No one likes an eff-ing ass.
I probably am one of the greatest people you’ll ever meet but you would never know that because half the time--okay, most-- I seem, no, strike that-- am one eff-ed up bastard.
Mr. Hyde has nothing on me.
I wish I were more unapologetic about my pseudo-pessimistic sucky attitude or my spit-fire french or my frequent outsbursts of rage and contempt.
I envy Karen O's eff-you feminism. People should celebrate that kind of freedom. Yet in this part of the world, while it may seem off the wall and individual as opposed to dancing with the recent local shampoo commercial, that sort of attitude is contemplative of social suicide.
Anything different is wierd.
Anything weird is scary.
If people were more accepting, the world, including mine, would be a happier place.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
I’m a relic. Oi!
It was my sister’s graduation rites and I was ready to strangle everyone in the gymnasium. I felt like Carrie before she went completely mental and roasted the entire prom population. It was horrible. I had every inclination to morph into every Japanese manga monster the entire day. The day wore on with my body inhabited by a 200 year old hag.
So okay, the graduation wasn’t really that terrible. It was just 2 hours late--but I blame that on third world traffic. The key-note speaker was quick with his speech, nothing too fancy or elaborate, considering that he most likely had been a rock in his past life. And the college had the consideration of cooling the place with AC’s. Although I apparently wasn’t getting in processed air into my lungs enough to prevent me from inhaling every virus within a 50 meter radius. I now have clogged and very red nostrils, and enough snot to power a medium-sized locomotive. But that’s another story.
The highlight of the day wasn’t the graduation, however, it was the ride home. It was straight out from a shiny hollywood hallucination of the end-of-the-world (think: war of the worlds) --- the part when the entire human race has the exact idea of dashing for the nearest exit. In this case, it was the sea port in Ozamis.
The thing that bothers me most is that it could have turned out different, had I been more patient and poised and calm about it. But somehow the Godzilla that I harbor inside me always run amok at the sight of dirty villains dressed as port security. My Godzilla had singled out its rage into a puny 120 lbs lizard. He was prehistoric, to say the least. I imagined every nerve in my body pop right out of my head. I was Carrie. Period. I screamed incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo at him enough to fill the Ozbourn Family with an entire episode. It wasn’t exactly the best display of my social skills.
Here’s what happened. It was already 7 in the evening and we had to take a ferry to get across the channel to the next town. We had been queuing in line for over an hour and the traffic wouldn’t budge. It was raining hard and the car I was in had no air-conditioning. Hence, it was hot, wet and maddening. My bladder also happened to fill to burst and the nearest toilet was a 20 meter sprint-- that if you could manage to find it. The hold-up was almost bearable at first, but Toothless-lizard guy showed up and “manned” the traffic. He had a few slip ups. The first were bearable. He ushered in the 1st column of vehicles all at once without considering the first few earlier cars that were held up at the other columns, including us, who were stationed at the first row of cars. No one said anything at first. But he did it again. And again and again. He wouldn’t let the other columns pass through. So everyone screamed bloody murder and wanted to eat him for dinner. The thing that stumps me the most is that I sort of played a hand with the whole fiasco. I created the first shouting match. I was the catalyst and all hell broke loose. Several matches later, the guy shrunk back to his cave, and we we’re through. We were on the ferry by 8:30.
I am not proud by what I had turned into. Another year goes by and your daily resolution to being less an arse and to walk tall as the poised, elegant, refined, cautious, smart, sensible new you just disappears by every momentary, er, slip up. I’m not feeling really grade-A these days. My self-esteem is way below par value. By the way things are going, I’m going to retire as an endorphin-starved 60 year old prune. I’ll be a relic!
Then again, there’s always tomorrow.
So okay, the graduation wasn’t really that terrible. It was just 2 hours late--but I blame that on third world traffic. The key-note speaker was quick with his speech, nothing too fancy or elaborate, considering that he most likely had been a rock in his past life. And the college had the consideration of cooling the place with AC’s. Although I apparently wasn’t getting in processed air into my lungs enough to prevent me from inhaling every virus within a 50 meter radius. I now have clogged and very red nostrils, and enough snot to power a medium-sized locomotive. But that’s another story.
The highlight of the day wasn’t the graduation, however, it was the ride home. It was straight out from a shiny hollywood hallucination of the end-of-the-world (think: war of the worlds) --- the part when the entire human race has the exact idea of dashing for the nearest exit. In this case, it was the sea port in Ozamis.
The thing that bothers me most is that it could have turned out different, had I been more patient and poised and calm about it. But somehow the Godzilla that I harbor inside me always run amok at the sight of dirty villains dressed as port security. My Godzilla had singled out its rage into a puny 120 lbs lizard. He was prehistoric, to say the least. I imagined every nerve in my body pop right out of my head. I was Carrie. Period. I screamed incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo at him enough to fill the Ozbourn Family with an entire episode. It wasn’t exactly the best display of my social skills.
