Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
I knew the first time I met Facebook that Friendster will be a thing of the Middle Ages but I never thought things would go as far as this. I broke up with Friendster long ago but this news brought sadness to me. Friendster will always be our first social networking love.
MANILA, Philippines - Say good-bye to Friendster as
down its social networking services after 9 years.
Friendster was bought by Money Online (MOL), a
Malaysian company that also owns the Berjaya group
of companies, from its American owners.
Last week, Friendster sent an e-mail to its users
advising them to export their profiles, photos, and
blogs by May 31 or these will all be history. All these
will be erased to give way to the new Friendster
which will be launched in a couple of weeks.
"You can't compete with Facebook. They did a good
job. It's a Facebook world," said Nikolai Galicia,
Friendster and MOL country manager for the
But Galicia clarified that Friendster is not shutting or
closing down. "Friendster will continue. Mag-iiba lang
ang focus niya. After MOL bought Friendster, we are
moving forward. The new Friendster will complement
Friendster will retain its name but will discontinue its
social network services. It will be re-launched as a
social entertainment site where users will be able to
play games and listen to music.
"Fifty percent of FB users don't like games. We will
service the other 50 percent," said Galicia.
The Philippines has the most number of Friendster
users worldwide with an estimated 20 million users.
Galicia said they understand how important Friendster
is to many Filipinos. "Nine years na ang Friendster.
Parang diary na 'yan."
So Friendster has created tools to easily export users'
profiles, photos and blogs where these can be kept.
For instance, photos can be exported to Flickr or
Multiply, and blogs to Wordpress and Blogger.
A user's Friendster profile including comments,
testimonials, messages, shoutouts and treasure chests
can be saved as a document. "[With] a few clicks, it
can be saved like a PDF form. Forever mo na makikita
ang diary mo," Galicia said.
Long time Friendster users like Anne King are sad
about this new development. King said when she got
the e-mail announcement from Friendster, she
immediately exported her entire account. "The earlier,
the better", said King.
By Niña Corpuz, ABS-CBN News
But we have already moved on from that first love, haven't we? We are just too busy with our affair with Facebook to mourn. (insert a soap opera villain-ish laugh here)
People! Looks like we are going to have new additions to our fashionably crazy vocabulary of eating disorders. (I say fashionable because these disorders are always associated with celebs, like Princess Diana's infamous bulimia.) Meet Adult Selective Eating and Orthorexia.
What is Adult Selective Eating? Like kids, adult picky eaters limit themselves to an extremely narrow range of foods. Unlike those who suffer from anorexia nervosa or bulimia, adult picky eaters are seemingly not worried about calorie counts or body image. But so far, researchers don't know if adult picky eaters just haven't outgrown childhood patterns or if their eating habits are a new twist on obsessive compulsive disorder. Some may be "supertasters," with an abnormally acute sense of taste that turns them off certain foods. Many appear to have had unpleasant childhood associations with food.
Adult picky eaters: Food preferences tend to be bland, white or pale colored - plain pasta or cheese pizza are said to be common foods along with French fries and chicken fingers. Some picky eaters stick to foods with a common texture or taste.
Orthorexics: Those affected may start by eliminating processed foods, anything with artificial colorings or flavorings as well as foods that have come into contact with pesticides. Beyond that, orthorexics may also shun caffeine, alcohol, sugar, salt, wheat and dairy foods. Some limit themselves to raw foods.
What do you think guys? Don't you think these border on the absurd and the weird? Who would have thought eating habits and preferences can be a malady. Next thing we know, celebrities will be going to rehabs claiming they have orthorexia or adult selective eating. :-))
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
So I was reading this book, Nefertiti by Michelle Moran. After Cleopatra, she is the most recognizable of all the queens of the ancient world. Just a short history refresher, Nefertiti was the Chief Wife of Amunhotep, later known as Akhenaten. Daughter of a vizier and a Princess of Mitanni, she was picked by Queen Tiye to wed her son and be his queen when he ascended to the thrown of Egypt. The young couple was passionate on being remembered for eternity that they built a new capital city--Amarna--on the desert, and made Aten(a minor God) replace all other gods.Their reign was ended tragically by rebellion, treachery and plague.
