Who's Back?

Well, I'm back. Three long months of not having to write here made me homesick. It's just too mushy that I had to begin with an article looking like a lovesick girl. Well, I have to admit, I am though. Oh well, one bell curve passes... lemme get onto the next.

The Love Graph

People fall in and out of romantic love like a roller coaster. This kind of love creates a statistcal bell curve graph out of our lives, and we willingly jump into the graph's roller coaster cart, risking all it takes to get that ticket to one of life's fancy rides. The line to it seems endless, yet we feign patience (which would eventually turn into frustration, or worse, exasperation, if our own demands and expectations are not met). The moment we get our own ticket to ride, our cart starts to trace the bell curve graph of love. Various bell graph shapes begin to infest our emotions, and each of them has its story to tell.

Bellgraph One. aka the Normal Lovebell. X-axis is for the love level, Y-axis is for the duration (in weeks). You start a little higher than zero from the X-axis, termed as "love potential". A brief plateau (the getting-to-know stage), then love slowly rises at, say, week 20. You get the "love high", experience it at its fullest... peak at it, and you barely notice the gradual downslope. Around week 95, you start moping. The ride ends at week 116.

Bellgraph Two. This looks similar to the normal lovebell above. The love potential is a must so you always start a lil higher than zero x-axis. But in here, you notice how abruptly you peak at love as the initial rise is too steep(you peak at love around week 50, while the above graph peaks at week 70). Compared to the normal love bell, your "high times" are rather cut short as the love level slowly falls at week 52 or so...

Bellgraph Three. Those who love too much crashes down painfully. You fall for someone;smitten by him/her, your love-o-meter almost exceeds its maximum. Good job in maintaining that peak level for quite a number of weeks, but as the song goes, some good things really never lasts. Too much isn't so good after all, as your cart nosedives.

Bellgraph Four. aka, the Fling-fling graph. Notice that love potential is almost zero. There's an almost absent getting-to-know stage, a steep initial rise, and the love level doesnt even reach 10. It still peaks, even plateaus, but it crashes, similar to the graph above. An absent slope in the latter stage of the relationship depicts an abrupt loss of interest, either, in one or both parties.

Bellgraph Five. aka Trauma Graph. Also similar to the first love graph, but this time, the love level barely hits 20. An example of "traumatized" lovers, who, in their respective pasts, regretted "lovin-too-much", and eventually settled to love a whole lot lesser. It's sad that they are too reluctant in allowing themselves to love at their fullest.

Bellgraph Six. aka Camel's Hump. Your cart roller coasts the love graph in a funny way. This one's actually for those who STRONGLY believe that love is lovelier the second time around. Notice that the second "hump" has its peak way higher, almost reaching its maximum, than the first "hump".






Bellgraph Seven. aka Fringe-o-love. If the above graph's cart roller coasts in a funny way, well, the fringe-o-love coasts like crazy. This, on the other hand, is for those who STRONGLY believe that love is lovelier the X times around. They've had an epiphany that he/she IS the ONE, and so, they bring back the fire after X number of threats to the relationship. These are the admirable martyrs who enjoy the roller coaster ride of an inverted cow's breast.

Bellgraph Eight. This is for the career-driven people. Or for those who have something else that drives them real mad, leaving love, second to that one thing they love most. Notice how slowly their love levels rise, although it does reach a high of 30. The sad part is that the peak of their love jumps into the relationship's fall, perhaps because of the overly long period of time before love became at its highest. Too much isn't always so good.

There are tons more of love graphs that can depict the romantic relationships we've all been in. That's how unique love is. It could be that, because of this fact, there is a long line to the ticket booth of love... there's always a new ride after another.

Funny, we see how impossibly long the line to the ticket booth is, spend all our mustered efforts to convince ourselves that we can endure the long wait, when we often end up regretting that we even dreamt of chancing upon that tempting love cart. Well, that's what generally happens. It's just so disheartening to realize that there was one day in our lives that we had to wake up telling ourselves how love made our lives miserable, when we just mooned over and fancied ourselves in that cart a day before that.

