05 December 2007

Comment on this

Okay spare me a minute to be an ass.

Why in blasted hotel doors do alleged people keep on pathetically mistaking every white space for message boards? I’ve been a Friendster user for four years now, and if there’s one moronic thing about it, it’s those who post IMUs, birthday wishes and even professions of lust-disguised-as-love on the testimonials field.

What, they want everybody to know that they remembered their friends’ birthdays? That’s not affection. That’s showbiz.

And when did “How are you?” become a comment? I will never be an expert in English, but I am ground confident that when asked for a comment you are naturally, normally, sanely mandated to give an opinion and not ask about the person’s well-being. Besides, that’s Fallacy #2 (is it the 2nd?) according to my Logic instructor in college: Don’t give that which isn’t simply asked. And a lot of us complain when things get complicated. Imbeciles.

You want an e-conversation—there’s the Inbox. And there’s e-mail. And YM. And IM. And ICQ. And forums. And voice conferences. But never “comment” boxes or testimonial pages. It’s too nursery.

Minute over.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 15:38 | 1 said something  
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28 November 2007

Da wat cpital of d wrld?


So this is what we've come down to: our beloved Manong Driver finally hopping on the txtwagon enroute to entertainment. It's amusing, I'll give him that, but not as much as irritating.

It's annoying enough that u's and me's fans share Mother Earth with us, along with the youjustwaittillifeedyouadirtysock mixers of r and w, and "ko" with q:

My xtra p me. Gve q sau. ("May extra pa me. Give ko sa'yo." a.k.a. "May extra pa ako. I'll give it to you." a.k.a. "Poor beggar.")

Pwo bt aq?
("Pro bkt ako" a.k.a "Pero, bakit ako" a.k.a. "Why the fuck do you keep insisting that syntax")

Argh! It's so consuming. But I can't very well impose on them acceptable, higher-species-friendly grammar, which on the other hand threatens my phone some very sudden death after helplessly hitting a wall. Hard. And me with a heart attack from too much pent-up emotions.

Read aloud: Peeved me. Pak u.
20 November 2007

Why the Filipino nation won't move forward


In the native tongue, it's called pasaway. But the whole world just loves the "happiest people on earth" so much that it doesn't really matter. How very touching. :-)
(call me for the name, address and romantic status of that woman)
16 November 2007

Sir, can I be a "street resident" too?

That Is It. As soon as I get my passport, I'm gonna pack my old, old, OLD clothes and fly to L.A.

If this guy can spark interest among American entrepreneurs and launch his very own clothing line, then heavens believe me I can too!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 15:01 | 0 said something  
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Santa Stingy

Yeah, yeah--the holidays are fast approaching to pester our pockets once again. It's that time of the year again when we wish to receive more expensive, non-bargain and non-perishable gifts on one hand and singing All I Want For Christmas Is You after your Happily Engaged "Bestfriend." Fun, no?

And check out a store at Tiendesitas' come-on display: Dear old Santa in Jollibee's pajamas. Nice, indeed. It depicts the very subtle but very muchfelt Yuletide message in every hypocrite's core: The holiday cheers are classic and presumably eternal, and so can be the the palpable loneliness felt by both our hearts and bank accounts.
One thing I forgot to ask the storeowner, though. Where are Rudolph and the gang? My guess is as good as yours: Pirated by the PNP.

Enjoy the cool evening breeze!
12 November 2007

Wait to be fare

“Why take chances if you see no hope? Why try if there is nothing to win for?”

Asks a txt message forwarded by a friend in faith.

“Sometimes, it pays to wait.” It went on…

Unfortunately, while almost everyone in the “Txting Capital of the World” has a keypad-worn-out cell phone, only some of them understand non-Pilipino figurative speech. Hence, in some weird connection, nobody waits anymore. Especially in PUJs.

