Cheers!

It’s four til four in my clock.

It’s five til my first class.

It’s five thirty before I die yet again.

And I am finally on the verge of crying once more. I am not ashamed to cry mind you. Especially since it has become one of my relievers since high school. Stressed? Cry? Tired? Cry. It’s one simple process which nay do I deny myself of. And here we go typing this, with a tissue roll at clutch. Yes, this is me on the down side of life. There is comfort in those who say that ten years from now, this won’t matter. Thank you. But you see, I live now. And ten years from now, remains ten years from now — never nearer than when you ended the sentence. So yes, ten years from now, this might not matter. I am just not sure if I’d still be alive by then. If I could still be. And ten years from now, if this doesn’t matter, I’ve probably have died because obviously this is traumatizing me, inch by inch, and pain by pain as experience would have it. And so the hope the sentence brings doesn’t make it after the last syllable. It doesn’t even come through.

All I could ever hope for is a four (i.e. an A) in my card, but hope has far gone beyond or behind me (I am really no longer sure). But for this one alone, because this one alone is simply itself, I step down from that delusion and say, anything but one or zero would be much appreciated. Any. Really.

Here comes the first drip. It’s as if my eyes were toasting, “to the people who set it down because they can’t, and to the selves that allow them.”

One Of Those Times That I Feel like I’m A Failure

Like everything is failing.And I just can’t make it stop. Somebody make it stop. So much so that I feel I don’t deserve the good things I’m getting. Nakakahiya lang sa mga tao, and sa sarili ko…is all. I don’t like this feeling. 

At the Gate

I was just staring at the gate. That faithful morning when everything was to be in full bloom I was just staring at the white plain gate. It was as if I didn’t know why I was there, I was just there. The wind was breezing. Blankly, I was waiting for nothing staring at that white gate. Or in that case, nothingness.

I knew it was a failure then and there. I knew it was going to be one of those instances where I was the one soldier left standing and I was just bashing away waiting for someone to put me out of consciousness. I was a fighter before that.  I would always get my way through because I …loved the premise that I could – that I would.  But the instant I saw my shadow at that gates I just knew that I was going to stare at it waiting for the confirmation that I did not want it anymore.

I guess it was a matter of appreciation. If I did appreciate it, it was not the case anymore. I did not. I no longer did at that instant. It was just a matter of finishing what I had to because the little the appreciation I had then I wanted to salvage. It got to me. Or, finally I let it get to me. I finally saw what everyone was binging on. Why would I appreciate something that no one could? Did? Perhaps, ever will not? I understand that people have to deal with their own plates and eat their own meals, but why would I gobble up a whole buffet by myself?  And then I no longer saw why I was there. I was there because the circumstance led me to, but much deeper than that, I was there for no reason apparent to me. I was staring at the white gate, the wind breezing through me as if teasing me of the freedom I capitulated into one direction. I was there. I did not want to.

And so they say, we choose the battles we fight, we choose the roads we traverse and we go the direction we want. So I did.  It makes me wonder if things would have been different, what would I be? Or where? But I look at pictures in my head, and then it breezes through me. Perhaps, it’s better this way.

No, it is better this way.

After getting what I needed I went home. I went home from the gate after that, literally and figuratively. I found myself just waiting along with other people. I am home at my own gates. Yes, this is better. 

Milking The Sad

Well, I can’t open my multiply account and I seriously don’t know why. And this is bad because I find that I am quite addicted to pressing the publish button. And now I can’t open it. This is sad!

Meanwhile there are three storms that are supposedly hitting the Philippines. All at once, the phenomenon is said to have happened only after a decade. And I am pretty sure that though there can be no trace of a storm here in the NCR or the central Luzon areas, except for the rain, there are a lot of flooded areas in the provinces. Again, that is sad.

Then there was an earthquake just a few days back. I am immune to earthquakes. I don’t feel them. The only quakes that I feel are those simulated during bad dreams. And even they are short and sweet. Well not really but in terms of quakes, they are the closest that I get. Again, sad!