Why not try to look at love in its intended light? We make mistakes, but we do learn from them, don't we? Well, don't we? We create a series of normal- and funny-looking bell curve graphs in our hearts, experience our highest and lowest times, and then mope around and blame life's unpredictability. We have to remember that the almighty "change" often wins over "constancy" in this game called life.

Well here's somethin to console the heartbroken people like me:

Lovealoompas (these are love scientists living in Tibet, perhaps beside the Dalai Lama) believed that these bell curves are the predecessors of the modern day electrocardiogram (ecg) readings.

If you get to experience this "erratic" trail (romantically erratic that is), it means you're normal, that you're breathing, and your heart's beating... you're alive. Regretting it all happened means that you resent any form of bell curve in your life giving you an ecg diagram which looks something like this: Yep, a flatline. Medically speaking, you're dead.

So which one would you rather have?

Greatest Hero on Earth

One of the greatest heroes in history that showed exemplary valor never fought on a typical battlefield.

His greatness was embodied by the legacy he so willingly passed onto his children --- the struggle for truth, godliness and education; in spite of a society that substantiates the notion that poverty robs you off the luxury of these three.

Our hero, as typical heroes are, was not born with a silver spoon. He grew up tending animals in a land that was not their own. As a child, his playtime was incorporated at work, and he faced society’s threat that a farmer’s son barely had the chance to get a good education.

His battleground was society’s discriminating environment. He armed himself with humility, shielded the purity of his intent with constancy. His determination was his spear, his hard work, his sword. He remained patient in the midst of toil. He eluded gunshots with his uncompromising principle, and remained steadfast in the battlefield through his faith in God.

I’ve seen his face distraught many times. Even heroes can fall, and they fall hard. These are the times that strengthened his armor, times that sharpened his spear. Though imperfect, his unwavering audacity allowed him to get up on his knees and fight once more.

He gets out of the battlefield tattered. His ashen face fails to conceal his eyes that glimmer with glory. He appears wounded, yet his entire state speaks of healing and of hope instead of failure.

He may not be such a perfect hero, but his valiance is just too remarkable to remain unseen. I hope I can live up to the kind of hero he is, if not for the people around me, at least for my children. Just the way he was, and still is, for us.

Happy Hero’s Day, Dad.

A short note to end my "day"

Got an email from him today which, I believe, completed my day.

It read, "I've always thanked God for this day, the day you were born, and secondly, for the day that we've met."

Of all the blessings I've received from Him, he's the one that melts my heart the most.

Thanks, Tatch. I hate you sometimes, but I always end up loving you back. I hate you!

My Kindergarten Thumb

The entire time today, I constantly looked at my right thumb. I examined how big it has grown, and how the whitish part of the nail emerged to be like a sun setting behind a hill. This isn’t one of my narcissistic fetishes, but this is an act I admit to constantly do each and every time I celebrate my birthday.

I was a stubborn kindergartener who was much too thrilled with the joys and perks of my childhood life. I marveled at the fact that I had playmates, almost five hours a day. I barely had the chance playing with other kids before I went to school, as we (I and my brother) weren’t allowed to go outside the house. It’s for this “accident-prevention” campaign my mom thought of, and so we suffered the consequent boredom, and dreamt of how exciting it felt to have a set of playmates. Spending five hours in school was something I really look forward to.

School bus honks its horn and I get the adrenaline rush at such a young age. School time meant playtime. I’d find my way near the front row. Kids always stayed in the front row, and I always wondered why, while the big ones reserved the backseats for themselves. Despite my obstinate self, I stayed prim and proper inside the bus and reserved my unruliness for recess and dismissal time. I was quietly observing my bus mates instead.