Why in Madonna’s tits can’t some people wait in public vehicles? I know “Hudas Not Pay,” but come on, peeps, a little courtesy—or common sense, if you may—helps. Here are a few tips:

If your (only) seatmate has just got on the effing jeep, for blasted sakes at least let her blink first BEFORE demanding, "Bayad... Makikiabot nga." For one thing, we need to verify that it’s a human and not a be-legged fish roamind SLEX. So don’t go commoving the poor thing to get your measly fare across.

And when your money finally reaches the driver but it needs change, have the decency to wait for it. The guy’s not an ATM, you know. You can only be annoyingly persistent when (a) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination, (b) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination and you gave a 100- or 500-peso bill or (c) you’re 5 seconds away from your destination, you gave a 100- or 500-peso bill and the driver is 62 years old and two 20something ladies-in-short shorts are sitting beside him.

When getting off the ride, and it’s NOT National 100% Off On Tag Heuer Day, quit rushing. You’re in Manila and we don’t have a Disneyland here.

When your seatmate’s seatmate is dropping off, wait until there’s enough room for you to wiggle or grind your butt to the seat. Everyone deserves a comfy ride, yes, but wait at least a few more seconds to let some air soothe your genitals.

People, be civilized. It’s the least we can do to let barbarism stay in 13,000 BC.
08 November 2007

Spiderwoman's no angel

Nah. It’s not the flying seductress superhero who exhales libido and sweats pheromones. It’s my high school MUSIC teacher—yeah, that hell forsaken industry holds much fury against me—who was always, always pregnant.

Her name was Cherubin. Stern but maternal. Bespectacled but cheery. In fact, way cheeper than what you’d expect from someone who was being knocked up by her husband every other week. Hence it was no surprise that almost everyone liked her. I think that led her to believe that she was special: She also had us trek to her “music room” every other day under the heat of mid-day because preggy women "aren't allowed to move" except, apparently in her case, to shack.

It happened on yet another sorry Thursday—is this because I was born at the second hour of Th? Anyway, she was giving us her version of what the school calls “long test.” By dictation. She LOVES using her mouth, that woman. Unfortunately I wasn’t in a good mood myself, let alone the fact that I had to sit and take an exam in that course-wannabe. For each question she asked, I prayed for time acceleration. The moment I woke up I knew something catastrophic was bound to happen that day. I didn’t know it was to be with Cherubin.

We were halfway done with her “exam.” I was sitting on the third row, fourth column, right chair. By question Number 29, I saw a pair of chubby feet heartbreakingly squeezed inside size 6-flip flops on the floor beside me. It was about a minute when the unusual-in-a-by-dictation-exam silence woke my left eye. Like those of an addict who just had five shorts, my eyes looked up at the obvious owner of the then-probably-suffocated-to-death toenails and saw her looking at my direction, grinning. “Now, what?” my conscience asked.

Hindi mo tatakpan ang paper mo?” Then a grin, like she was talking to some imbecile in need of TLC. At first I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me—honest!—but after looking at her again a la Bob Marley United, I officially concluded she was talking to me.

Five seconds of dead air. What the hell is this Hump Queen talking about? Is she accusing ME of connivance with brain dead classmates? My heartbeat was ready to race. And yes—Spidey was accusing me of showing off my answer sheet to nearby classmates whose existence were temporarily hanged in my universe.

Ms Tarantula wasn’t flinching either. She was sure of my mini-show, that moron. But it was all too late for the both of us, as I wasn’t really into negotiating my mood on that moment either. I simply, bravely, defiantly stared at her like a convict that hasn’t eaten anything since the Old Testament. For about 10 seconds. Then I withdrew my scepter and went back to looking at Number 29… Grace The Wiz’s yellowish fangs flashing in my head a couple of times...

