Friday, February 25, 2011

[[ MA-TRY NGA ]]

I thought of posting a vid of me to show my readers another side of me--me in motion--expressing things not in written words. Pardon me, I took the vid without much thought and prepping.

The more spontaneous things are, the more real they are.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

[[ ROMEO ]]

(Inspired by a conversation with a good friend, the new RN, Marlette Raisa Ele, over pasta and coffee while the rain tried to drown out our voices.)

          Romeo. As an awkward teen, you to me are the upperclassman whose smile creates a wave of giggles accross the hallway, a few burning cheeks shyly hidden away under their hankies, and pairs of eyes that can zoom in and out and intensely focus that can put a DSLR into shame. As a blossoming woman, anticipation intensified when I saw you in different faces--a fat guy dressed up in baseball jersey and a bling hanging in your neck, a guitarist or maybe a drummer who made the girls scream in their gigs, a fellow geek who reads Sheldon and Calculus at the same time, a pretty boy who manages to make everyone look lame whenever he is around, a divorced man whose so broken that women would kill to unbreak his heart, a college professor whose wit and intellect made every female student in his class be in her best whenever she is in his class, and a random guy who walked past me and succeeded in making me look a little longer and in faking an accidental meeting of our eyes.

          Romeo. My inexperience equipped me with nothing when I entered the game with you. They said I'll win if you put down your defenses first. They said I should lead you on into believing that winning lies under the cloak of sweet surrender. But I was so gullible then, and even now, I trust too easily, that I opened my chest willingly and then and there I will grab my heart out and place it in front of you waving a white flag, wearing a smile that cries out for an answer that is far from the jaw-breaking blow of a no. Then and there, I realized that I blew it up when you left and all that remained was the memory of your face that has a semblance to a jigsaw puzzle. Little did I know that putting the pieces back into place was futile when a lot of the pieces were missing. I could only guess what those pieces look like but the guessing game led me deeper into a pit where a question gives birth to another and a hypothetical answer won't do for there are a lot of possible answers and the odds of getting a bull's eye is as overwhelming as the number of people crossing that famous intersection in Shibuya.

          Romeo. I did not learn to be cautious. I fed my hunger with space and gravity. The only signal I understood was the green one on the traffic light. I practiced my poker face and went  to Vegas. Perhaps this time, luck would escort me to the casinos. The Russian Roulette bored me so I hopped to the Poker table. There. You were in your ravenous sleek suit, cool as ice, your presence froze my toes, and cracked my poker face. I was dressed to mimic Irene Adler of Sherlock Holmes, every womanly weapon of entrapment was visible under the flimsy fabric. The heat seemed to thaw you when you showed signs that the icicles were slowly melting away. Alas! I gained a big stack of chips. And then you wagered all in, the foolish me followed suit only to find out the cards I had on my hand were no match to your royal flush. Few draws later, I lost everything to you. A little slip in judgement can turn tables in a minute. The temptress was tempted, the seducer was seduced. But the lover was not loved back. And the jigsaw puzzles piled up.

          Romeo, I am broke and disillusioned already but I have a few coins to spare in the slot machine. Will I gamble again? I think I will. You may find me foolish and my wisdom as shallow as the chick flicks and romantic comedies I watch on random nights, but to be cynical like you is the last thing I want to be. What do I need from you anyway? Some say that to be happy, you just have to love you. I do love me. I do think that I am fabulous and all. I can take care of myself single-handedly. But do you know why I admit this insane need of you? Because I need you to reaffirm what I have always forced myself to believe, that I am the most beautiful girl in the world, that even if I sit next to Ms. Jolie, your eyes will remain locked with mine and not wander on her lips and bountiful bossom. I need to lean on you when the goddess in my demigod being fails to fight away the human needs and wants, these desires that are too difficult to leash like hyenas starved for three months of drought. I need to share with you precious minutes under the blanket of stormy skies, when being imprisoned in your arms, I find freedom, for every string that the world has on me burns under the warmth of your breath and nothing will ever matter and if it comes down to having to forget all that I have, I will gladly take the potion. I need you to admit that you are as messed up and as needy as me, while you guide my finger tips, making them caress your tender bruises and scars beneath your seemingly perfect skin of marble.