I remember this seventh grader girl neither by the name nor by face. The sole recollection I had of her was her, well, her thumb. She walks past me, way back into the “adult” seats and she always, yes always, holds on to the cushioned seat right in front of me. And that’s how I get a glimpse of her. A fraction of a second, five days a week, enables me to look at that grown thumb, and I start to form sheepish thoughts which I then considered my daily geniuses.

I have sworn never to allow my thumb to grow as big as hers. I detested the fact that having big thumbs with obvious “whites” meant that your childhood ended, and that you'd have to take the backseat of the bus. I hardly imagined myself not playing patintero to give way to an eternity of number problems. I never liked the thought of that.

I kept watch of my thumb each day as she walks past me, and I gloriously grin at my sweet success. The moment her hand strikes the seat as she finds her way into the bus, I was quick enough to stare at it. My eyes shift to my own thumb after so, and I’m glad that hers has always been bigger than mine. I was the surest child in the world that I will never grow old.

Today, I celebrate twenty seven years on earth . And half of which was with disdain that my peter pan dreams were never realistic enough to come true. I’ve spent glorious and not-so-glorious moments, experienced blessed and not-so-blessed times, kept happy and not-so-happy memories. Looking back, I can say that most of my happiest times were during my childhood, but most of my fulfilled times happened when I found my way to the bus’ backseat.

I’ve grown such a big thumb, even bigger than that of a seventh grader, and yet, somewhere deep inside my heart, I know it remains to be that old kindergarten thumb.

Read three chapters from Sullivan; rewrite last week’s lecture; finish off Siegelmann’s first chapter; fix my cluttered cabinet; decorate at least two pages of my dusty scrapbook; organize my review notes; and so the list goes on. There are a hundred and one chores set for me each day, and I accomplish, none. I get quite a couple of them started, but the day ends with none of them getting finished. It’s not that I lack time. I’ve got much of it, honestly, even more than what I need.

I end the day hating myself for becoming the world’s greatest procrastinator. Given the time that I have, I know that anybody would trade places with me. It’s not that I don’t value time. I frankly don’t know why I habitually put off these important things I need to do. I squirm and curse at the fact that I get older each year, but I can’t seem to come up with any intellectual premise why I ALWAYS procrastinate. I brood over the fact that I feel like a failure at my age, and yet, I nonchalantly bathe in this luxurious tub of procrastination.

I honestly need help. And professional help it must be. I guess I’ll go get myself a shrink tomorrow. Or, perhaps, this weekend.

Anytime within this month. :)

You're most welcome

It just hit me... most of us, Filipinos, barely respond correctly when thanked for. Not much of a big issue, but it's something i find totally amusing. Everytime I get these boredom-generating moments, I muse at the fact that I can free myself from these tedious whiles by eavesdropping on most conversations of the people around me.

Often, I hear someone thanking another for something.

And I hear that another person who got thanked for something, thanking back that person who thanked him. Teeeheee.

****

A young man stands up and gives up his prized MRT seat for an old lady. Old lady thanks him. This young man says, "thank you", as well.

****

This girl's wallet drops on the floor and a passer-by picks it up and hands it to her. "Thank you," she tells him. He quickly says, "Sure, no problem.

***

I take my tray of food along with my change from this cashier. I smiled and thanked her. She smiles back and nods at me.

***

I'm not making a big deal out of it. All I can tell these people is that, saying "you're welcome" isn't something illegal. I find it most appropriate. And not saying so is something I find very entertaining.

Return to Innocence

Bright Lights .
Hysteria in the Music.
Unleashed passion,
abuse of the soul.
The confines have enclosed you,
this life you now embrace.

Look back at that Tree
you once thought majestic,
you once knew would shelter you
from the heartlessness of the Storm.

Look back at that home
that sheltered you from the rain,
the home you sought refuge from,
when you just can't go on anymore.

Look back at that window
you once used to trace your dreams with,
where raindrops slide on the outside
as your breath reveals what's written.