Today, her exotic beauty carved into a bust remains as one of the most enigmatic piece of Egyptian art. Her kohl-lined wide eyes and cat-like features can only give us a vague picture of a young woman who ruled the richest ancient kingdom like a goddess on earth who actually succeeded on etching her name on the walls of eternity. Thousands of years later, her name still resounds. Nefertiti.
If you are a history freak, this one is a good read. I just wished that it was told through Nefertiti's POV. I imagine that if Anne Rice is the one who wrote this with her signature sensuality and that ability to give a dark almost surreal atmosphere, it would have been perfect.
I've been reading like crazy these past days, so maybe I'll be writing about books like a worm with OBD--Obsessed with Books Disorder.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
In the spirit of Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding this April 29, I am writing about another tiara-wearing Cinderella.
Her Serene Highness Princess Grace of Monaco.
She is the epitome of everything old Hollywood glamour. She is a Golden Globes and Academy Awards nominee and starred in several hit TV, theater, and movie productions alongside Hollywood's hottest leading men of their time. But at the age of 26, she left everything to marry the Prince Rainier III of Monaco and become a princess despite her roots that is so all-American and no connections to blue bloods. So Cinderella.
She has always bewitched me. To me, she is the most beautiful monarch who ever lived, while Queen Elizabeth I the most clever, and Princess Diana... well, controversial. And Kate? We'll see.
Did you know that Hermes Kelly, one of the worlds eternal "It" bag was named after Princess Kelly? It was named after her when the designer saw the shy Kelly covering her baby bump from the paparazzi shortly after her wedding.
Monday, April 25, 2011
|My brothers and guy friends and almost every non-gay guy friend i know play the ubiquitous DOTA. I couldn't get more than mildly interested. Because after my addiction with Counter Strike and Battle Realms in high school, I vowed not to associate myself with games that are obviously so addictive as evidenced by the number of people playing them. However, this summer which consists of afternoons of being idle and hours of wanting to escape reality, I tried playing DOTA. I know you guys know this game but still I want to write about it because I love it to bits.|
DOTA stands for Defense of the Ancients. It is a custom scenario for the real-time strategy video game Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos and its expansion, Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne. This game is all about destroying the opponents' Ancients which are heavily guarded structures at opposing corners of the map. It is a role playing game, so one gets to play as a hero backed by AI-controlled fighters called "creeps". As in role-playing games, players level up their heroes and use gold to buy equipment during the mission. The trick og the game, as I discovered is picking the right items for your hero. This one is tricky because there are so many heroes in DOTA whose strengths and weaknesses are so varied. I am yet to get to know each and every hero.
So far, I am favoring Rylai the Crystal Maiden. For no better reason than she looks good. No, seriously, because I like her skills and she is not very strong which makes her challenging to use. Above is a screenshot of the first time I became beyond godlike which means that I have killed more than 9 heroes in a row without being killed. It's not too much to celebrate about because my opponents are not on the insane category but EASY. But come on, I just learned to play the game. It felt good to hear : "BEYOND GODLIKE!"
Laro tao minsan? ;)
|I'm a fan of sarcasm and sharp wit. Like this one below.|
By Charles Warnke (Jan. 19, 2011)
Date a girl who doesn't read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you've seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you've unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn't fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you've never been happier. If she doesn't, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn't read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don't date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.
** I got the idea from the Facebook note of Norbert Gastardo. It's just ethical that I give credit to whoever it is due.
*** Before you proceed, let me warn you. This is a kalokohan. Don't say I didn't warn you.
1. Put you iTunes, Windows Media Player, etc. on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write that song name down no matter how silly it sounds.
4. Tag 20 friends.
5. Everyone tagged has to do the same thing.
6. Have fun!
7. Tag the person who tagged you.
(Dapat sa Facebook to eh.)
IF SOMEONE SAYS 'ARE YOU OKAY' YOU SAY?
When I'm With You – Faber Drive
WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Don't Stop Believing – Glee Cast ( Like!)
HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
Can't Be Tamed – Miley Cyrus (Rawwwrrrr...)
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Here w/o You -3 Doors Down
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Insomnia – craig David (doing this at 1 am)
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
Gone So Young – Amber Pacific (tragic naman)
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Apologize – Timabaland feat. One Republic (i know i have been bad)
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
How to Save a Life – The Fray
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Sqeeze It – DJ Frankie E. feat. Dada Life (sqeeze what?)
WHAT IS 2+2?
Billionaire – Trevor Mccoy feat. Bruno Mars (2 billion + 2 billion = billionaire)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BESTFRIEND?
Empire State of Mind – Jay-Z feat. Alicia Keys (bestie rashid definitely has this ambitious state of mind)
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Picture – Kid Rock feat. Sheryl Crow
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Atomica – Wolfgang (destructive? explosive?)
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Borrowed Time - Cueshe (senti)
WHAT WILL YOU DO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Gimme That – Chris Brown (gimme that ring)
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
All or Nothing – O-Town
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
Drop it Low – Ester Dean (hobby kong madepress)
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
Crawl – chris Brown (crawl like a loser)
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Birthmark – Akon (i don't have one)
WHAT DO YOU WANT RIGHT NOW?
The Day You Said Goodnight - Hale
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Sailing – Christopher Cross (they are so far away)
WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN?
Crazy for You – Sponge Cola (it could be the best din)
WHAT IS THE ONE THING THAT YOU REGRET?
Boys and girls -SNSD
WHAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?
Sampip – Parokya ni Edgar
WHAT MAKES YOU CRY?
214 - Rivermaya
WILL YOU EVER GET MARRIED?
Himala - Rivermaya (hu-what!)
WHAT SCARES YOU THE MOST?
The Prayer – Josh Groban
DOES ANYONE LIKE YOU?
They Don't Really Care About Us – Michael Jackson (i know this is just a game but this one... urgh!)
IF YOU COULD GO BACK IN TIME, WHAT WOULD YOU CHANGE?
Count to Ten – Grin Department (ten things?)
WHAT HURTS RIGHT NOW?
Tokyo Drift – Teriyaki Boys
WHAT WOULD YOU WANT TO SAY TO THE PERSON WHO TAGGED YOU?
2 is Better Than One – Boys Like Girls
WHAT WILL YOU NAME THIS NOTE?
Grenade – Bruno Mars
****Nice. I wasted my time on this.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
"We must never stop dreaming. Dreams provide
nourishment for the soul, just as a meal does for the
body. Many times in our lives we see our dreams shattered
and our desires frustrated, but we have to continue
dreaming. If we don't, our soul dies, and agape cannot
reach it. A lot of blood has been shed in those fields out
there; some of the cruelest battles of Spain's war to
expel the Moors were fought on them. Who was in the
right or who knew the truth does not matter; what's
important is knowing that both sides were fighting the
"The good fight is the one we fight because our heart
asks it of us. In the heroic ages – at the time of the
knights in armor – this was easy. There were lands to
conquer and much to do. Today, though, the world has
changed a lot, and the good fight has shifted from the
battlefields to the fields within ourselves."
"The good fight is the one that's fought in the
name of our dreams. When we're young and our
dreams first explode inside us with all of their force,
we are very courageous, but we haven't yet learned
how to fight. With great effort, we learn how to fight,
but by then we no longer have the courage to go into
combat. So we turn against ourselves and do battle
within. We become our own worst enemy. We say that
our dreams were childish, or too difficult to realize, or
the result of our not having known enough about life.
We kill our dreams because we are afraid to fight the
"The first symptom of the process of our killing our
dreams is the lack of time. The
busiest people I have known in my life always have time
enough to do everything. Those who do nothing are
always tired and pay no attention to the little amount of
work they are required to do. They complain constantly
that the day is too short. The truth is, they are afraid to
fight the good fight.
"The second symptom of the death of our dreams
lies in our certainties. Because we don't want to see life
as a grand adventure, we begin to think of ourselves as
wise and fair and correct in asking so little of life. We
look beyond the walls of our day-to-day existence, and
we hear the sound of lances breaking, we smell the dust
and the sweat, and we see the great defeats and the fire
in the eyes of the warriors. But we never see the delight,
the immense delight in the hearts of those who are
engaged in the battle. For them, neither victory nor
defeat is important; what's important is only that they
are fighting the good fight."