          Romeo, my last four tries on the slot machine gave me nothing more than the sound of a thud. From a distance, I heard a a similar sound that put a punctuation of finality on the jury's verdict on a criminal case. The machine was mocking me, laughing at my odd expression slowly surfacing under a shell of composure that grew brittle and cracking with desperation! Finally, three identical pictures of your face on the wheels of the slot machine aligned perfectly. There you were, perfectly imperfect as I imagined and had all the attributes on my list. A poet on a motorbike, Mick Jagger meets Mark Zuckerberg, a faithful Casanova, a gentle gladiator, a Grimaldi in cowboy boots.

          Before I could even light the candles on our dining table that I filled with everything festive for the consummation of my victory, you said something that I did not hear clearly or denied to comprehend subconsciously. I asked what it was but you wouldn't say a thing and you wouldn't meet my eyes. An arrow of blame was drawn out of my quiver and begged to be shot at anything. Terror tore the voice from my throat when the arrow bent and pointed in between my eyes. I looked at myself and saw someone whose glow comes from the glittery makeup painted on her face, who is so exhausted from all the games that not even her fake lashes can create an illusion of charm. Immense self-doubt spitting insults toppled the fragile self-esteem that I have slowly and laboriously built from little accomplishments. I grabbed your hand weakly, and coerced you to say anything. Anything but "I maybe am Romeo but I am certain that you are not Juliet."

Monday, February 21, 2011


          If I were a whore and I wore a pair of "decent" flats, will it change who I am? If I were a nun and I wore a walk-like-a-whore sandals, will I be no  different from the girls of the red light district?

          He-who-I-wouldn't wanna name said that he effin' hates girls wearing those sandals. He associated them with whoreness. He said the monster media is to be blamed. He must hate me. I own a pair of the sandals he condemns.

          For a vertically challenged girl like me, another few inches I get from high heels is a big deal already. In a sea of tall people, I gain a sort of "equality" and sometimes more than that. I hate to have to look up and being looked down when talking to tall people. I hate it when it rains and my flats get soaked in the filthy runoff water. Thus, I am so grateful that heels were invented.

         Since ancient times, heels were already in existence. Most of the lower class in ancient Egypt walked barefoot, but figures on murals dating from 3500 B.C. depict an early version of shoes worn mostly by the higher classes. In ancient Greece and Rome, platform sandals called kothorni, later known as buskins in the Renaissance, were shoes with high wood or cork soles that were popular particularly among actors who would wear shoes of different heights to indicated varying social status or importance of characters. During the Middle Ages, both men and women would wear pattens, or wooden soles, that were clearly a precursor the high heel. Pattens would attach to fragile and expensive shoes to keep them out of the mud and other street “debris” when walking outdoors. In the 1400s, chopines, or platform shoes, were created in Turkey and were popular throughout Europe until the mid-1600s. Chopines could be seven to eight or even 30 inches high. The Venetians made the chopine into a status symbol revealing wealth and social standing for women.

          If there was a woman in history who single-handedly made the heels the woman's best friend is Catherine de Medici of the fashionable City of Florence. At the age of 14, Catherine de Medici was engaged to the powerful Duke of Orleans, later the King of France. She was small, not quite five feet, relative to the Duke and hardly considered a beauty. She felt insecure in the arranged marriage knowing she would be the Queen of the French Court and in competition with the Duke’s favorite and significantly taller mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Looking for a way to dazzle the French nation and compensate for her perceived lack of aesthetic appeal, she donned heels two inches high that gave her a more towering physique and an alluring sway when she walked. Her heels were a wild success and soon high heels were associated with privilege.