I thought, how dare she accuse me of cheap living! There’s a very good reason why you should never judge others even if they look like ex-convicts—especially if they’re in a bad mood. Cherubin was dealing with teenagers, for crying out loud; she should’ve known better than to challenge raging hormones. That’s how I discovered I can stand up to oppressors like spider humanoids and paranoid jeepney drivers who ask for your fare every three minutes.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I’m sure Cherubin saw what she needed to see in those 10 seconds.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 12:14 | 0 said something  
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07 November 2007

The day Grace made me do it

Theatrically, people say I’m friendly, approachable and safe. Fair enough. But those who “truly got to know me” know better. And from time to time they ask me: “How can you be so negative?” In sincere honesty, I say negative is harsh. Try cynical. It’s classy. And cuter.

Yet the question remains: “Why?” I’ll tell you. It’s all Grace’s fault.

She was my Music teacher in the fourth grade. She was a substitute for the school pianist a.k.a. Everybody’s Music Teacher With Huge Gold Rings who had to go on a hiatus presumably to get her precious accessories cleaned in Brunei. Grace was new to school that year. Nice and sweet. Like a big sister to her pupils. And she’s well liked by her senior co-teachers, too. That or they’re just being nice to get a chance at her stud friends before the hags disappear from the calendar.

Grace. She was like a ray of sunshine wherever she went. Smart, young, kind. And she can sing. Not exactly diva-material, but nice enough to pass soloist in church choirs and village carolers—the type to make boys take a second, third, fourth look before going to the rest room. I bet those hags secretly wished to pull a Little Mermaid on her, steal her vocal chords and leave her to drown in Pasig. Love ‘em.

So she’s got the vibe. She’s got the voice. She’s “cool” with kids. Stepford Teacher from Pleasantville. That’s most probably why, the following year, school officials made her our Math teacher. Apparently, they believed timing rhythms and counting beats are like M.D.A.S. only more… pleasant to hear, if not to solve. That’s when the cosmos missed and began swirling down my drain.

One Monday, Ms Grace walked into our class, in her neat self and Good Morning, How Are The Little Ones Today? smile. While half of the class dreaded to see numerals splashed across the green wood in front first thing in the week, Grace The Wiz apparently had a better idea of fun learning. She knew how bored her pupils were with Math, and I suppose the grades weren't lovely either. As if a bright aura was enveloping her that moment, she offered the class a way to pull shameful digits at least a couple notches up: She wanted us to sing.

The following week, she said, there was to have a “special graded recitation.” But we weren’t going to solve equations. Nor will we recite the square roots of 1 trhough 30 and back in two minutes. No. We were to sing. Any song. Individually. For points. Her light aura turned blackhole-y to me.

One, my grades were doing just fine—very good, even. Two, I hate singing. I yell, I recite poems, I read aloud long solicitation letters for Christmas in front of the class. But I never sang. Even in a group performance, my lips only “Watermelon” my way through each number. And third, it was Math class. Math. M-A-T-H. I ardently raised my hand, stood up after being called and clarified whether the “special graded recitation” was for slowpokes only or for everybody. Three guesses what her answer was.

My very young mind instantly boggled, my core innocence confused and my sense of respect for authority shattered, I finally saw Grace for what she truly was: A manipulative succubus cloaked in a hopeless virgin maiden’s skin. She didn’t even smile when she negated my polite clarification-slash-proposal upfront. Bitch!

Judgment Day was a Thursday. Except for one, the whole class was excited—it was easy money for kids, so to speak. And yeah, you’re right: I bravely, blatantly and most sincerely refused to go with Grace’s plans. She called me to the front about five times; I just my head without blinking. She threatened me with her red pen on her class record, but I remained on my sit. My classmates fell dead silent and I could hear the power surging within me… Grace sighed, shook her head and wiggled her red Pilot on her book. Bitch roasted. And I landed a line-of-9 that March.

Next to my grade school graduation—the very thought of which was threatened since I considered begging my parents to drop me out of that wretched campus just to never see the devil’s disgusting smile again—and another monumental bit of my pubescent history, that episode with Grace became a greater turning point in my existence. At a very young age I was exposed to the nastiness of the “real world.” I was a helpless kid but the deceitful manner on which adults use for self-satisfaction hastily revealed themselves and I wasn’t ready for them. It’s a good thing kids are resilient—and as a 4-foot freak, I had extra.