"And, finally, the third symptom of the passing of
our dreams is peace. Life becomes a Sunday afternoon;
we ask for nothing grand, and we cease to demand anything
more than we are willing to give. In that state, we
think of ourselves as being mature; we put aside the fantasies
of our youth, and we seek personal and professional
achievement. We are surprised when people our
age say that they still want this or that out of life. But
really, deep in our hearts, we know that what has happened
is that we have renounced the battle for our
dreams – we have refused to fight the good fight."
Tomorrow when I wake up, maybe, maybe I'll start dreaming again. :)
To my blogger friends and anonymous readers, thank you for the continuing support despite my inadequacies these days. The fact that someone out there still cares to read this, means a lot to me. No kidding.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
To say that I felt bad is an understatement. His death is not like I lost someone I love but a reminder that life is short and can be taken away in a snap. Cliche. We always know the brevity of life but we always shove that knowledge into the back of our minds. Here I am breathing but not really living.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
strangely the water is turbulent
under a storm
the dilemma now is
i do not
know how to swim
catching my breath
fell into a well
surprisingly the water is murky
after a sudden downpour
the problem now is
i do not
know how to swim
the dilemma now is
i am drowning
Gone are the days when the morning light is as fresh as a baby's breath. Suddenly you find yourself in a dark cell with a little hole that illuminates the ugliness of the little room. You were born a good little boy, you remembered and kept reminding yourself that as you wrestle with the demons within you. With the demon that you sometimes mistaken yourself for. Just when you are losing your battle against the demons, you coax yourself to remember one instance of kindness so that you won't lose your grip on goodness. Surely there must be one. Surprise! You cannot remember any. And you know you are losing it. Slowly spiraling deeper into distance. Giving in to the kiss of a fallen angel, kissing her back, this time with enthusiasm. Why not when this is actually your first kiss?
Isn't it funny how your insane mind can control your life, dimming the sunshine in your eyes? And suddenly a sweet boy learns how to hate so much that he can kill and kick the cadaver of his victim in the face. And then urinate on his grave.
And then you are ashamed of your thoughts. Your wicked thoughts against people you are supposed to love. But wait, do you really love them? Or you just do because that is the ideal that the society stitched into your moral fabrics.
Because you never really learned how to love. Because your concept of love came only from the surface of movies and hundreds of romance novels. Because you never learned it first-hand. Because you never really feel what it's like to be loved without first aking fort it, without ever begging for it.
And while you are in the arms of your new lover—the fallen angel—you remembered the girl. You saw in her the possibility of tasting what really love is because you thought you saw it in her eyes that she is fond of you too. You stripped yourself naked and in your hand is your heart, offering all that you have for a chance to be loved. But she was disgusted by what you did and almost laughed at you like as if witnessing Jay Leno's chin getting stuck in his ass crack. Just like that, all your illusions of love melted away. Just like that, you stopped believing in everything that is good.
Moments later, you saw yourself lining your eyes with darkness. Off you went to the club, drinking the hurt away. Drinking all the good emotions away until you forget your name and wake up under a table somewhere you don't even recognize. You went home and did not recognize anyone. You don't really know them that well all these years of living under one roof. Because you never really talk about sweet nothings. You were just called when the food is ready and then no one asks how your day went. You would sleep the whole day even if you are having your final exam. You do not care anymore about the future, whether you become a somebody or a nobody because you no longer have a reason to live. You do not have anyone to make proud of. In fact, you want yourself to fail so they'll be ashamed of how they raised you.
Hate too, like love, can run deep. Its seed is as fragile as your bones as a little boy. No one uprooted it. So it has grown with you. Its foliage as imperceptible as a white smoke but its massive roots have intertwined with your soul, so huge you are lost in it.
