

High School forced me to do things I don’t want to do.

Host programs. Be an emcee for a Marian Youth Camp, which I consider the worst offer ever. Make a school paper layout. Join Glee Club. Sing religious songs at church. Illustrate Da Vinci’s works. List down the dynasties of China. Dissect a frog. Make a stupid garnishing for Culinary Artds. Teachers were the boss. I am a student. I, for one, am obliged to do these things. (50 Cent - In Da Club, woohoo.)

I just hate doing things which opposes my persona. It’s like, my identity’s lost.

Yesterday, I should be hosting the Marian Youth Camp. But then, I quit. I told myself not to fool myself by telling them how great Mary is. That she conceived Jesus without sin. That she willingly accept Angel Gabriel’s invitation to bear the Son of Man in the womb. If I could remember, the script goes like: Yes. Mother Mary truly serves as a servant for all of us, Christians.

I don’t want to do that. And besides, I didn’t attend since our maid forgot to iron my P.E Uniform - the prescribed costume for the Marian Youth Camp. The fear of disappointing Ms. Espejo (the teacher who hired me), and my partner (Ysabel) slowly diminished. I guess, I’m tired of doing things I don’t want to do.

Konting tiis. Malapit na naman ang graduation.

Tomorrow, I’d be Superman with a silly red sheet. I’d be going to a 6:30 AM mass, followed by an emergency meeting of our school paper at 8. At 11, my partner and I would be making our Investigatory Project finale about Muscovado Sugar - which is, making the products. And lastly, at 2 - would be our inter-class Belen Making contest.

Ipinagkait na naman sakin ang weekend.

Hay. Next Thursday would be our 3rd Periodic Test. Then, Christmas vacation!

‘Kiddistic’ Sadism.

I have to say that my brain works in a weird way.

Sadista, as my barkada would brand me. I enjoy the view of my nephews crying, and really, I love the sight of it. I throw pillows on them, I watch them cry, I spoil their cakes, I eat their favorite foods, they cry. At the back of my brain, I am very pleased to do these things.

Just please, don’t sue me for child abuse.

Everynow and then, I would tease my nephews and nieces with their inability to do something, or their obnoxious smell (though it’s natural to toddlers to wear that stinking smell of soil). They would cry, and I would laugh at them. I would get their toys, and they would cry louder. Trip ko lang. It’s such a job for weird guys, you know.

I’m a one weird guy when my sadistic features strike.

According to my childhood, I have no background of violence or whatsoever. My father once used a belt to whip my ass since I let a stranger borrow my bicycle (see, I’m such a goody boy way back 90’s). But that’s the first and last. No other memories of explicit slapping or harsh words. So, where does this sadism came from? I don’t know.

I just love to see tears flowing from the eyes of a kid. I love to piss off my classmates since they look like shits or craps of hell. I want to tell everyone that they look like decaying matter. But then, I sometimes tell myself, that I myself look like one piece of shit.

Nobody’s perfect anyway.

Sadism is an addictive scent to me. Wait, I’d like to clarify that my sadism goes with the kids, and only with the kids. Not with the impoverished people. Not with people who have nothing to eat. No way. My heart still has its feelings.

But everyday, my heart gets number. I am still hoping for my softer side to arise when excessive violence had been implemented.

To Dance Or Not To Dance?

Is Cha-Cha a vital key towards economic, or let’s say - over-all progression of our country?

Or is it just to retain and extend the term of her Presidency?

Wishlist, not for Christmas.

1. I want to be a Math wizard. Since Elementary, numbers are the very reason of my occasional headaches. Words are my only weapons, but then it can’t satisfy me. Once, I ask my ex-classmate who recently got 98 in his card for Math. Pano ka nag-aaral ng Math? Well, his neurons are capable of calculating the missing variable by using synthetic division, thus computing the lowerbound and the upperbound and graphing it in his own virtual dimension.