My life was never the same. I became doubtful of other people’s smiles. Every single act is now questioned, “What’s the catch?” And true enough, there came more Grace’s along the way up ‘til this very writing. As to the original, well, I never spoke to her again after that Thursday. I submitted my test papers for checking, but not even with eye contact without cursing her guts. Last time I saw her shadow was in a church. I gather she’s still desperately trying to differentiate G-cleffs from a division brackets because guess what: She was still smiling.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 15:35 | 0 said something  
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06 November 2007

November 6

A couple of weeks back I managed the impossible and attempted to clean my room. It’s also bit of a mystery since I remember being in the mood to wipe and sweep and dust and move—immediately after waking up. Could’ve been a good exhibit material for Ripley’s anniversary this week… Two boxes of “to keep for another five years” and five plastic bags of “what the—I still have this from pre-school?!” later, I was done and ready to scrape dirt off my hair and limbs.

It was truly memorable: the heat, the “excitement”, the heat, the usefulness notion, the heat, the patriotism, the heat… But the highlight of it all was when I unearthed folder Number 31 and found a letter. A LOVE LETTER. Suddenly it was early Halloween…

After much thought I resolved that I wrote the poor thing… err, I mean, love letter. The harder part was figuring out whom I sent or wrote it for. It was encoded—viva tecnologia!—and had just one mark that replaced “love” with “care” in paragraph 2 line 4. Ah, the humor. Had the plain paper not been folded-crumpled and a bit torn in the corners, the entire romantic, pathetically subtle thought would have died.

Too intrigued, I rummaged my dormant brain to know for whom the letter was in an abrupt airing of Who Actually Fooled Pao And Ran Away With It. It’s only a minute ago that I managed to cut it down to two suspects: S from high school and G from 2005. Tic-tac, tic-tac… I think it was for G, although I’m wishing my guts out that I didn’t actually send the thing. I’m even tempted to tag some of the letter’s lines here, but I’ve had enough shame as a 24-year-old and I still have a day job to do.

Which brings me to my real point with this piece: To try and congratulate myself for reaching one year in a second legal job.

One year, and I’m still here. Yay me.
One year, and surprisingly I’m still having fun. At least with five out of thirty-three officemates.
One year, and it seems like forever. And that’s not poetry. It’s all and’s, no but’s, see?

But yeah, I’m happy I reached this point. It’s been part of my plans since my job interview with the very nice HR representative 397 days ago. I’m happy that I have a new entry in my resumé and my Friendster and Facebook lists are 30+ names longer. I’m happy that I got to do my own thing away from home. Happy that I wanted a new phone and managed to get it in a new record time. Happy that I got to run a pseudo-managerial post—felt natural, and very timely. Of course there were bumps on the road, but at least nothing worse than Britney “She’s Back, Bitch” Spears’s recent adventures.

I look back to 2005 and try to figure out G’s M.O. in tricking me. Just to know. No angry spirits hungry for revenge or anything. Honest curiosity. I kept the battered paper in my bedroom—if that pushes the point.

Well, maybe some short, brittle string: I want to know because I might get tips on how I snapped out of that trance. It’ll be a huge help, especially now that another Deal looms in the horizon. My most precious routine next to commuting and shampooing hangs in the balance:

And all I have now is a countdown to the 502nd leap year “A.D.”
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:30 | 0 said something  
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Funnyween


It's a bit late, but this one's too fun to dismiss. Now I finally get what "happy" means in "Happy Halloween!"

A belated boooo to eveyone.