There was a mutiny in Manila Peninsula by the same person four years ago. In what part of the world do you have soldiers parading their stance in rather expensive places, while asking the mass to support them? Let’s calculate this shall we. Ayala is found in Makati. Makati is the business center. As the business center, one could pretty much assume that it is expensive there (what with all the expats and all). So how do you exactly expect masses to come to such a distant, expensive place? Also note that the same act was done four years back in the same periphery. Do correct me, but I heard no news that people came strolling at the area then. So why exactly would they go frolicking there now? For a poor country, our upstagings are held in hotels, and still they seem to falter. Maybe they should try a cheaper hotel. Heck maybe they should try it NOT on a hotel, and NOT in Makati nor Ayala Ave. Try Tawi Tawi next time. Or Babuyan Islands. I think that rather than a mutiny, it looked like a not-so-well directed play. Do I have to put it again? This is sad!

Marimar is angry with Inocencia. She catches her slipping to Sergio Krusita, their child. At that moment, Marimar slaps Inocencia. It sounded like a pirate boat paddle hit her, as if hazing Inocencia into the world we shall call those who are against Marimar. This is the time where I say, “Okay n asana.” And yes, that wasted scene was sad!

Gladys Guevarra entered PBB. I am missing Ethel Booba. I wish she just came back to Eat Bulaga where I did like her as the person she shows on TV. I still miss Ethel Booba and now I am sad.

I just saw a commercial. It went, “Ang gatas ng aso, sa tuta. Ang gatas ng baboy sa biik. Ang gatas ng baka sa anak mo? Hindi hayop ang anak mo.” I find it so insensitive. How about the mothers who will die by the mere premise that they are pregnant and giving birth to children is already a miracle, rendering it impossible to feed their babies? I think they call it breast cancer. What about them? And besides, babies are not animals. Is it not obvious? Their not animals, their cans. Because their milks come from cans, and boxes and foils inside the boxes. I think the commercial is not only weak, but also stupid. Maybe the person/people who did it was/were never breast fed. How sad!

I am watching that Bea Alonzo-John Lloyd trailer. I will not watch it until a month after because of the happiness the movie Enchanted has caused me. What’s sad is that I am preferring a foreign film over a local one. I know, sad (well for the movie industry)!

Check this news out also. (link) A guy wins a lottery and he is supposed to be arrested, thus giving rise to the possibility that he will not be allowed to claim it. Sad, no?

I’m still happy though.

On a lighter note, tinamaan ako ng sobra sa philo kanina. I can’t say I grasped it because I read the wrong parts but well, sakto eh.)

Mutiny?

Another thing is going down in Ayala Ave.

Coming To This

We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.

And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.

Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart or saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.