Here’s what happened. It was already 7 in the evening and we had to take a ferry to get across the channel to the next town. We had been queuing in line for over an hour and the traffic wouldn’t budge. It was raining hard and the car I was in had no air-conditioning. Hence, it was hot, wet and maddening. My bladder also happened to fill to burst and the nearest toilet was a 20 meter sprint-- that if you could manage to find it. The hold-up was almost bearable at first, but Toothless-lizard guy showed up and “manned” the traffic. He had a few slip ups. The first were bearable. He ushered in the 1st column of vehicles all at once without considering the first few earlier cars that were held up at the other columns, including us, who were stationed at the first row of cars. No one said anything at first. But he did it again. And again and again. He wouldn’t let the other columns pass through. So everyone screamed bloody murder and wanted to eat him for dinner. The thing that stumps me the most is that I sort of played a hand with the whole fiasco. I created the first shouting match. I was the catalyst and all hell broke loose. Several matches later, the guy shrunk back to his cave, and we we’re through. We were on the ferry by 8:30.
I am not proud by what I had turned into. Another year goes by and your daily resolution to being less an arse and to walk tall as the poised, elegant, refined, cautious, smart, sensible new you just disappears by every momentary, er, slip up. I’m not feeling really grade-A these days. My self-esteem is way below par value. By the way things are going, I’m going to retire as an endorphin-starved 60 year old prune. I’ll be a relic!
Then again, there’s always tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
I Complain.
Great piece of advice for the week: Put a lid on it. Rather, shut up.
I complain too much, says my mother.
I seriously was contemplating on a therapy session with a shrink at the beginning of the week, but then I've been mulling it over and have come to a conclusion that yes, complaints are good.
And no, this isn't another attempt on rationalizing my psychosis -- my fixation on everything over slightly better. Although I have come to terms with the truth that the third world can never be one well-oiled machine, still, I would love nothing more than to rid the streets with suicidal freaks for jeepney drivers and homicidal maniacs for tricycle drivers ---even for just a day. I almost got run over by a mutant tin can on steriods three days ago. I screamed bloody murder in the middle of crazy Corrales St. but the acne-clad jerk fled the scene with patent intentions of breaking the sound barrier. So like a good third world citizen, I spilled my guts out to my friends. Justice is slow in third world streets. The traffic-cops have double vision. Oi!
But don't get me wrong, the third world isn't as eff-ed up as it sounds to foreign ears. I love every pothole in this country. Every toilet seems to be out of order but dammit, I wouldn't exchange the pinoy experience for anything...well except probably for decent leaders, but that's another blog entry.
The world is infested with nit-pickers and nay-sayers; but rid of them and we might just succumb to lives as mindless drones of bad tv commercials, cheap retail, soggy fastfood , crooked politicians and an evil dictator. And yes, homicidal/suicidal jeepney and tricycle drivers.
I complain too much, says my mother.
I seriously was contemplating on a therapy session with a shrink at the beginning of the week, but then I've been mulling it over and have come to a conclusion that yes, complaints are good.
And no, this isn't another attempt on rationalizing my psychosis -- my fixation on everything over slightly better. Although I have come to terms with the truth that the third world can never be one well-oiled machine, still, I would love nothing more than to rid the streets with suicidal freaks for jeepney drivers and homicidal maniacs for tricycle drivers ---even for just a day. I almost got run over by a mutant tin can on steriods three days ago. I screamed bloody murder in the middle of crazy Corrales St. but the acne-clad jerk fled the scene with patent intentions of breaking the sound barrier. So like a good third world citizen, I spilled my guts out to my friends. Justice is slow in third world streets. The traffic-cops have double vision. Oi!
But don't get me wrong, the third world isn't as eff-ed up as it sounds to foreign ears. I love every pothole in this country. Every toilet seems to be out of order but dammit, I wouldn't exchange the pinoy experience for anything...well except probably for decent leaders, but that's another blog entry.
The world is infested with nit-pickers and nay-sayers; but rid of them and we might just succumb to lives as mindless drones of bad tv commercials, cheap retail, soggy fastfood , crooked politicians and an evil dictator. And yes, homicidal/suicidal jeepney and tricycle drivers.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Potential Guy Meets Rustom Padilla
I've been harboring thoughts of Rustom Padilla all day. It's not even funny. Somehow, strange as it is, his confession on national TV of his being gay, inside PBB quarters no less, is like me being hit under mortar fire. And no, it's nothing homophobic.
I used to have an insane crush on him in highschool, and for a brief period patterned every gnawing detail on Potential Guy with the roles he morphed into. Sorta like the Richard Gere in Pretty Woman meet Damien Lewis in Band of Brothers. Yeah I know, the anal types. Heehee. Now I go for the Diego Luna's. Oh Well. But I digress.
The point is, I am scared shitless. What if Potential Guy suddenly decides to make a Rustom Padilla one-take? The mere thought of that happening just stumps me.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Mid-week Madness
It's a vicious cycle. Every mid-week I go through the same rituals. By early Tuesday, I would have consumed an average of 48 ounces of coke floats; converged with friends with incessant conversations, no, dissertations on single-blessedness and poignant theories on that Chanel-clad, boyfriendless future; and taken in a week worth's stress over my lawskul performance.
It's mad. It's Bjork-Mad Hatter mad.
There ought to be some loop hole, a glitch, a system error.
My life is like Orange and Lemon's PBB theme on repeat. Oi!
What I would do for some drama...hmmm...
It's mad. It's Bjork-Mad Hatter mad.
There ought to be some loop hole, a glitch, a system error.
My life is like Orange and Lemon's PBB theme on repeat. Oi!
What I would do for some drama...hmmm...
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