Green days are tardy days


I have no idea why I took this one much less why I'm posting it here. Creepy crawlers, um, creep me out. And I like butterflies too--as long as they have colorful wings bigger than their bodies. Maybe I simply like green... especially when there's nothing else to look at while waiting for the office key to arrive.
Repeat after me: Green good, tardy bad... green good, tardy annoyingly irritatingly cursescurses bad...

To all masochists out there


Nice window display! Must attract a lot of closet martyrs who also love sports and shopping.
This one's for Cathyki. Yeah, vevi, yeah!

A key to survive this cruel, cruel world


Adaptation, people, adaptation. Who knows, you might even get that chance to stand higher than others like you've always wanted.
17 August 2007

It's the "teacher" who's annoying here.

QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:20 | 0 said something  
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Ask and you shall be amazed.




Translation: Life need not be complicated. Smart guys!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:17 | 0 said something  
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Of course!



QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:10 | 0 said something  
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01 August 2007

Which side?

I'm sure all of you have used "Sorry, woke up on the wrong side of the bed" at least 63 times to excuse yourself when you feel like bitching around. Fun, isn't it? Very convenient. I know--I use it everyday since I learned how to spell equality in prep school.

But it kinda gets tiring after some time. It still works, but part of me craves for a new motto. Even a number of wannabes doesn't buy it anymore and I apparently now have this--ahem--misunderstood image of a cynical warfreak. Tell me: Is it so wrong to expect a right answer to "who do you think you are?" The world can be so harsh sometimes...

Which leads me to a Eureka-ic realization:

I haven't been waking up at the wrong side of my or anyone else's bed. I don't have any childhood trauma or has-been syndromes like those of Britney Spears or Sandara Park. Not once did I aim for pestilence against all nicotine belchers or armageddon bewteen me and bird brains in skirts and too much face powder. Almost my whole life I had only wholeheartedly searched for the cure to closet-hood and carried the banner of honesty and clarity.

All this time, I haven't been rising from the wrong side of the bed.

I've been waking up to the wrong side of the world.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 22:03 | 0 said something  
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29 July 2007

A small step for normankind

Last night my colegiala-beyond-repair sister had friends over for a party. What kind of sweetgirls party, I'm not so sure. I was hogging the second living room with the PS2 when the pompom-less ladies and their cohort "cool dudes" arrived. I had earlier hoped that they won't notice me even though they would have to pass my space to reach the dining table where dinner lied. I played deadma for as long as I can, but sadly I lost, and my Saturday night was almost ruined. STILL, there was SOMETHING, and it pushed me to rethink updating my hitlist:

They had the decency NOT to say "Hello pooooo" or "Good evening poooooooooo." Not even a wink.

It must be my I'm-supposedly-at-home-so-it's-messy hair. Or my straight face. Or maybe my reputation just precedes me? I don't know. I'm just thrilled--elated, even--to discover that there is still hope for sane living.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 21:01 | 0 said something  
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26 July 2007

Riddikulus!

Can't have enough of re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-recurring Harry Potter mania. That's seven fabulous books now--except for Ginny--five movie adaptations, 10 years and a billion dollars ahead of Queen Elizabeth II. Back off, I'm a fan.

Anyway, I've been having a hard time sleeping at night for a week now. Darn horror flick. It's either full lights-curtains down-windows shut or full lights-curtains down-windows shut-Jack TV on. Makes me wanna face the mirror every minute and yell Riddikulus! nine times. It's a spell in Harry to turn fear into humor. Wait, that wouldn't change anything in my case...

Darn eye bags.

Piece of advice: Never watch horror flicks when you have no corporal roommate. Catch a love story instead. Guaranteed cheesiness to make you desperate for a corporal bedmate. Then you can stare at all uberly-pale-skinned girls with half a face the Chinese could think of.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 17:06 | 0 said something  
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FINALLY!

If there's something more pathetic than pretending to keep a journal, it's missing your six-months-in-the-making salon appointment because you overslept. And Raymond Gutierrez haplessly lowering his pitch to outdo Richard who's actually straight.