Hold that soft teddy again
whose fealty remains as it was
whom you treated as a private comrade
at those times when nobody seemed to care.

Look back at that road you deliberately missed.
And look now at this road that feigned happiness.
Look back at all the things you gave up
for the world's figment of the easy life.

For my Bro

I had to rummage through the stack of books sitting on my desk trying to locate the cam’s User’s Manual. I really hated to admit that I poorly manipulated gadgets without the aid of some tacky guide, considering that all my sibs seemed to have been operating these types of gadgets since birth, and can always do without these booklets.

I was tasked to be “photographer” for my brother’s graduation rites tomorrow. I didn’t complain. I didn’t have a gift.

I suddenly remembered how “camer-o-phillic” we used to be. A year’s age gap always helped people around us to wrongly conclude that we were fraternal twins. We wore the same type of clothes (yes, I wore more boyish outfits), wore the same cool rubbershoes (ergo, no strappy sandals for me), and wore the closest looking haircut. We’d pose for mom’s prized camera (the ones that gave you poorly colored pics that would eventually turn yellowish in time) like we were some Promil kid models.

Back then, only the two of us enjoyed our toys as we were barely allowed to play outside with other kids. It was then too easy being “it” during hide and seek, and was extremely frustrating whenever we craved to play agawan base.

I felt that he was my best bud back then, and I’m wildly guessing that he felt the same for me.

It’s just too bad that we grew apart as we started getting older. We lived in the same house, but barely saw each other.

I held the digicam and started having some test shots to check on the settings I’ve painstakingly configured after around an hour.

I grinned.

If it were my brother, he could’ve done done it in a jiffy. No manuals. I’m proud to be the sister of an ECE Post-Graduate Degree Cum Laude.

I’ll make sure to take great pictures tomorrow. It might not be as perfect as when we were Promil models, but I’ll make sure that each shot whispers how much I’ve missed the first ever bestfriend I’ve had.

My Jamster Forecast

I reluctantly sat on the auditorium’s chair as I tried to scan for familiar faces who might at least remember me. I nervously smoothed my copper-colored taffeta with my sweaty palms as I scoured the room for my much missed ex-colleagues.

A blonde and a brunette dashed their way along the aisle, flaunting their newest Chanel gowns. Adelle, the stylish blonde, and Paulsen, the fab brunette were now considered top socialites of the community. Both wore their enchanting Montassiere scent, now regarded as the finest Milan perfume, formulated by the filthy rich, James Montas.

Ladies in black were now serving scantily filled plates to every distinguished guest. It didn’t take long till I noticed that these ladies wore black uniforms with breast patches that read, “Pasimio Cruiseliners”. I also noted that the delicatessens were prepared by Chef Girlie herself, who owned a first class catering service, jointly, with co-proprietress, Cherry Love Andres. They remained best of friends through the years, I thought.

I munched on my fine meal as I waited for the program to start. The room is now beginning to get awfully crowded. Coming in were newlyweds, Precious and Jeffrey; the Yuan triplets with their dad, Jape, and mom, Van; the ever sweet Diane and Nino tagged along their four kids; and then I noticed this kid who ran the aisle with the deepest black dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. Aha! I knew it… Linda Marley married a Jamaican. But it wasn’t Ziggy. Perhaps, a relative. I forced myself not to chuckle. I also noticed that all the kids who came in wore their signature Basbash B’gosh jumpsuits, which is of course, now patented by Richelle’s clothesline.

I almost spoiled Darlene Larkins’ bright yellow gown as I twisted to my right in search of an usher who’d take away my empty plate. I apologetically smiled and allowed her to grab the seat beside me. She wore an elaborate hand-made brooch that shouted, “GUEST OF HONOR”. She was invited by Sitel owners, Mr. Benito Sy and Ms. Tata Angeles, and that Nap Darroca replaced her as Site Director for Pasig. Miss Meg, her Filipina bestfriend who remained as productive as ever, was promoted to Site Director for Baguio.

