Do I Honestly Need Another Blog?

I was sifting through some blog entries past and I came across this
article I had posted way back 2004. I was all of a sudden facing-off with my past self: fresh off college, with cutesy-musings on life and love, undamaged and unbroken. Hahaha! I digress. But this article really is cute. ‘Nuff said.

Glad to know I was as big a torpe dork then as I am now. Some things are just not meant to change.

———-
What she doesn’t know will kill you

by Matt Brochu

November 21, 2003

Taken from The Massachusetts Daily Collegian

You met her a few months ago, and somehow she managed to seep into
your subconscious like that "Suga how you get so fly" song. Just like
you have no clue who the hell sings it, you don’t know why she’s there.
But she is, whether you like it or not. You know her cell phone, her
room phone. You can dial her Aunt Doreen’s house in West Springfield
(where she goes to do her laundry every two weeks) faster than you can
peck-out 911. But she doesn’t know.

Her screenname, that generic one with her first name followed by
three to five random numbers or UMass, has its own category at the top
of your buddy list. Not only do you know what a "Buddy Alert" is,
you’ve rigged your computer to play "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" from
"Tommy Boy" every time her screen name changes from gray to black. Then
her away message comes down, and you have a decision to make. To IM or
not to IM? These are the ridiculous games that you play on a daily
basis. But she doesn’t know.

She’s it. All right, so maybe not "it" it. Not necessarily Ms.
Right, but closer to Ms.
Right-up-there-with-Anna-Kournikova-and-Lizzie-McGuire-on-your-list-of-people-
you’d-give-anything-to-be-stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator.
But it’s about more than that. When is it ever about more than that?
Never. Not like frilly white dress, overpriced catering, embarrassing
drunk in-laws more, but closer to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni
Zonies, a futon and a movie you have no interest in seeing more. But
she doesn’t know.

She’s gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you’re
startled every time you see her because you notice something new in a
"Where’s Waldo" sort of way. More like you can’t stop writing third
grade run-on sentences because you can’t remotely begin to describe
something … someone … so inherently amazing. But you’re a writer.
You can describe anything. That’s what you do: pictures to words,
events to words, words to even better words. But nothing seems right.
More like you’re afraid that if you stare at her for too long, you’ll
prove your parents right: that yes, your face will stick that way. But
you wouldn’t mind.

You wouldn’t mind that the questioning, "Hello?" on the other end
makes you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn’t
mind worrying about what to get her for her birthday and spending $300
when you only have $17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You
wouldn’t mind that she left your TV on and the blaring infomercials
wake you up at 4 a.m. … because it gives you a chance to watch her
sleep. You don’t mind that you’ve slipped up twice when you were
hammered and hinted at how you feel, but she was too drunk to remember.
So she doesn’t know.

Sure, she’s pretty, but it’s about more than that. You two connect.
Anything you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out
what’s going on in that predictable head of hers in under five minutes,
but something tells you her heart would take about five years.

You remember everything she’s ever said to you, and when that
freaks her out you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a
lie, you have a 2.7 GPA). You can’t remember your teaching assistant’s
name, and you can’t remember that your Puffton rent check was due four
days ago, yet you remember the middle name of the kid who tripped her
in fifth grade and gave her that cute little scar on her shoulder.
Maybe it’s because you actually listen when she talks. When do you
actually listen? Never. But she doesn’t know.

But she has a boyfriend. The kid is a tool, and you are not. He has
no redeeming qualities, and you have about 38, even when you’re hung
over. You could kick his butt, and you’ve never been in a fight in your
life. He treats her like crap, and you would treat her like the
princess she believed herself to be on Halloween in 1988.

But she loves him. He wouldn’t know what he had even if she slapped
him across the face and dumped him, but somehow she still loves him.
And somehow she still doesn’t know.

Then, out of nowhere, she slaps him across the face and dumps him.
She comes to you. You’ve been there before, so you seem like the
smartest guy on earth. She cries, but your corny half-joke,
half-compliment somehow gets a smile out of her that almost makes you
feel ashamed that you’re the only one around who gets to witness it. It
looks like you might make her realize that all guys don’t deserve to
have rocks thrown at them.

But nothing changes. She doesn’t know. You get that library
elevator feeling in your stomach that she’ll never know. You get that
feeling that you’ll be forced to write a cheesy Collegian column about
her that makes "Sleepless in Seattle" look like "Girls Gone Wild."

You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn’t know. You’re not in love.
You’re not obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just need to get
some, but still, it’s about more than that. It would just be nice if
once in your life, things worked out the way you wanted them to.

So ___________, it’s about time you know*.