Goodness. Before I further bury myself into the muddy pod of (self) mockery, let me at least try to sneak out by offering a legit reason: I've been at work.

Honestly.

The magazine has been undergoing A LOT of changes in the past months. Toxic, man, real icky. I didn't dare look the other way or things would've crash. It could still do, so I'm keeping myself on "hero" mode. It's only this week that we saw the third SWEET fruit from our tree that is masochism. The magazine owners LIKE the mag now--that's straight men reading a showbiz title. The truth comes direct from straight, non-closeted, fairly-muscled men, so when they sent their congratulations to the staff and said they "like the magazine now," I rose from bed and hosted a mini-party for 1 at half past 2am. My ears clapped louder than Raymond's whenever he "rubs shoulders" with his twin's straight guy friends.

AT LAST!
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 16:03 | 0 said something  
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20 May 2007

Get me an emotional retirement plan

I watched and laughed at The Devil Wears Prada this afternoon. I was hoping to get inspired to jumpstart an article for the magazine, but nay, I was instead saddened.

Between the chuckles and Meryl Streep's lines, I realized that I am still somewhat bound by the fear of becoming a cold practitioner who has no friends ot hang out with on a free weekend. I have religiously done everything I know to prevent such tragedy from happening, but each day I only feel it coming closer and closer. I'm worried.

I'm worried that time will come when I won't "have a choice" but to say yes to work and no to a free movie. Worried that one day I'd be putting a name of a bank as my "In case of emergency" person on some survey about healthy lifestyles. Afraid that I'd be succesful, but only in terms of touring the world with my work team and not in bazaar-hopping with my long-lost friends. I really don't want those to happen. Not even if you take me out to dinner and a movie with Johnny Depp or have Angelina Jolie call me to explain her and Brad Pitts' adopta-thon.

I need an emotional retirement plan.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 23:05 | 0 said something  
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14 May 2007

After 2 months, 9 days and 10 years

I'm still the most stubborn procrastinator of all. For crying out loud, I'm getting my 12th even-number age in a few days, but I still really haven't let go of that hobby.

And there's no valid excuse either. Sure, all hell recently broke loose at work and annoyance still reigns at my normal habitat a.k.a. "family house" a.k.a. "boarding house." But they don't really take up MUCH of my time.

I just don't feel like "jotting" things down lately. It's a bit too much for me. I think I'm scared to record things no matter how much I want to... because it only allows me to view my past self along with the mistakes I did and kept repeating. Deliberately. More than that, I'm mortified: to think that at this age I'm ridiculously going through something like this again when I vowed never to when I turned 16. Goodness, I sound like a dumb, over-face powdered colegiala!

Some nine years ago, I destroyed my journals. All five of them. After I religiously wrote everything down since the third (fourth?) grade. I was writing on Beowulf (yep, that monster. i named my diaries after supposedly fictional characters from the Unpublished Book of Fairy Tales, circa 1990), when suddenly--out of irrational rage--I LOST IT and started brutally murdering Beowulf's middle page. The next thing I know, my journals were aflame.

I never started another "serious" journal again. It was very late when I finally "understood" why I massacered Beowulf and his siblings. To put it bluntly, I got scared to look at my past through my journals. They're strong proofs of my weaknesses and stupid mistakes, and as one who had to survive almost all all on his own, surprisingly I had no courage to even browse my younger years. Shamefully, it was the most stupid-est thing ever--I haven't even turned it into fossil until today. It was a gaddamned reflex, but yeah--don't ever try it at home.

At the end of college, I resolved not to be that stupid again. I have kept pseudo-diaries, but mostly they are living creatures I learned to trust even without money involved. My secrets--but not all of them--are all over the globe. Some of them, on bus tickets. But not once have I seriously returned to authentic diary-ing. Apparently, even after all the self-affirmations, I still have that fear...