Mark Strand

I’m A Beauty Queen I Don’t Do This Shiz

**I was going to write something about playing with people and morality and some sort of angry post for producers toying with children. (Now is this how we raise our children? Well that’s how they do it, and we wonder why some people are “bad.”) Ten minutes into the show, I changed my mind.  Emotional wounds are deeper, heal a lot longer, and leave scars that instantaneously demand a certain emotion. That is if you have watched this new show Kid Nation, a show where kids run a “nation” (in quotes because it’s a town). I think the next (insert name of real villain) will sprout from that show. Somewhere in future time, 13 after the next Pacquiao wins and there is a calamity, I will know that one of them or they caused it (the calamity). When I’m in need of another person to push my wheelchair or to eat, the next bomb explosion I’d yell, “That’s the kid from Kid Nation! I used to watch him/her/him-her as a council.” Whoever thought that watching kids really just – I can’t think of a better term – bitch about things be oh so gloriously fun? Jerry Buckheimer, I smell bankruptcy so act quick, bitch back.  The biggest bitch fight I had when I was younger (grade school) was with a friend who not only refused to use deodorant but insisted on fanning her, uh, sign of adolescence to us. If you’re wondering, yes, we talked about it with her – she was a friend – but she dismissed our allegations, saying that none of us had hormones yet. We tried. We stinking failed. And for kids who were O.C. we knew that awful smells, at least those that were consensually rendered awful, was a no-no. Obviously the smell was not imaginary as I was not alone – perhaps we did not have hormones yet, but she clearly had sweat glands already activated. I used “we” because one of my more bitchy friends got so pissed off she actually went the extra mile and gave her a big stick of underarm freshener as part of our regular Christmas monito monita. My (more bitchy) friend was mean, but the smell was meaner, well, to our nostrils. My anguish peaked when days before the UN Celebration Day celebration while designing our room and practicing so that our class would win, she just (without warning or alarm) positioned herself in front of the only electric fan we had that time and imitated a gliding bird – with her arms gliding in the wind, her underarms popping like newly shaken wine bottles, and her underarms’ smell blasting like missile jets to our direction. There was no escape, and that added five more years of psychological therapy: I am jealous of people who discover the audacity of un-tawas-ed underarm through body parts they can label their own, and I am angry that the first putok my nose sniffed is not mine. We endured her (smell) the whole day and won, but pyrrich it definitely was. We lost something that could never be compensated back. Personally, I became a non-virgin sniffer – we all did. It was then that I decided that I would never want to be an adolescent more so, a grown-up – they stink. But oh well, I grew up anyway.   Having grown up through reality shows, Kid Nation is really nothing new. It is survivor less the adults. This is what I think makes the show really, really worthy of wasting my time. You see, the world and, and in, all its worldliness is apparently best served in the eyes of young children. Because of the honesty that children (supposedly and really) possess, the show is much juicier than the reason for any dying tiki torch in the middle of a supposedly dangerous island. When they say, unadulterated they meant it. Unlike survivor that slightly pangs its viewer’s attention to the fact that other people at some part of the world are suffering (for a million dollars), Kid Nation simply pegs on the fact that we all wonder what the world will be if it was ran by kids. And surprisingly, the world is not different. It is much more honest, yes, but at that honesty it is more brutal. Have I told you that I was going to enjoy this juicy show?   My baptismal into this child-y world is like that of a matinee idol video – with another matinee idol practicing “anal activities for their artistic growth” – and then denying it the day after it becomes available in Quiapo and Bluetooth. It had more than everything that I could wish for in a show: everything down to irritating “good” characters, which reality shows often lack nowadays. From psychological implications down to in-your-face qualms, the show covered it and left me salivating to see if one day they’d join the league of Hector Cannibal. Oh yum! Speaking of feeding, allow me to share the highlight of that blessed episode. The children in the show had to feed themselves and they needed protein. They have been feeding on anything starch the past few days and they rendered that they will not go through this reality show by starchiness alone. And so, in one of those town meetings that they had they asked the townspeople if they were into flesh by letting go of their town pets – this time it was the chickens. It was shocking but delightful for me to see that only two or three rejected the idea, one eventually backed out from rejecting the notion and decided that Chicken Little is nicer deep-fried. “Just so you know, I will leave if you kill those chickens…” said the future PETA leader in pink girl that did not raise her hand – she’d rather grow potatoes in her skin I guess. A commercial and a few frames later she with her constituents were running to the chicken den taking straps of leather from the horse station and ropes inside. They were staging an Oakwood, I loved it!   