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.

Dear Niwee,

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.