While I, couldn’t even catch up with what they are saying. Pano ba yung Piecewise Function? Diba yung F (x) = 2x^2-3x+2 ay Cubic Function? Pano nga ba yung Remainder Theorem? Ang formula ba para sa y,x ordered pair ay negative b over 2a?

Nevermind. Advanced Algebra sucks, and I recently concluded that it can never help my life. Its catastrophic effects within my brain forced me to make my conclusion, so forgive me.

2. Ever since my brother-in-law installed our Smart Wi-Fi connection, I’ve wasted hundreds of hours for Internet every month. And I would like to complain that the Internet disconnects twice in thirty minutes. I’ve never had an hour of playing Gunbound without any interruptions. I want a DSL, or this gadget that could be plugged to a laptop and would transmit Internet Connection. You know that? I’d love to have that.

3. I am impatiently waiting for two boxes. Those boxes came from my sisters and my mother from New York. Oh, sorry for being materialistic.

4. Lastly, I wanted to sleep. I just want to make a post for this day, and that’s that. I’d continue this wishlist for the next days to come.

By the way, this wishlist is not intended for Santa Claus. He doesn’t like bad boys, ya’ know.

Yuletide.

Christmas air is here. The advent’s open, and like what Jessica Zafra said; this is the time for fake (styrofoam) snow to come out. This is December.

Years ago before I reached adolescence, all of us (barkada) would sing Christmas carols from house to house armed with our bikes. Our voices were still immature. Our intentions were still shallow. We wanted to earn money to play Playstation in the rental house. Silly reason, yet it fuels our mission. We’ll sing songs and, like beggars, would reach our palms before them and wait for their charity to come out. When the door opens, our hearts were at sky high.

Sa wakas, may panlaro na rin kami ng Playstation. Bente - isang oras.

Corruption? Ah-huh. The biggest sum of money we ever had was 140 pesos, if I could still recall. There’s this guy who gave us one hundred pesos. Then, we divided it into eight that makes it - nevermind. I hate Math.

Like I’ve said from my past blog, Christmas is for kids. They’ll be waiting into chimneys when in fact, its their parents who fool them as if there’s a real Santa or what. (And that there’s no chimney around here except in cold places like Baguio.) For me, that’s the biggest joke I’ve ever seen. And knowing that my sister believes in Santa made me cringe for a while. Kevin, totoo yun! Binigyan pa nga ako ng manika dati nun eh.

Not that I don’t believe in the essence of Christmas. I’ve grown tired of it. I wonder why ‘Santa’ refuse to give teens like me. Ooh, I remember the song!

“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake.”

Too bad, I’m not the good boy anymore. So much for Santa’s authenticity, I’ve had the loneliest Christmas last year. Yes, and I don’t know why. All I remember was that I was chatting a DJ from LSFM by the time we were eating Noche Buena. Last year’s Christmas was lonely because I’ve received three or four gifts back then - it includes 10 briefs (from my stupid sister, thanks for the prank anyway), and some personal things.

For the past Christmas days, I am the star of the house. I would go beneath the Christmas tree and would happily look at the mound of gifts coming from known persons who touched my life. Being a kid is fun especially when Christmas. I could still remember the feeling of tearing off those wrappers, inch-by-inch I feast my eyes with gifts…

It’s not gonna happen anymore.

And I am disappointed.

For now, I won’t be wishing anything at all. Expecting something far-from-reality isn’t nice at all. And for the radio stations, I hope there would be no Christmas in Our Hearts by Jose Mari Chan. Please, don’t ruin my day.

The Question.

Opportunies arise once the cameraman signals. The searing lights of stardom, of fame, of being aired in the television. No matter how much efforts it will take you, you’d still go that way. Money is the prime reason for your visit, fame could be your second. Third would be your greetings, and finally, there goes the experience you wanted to taste from some noontime show.

I’ve watched you yesterday at a classmate’s house. I’ve seen how you exaggerated your moves, your dance, plus with the nonsense lyrics. You wanted to be praised, to be ridiculed, but you don’t care.