One of my favorite TV shows said, sometimes we don't want to admit things because they sound ugly. And that's not even about writing it and being able to see it over and over and over. Things like, that teenage coward is still inside me. Or, I'm too slow with my career I might have chosen the wrong course in college.

Or, a best friend is going away and I can't stop him...

Sometimes, it sucks to have a heart.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 22:00 | 0 said something  
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04 March 2007

It's an excuse

Over a year ago I promised myself to go back to diary-ing -- at least through online blog. I was so busy forgetting about that promise that politician-wannabees ought to learn a thing or two from me. But let's not talk about them. They already hog more than enough media space as it is.

What I want to talk about is my efforts to really add life to this journal thing. I'm not sure if anyone really reads it, but in 13+ years time I'd want to look back at dwarf proofs that could back my insanity... So I'm back now... With changes to the blog!

Don't you just love the shades here now? My blonde bald pal did it for me. Such a nice guy. Check out his green site and see why I asked him to do it for me (of course that's aside from the facts that 11 years of Internet use haven't really improved my HTML-watchamacallit know-how and that I like using my friends). It's not much, but at least it's something new. He even made that P-with-a-devil's-tail logo for the blog. He's cool. Now I owe him lunch and more friend bashing and nagging. Ah, 'tis the life.

Also -- and I'm sooo glad to have finally done it -- my links corner have been "authenticated" and you can now visit actual sites through them. For now they're mostly blogs of people I know... once I become an Internet geek maybe I'll add more.

Yet to date, the most important thing I've ever added to this blog, are links to my FRIENDS' Friendster pages. It may be silly and even too trying-hard, but I don't care. Next to hair conditioner, blood and pennies, they're the most important part of my life. I've listed 16 of them because it's my ex-best friend's favorite # -- he got sucked into a bloody blackhole about 9 years ago. There's really no "perfect" friendship with any of them but fi there's one thing I'm sure of, it's my bond with these people. Several of them are strange, while most of the are plainly crazy. They're fabulous. And a fabulous excuse is always better than too much white space.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 22:57 | 0 said something  
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23 February 2007

Any minute now...

... I'm gonna pretend to pass out if I don't actually do out of stress.
... I'm gonna throw my mechanically impotent computer chair at a psychologically impotent co-worker.
... I'm gonna cry of a scripted heartbreak.
... I'm gonna laugh at a scripted vengeance.
... I'm gonna frown at a frustrating outcome.
... I'm gonna laugh harder because of a recalled joke about dumb colegialas.
... I'm gonna finish "reading" a friend's website. Then think on how to salvage it even at least for a favor I asked him.
... I'm gonna drink my 7th glass of water for the day. Then pass it on to the toilet.
... I'm gonna check my hair for the umpteenth time today.
... I'm gonna ponder on what I'll have my stylist to do for my hair.
... I'm gonna pretend to give up and forgive people who try to hurt me.
... I'm gonna give up and pretend to forgive people who actually hurt me.
... I'm gonna check updates on another friend's blog before txting him how pathetic he is.
... I'm gonna sigh again for the troubles I got myself into.
... I'm gonna weigh the possible expenses on how to get myself out of them
... I'm gonna play How deep is your love? and do wishful thinking about... about...
... I'm gonna yell my guts out and curse a stray dog into oblivion.
... I'm gonna regret having gone to Alabang right after a killer storm hit the country last year.
... I'm gonna check my list and count the few friends I have left.
... I'm gonna wish I didn't go to the fat barbers back in grade school.
... I'm gonna regret not getting the number of the cute seatmate at the bust from Ortigas last night.
... I'm gonna freak out because I forgot to email something to someone and my pay for this month depends on it.
... I'm gonna take a deep breath and try to return to living.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 15:25 | 0 said something  
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20 February 2007

Correct me if I'm wrong

Better yet, slap me. But first enlighten me: Do drunk, stray dogs have the right to work with homo sapiens and screw up while doing it, and we can NEVER get upset?