She flipped pages of a magazine while she waited, and I clandestinely checked out what she was reading. It was Time magazine’s latest edition. The cover read, Dr. Larisa Cruz, Woman of the Year. I can’t blame Time; they did a good job of finding the fittest person for that title. Doc Lari was Australia’s top psychiatrist-slash-counselor, averaging thirty patients a day, a powerhouse cast of Aussies ranting and struggling with anger management and emotional imbalance. Lari’s secret of keeping herself sane? Going to a shrink herself, Dr. Karen Agramos, who fully understands all her frustrations. Perhaps they’ll name Karen, woman of the year, next issue.

The succeeding pages showed Hollywood’s newest Asian Versace models, Blu Reyes, Ja Nabiula, Ella Lumagbas (no sign of stretch marks!!!) and Kris Rivera. They glowed like any other American model and I couldn’t believe how slim they’ve become!!!

The next pages showed 2020’s coolest gadgets. Time has it’s Philippine page which showcased the world renowned Samson D800. Samson Electronics absorbed the impoverished Samsung Company way back 2015. These cool phones are operated by the ingenious Jimian OS, replacing the inaccuracies of the old symbian OS. These Samson phones are open to either Globe or Zap, two of the country’s leading telecommunication services, where the latter is owned by Shel Zapanta herself.

I quickly looked away from the magazine as Darlene abruptly glanced my way, as if sensing my intrusion. I fixed my gaze on the creased invitation I was holding, trying to find an escape for my obvious peeping. I opened the invitation and scanned through the roster of events. A song number was to be rendered by the country’s top sopranos, Guerrero, Sarmiento and Espino. I could almost hear their melodic voices. The night’s emcees were Mike Bandola, Sitel’s HR Department Head, and Leng Yuson, now a celebrity, known to have replaced Kris Aquino’s hosting feat, when she resigned from showbusiness to take care of Josh and Baby James.

I skimmed through the program still.

Joanna Reyes is now Account Director for Jamba, replacing Benito Sy, and is rumored to have been engaged to Joey Mcclaine. Their relationship, I believe, blossomed from the time that she became Adele and Joey’s common friend.

Again, I skimmed through the lines. And I couldn’t believe what I read next…

“Opening Prayer led by Sister Ridelia Villamor, Catherinian Order”

I gasped for air as emcees Mike and Leng took the stage and welcomed the guests. Sister Dhel came in for the prayer, unbelievably donned in the whitest habit I’ve ever seen. It was a short and serene prayer that thanked Him for Jamba’s 15th Anniversary.

The emcees now introduced the speaker for the Opening Remarks. Tony Concha, Country Manager.

Tony started with a rhetoric line as my mind drifted fourteen years back. I closed my eyes and saw three coaches manning the floor, Joanna, James and Nap. Tony was just recently promoted to OM from RA back then, and Phil, Jimbo and Lari were our PS’s. And we were still carefree agents back then, who unforgettably enjoyed the time of our Jamster lives!

The Empty Vastness

Like Odysseus will I be cursed

by the gods to stay adrift,

in the stinging coldness

of this heartless Ocean,

I sail.

Hail the gods!

For their curse is their sword

that punishes the vines

for its unruly crawl.

Hail the gods!

For they hinder my soul

to return to its world

of Dreams and of Glory.

But for what cause is this scorn?

What havoc have I done?

that lead to such exile

from the land I desire.

Aphrodite's ambrosia...

Ahh, yes... the sweet lure of the goddess,

that blindeth my cynicism,

that destroyed my defenses,

that enviled my soul.

Her phantom hath seduced me

to leave my world;

and promised eternal joy

beyond this Sea of Tears.

Stay asleep sweet princess,

stay in touch with your world.

Let the gods dwell in their power,

for you will never return.

Time and friendship, theoretically, can be concluded as directly proportional to each other. The greater time you invest on acquaintances, the more you become their friend; and as you invest even greater time for these acquaintances-turned-friends, the more possible it is for sisterhood or brotherhood to happen.