This would be an opinion of an average citizen, a citizen concerned.

Enlighten me. Expound the arrays of reason behind Wowowee. There are certain things I cannot understand. One, why people go to that show and dance as if there’s no one watching? Two, is it because the present economy of our country stimulated them to join a noontime show rather than choosing alternatives for a better life? Three, have they reached their limits, and told themselves that their lives were miserable enough to have options? Four, am I saying this because somehow, I still have money to use?

Maybe. I think the third question is correct. Nasasabi ko ito dahil hindi ko pa nararanasan ang naranasan nila. Yung hirap, yung kawalan ng pag-asa sa buhay. 

But well, not all contestants were there for money. They want to enjoy life by singing Boom Tarat Tarat, and dance. There are others who dance for Willie to recognize them. Fun is there. Entertainment is there. And that’s all that matters. That show serves to entertain them and us, viewers. So why am I meddling with their affairs?

No, I have nothing against the show. You may hate this post, or hate me for this post. But before you hate me, let me feel your reasons. Explain, in the comment section. Thanks a lot.

And oh, I’m feeling normal with the song. Neutral. Not good, though not bad at all. But I’m still deciphering the meaning of the lyrics.

One Huge Snob.

It was midnight when I chatted a blogger, and this was our first meeting. As she laid down her first impressions to me, I laughed and paused for a moment. Well, I’m expecting her answer. I’ve heard thousands of people, of testimonials, of rumors, and of letters telling me that I’m a big snob. Suplado. I’m used to it.

But being snobbish in the blogosphere made me cringe for moments. Am I? Really?

-

And my utmost apologies to all the blogs affiliated in this blog, for not being a responsible reader to your blogs. I myself cannot comprehend with the reason of my actions. Sometimes, the posts are too long. Oftentimes, I’m busy. Moreover, it’s STILL my fault.

-

Arriving at 6:00 in the morning at school would be my routine. The dull days of studying, of tension with quizzes, of reviewing and of listening to some boring teachers (namely; Physics, English, Religious Education) lull me to sleep. But I have found a classmate that would deplete boredom and quench my thirst for fun.

Her name is Mhadel. She is my clown. I suspected that she has an autism, a slight one. An only child. She narrated me that she was actually the last baby of her Mom; two others died of miscarriage. I am thinking about the possibility of abnormal (or worse, paranormal) diseases with this girl. There are lots of instances, actually, where her autism is very evident.

• One. She sings Atlantika (you know, the ooooh-ing sound) while the teachers discuss. And worse, she’s even off-tune.
• Two. She once performed an unexpected exhibition of gymnastic talent by sitting in a chair’s armchair. Unsurprisingly, the armchair went unbalanced and tossed her - and her legs splitted. The next thing I know, she was cursing me since her butt hurts.
• Three. During the Unit Test, she asked me the answer for Question # 10 (English Test) - Test III: Anagrams. The word is ‘Enroll a Toy Scheme’ - then make this into a place where you learn the basics. I whispered the answer: Elementary School. She doubted and asked me - HINDI BA NURSERY RHYME? I laughed at her, and she was laughing at her mistake.
• Four. She told me and my seatmates that all her suitors died in a collision with either a truck or a bike.
• Five. Kapag naiisip ko siya, it’s either matatawa ako or matatae sa mukha niya.
• Six, she made a prayer in Christian Living and invented the words ‘providor’ and ’savier’.
• Seven, I asked her: pano mo gustong mamatay? She wanted to be murdered. Sucks for her, huh? It’s not impossible to happen, since her existence in this world pesters everybody.
• And lastly, her award-winning piece. It’s actually displayed in her chair (but I tore it off).

Presenting, Mhadel’s Boutique!

Regrettably, three teachers have seen her work and laughed so hard.

Today’s Vindication’s (this blog) 4TH Monthsary! Woot. And I’d be posting here irregularly since I have my personal site na. Hehe, so that’s all.