Lamenting the death of love in you. Lamenting that you know in your heart that you won't cease to hate even if they are sorry because it is too late. Too late to forget. Too late to forgive.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
When I looked back to that afternoon, I always mistaken it for a summer class when it must be on the the second term of the school year. That was a steamy, humid day like a lazy summer afternoon when the sun is a little too yellow like an incandescent lamp lighting a cozy quaint bar of gypsies. You see, I easily forget what happened the day before today but oddly enough, I remember every detail of that summery afternoon of November. I was running late to our History 3 class. Indeed I was about twenty minutes late which is bad because we have a huge class of two sections fused and forced to share a classroom that can barely fit half of the class. We were having a quiz when I arrived. That wasn't bad enough if I can find a chair for myself. I stood at the door for an eternity, frozen because I can't decide whether I will go in and stand the whole class or walk out instead. Either way is humiliating.
And then I saw you waving at me at the back of the class signaling that I can take the chair beside you. Relief flooded my parched veins with ice water. I sat down and just when I thought I am already in control, I realized that I don't even have a paper to write on because a diligent and always-prepared student like me does not bring anything useful to class. So I crossed my arms around my chest and just looked the window to pass the time until the class is finished with the damned quiz while all the while I am pseudo apathetic and almost too cool for school.
"Uy magquiz ka. Heto papel. Number one..."
I was stunned that you did that. The quiz ended and I couldn't believe that I actually took it and answered well. The usually apathetic me find it difficult to stay cool any more. Suddenly, I was aware that you exist and that you are inches away from me and I could almost hear the heaving of your chest as you breathe and I was under your humongous shadow, literally and figuratively. Suddenly I was aware that I was underdressed for the occasion. Suddenly I want to wear a dress in pink floral print with my hair hanging loosely tossed carelessly by the wind. Suddenly I needed and wanted a mascara and a lip gloss. Suddenly I was too uncool because I noticed just how attractive you are while I am out of your league and how special you seem to me for no apparent reason at all. Suddenly I was just another woman blushing beside a stranger who caught more than her fancy.
That afternoon, sunset began right after our class dismissed at four o' clock in the afternoon.
I was wrong when I said in the first sentence that this is a long story. Maybe I meant that the story dragged on for years but nothing really happened in between that afternoon and that night I swore to myself to get out of your shadow only to realize today that I stuffed most of the space in my universe with you that when I let you out, a big black hole, a void, was left in my cosmos, sucking everything else even the light. How can it be a long story when those years can be summed up to these words: "You made me lonely"? There were a hundred instances when I passed by you with your brothers in your fraternity and I would fight with all my might not to take a glance longer than a quarter of a second because I was afraid that I would want you more when I see that you are still cool with your perfect imperfections. But who am I kidding? I wanted you too much already. As I write this I am in awe of how I am able to write this. And I think of Shakespeare.
He must have felt something too TOO that through his affair with the pen and paper, the best love story that was ever told was born, inspiring a platoon of movies, novels, poetry, and songs of the same theme.
Fast forward to that night of wanton abandon, my cosmos revolved around you and me. I knew it will be the first and last. I had a thousand things to tell you but the night is rushing angrily towards midnight. Words should be sorted out then, only the couldn't-wait-to-be-told and the will-be-regretted-if-not-uttered should be said before the phone call is over. You said we'll be together when we are 25. You want us to be together when we are 25. When we are 25 but not tonight, not this moment. But really, what differs today from that day that we're 25? I did not understand. It is humiliating to say this but the truth is I failed to win you over. All my hopes of saving face and dignity is to bravely resolve to not want you anymore and tell you that I want us to be strangers again like what we were before that summery afternoon in November.
Days after that, I would daydream of you crawling your way back to me when we are 25 and I am the fabulous woman that I always wanted to be and you are still the old you, perfect but still just you. But when we are 25 I'll be too fabulous that I will ignore you like perfect hamburger, perfect but I don't need and crave anymore. Like a rubber band that is stretched beyond the limit that snaps back with a sting, reality always makes its way to my daydreams and the colorful vision turns black and white and red, a daydream turns to **daymare. It is futile to say that I was unscathed after that night when my emotional bruises cannot be hidden by verbal cover-ups.