In a world where “personal touch” seems to be in its putrid state, the gift of friendship is constantly being tested. Somehow, it is now possible for every man to think that an email justly represents the thought of a postcard; that instant messengers mimic coffee shops serving as venues for that much coveted heart-to-heart talk; and that a text message would suffice a faint representation of a much needed hug.

Personal touch adds that drama to the beauty of friendship.

But what if, just what if, you suddenly drift from the people you consider your true blue sisters? You suddenly get dragged along the madding crowd of challenge. And you seem to have stricken yourself out of the arms of sisterhood. How will you ever go back?

Having a good foundation for friendship defies the mathematical relationship of time and friendship. It makes it possible for people to still hold that relationship in their hearts despite the absence of time and the presence of distance. Estrangement has no room for a kind of sisterhood that has experienced its fullest.

Thanks Linda, Joanna, Arcie, Karen, Sharon, Dhel, Jade, Diane, [stephhh!!!! Uggh! You were my dermatitis-mate! I was sooo alone!] for your constant love and acceptance. Despite it all, it felt like I was never far from you guys. It is because of people like you that made me reshape the meaning of sisterhood, it was because of your unending comfort that made me realize how blessed I am despite the crazy things that gatecrashes my life. Thank you.

I hope that kids today start to realize that this widespread indifference we now encounter daily is partly because of the loss of personal touch. I hope our next generation experiences the gift of friendship at its fullest, the way I did.

Surfer's Paradise No More

I’ve always believed that Zambales has been preconceived by God to be a place blessed with jaw-droppingly big waves. True enough, surfers from all walks of life have been going to and from beaches, and would always conclude that Zambales would be among the top choices for good water and big waves. Indeed, they say it’s a surfer’s paradise.

I’m not a surfer but I did encounter the finest waves in Zambales.

I was nearly burnt out from work. I was too drained, but for the sake of the stats, I still managed to convince myself to go. It also felt as if all powers have conspired to make my life completely miserable. Somehow, I felt like a paper dragged by the wind to drift away… empty and miserable.

Our team building saved me. As drama would have it, red curtains have been pulled up to offer a polished stage that would play another scene in my life. Another milestone. Slowly, the scenarios would be enacted as I recollect great memories that made a lifeless, meaningless drifting paper come to life.

Thanks JOANNA for every effort you’ve exerted to make it possible for us to have this activity. Thank you for the unending patience. But I can’t thank you for not allowing us to pull your shirt off so that we can admire whatever it is you’re hiding underneath it.

Thanks PHIL for the techy info you keep supplying our non-techy minds!

Thanks TONY for going with us, driving for us, joking around with us, and most especially for taking it OFF for us.

Thaks DHEL for your gift of speech, your tanning beauty, and for your wonderful cybershot.

Thanks ARCIE for bringing out the child in us. You’ve always been very dear and sweet to everyone. Why didn’t you wear your Osh Kosh B’gosh swimwear???

Thanks LINDA for boiling water for our breakfast. You might’ve waited for the kettle to whistle while looking at the water boiling, but still, you managed to remember that it wasn’t the type that whistles.

Thanks JARRED for staying on the shore. It was nice watching you enjoy yourself, just by being thrown onshore by big waves while flipping your legs.

Thanks KAREN for being the group translator. Because of you, we realized that manang psycho didn’t really want sopas for alms; instead, she wanted “THE VIOLET”.

Thank you SHARON for your front. And JADE for your back. Your voices as well were like mermaids singing and have encouraged us to try videoke, only to figure out that our voices’ caliber would only be at eighty.

Thank you STEPH, aka porcelain doll, for the endless pose you’ve provided our cameras.