Now cut this out, fill in her name, and give it to her, coward. Just let me know how it works out.

Matt Brochu is a Collegian columnist.

* now, lai: drop the S’s in she, fill it out and you’ll be well on your way…right.

Feeling a cough coming up.
Scratching the back of my throat. Incessantly.
Trying to drive it away by OD-ing on vitamins, anti-oxidants and anti-biotics.
Hope this works. I’ve got a hellofalotta things on my list this week.
So there, sick again. Seems like I only update this joint when I’m either:
a) battling my bowels
b) battling influenza
c) feeling experimental

I update blogspot more often.
I guess that’s what this gets for being "number two".
Only turning to my virtual, err "mistress" in search for an alternative — when the realm of pink starts turning into the drabbest shade of gray.

The world doesn’t stop for diarrhea — emotional or otherwise, so let’s turn to brighter things.
The childlike stuff that remind me to dream, still.

1. First off, goodbye Michael! - Yes, he’s retiring. I half-expected myself to bawl out and throw a temper tantrum should he announce that he finally would. Instead, a (shock)wave of calm. Unlike the tears I shamelessly shed for Jordan’s retirement - twice! This one just felt right. No comebacks, no regrets. Just goodbye. I will love him forever.
2. Kimi in Ferrari - For the most part, I’ve always ignored McLaren. No ill-will or whatever, I just didn’t care enough to hate them. Much more Kimi. He’s always been pretty steady. I hope the warm sun of Italy "melts" this iceman’s heart though. Ferrari’s always been about mad, passionate love for the sport. I want to see him do fistpumps and crazy chicken dances, like he wants it bad. A decent tan wouldn’t hurt too.
3. Alonso in McLaren - uh, okay.
4. Federer wins the US Open - hoooray! What can I say, I love greatness. Sure, he doesn’t do the chicken dance, but that forehand is just to die for.

In the loop -
I’ve been looping the same song on my i-pod (cringes) for a little over three weeks now.
Just one song, over and over again. I hear it in my sleep. The drumbeat wakes me up.
It’s in my head 24/7. Acapella. Instrumental.  The reggae version. You name it.
I normally loop songs, but the feeling I feed off them wears off pretty quickly. Three days, tops.
Have sneaky suspucion I’m being Kokomo-ed.
Gasps.
Falls off bed.
Hurts head.
Twitches.

   
How’s that for a quick fix?
I likey-likey.

xoxo,

Yours Truly

Turned 23 last Tuesday.
Thank you to all who bothered to remind of that wonderful, wonderful milestone.
I actually spent the day worried sick about meeting a thesis deadline.
Literally. Sick to my stomach, I tried (in vain) to complete a lousy sub-chapter to meet my self-imposed 4:30 pm deadline.
3 o’clock approached and still, I was nowhere near anything fruitful.
You know things are going terribly wrong socially when you receive an SMS from your thesis adviser telling you to drop what you’re doing to actually enjoy your birthday.
"Go out for dinner, at least Melai" — he’s a darling isn’t he. I (heart) Sir Lavina.
The constant trips to the CR were a manifestation of just how lousy the day was turning out for me.
Damn you Seattle’s Best Coffee!
I swear, my bowels were working perfectly well before I had that cup of Vanilla Bean Latte.
I hate full cream milk.
Ten minutes before the clock hit 12 mn hearking the coming of d-day, I was actually cursing my lactose intolerant self in the bathroom.

Stuff I did on my birthday:
1. Slept and moped around the house - check
2. Went through darn thesis material - check
3. Sat down to actually write thesis - half check for attempt
4. Heard mass - check
5. Had dinner at Teriyaki Boy Katipunan - check

Total alcohol units consumed - nada
Total coolness points - gazilch
Over-all feeling - relieved it’s over

On to the other blessings –
Well there’s the gift of friendship, (evil guffaw).
No seriously, I think I will like the year ahead.
No mad scramble getting my "ducks" in a row, they’ve actually come flying back to me.
Perfect "V" and I have somehow settled into a pretty decent line.
I’ve acknowledged that I don’t have to run with the pack.
I’ve been handed an opportunity to beat my own path, and that trumps being handed a "second chance" anytime.

Ah, and the gift of cable.
Endless reality shows. Unlimited bobo talk shows.
So much trash to brighten up my day.
Tell me about it, I am mystically drawn to watching Maury and Springer lately.
They’re my feel-good, no-nonsense, rotten to the core fix.
It’s like passing a car crash site with bodies mangled and blood splattered on concrete — horrible, horrible thing. But somehow, you just have to look or steal a glance man lang at the wreckage.
Much like passing roadkill on the way to school.
Icky. Maggotty. Guts spilling out. But you just had to look, right?
Totally mental, but it also reminds me that third world and brown though we are, we have not yet succumbed to flagrant idiotry the likes of that.