          Men wore heels too. n the early 1700s, France's King Louis XIV ,The Sun King, would often wear intricate heels decorated with miniature battle scenes. Called “Louis heels,” they were often as tall as five inches. The king decreed that only nobility could wear heels that were colored red  and that no one's heels could be higher than his own. During the course of the century, a cultural kind of foot fetishism manifested itself in various media.

          In the post-modern context of the 1980s, the feminist rejection of fashion started to lose much of its grassroots support. The idea that fashion, specifically sexy shoes, were not simply oppressive but offered pleasure to women became more widely accepted. Critics, particularly feminists in the 1980s, argued that fashion can be an experiment with appearances, an experiment that challenges cultural meaning. This change of heart about high heels perhaps was provoked by counter-cultural street fashion of the early 1980s as well as by feminist debates about pleasure and female desire, which indirectly changed the way fashion was understood. Women now claimed they were wearing high heels for themselves and that heels gave them not only height but also power and authority.


         I know I should have posted this earlier but certain circumstances kept me from doing so. As I was blog-hopping, I drooled over everyone's V-day post. It seems that everyone had a blast. Surprisingly, I had a blast too. I thought that the day would go as expected--another ordinary day. But it turned out differently. The only thing that went wrong is I wore a bright pink leggings.I had no choice. I ran out of clothes to wear since I haven't done the laundry for weeks. :))

         What happened is that Mom woke me up early and made me come with her to the optometrist. I obliged. I had no plans for the day anyway.

(Mom bought new eyeglasses.)

          And then we went to the mall, ate lunch, and went shopping. All the while, I was regretting my pink leggings.


          I found these pics and I thought that they are so cute and blog-worthy that I gotta post 'em here. Meet my sister, Ayera Fatmah.

           Her class was having a presentation that morning and Mamang wasn't around so I was the one who took her to school. It was kinda raining and so cold that morning that I was on the brink of gettting mad at the teachers for not postponing the presentation. I don't want my sister nor any other kid there getting sick.But it pushed through and everything went fine. The kids were all so cute. And because I am a stage sister, I was actually the one who made her costume. Yep, that rose made of cardboard and painted with acrylic.

Friday, February 18, 2011


          Some random day, (was that last Saturday?) when out of the blue I thought that I am growing tired of my uber simple header. If there was  a contest on the simplest header on the face of the entire blogosphere, I would certainly win.  It started out as a doodle on my notebook that I photoshopped and uploaded as the header of my baby blog. Back then, blogging didn't mean any serious business to me. But now, things have had a 180 degrees turn. So there, I spent a like an hour to shoot for my new header and to tweak it until it became a little more decent.



          Okay. So that's me. Sheer  narcissism. I wore a classic white shirt that Mom made that I did not iron, black skinny, and my new platforms.  Oh, and a scarf. :)

          All in the name of the holy header.

          Oh! And I added other stuffs on my sidebar. :-D

Saturday, February 12, 2011


          The first photo was taken during a field trip to Bohol. We were fortunate that we were there during the Sanduguan Festival. My classmate, Amerah Manaol, were left at our room that night when suddenly, we saw flashes of light. Whoa! Fireworks right outside our window.

          The next photo was taken about a year ago, I remember it was around midnight and I noticed just how beautiful the moon is that I had to take a photo of it. I was using a cam phone then so the photo doesn't really do justice to the beauty I saw that night.

          Last photo, a very tangerine sunset. The weather was perfect that afternoon that the mood was so nostalgic. Like a memory of a childhood friend.

Friday, February 11, 2011


          I have been busy lately with school and everything that I'd have to apologize for being such a careless blogger these days.  The truth is I don't have the time to blog as regularly as I used to. Sitting down somewhere quiet and letting my fingers bleed with words is very hard to do when my arms are juggling many things already. What I did the past few days is write in bulk and schedule the days they are to be posted. Out of sheer carelessness, I have done some humiliating mistakes.

         Like the title of my post 'bout Sec. Angelo Reyes, I posted it without noticing that the title is bitin. "reyes committed  ]]" instead of "committed pagpapatiwakal  ]]". Then I double posted my fashion post. I was embarassed to death when I saw what I have done.