You know how to reach me.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 14:54 | 0 said something  
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Nicotine rolls

The other day I ended up hanging out with this small group of people where each of them was, um, generally out of place -- she's a neutoric control freak while she's like a the sanest person in a mental institution. They're like inseparable and yeah, there were only the three of us that night, but I didn't mind. Better than hanging out with a dismal "friend" who has nothing better to do than rant about her umpteenth break-up on a Saturday night while you wish a meteorite would end everybody's suffering. So I went with the two ladies. At first I hesitated with the idea but, like what one of my co-editor's principles says, it's always good to try something new.

And good it was.

I've only known them for less than a year -- a fairly sane friend introduced them to me some time in August. Several weeks and some scientific magic later, I began hanging out with them -- in groups, of course, as I'm already crazy as it is so I've never chosen to hang out with just the two of them. I was a virgin until last Saturday, so to speak.

As we sat there with our half-empty coffee cups and their nicotine rolls, naturally, we talked. About Lots Of Things. It seemed the night and their cigar packs were not enough for everything. But more than that, I was surprised to discover that they're not so, um, out of place, after all. They were people too -- not as normal as basic anatomy would dictate -- but more or less, human like the rest of us.

They simply didn't have friends. Or a nice, adequate set of them, at least.

While Weng, the smoker, T.A.L.K.E.D., I noticed something new with her. She was excited. Thrilled. Like she came back from a non-Earth dimension and was itching to tell someone all about it. Steph, the heavier smoker who love the term "nicotine rolls", on the other hand was just as jolly that night. As that famous line goes: I've never seen them like that before. For the first time, they were having fun -- at the company of somebody other than each other.

I'm no angel or hero. Heck, I'd sneak out on them had I had a freakoverload. More like, it was a BIT overwhelming to finally see the real people behind the strange, introvert attitudes. For what it's worth, I felt happy for them that night... because I knew they were.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 10:55 | 0 said something  
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13 February 2007

Ought-to-matic

For six years, we're made to understand the different parts of speech. But among them -- literacy and technical know-what aside -- adjective and adverbs are the most annoying.

The modifiers. Because of them, we became selfish brats. They turned us into greedy and insatiably expectant creatures and they forever blocked contentment's way to our doorsteps. Because of them, we can't anymore shut our traps because after six freaking years we now always know better. We learned to never settle. We learned to define.

Which is very... irritating. They sucked us into through this blackhole and now we're living in an ought-to-matic world.
You should go out because they might think you're a loser if you just stay in.
Why aren't you joining us? Don't you like us?
Why aren't you wearing red today? It's World Blood Day!
You know, you didn't have to be upset, even though your friend used your money and lost 60-grand in the casino without telling you. You're friends, anyway!
Don't go for take-outs. You're not a yaya!
Buy a couple more of these icky but fragrant lotion -- celebrities do!
You ought to live according to these gaddamned rules because everyone does and if you don't you're a pathetic excuse for a human being!

See? Everyone expects one another to live according to these "natural" guidelines. Because everyone now knows better. You shouldn't have done that because... because... because you shouldn't have! There goes free will. Today, we can no longer stroll alone or we'll be labeled lepers. We can no longer have simple pleasures because everyone else is living in extravagance and we'll be decapitated if we don't follow. And we can no longer keep quiet for its simplest sake -- we need to at least make a sound so as not to appear autistic.

I'm not shunning our freedom of expression a.k.a. "right to comment". Nor am I rallying for to tolerate baseless, noisy merrymaking that is staging a show for selfish attention. Just that, sometimes neurosis/cynicism/paranoia gets the best of us and drives us to worry/doubt/break down when we absolutely need not to just because someone does something out of the ordinary (i.e. the expected behavior).

Be grateful technology has offered us convenience our circa-Ice Age ancestors could even pronounce. But leave it to the machines to be automatic. Because it's what they do.
QWERTY-ed by Paoper at 16:50 | 0 said something  
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