However, PETA leader girl (which due to her long name, we will refer to as PETA LG hence this sentence) was an Oakwood herself. She failed. At a town meeting, her ideologies of chicken-are-friends had to chicken out. Do you know what that means? It means that this bunch of kids who have yet to think of worldly pleasures and worldly crimes (i.e. sex, violence, et. Al.) will behead living creatures themselves, and did so. I can’t even look and there they were happy that the headless chicken still had Impulses (“It’s normal.”). I told you psychological implications were at stake, and what better age to impose psychological foundations to people than their growing years? Oh yes, the show is so juicy I think I had a heart attack! Yes, they beheaded two chickens and de-featered them, and cooked them ala corn on the cob. They guiltlessly ate that night. PETA LG’s constituents, like most Filipino politicians, changed sides at the smell of something with great benefits, this time being protein. See, they even have dirty politics! PETA LG did not leave her quarter that night. “They are sick.” said PETA LG probably feeling betrayed. I thought, you should wait when they start smelling each other’s adolescence, with what they’re willing to do, tell me that yes, they are sick. And just when they reached the esteem of treachery only Survivor can muster, they go on a competition.  Later in the show, they had a competition where, more than the fact of losing, was the fact that the kids were made to salivate over this great Slide to be put in the center of town and a surprise supposing everyone finishes. Yes, anyone can argue that it is more of a Reward Approach to the kids, but let’s see: when you factor in the fact that the first team can choose for a price but also need all the groups to accomplish the task before they can choose, can it still be called motivation? I say no, it is more appropriately, even correctly, called peer pressure. Peer pressured nine- to fifteen-year-olds, to be precise. Thinking farther ahead, when those kids have pulled the hairs of other co-townsfolk, can you still see the acceptance from other groups when one of them is not able to finish? What if one group constantly cost the town to not get the prize? I have only seen an episode and I am imagining episodes already, this is beyond satisfaction.  As part of the show, a council meeting is held near the end where the town is asked if they are satisfied with the performance of the council, four elected, supposed leaders. They were, except for the yellow team and its respective leader, who had someone from their own team ashamed to be yellow. So the ploy thickens, and I enjoy it more. The yellow team leader (YTL) tries to excuse her uselessness, “We try our best to get up and cook, it’s not easy cooking for forty heads.” I smell a liar/con artist/useless group leader in the making, as earlier she was shown just lip gloss-ing after dismissing her groupmate who asked them to simply do their assigned job (yes, while the others worked). “Whatever” she shooed the boy away. Then one boy from the townsfolk goes, “Look we’re all kids here okay, so don’t use that ‘we’re young’ excuse of yours. If we are to be town, you should work too.” The town mumbles. The council, especially YTL tries to quiet down the people (“Quiet!”). I could see the steam coming from her ears and nose, taking out a gun and going Kill Bill, “Whose useless now, you piece of soil fertilizer?” Oh, joy! At that time I just could not believe that it was near the ending. Step aside America’s Next Top Model, these kids will show un-acceptance and they will not even summon Anorexia or Over-weighted-ness. They will simply run the town.   The show features a forty day series. They were already on their seventh. And may I ask why? Why did it take too long for them to think of this formula? More especially, why does it have to end after forty days? They should at least wait until they are in need of armpit Lysols. You see these are children willing to massacre a chicken and revel at the flesh, who are born politicians, and children who dare stage mutiny at the spark of a new idea, would it not be nice to see them grow up, still, with each other? I might change my mind some day, but for now I am picturing them tawas-ing a fellow townsfolk that refuses to slap some on. Now that will define bitch fight.   PETA LG later enjoyed herself. With all her acts and schemes, you’d think that she’d grace out of town while doing the finger to them chicken-eaters. But no she stayed, “I think I’m gonna stay.” I officially loved her since. You see, she is a rather rare kind of person. She is an activist anti, the type you see rallying for one specific cause then heading straight to the exact, actual enemy without being noticed. She is everyone’s friend, and she will sniper them because she knows their home addresses and safe houses. I even think she ate one chicken by herself, raw and whole. Someone show me the 1-800 number.