I am limping my way out of this barren terrain that I found myself in. All these sores that I single-handedly nurse don't seem to improve. Still I ache all over. I know in my heart that a malady like this needs only one prescription. You cannot cure Vitamin A deficiency with ascorbic acid supplements, can you? What I am trying to say is because you were the cause of these bruises; you alone can kiss them away. But where art thou? Lost forever showing up only maybe when we are 25. Is there another way to recuperate? And then I remembered that scene in Eat Pray Love, that line uttered by the stage actress in the play Permeable Membrane.
"The only way I can recover is to be infatuated with someone else."
P.S. Perhaps I have never written anything as unintelligent as this but hey, I am Ayeesha and I have gotten away with dropping out and wearing a sequined floor-length dress to school, so I can also get away with this. *chuckles*
**a nightmare in the daylight
After five thousand seconds of poring over some overly overdone piece (oh I love the redundancy), all my melodramatic tendencies went out the door. Next thing I knew I was reading Garance Doré from three in the afternoon until now which is around six. And I am not stopping. I'll be writing this while reading her not to copy or whatever but to have an inspiration. Oh man! I have a girl crush on a 35-year old French lady. I never knew anyone as cool as her. When I'm 35, I'll be like her, never taking life too seriously and will go to a black-tie party with just an ancient white man's button-down shirt and three coats of red lipstick.
Before I knew her, I always see life at 35 as an oppressing life where one is bound to the boring 8-5 job or the endless hassles of domestic chores with the kids and husband or maybe both. She's a testament to the fact that dreams come true, even if it's a big fat shameless fashion dream of sitting beside Anna Wintour, Carine Roitfield, and Giovanna Battaglia in the front row of Karl Lagerfeld runway show. She loves heels and defends the heels with her life. Even if Alexa Chung makes the flats sublime and the snow storm in New York won't let you get past your block if you're in heels. And like me she too grew up in a small town wearing crazy outfits on the streets never caring if a brow or two rose as she walks by. And like me, she feels like she is the best-dressed girl on the streets. And because I totally look up to her for having no modesty and humility in writing, I'll definitely follow suit. Because my friends, blogging is a serious
business equivalent to running a publication with you yourself as the writer, photojournalist, and editor all at once. This is not for the faint at heart because one day you'll get tired and abandon your blogger account like a 90's tight shirt plus loose straight-cut jeans outfit. Because I am as inspired as the Oprah, I see myself doing this blogging thing for a long time. Thanks to Garance. Merci. Je t'adore. I should have learned French by now. Argh!
Garance, I'll read you and I'll follow you until blogging becomes obsolete. Ding! I remembered one of the things on my to-do list before I am too old: go to Paris with a friend, stay in a shabby old apartment close to Le Tour Eiffel. (Anna Lao said she's coming with me. She is serious. I know. We have to start saving up Anna. And learning our French.) Bonne journee!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
I have been glued to my chair for about two hours now and am still listening to all these good old music. To label them good old is a bad idea. Every melodramatic line strikes me. Every story they tell makes me play a role in that story and like an Oscar award dreamer, I conceive every emotion that might be felt by that character. From the first few notes, going up to the climax of the song, I ride the waves until the last second of the lifespan of a microcosm that lasts for three and maybe four minutes and exploding not like the Big Bang but a bursting soap bubble. This is pure masochism, listening to hurtful songs and reveling in the ecstasy of soreness.
I thought after writing the previous post, my fingers may rest in serenity. Writing something that leaves too much to imagination doesn't calm the storm. Given a few moments of quiet, the storm gathers strength in the Pacific and like a heap of a thousand dark nimbus clouds; it looms in the horizon scaring the scarecrows on the cornfields of my forehead. No, such storm cannot be fought off now. It has to fall on land and go berserk, raping and humiliating the lowly mud, drowning the vermin and moles. It has to charge like a mad knight ala Don Quixote drunk with a silo of Red Bull or maybe Lipovitan. It has to rampage, hurt everyone on its way, blow by blow until the Red Bull or maybe the Lipovitan is burned out and nothing stirs but a whisper of Zephyrus and a moan from the injured.