But cable has good stuff too, like Animal Planet. Discovery Channel. HGTV.
Drooool. Dream job.
Saw Peace: Handraised Polar Bear on Animal Insights yesterday.
I felt the handler’s pain when he had to let go of the bear.
Saying good-bye to Bailey was not at all easy.
I know, Atsuhiro. I know. (bawls out loud)
I also want to marry Jeff Corwin. Yes. Jeff Corwin.
For as long as he promises to take me on his Quests with him.
(I want to swim with the sperm whales geddemit!)

Need not mention the Daily Show, Chappelle, Seinfeld.
CNN and BBC. All the good things that I purge on when I go "on vacation".
Rockstar Supernova. It goes on. Love it.

The best things in life are free. Pero sometimes, kahit 15% discount lang pwede na.

(will be dreaming of the keg on Sunday…)

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who buck and bite
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake mountains when they dance

- ee cummings

Puwet-ry reading.

I miss my long hair.
The same I had so violently shaved off during the first year of college.
So there, finally. I’m admitting to the most heinous crime I inflicted upon myself six years ago.
Growing it back was a pain.
Not to mention the ghastly experiment which consisted of seeing how I
looked everytime I had to face the mirror, to be defined
only through the crude mathematical equation of 
"scalp + n [cm] x Y [weeks passed]".
I’ve never been good at math.
It was the final day of the second semester, hellish like no other.
Math 20 final, which I totally blew.
It is truly a thin line that divides stupidity and courage — haha, believe me.
Even the barber thought I had gone bonkers.

Barbershop, 2:30 pm - Circa 2001
Me: (pushing open the heavy glass doors) Err, kuya —
Barber: (barely looking up from trashy tabloid) Miss, sa kabila po ang parlor.
Me: Ah, eh. Magpapa-shave po ako? (wtf?)
Barber: (drops tabloid) Ng kilay? Sa kabila nga po.
Me: Ah, hindi po. Buhok po. Like, sa ulo. (sabay turo)
Barber: Ha?!
Me: Po?
Barber: Okay ka lang ba? Baka pwede nating pag-usapan kung ano man.
(okay, so shrink din si Manong)

Manong Barber and I stared at each other for a good two minutes before he finally got his bearings back and started sifting through his collection of clippers.
After attempting to shift to psychologist mode for the nth time, he finally got down to business and started chopping at my hair (which went way down my back).
Thirty minutes and a bald head later — dos, apparently as he refused to clip it off to an uno,
I was left staring at the knee high heap of hair resting below the barber’s chair.

Papa refused to speak to me for an entire week when I got back to Bacolod.
He hated me all summer, poor guy.
To a friend’s debut he insisted I wear a wig, which never happened by the way.
(The wig, I mean. We rocked the debut.)
He was so shocked I think he would have wanted to ground me until I grew it all back.

Case in point:
In the living room, 8:30 am - Summer 2001
Me: (walking out of my room in pjs and a huge shirt)
Mom: And this is our child, hey, say hi to your Tita **** and Tito ***!
Me: (deep bedroom voice) *grunt*
Mom: Home for the summer, they grow up so fast!
(cue awkward silence)
Tita: (whispering loudly to Dad) Babae, lalake?
Mom: Oh no, she’s our daughter!
Me: (coming in from the kitchen, with mug of coffee) Oh, actually I’m bisexual.
(cue even more awkward silence)
Tita: (laughs hysterically)
Mom and Dad: (nervous laughter)
Me: I guess that’s enough fun for the day.

* It’s just the kind of mind game I pull on my parents every now and then, I’m perfectly safe.

Our neighbors thought I had cancer.
I visited my high school principal, a nun, who appeared not to notice my, err, baldness.
(We spoke for 2 hours and not once did she mention,
or stare for more than 2 seconds at my obviously bald head — civility!)
Only my guy cousins were happy to shell out advice — gel vs. mousse, how to keep it down to avoid looking like a porcupine, how to wear it up.

Liberating and maintenance free though it was, (imagine a bottle of shampoo lasting for 3 months)
I intend to keep my current length and grow it longer thank you.
After the initial hype of seeing your scalp for the first time,
that feeling generally wanes and thanks to shameless consumerism, I got all antsy with the frustration of wanting to try the many hairstyles that kept coming my way.
I’m not one to chase after trends, but I’d like to have the option.

As with anything, experience is the best teacher.
I sometimes couldn’t believe I had the gall to actually go through with it.
But it’s all good fun.
Knowing I wouldn’t lose sleep on picturing what my scalp looks like
sure is one big monkey off my back.

