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.
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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!!!
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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.
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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.