The Enemy wants to win me back.
The Enemy wants to win me back.
21.10.04; Medium to Massive; 20:23
Sisig moment of the Week: Sisig as breakfast (EST) with gumpaste and blackgeisha. The aftertaste lasted until dinnertime (EST). Bimbo-By-Belo-In-The-Making Awardee of the Week: blackgeisha. Virtual find of the Week: PINOYEXPATS. Click it, click it! Word of the Day: Tsubibo – Tagalog term for ferris wheel. WATCHAWANT ng KABARKADA ng Studio 23 from Davao: ‘You know what, management of Studio 23 in Manila scrapped Oprah in Davao just to give way to the local NewsCentral. As if they can’t find any other adjustment in programming. Heller! Anong palagay nila sa amin dito, mga bobo?! Naka-award na taga-sagot phone nila dito kanina. Maging hellaw man ang heller, I won’t stop complaining on phone, online until they do something about it. It’s as good as nasunog transmitter nila, mga kumag sila.’ We heard you, Phoebe. *hugs* Quote of the Week: “I think my water broke,” – shdwbxr.
Have I established why I despise hanging out in SM Bacoor? No? Let me enlighten you.
Since it is inevitable to be bothered by people who know me, it is either you’d be reminded of my repugnant past or you’d realize how small your world really is. How stiffening you’d forget to enjoy yourself! The parade of people from my past is like an adaptation of an autobiography written incompetently wherein yours truly, alas, is subjected to masochistic marathon as the sole viewer. Or, it’s like a ten-frame-per-second visual obituary you can’t help but cry for a distraction. Unlike my near-death experiences, the inaudible gasp that serves as my scoring for the quick chronological glimpse of my sorry life is rather enjoyable than either of those. The smiling, proud portraits of my loved ones are instrumental in fooling myself I get to live a fantastic life. Who wants a slow death, anyway?
I could hear you clamoring for an instance.
Yesterday, three of my high school teachers (and their company) stopped dead in their tracks upon recognizing me. While the other two decided to save their vocal strength for tomorrow’s class, the other averred she won’t forget me for what I did so went on recited my full name (my last name is still mispronounced) and even the title of the essay I wrote for her class. After the “What do you do?”, she launched into the easy portion: “May asawa ka na ba?”. Without skipping a heart beat, without touching my nose and without losing eye contact, I told her I’m very single. “Sa katawan mong ‘yan?” She was flabbergasted, nodding towards my Coke-in-can figure. Regardless of the teasing neckline, the apparent follicle evolution, the made-for-field-trips-in-Malate bag and my ringless finger, the layers of fat became the ultimate indication of my marital status. Or maybe that’s a sensitive way of saying I actually look like someone who has sired 3 rascals.
Know what? I agree with her.
The minute I bade farewell (Gosh! I forgot to ask what’s new with them!!! San Miguel Arkanghel might get mad!), males and minors dissolved into microscopic insects and the rest turned up to be plus-size matriarchs. Upon reaching the coffee shop, the melancholic movie started with what I did and guilt subsequently attacked me. As if on cue, an old classmate passed before my eyes. She has lost an astounding amount of extra pounds and gained a tall, attentive partner who seemingly finds satisfaction with tagging her younger brother along in their date. I didn’t have to pretend I was heedless.
Before I could fully recover, my gaze landed on an old college professor. He saw me, too. Since I’m ready to scream at the top of my lungs in any minute, I turned away. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me either. Period.
Now I pray no gossipmonger would make out something out of me leaving the doomed establishment with a lesbian couple and shdwbxr and her punk-looking sister.
X’S: 666 x 3 = 1998. What a fucked up year.
My high school class was preparing for the attack of a feared burglar. While the boys served as frontliners, girls were assigned to stand behind the wooden windows. Even before somebody could yell that he’s in the territory, I’m already in a warrior pose. My mind was mocking me that I end up failing whenever I’m too psyched for something.
All of a sudden, the man made a back entry. The others girls ran away. Karen and I were situated at the farthest windows from the door. We just froze. Nobody came in to rescue us. Taking his time, he asked us to remove all our pieces of jewelry.
At this point, I escaped from my dream. I realized I have overslept and I’d be late in the 17:30 mass if I don’t get up on my ass.
He dreamt that our mutual friend diverted her unrequited affection to him. Knowing we’re all aware of his sexual orientation, shock registered on my facial feature.