         To err is human. But then again I don't have a huge eraser to delete the mark of my errors. So I have to make up. I have to be more careful the next time. Promise!

Wednesday, February 9, 2011



1. Wearing anything matchy-matchy. I cannot stomach wearing violet dress matched with violet shoes, bag, veil, and other accessories. Who wants to be a walking ube, or lemon, or orange?

2. Wearing flip-flops to school. I know MSU is a very laid-back school but I seriously believe that slippers are appropriate only at the beach and at the banyo. That maybe is a pair of Havaianas, but at the end of the day, it still is a pair of tsinelas and wearing them to school is a no-no considering that we are in an institution of higher education. Think of all the dust that sticks to your toes, or the baha at the Comcen when it rains. I can just imagine the number of parasites and fecal bacteria in those flood water.

3. The not-so-skinny skinny jeans. It's called skinny because it is supposed to fit well. Not an in-between. If you want baggy pants, like those of boyfriend jeans, then choose the real baggy ones, not the in between because they are simply unflattering.

4. The bolero or the cropped jacket. That's the piece of clothing that I don't understand. If I want to cover up, why would I wear the bolero that covers just my arms and upper trunk. It just doesn't serve me any purpose at all.

5. Over-accessorizing. It's okay to pile on the bling if and only if you are Mariel Rodriguez or a walking Christmas tree.

6. Neon colored skinny and tights. I am not a jejemon nor a Japanese street style fanatic so I avoid those. They remind me of Vice Ganda's early days in the showbiz.


1. The boyfriend jeans. I am really a fan of this ever since I saw Katie wore Tom's jeans. Since I don’t have a boy toy, I raid my brothers' closet instead. Those baggy jeans are just so comfortable. How to wear boyfriend jeans without looking like one of the boys? Pair it with fab heels and some girly top and you're all set.

2. HEELS. They are the real girl's best friend. I feel powerful in them like I can do anything. For someone who is vertically challenged like me, they are a big help in making me more proportioned. How to walk in heels without tripping? Shift the weight on the balls of your feet like as if you are tip-toeing.

3. Oversized bags. Not only are they stylish, they are simply practical especially to students like me who refuse to carry backpacks. I go for leather. They look pricey, last long, and are water-proof.

4. Mom's old clothes. The best vintage finds I have are from my mom. I love wearing them because they are my mom's, I am sure that the previous owner of the clothes is not questionable. I find it eerie to wear some stranger's vintage clothes. Moreover, vintage pieces adds character and romance to any outfit.

5.  Clothes Mom made for me. I am so lucky that my mother sews clothes as a hobby. Our memorable bonding moments are those times we go cloth shopping, designing clothes, and sewing them. There is a sentimental factor in those clothes mother dear made plus they are so well-made at a very low price. Above all, I am sure that I will never ever bump into someone wearing the same thing. (She made my top, as seen below.)

6.  Layers and textures. Living up in the mountains entails me to wear layered outfits since it is always cold here and my skinny frame makes me too vulnerable against the harsh weather. Layering can be leveled up by experimenting with different textures. This adds depth to any outfit.

          Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with any fashion magazine so you are free to ignore this post. Everyone is entitled to have their dos and don'ts in styling up himself/herself. :-)

         But I just wish that those labels-loving whores realize that it is not about being the first to buy the latest stuffs at the mall but developing our identity. In a sea of people making gaya-gaya of each other, you all will fade like the crazy fads of yesterday. Because you failed to define your own style based on your own taste. You failed to put the exclamation point on whatever fashion statement you have. You failed to express who you are because you let yourself be dictated by what is in and what's not. You failed to enjoy fashion because you were stuck in the safe zone and never stepped into the trail of adventure. You see,

"Man makes the clothes, but clothes cannot make a man."