Look Ma, No Egg…Cells

 

 

 

I am confusing. At least that is the consensus when it comes to people who have yet to associate my name with my face, with my gender. I don’t exactly know what it is with them (yes, there’s nothing wrong with me), but people of said category have mistaken me for a (pretty) lady, at least the majority. It occurs most often, when the following criteria are met:

1. The setting has to be in a mass public transportation. When I say mass, taxis are eliminated. Thus leaves you with jeepneys, buses, train systems, and sometimes in rainy season trucks, supposing the drainage system and the flood conspire. My favorite of the list would be the train. Its fast, it’s easy to learn, it’s cheap and my gender bending qualities have occurred mostly on it. Not far behind though, walking amidst random people have proven equivalent of the train. I did not include it because I am not sure whether sidewalks, overpasses, Ped Xings, and highways can be considered public transportation.

2. There has to be inspection. Or close contact. Anything that could make other people think that you are carrying a bomb. Or that you are willing to buy whatever it is they have to offer, or are really wealthy to give them what they beg for.

3. Never talk. Instead smile. Erase that. Just never talk.

Once all three are set it has been evident that in the eyes of the world I have come of age. Who needs to be a debutant when you can go straight to womanhood? I am speaking here of being male straight to womanhood. I seem to have defied nature as I have yet to experience the Menstrual cycle and yet they call me ma’am. I don’t even need estrogen. To the world, I have become a woman.

I find that whenever I grow my hair long enough, people mistake me for a girl. Sandara sing with me, “ang ganda ko…”

Story Number 1:

Once upon a time in college freshman year, I was in a play. So I was not allowed to cut my hair for give or take a month or two. My hair grew really long that I had bangs down to my eyes. In my world, that is very long since I have been blessed by the indicator of intelligence: a big forehead. I am perhaps exaggerating this, but my forehead is so big it comprises almost a fourth of my head. If you cut my lower jaws, my head would have a “normal” size. So the fact that my bangs reached my eyes, at one point went beyond them is proof that they were long. At that time of hair growth, I rode the LRT as I was heading to Katipunan when I was stopped.

“Doon po ang girls’ ma’am.” The guard not wanting to inspect pretty me, pointing to the other lane labeled “Female.”

Being the crazy person that I am, I changed lane and passed through the female entrance. I just smiled.

Story Number 2:

If you happen to be in Ateneo and you happen to need something from National Bookstore, Katipunan (an over pass away from Gate 2.5) or any institution in front of Ateneo and vice versa, and you decided to be environment-friendly or that you needed exercise so you used the National Bookstore overpass, you would know the abuse that any mortal gets from “children” roaming, steadily hunting anyone crossing the “children”-filled overpass. Why it is an abuse is a different story. With me, it is often a circumstance of utter confusion.

“Children” suddenly pops in front of me.

“Ate akin na lang iyan.” Pause. “Ay kuya.”Pause. “Sige na ate.”

I don’t think that being uneducated is the case. Do you need schooling to differentiate a girl from a boy? I don’t think so. Evidently, given their (the “children’s”) cunning hunting abilities for prospects, my appearances have left them in a world where both genders have ceased to be different. They have fused. I am the new gender: the AteKuya

Story Number 3

I am not into buying, that is relative to eating. I oft the mall in search of a new place to eat in more than to buy anything. The very few times I do decide to buy clothes, I make sure that my time is sulit (read: more time is still spent on eating). At one store, a saleslady went up to me as I was checking the male jackets, in one hand holding a pink bolero style zippered one:

“Ma’am we have new pink colors po.”

I looked at her, smiled, nodded and looked at her straight in the eye.

“Doon po ang girls section namin.”

So I tagged along and looked at clothes that could only cover and inch below my nipple (when ideally they should be down to the stomach). And yes, not only would they be short they would be very tight as well.

Story Number 4

I recently rode a plane. It required much inspection. After passing through the metal detector thing, the male guard did the standard check-the-person-for-a-hidden-gun procedure. After doing so, he called his female counterpart, and asked her to say sorry to me and check me for firearms.

I smiled, and delivered a high pitched “Okay lang.”

Awhile ago, after much deliberation with myself and concluding that I am much bored, I decided to go out. I went to National Bookstore and afterwards went to McDonald’s for some burger lunch. I think it was Abante, or one of the local tabloids, that caught my attention. It was not the headline, I think something with the word singit and maitim was, but it caught my attention (even without the red, bold, urgent letters effect to it):

Sam Hindi Na Dini-Date Si Piolo!

Are they seriously still putting the two together? Apparently new stars have something to learn from the (yet to be proven, or yet to admit) couple’s longevity. Because seriously, there is a war in Iraq, there are starvations in Africa and there are confused people with me and my apparent confusing beauty, and still they put upfront that Sam Milby is no longer dating Piolo Pascaul. Seriously?

For one, if they are together shouldn’t we just be happy? And two, I don’t think neither Sam nor Piolo is confusing. So why insist when neither is an AteKuya?

Really, what is wrong with people?

 

 

OKAY, LETS BEGIN.

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