Really, can't I fight off this storm?
*Edit. Delete content. Continuation on the next post.*
Gorgeous alpha males competing for a not so alpha-female. C'mon, like as if every Adonis-like man in the show falls for her right then and there or until the end of the season when everyone expects the girl to choose between the two lovers who are supposed and must-because-the-show-calls-for-it be on his knee holding a ginormous diamond ring. I don't understand such reality shows. Can we even consider them reality? And then there's Imortal in ABS. But because I don't watch soaps anymore after the Maging Sino Ka Man Book II spoiled my love for soaps, I skipped to the next channel. For the record, the only soap I am proud to have watched is Maging Sino Ka Man. The first one. Everyone just had to love Anne Curtis and her character who is the epitome of the modern Pinay—a mix of warring opposites. What was I saying earlier? I must have run a mile away from the original topic. So I was saying that tonight, because I can't decide which one I'll
watch I just jump from one channel to another. Just when the Dawn Zulueta movie starts to catch my attention, the lines become clearer and it becomes clearer to me as well how emotionally intense the scene is yet I feel nothing. Nothing but irritation so I'll jump to another channel. That is why I managed to know what is showing tonight in every channel.
Enough nonsense already. I am becoming too talkative now when I should be shutting up and curling up in my bed like everyone else at this hour before the middle of the night. This is the curse of wanting to write for life and aspiring to be a true writer. Small things that you notice cause noise in your head that the only means of bringing back the silence is to transcribe the voices in your head into written words immortalized on the virtual walls of the internet like graffiti on the streets of Brooklyn. Meaningless but artsy for graffiti artist. Enough said. Silencio por favor. Buenas noches.
This morning as my laundry whirls inside the washing machine, I suddenly missed something. I was reminded of our first hosting gigs together, when we get a little nervous at first and even practice our "choreo" and then we end up nailing it because we need not to practice really because we can almost read each other's mind. Like I know what joke to throw because I am sure you'll pick up easily what I was getting at and you'll finish my sentence for me. Remember when we hosted our prom and the launching of a youth organization sponsored by the congressman? And then there was our writing stint for Starfish magazine—Heroes issue.
But we have grown old and our universe started to split like a cell undergoing mitosis. You have a career while I am still chasing mine.
What I was trying to say is that I missed collaborating with you. I feel like I am so empowered and I can do anything kasi nga we are partners-in-crime. Daani, when will we kill a project together again? Maybe we can write a book, make a short film, host an event, facilitate a seminar-workshop. Anything. I am game.
Oops! I gotta go back to my laundry.
My temples are throbbing like there are time bombs beneath. This late afternoon's chemistry exam wrung every drop of vital force in my core that my limbs hang like boneless creatures. I turned to my good old headphones to listen to good old music from good old times in the hope that it can create a spark in my combustion engine within. I am swinging and singing along and imagining that I am as good as Haley of Paramore and I am in a small café and singing beautifully and you happened to come by and see me and think to yourself what a splendid song bird I am. Silly thoughts.
Ooooh . Yeahh… heyyyyeah. Tududut tut. Yeah. Turudut turut tudut.Tududut tut. Tururut tudut turut… So I was so engrossed with Mariah's song, Always be my Baby. I sing along with it and because I am deaf to my own voice, I absolutely am positive that I totally rock the lines where the notes curl and dance around. But of course, my singing is really more like fingernails scratching the blackboard. I'm singing these lines with eyes closed. You'll always be a part of me, I'm part of you indefinitely. Boy don't you know you can't escape me? Oh darling 'cause you'll always be my baby.
And then in the blackness that I see with shut eyes. I saw you. I know I know. I said we'll forever be strangers and I am moving on and I won't wait for you and I won't care anymore and I don't give a damn and I'd rather not have you at all if we are just like this because you hurt me because I wanted more because I can't be blinded anymore by fantasies because I am starting to be logical because I am a grown up because I can't take a risk if you won't too.
It struck me. Damn. I still think of you. Awfully a lot.
Oh darling 'cause you'll always be my baby.
Seriously, I have to delete this song from my playlist.