          I do not consider myself as stylish nor fashionable. First and foremost, I don't have the bucks to shop for all the beautiful things one can adorn herself. I am not Imelda with her vulgar collection of a thousand shoes. I am not La Greta with her walk-in closet of labels. I am not Alexa Chung nor Mary-Kate Olsen who sets the trends every morning that they get out of their house to be papped by a hundred shutterbugs.

          I am just me. All flaws and ugliness. All quirkiness peppered by my Ayeeshaisms But one thing I am proud of is that I have my own style which is a mix of girly and tomboy. Always raw and a little undone. Never polished like a Barbie but always with a character. Boy meets girl. New meets vintage. Mismatched meets put-together. High end meets street style.


          It's all over the news last night, that Sec. Angelo Reyes committed suicide by shooting himself on the chest in front of his parents' tomb. I was in my chemistry class yesterday and out of boredom, I checked my Facebook using my mobile. There on my news feed was the news of the suicide. Later that night, TV Patrol bombarded me with all the details of his death. And I woke up this morning feeling like I have to blog about this because it made me so uneasy that I need to let it out.

          First thing that came to my mind is, of all the people, he is the least I expect to commit suicide. Even if the public knows so little about him, he seems to be a man of great courage, strength, and perseverance. No one really knew how to react when the news broke out.

          Why would he do that? That's the next thing I thought about. I can't help but to over-think the whole situation. If he was innocent at all,  he would have the courage to face all the controversy. If he was innocent at all, he would be at peace with himself and not be hurt at all even if Senator Miriam Defensor said that he is the most stupid man. I know that it is very insensitive for me to be saying all these. Who am I to judge someone? Who am I to be dipping her index finger in someone's business.

          Who am I?

          I am a Filipino. Victim of poverty. Victim of corruption. This is my business.

          And I am angry. Angry that the investigation turned this ugly. Angry that that some portions of the truth will be buried with the deceased Secretary. Angry that some people are too coward to be responsible for their acts. Angry that people are changing colors. Angry that sympathy may color the investigation. Angry that the attention is being diverted.

          Scared that justice may slip out of our fingertips.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


          This is so expected, bloggers blogging about love because… yeah yeah yeah, Valentine's Day is upcoming. And because I want that award from Kamila, the Mapagmahal Award (but I am late for the submission.)

          Valentine's Day is coming up, as the singlest girl, what is there to expect more than an ordinary day just passing me by. The only difference is I'll see couples HHWW, the girl holding a bud of rose and a bunch of chocolates. Valentine's should be renamed Singles Awareness Month. Because it is the time of the year when suddenly, single is not fabulous. Single is synonymous to unwanted, alone, pitiful.

          All these revved my writing engine to talk about love.

          Who am I anyway to talk about love when, again, I am a self-confessed singlest girl in the world. I don't think that I am that ugly to be shunned by boys, nor too wicked. But why is it that I have been all too alone all this time? Some said that I am way too intimidating. And as I have told Jojo in his interview with me, I am under the impression that regular men are not into girls whose brains are bigger than their boobs. Because they are emasculating bitches. Jojo said that what they hate is the big mouth that comes with it. I disagree Jojo. Men can't just take women who are way better than them. Because our men are raised to have that dominant image. Because our men are supposed to be alpha males with intellect always superior over the ladies. Because our men cannot be told what they are to do.

          Or maybe, I am simply not their type.

          But then again, there were those who dared to cross the line. Who dared to knock on my heart even if I have this tag on my forehead saying "Do not disturb." Oh boy, now I am realizing what I am about to spill here. Yes, this is me brutally open about this s***. There were those should-have-beens, could-have-beens, would-have-beens. And now I can just reminisce those warm memories as I hug myself before I sleep.

          First person that came to mind, you who filled my high school memories with images of green grass, blue skies, and wonderful conversations about life. But you loved her. So I tucked my heart under the dusty rug, fearful that I may lose it. I was able to keep it safe from you, but then I lost you forever.

         And then you who swore loved me since third grade. I appreciate everything, not to mention all those gifts. But we ended up nowhere. Who is to blame? Me who was hesitant to pick up the phone or you who did not call again after the calls were unanswered?