The News: Hot and Sizzling

I thought the freezing water I used for taking a bath would be normal for a November morning. It’s cold ice.

Blame me for my illiteracy towards our television. I haven’t known earlier that Bulacan is experiencing Signal #2, ergo, Elementary and High School would have no classes for today. All the while, I thought it is a class day - the last day of our Third Grading Unit Test. Thanks for my textmates who sent me messages from our adviser confirming the news. Still not contented with the text message, I decided to turn on the TV and be informed.

It was yesterday when I watched National Geographic Channel, and it tackled about a supertyphoon that would hit the island-city of Hong Kong. It features their security measures, the predicted effects of the unusual phenomenon, and a lot more. Today, I am about to experience it.

Typhoon Reming expects to have its landfall this morning at Virac, Catanduanes. Alert signals were given to provinces, and safety measures were checked by every family. Ports closed, flights cancelled, travelling would be dangerous, water shortages and minor blackouts (crossing my fingers) were evident. This is the second time we’ll experience a massive typhoon, prior to Milenyo: which uprooted trees, destroyed few billboards, and left Philippines with 230 dead last September. With winds of 195 kilometers per hour, it’s far destructive from Milenyo. Metro Manila, along with the neighboring provinces, prepared for the worst-case scenarios.

News from the Senate and the Congress, or other political places and issues, were disregarded from this post. I myself don’t know what’s happening ‘in’ there. Two guys fell down from a deep well, and then I’ve seen Miriam Defensor-Santiago’s face. And oh, Bono of U2 received a gift from Japan’s Prime Minister. Shades! I don’t know why, but it’s all up to them.

So I changed my clothes.

Less death tolls? Hope so. For now, I’ll enjoy the boredom of my four-day weekend. (Happy 16th birthday to my bestfriend!)

The Marian Youth Fuck.

A guy and a girl entered the library and the guy pulled the chair for the girl.

Grabe, ang gentleman naman niya… says a classmate with intentions to hit my consciousness and thought that I would react in a sudden spur of words. I gladly accepted the fact that she has been telling me to be gentle with girls, and that she recognizes my angst with the world. And that I am the cutest boyfriend material ever.

Then, I told her. I don’t need to do that just to be a gentleman infront of the crowd. And perhaps, I don’t do that usual thing with common girls or classmates. Though my past girlfriends are an exception since I really do those stuff for the girls I love. Well, I am gentle with girls but I am choosy with girls to flirt and girls to laugh at.

I am cordially invited by Mrs. Espejo to be in the library at dismissal time, which tells me that a meeting would take place. What meeting? No idea. But I know that my service would soon leave me. And when the blabbermouth teacher entered the library and told me to sit down together with other seniors, she told us that we were chosen to host the Marian Youth Vigil. Formally known as the Marian Youth Camp.

Marian Youth Fuck, I say.

I coughed silently and swallowed the truth. You, Kevin, and Ysabel are suggested by the teachers to be one of the host of the YMV… Okay. This means that I couldn’t back out and I won’t let those teachers to be disappointed since they are expecting something from me. The Marian Youth Camp is held annually to commemorate the Immaculate Conception of Mary. It is an over-prepared, highly religious event and a guy with a slight atheism inside him would host the said event. Me. At least, I do have a partner but the idea still made me dumbfounded.

Why me?

Why not the mustached Erick Castillo who looks like a priest when wearing the uniform itself. A plus points for priesthood, and another plus points for emceeing. (Okay, you guys don’t know him). Why me, of all students? I wanted to curse the heavens for appointing me to do the job. I am still in my religion crisis. [opinionated] Religion is an innate truth; we are only told to believe a God because we are born with that religion.

Not that I don’t believe in Him. I revere him, and I don’t hate him. I’m just doubting his authenticity. [end of opinion]

Anyway, the said event would happen this December. I am not tensed, though I want to bang my head to my wooden cabinet and know the reason behind the teachers’ decision to hire me as a host. I’m not religious, either.