Three weeks into the semester and I’ve barely made a dent on my thesis.
Sure, my crummy proposal has found its way to the Department Chair, but really, what does that mean?
It doesn’t help that I’ve emailed him with a gazillion disclaimers re: my "crude, crude" proposal.
Oh god, what have I put myself into?
In sum, my problems range from:

1. Having nothing to show for but the "crude, crude" proposal.
     2. Having no thesis adviser yet.
     3. Wondering whether or not I could make the grant deadline, unsupervised.

Not to mention the incompetent bureaucratic mules at the OCS (save for Ate Sally, she’s sweet, bless her) having me run around Diliman chasing after my former professors.
So here I am, watching some B-rated Jennifer Love Hewitt movie on cable.
I was watching the North Korean Missile Crisis on CNN, but politics only remind me of my impending doom.

A friend of mine told me that my blog/s are depressing.
Hahaha! Sarcasm is very rarely appreciated.
I should find someone ready to laugh (and not roll their eyes, or sneer, or stare blankly at me) at my corny, faux-political, mildly oppressive jokes.

Back to the B-rated movie.
Back to reviewing thesis literature.

In a democracy, dissent is an act of faith.

                                            - J. William Fulbright

It has been a while since I’ve written anything remotely interesting to me.
When I was younger, I used to "publish" stories, circulate them among friends who, without me intending it, had already pinned real people to the characters I’ve created.
I envy the courage I had back then.
Youth has its privileges.
I haven’t written a short story in ages.
It’s been a year since my last poem, a rather hasty haiku.
I keep my unfinished "short stories" in a password protected folder, to keep jackals out of my head.
The last thing I want is to be caught having authored a B-rated, ass-wipe story.
Whatever mojo there was before has been sufficiently snuffed out by the footnoting, the direct-quoting, and the incessant demand for a fully formatted paper.
Do not get me wrong, I do not wish to be among those who could ever so incontinently, chronicle each and every morbid minute of their day.   
Peace, ye compulsive bloggers.
Again, sarcasm doesn’t do so well in print. Ha!
So, given my running predicament — the proverbial writer’s block, I suppose it was with some divine intervention that I chanced upon Scout’s Blog.
She’s a dear friend, from way back.
Okay, way, way, way, back.
Think grade-school-level-way-back.
She’s in the States now, in University majoring politics and english, the way it should be: in UC-Berkeley.
(Ps: Kudos, dearest. God, you’re a gonna be a spankin’ great writer.)
On one of her posts, she did this writing exercise — something we used to do in high school, where you start writing uncensored thoughts, without lifting your pen, for a good 5 to 10 minutes.
I hated that exercise, probably because my brain’s on an auto-MTRCB mode for like, forever.
Switching that off would be the chore.
Bah! It’s been a while since I’ve churned something out here.
I do not want to go on disappointing my readers — all two of them.
So, MTRCB or not, I decided to give it a go.

12:37 am
The pile of books beside by bed — 12 in total. Half about war, the other half on identity, democracy and nation-building. Eurgh. I maybe should start reading them. The ones on identity, I mean — got this paper for Comparative Politics class, major as* paper, like 30 pages or so. It doesn’t help that my topic’s really hard. Ha! Who wanted to write a paper on ethnodemocracies anyway? Yes, there — one hand raised, egad, and it’s mine. Crap. Crap. Crap. People who think MA is easy should be drowned. Yes, drowned. Imagine holding their heads underwater with a deathgrip on their noses until the final bubble goes pop on the water’s surface. Hahaha! I get so freakin’ morbid when my defenses go up. Step on my ego, will you. Thoughts, baby. No harm done. It’s not like I don’t wish the same for some people on the same page as me right now. Darn. There goes my mental-MTRCB again. Screwing with my brain. I’ve been listening to a lot of the Shins lately. They’re pretty good. Hmmm. I should check out the record stores for their album. They’ve released two. Three. No two. Crap. Do you really give a damn? Well I do. I’ll check the website later. Lalalalalala. We’ve got a new roommate moving in, according to the househelps, tomorrow. Darn. I really wish she wouldn’t move in, like, NOW or something. I’d hate having to adjust again — I’ve got my schedule down pat. I think I know when the other two froshies are out in class, affording me my alone time. Now, detective work to do again. I really hate prying. Hahaha! Oh my god.
12:47 am.

Wooohooo! Ten minutes.
Not bad, I think I actually enjoyed it.
Is that a smile? I’m all giddy. Hehehe.

Mental note: I really should do this more often.
Sub-mental note: Some people will get hurt.