         Next, you who is generous with words yet stingy with actions. How was I to believe when we both know your womanizing capabilities? I know you too well. Your well maybe is deep but the sound is too clear when a stone is dropped in.

         And then there was the summer romance. You fell too fast that I couldn't keep up. Too persistent that you scared me away. I could have enjoyed the chase if I liked who was chasing me. Boy, it maybe was a love at first sight for you because I remember too well the way you looked at me, but five days vacation in a splendid place maybe a perfect setting to have a little fling but not a real relationship.

          And then you, the singlest guy. I don't know if I read you wrong, but I really thought that there is something in the way you treat me. I know I wasn't dreaming when you said I am a special girl to you. All those conversations we had that felt like we know each other for years. Those times when none of us can dare to put down the phone even if we ran out of words, we are content just hearing each other's breathing. What was all that about? I can't dare to ask you. It's been too long and I can't just sit around and wait for you to tell me what we really are. Let me just do it for you. We are just friends. The lines are clear now.

         I read a poem but can't find the source, I'll post the source when I find it, promise. I can only remember some lines. But I feel that it is very appropriate for this post. Here it goes..

Cease letting it be
If you have the strength to do it
Why continue holding back?

It's never enough dropping the lines
And always stepping over
Reaching out
But never getting that far.

Is the distance too wide to take leap of faith
Or has the grim already caught up with you?
Make a move and quit playing
your perfect reposes

Either you take a chance or continue
To draw more lines
Striking bolder borders that hold
A heavier burden on my bleeding heart.

        I have been solo for more than two decades now. What's a few years more of waiting? I need not a Mr. Perfect but he who will love me best. I cannot give up my freedom for someone who cannot treat me right. Because I deserve the best not because I am Sittie Ayeesha Dicali but because I know that when I love you, you can have all of me, all the best in me.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


Fresh from the battle we lost, the dictio quiz, my shame over it pushed me to the brink of lunacy to win the next quiz. Here in Mindanao State University, we are rather obsessed with these quizzes that the second semester is actually the season of quiz wizards supremacies. We have all types of inter-group and inter-collegiate quizzes. I happened to belong to a group that are quiz enthusiasts, the College of Natural Sciences and Mathematis-Integrated Quizzers Club or the CNSM-IQC. We represent our college in various competitions, even debate. You can just imagine the kind of burden on our backs, always obligated to push the envelop in every competition that we join, to always bring home the bacon.

Just 10 days after the dictio-quiz, we joined the Eyoners Science-Math Quiz Show (A1ers SMQS). The Stakes are high, if we lose, we would lose face. The shame, given that our club have won 2 years in a row since 2009. I was teamed up with Cristopher Erecre, IQC's present chairman, and Hassan Mangorsi, the former chairman (yours truly is 2008-2009 chairman). It's a power team obviously. Four other IQC teams joined: (1) IQC A-- (2) Scientia -- (3) CNSM-Student Council -- (4) Society of Life Sciences Students.

I don't want to sugar-coat everything so... Fast forward to the results, my team won the champ, Scientia team won first runner-up and CHEMSOC (society of chem studenst) won 2nd runner-up.




THE 1ST RUNNER-UPS (left to right: Gerence Villsor, Roneil Christian Alonday, Cyro Rasol)

THE CHAMPS (left to right: Hassan Mangorsi, Sittie Ayeesha M. Dicali, Christopher Erecre)

AND THE CELEBRATION ( in the photo: Engr. Adnan Macapantao aka My Stage Mom, Cyro Rasol, Hassan Mangorsi, Nova Carl, Christopher Erecre, Gerence Villasor, Sittie Ayeesha Dicali, Roneil Christian Alonday, Chiqui McGreat, Paynapol Joos aka Pots Alawi aka Blair Waldorf-Bieber, Ahmad Musahar, SC President Jamilah Amie Saga Amerol)

To the IQC and other CNSM peeps, soar higher!