16.10.04; Haunting have-tos; 21:06
Accomplishment of the Year: The semi-completed babble space called About Me. Don’t bother clicking. Aside from the fact Phoebe hasn’t posted her spiel yet, the poor literary devices (peram crazybitch) yell for revision. Quote of the Last, Last Week: “Hudyo ka talaga!” – Mami, after I gave my riveting review of Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ“: “Jim Caviezel is fucking hot!!!” [Take note: the tongue should be moving.] Latest window shopping niche: Edzelove’s pop shop. Last month’s vaginal moment: The very delayed arrival of Tanya. Impact: Signal # 1 and the discontinuation of my promising comeback to the world of fitness.
OKAY. Inspite of the regular mockery I get for my writings and the pressure of surpassing the previous victorious post, I am back to offer you, dear stalkers, another update of the recent ongoings in my own snorefest called life. Bear with me.
– – –
And the domestic drama continues.
Even the pundits make unwitting decisions, eh? After decades of getting and learning from the myriads of maids, Mom handpicked one of her far-away nieces to be with us. But that’s understandable: her own mom pimped her so that her siblings will have something to eat. (By the way, she’s the eldest of 8. And there’s one more on the way.) Now that she has our full support in pursuing her interrupted secondary education, she ceased concealing her horns. Counting the erstwhile trivial offenses, her behaviour last night triggered Mom’s bull’s eye zone. She decided to trot away towards greener pastures and leave the tiny devil disguised as younger sister under the care of my lola, who would undergo an eye operation next week. In short, Mom declared there is no other destination for her but home.
Fuck. This princess is demoted back as the official dishwasher. My naaaaaaaaaaails!!!
– – –
If there’s one issue I fail to bring up in thesis-making sessions, it would have to be the actuality of urban legends/dagdag bawas stories (peram muriatic_ipis). The recent stomach-stabbing in Zapote St., claimed many lives (I hope the previous sentence prepared you why I refuse to give numerical details) including a pregnant woman’s and further tolerated the very endorphins-friendly act of oral activity. The typical image of a Caviteño criminal is replaced by liver-loving cult members then revised to prowling quartet in motorcycles then whatnot. Someone said these slayers are fueled by revengeful hearts; someone said they just feel like doing so. YOU update me.
Think about it. What else could be as entertaining as passing newborn Siamese twins named Fact and Fiction around?
But if I were asked to name my desired victim, the teenage puta in our village whose graveyard shift disturbs her neighbors’ (read: my lola and male cousins) sleeping hours is on the top of my list. I remember her making my nose hurt from extreme wrinkling. Nobody else has single-handedly caused me that kind of physical pain before. Nobody.
– – –
So the fag finally came out.
After our least favorite English teacher in high school officially shattered our Sex and the City role-playing just by walking through the door, he started to feed me pieces of his hidden dream. It was flabbergasting for someone who assumed she reads him well. Being a typical Amelie as I am, I enlisted the best routes and flashed him hopeful winks. It is sad to face one’s mirror everyday and underplay the unremitting enthusiasm within.
To you, my dear Stanford: Here’s a star for your 40 days of nicotine detachment. Thank you for saving my lousy Sundays. Happy birthday. Love you, bakla.
X’S: Have I mentioned the undisputed tandem of Mom and Tita Tess hosted another baranggay brawl? Believe it.
Dream 1. Was having online fun with a female friend. I was temporarily distracted by a text message. When I looked up, a know-it-all mock about my dad was boldly written on the screen. The friendly icon that regularly cheers me up was transformed into a blue-haired male. I know this guy.
Dream 2. So I got the moolah to buy the ArtWork franchise. *thanks the Lord* I pushed the higher ups to add Phoebe‘s designs. Ahhh…the beauty of Nepotism.
Phoebe texted me this:
I dreamed about the comedian Chocoleit, some inquisitive people I don’t recognize and believe it or not, bobo** – all traveling with me from countryside in a jeep! Chocoleit sat beside me and listened to everything I said, feeling close. She was busy having herself interviewed by other people and the subject washer feud with you! I kept on saying, “Who listens to all her nonsense? Hey, you’re nothing but a senseless twang!” then to her interviewer, “Oh, I can’t believe she’s spreading crap,” I can’t believe too that they’re in my dream.
I said both to her daw and she got out to sit by the opening, ung sabitan ng konduktor sa side? Dun sya umupo nung panay na kantyaw ko sa kanya with Chocoleit as a second voice “Yeah, you are!” The unrecognizable interviewer maybe represented her chismosa fans. Basta I wanted her to eat the crappy drama she’s trying to portray dun sa nagtyaga sa kanya. When I finally got rid of her kasi nakasabit na sya sa labas, I thought, “Kawawang stupida,”. It was a long ride.
Stalking. On his profiles, he said his longest relationship reached 2 years.