Thank you DIANE for bringing Nino along. Am glad he agreed to stay inside your phone. *wink!*

These were the funny things that refreshed my dull and monotonous life. I’ve thanked everyone for the funny things that happened in Zambales, but I also want to thank you for the magic you’ve unknowingly given to me. Before this team building, it was so difficult to fake a cheerful aura at work when your mind is conceiving ending a miserable life. Whatever magic it was you’ve given me, my heart thanks you forever.

Work for me now isn’t a drag anymore coz I know it’s all worth it. When you know that there are people whom you can appreciate and who can appreciate you, people who can bring magic in your life, it all rubs out the misery.

I’ve written the word, misery, on the sand while we were there. Funny, that somehow, like the waves, you’ve managed to wipe it off my desperate mind. I’ll always remember that place not only as a surfer’s paradise, but my own paradise as well because of people like you.

aMaze Me

PUMP UP THE VOLUME COZ IT HELPS!

Neodrugs

Wondergroup Laboratories International (WLI) recently launched a succession of ten, new, over-the-counter drugs to be sold in the market by September this year. They are as follows:

Alerticillin.
Labelled as the “wake-up drug”, this immediately wipes off the idea of sleep in your cortex so you don’t have to worry about hearing your boss’ litany on why the early bird catches the worm. Comes in twenty-four different types, each catering to the exact hour you want to wake up.

Slothodium.
Feeling like the day’s work seems to be nothing but routine? This drug combats micro-lazy-organisms in the bloodstream to keep you on the go.

Visualdehyde.
To be taken an hour before meeting up with your husband/wife for that after-work dinner. This coordinates your visual association center and your eye to reflect Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie-fantasy-date of yours. This drug is the most promising marriage saver.

Ibuprohurt.
Alleviates the aftermath of both petty and grave relationship fights. To be taken after a mouthful of chocs or a handful of fudge brownies to prevent severe gastric side-effects. Projected to be the most sought after over-the-counter drug.

Memorionalol.
Usually taken before attending huge posh parties, family and school reunions, etc. Prevents any form of embarrassment from one’s inability to recollect names of less significant acquaintances.

Strengthtomycin.
Created primarily for females hooked with asshole jocks. This increases the magnitude of a woman’s slap ‘n punch force. Strength becomes directly proportional to the quantity of drug intake. Only drug without Lethal Dosage. Contraindicated for the entire male population as it causes penile psoriasis linked with non-erection.

Phenylchronolamine.
Ever felt like you needed more time to meet that unreasonable deadline? This drug increases your stress threshold so you can do more.

Eyesine.
An eyedrop formulated for those working graveyard shifts. Allows the visual center of the brain to send nerve impulses to negate what is actually seen. Darkness is viewed as daytime, while any form of gleaming light is seen as darkness.

Trichlorosmart.
For those who find themselves fidgeting and stuttering on their first dates. Trichlorosmart also boosts your ability to make a fine impression on a date.

Eradophobia.
Eradicates your silliest fears, i.e., cockroaches, lizards, heights, tarantulas & scorps, ants, monsters ‘neath the bed, and yes… even buttons (I miss you Mozy!!!).

theirroyalcrapness

The deafening election hype forced me to change TV channels thrice in every fifteen to twenty minutes. I now find myself contradicting my usual TV habit of sticking to one channel throughout the entire time I’m propped on the couch. This campaign frenzy now gave me an upset stomach (ever ready to throw up!) plus an excruciating migraine that I seem to have also felt three years ago.

Every ad speaks of progress, boasts of their respective achievements and of their pseudo-realistic platforms. Call me a cynic, but it’s the only appropriate character that I can transform into. How else can I reconcile myself with an ad that remembers poverty’s echoing presence only during elections? How can I bear seeing these people disguise themselves as one with the poor and at the same time, ironically spend millions for these campaign materials? How can I put up with these partisans trying to bash each other on national TV?

Well perhaps, yes, these things are necessary to win every voter’s hearts; that these things are indeed inevitable; and that these things are truly part of the Republic’s election fanfare. Well then, they have to bear with my puking cynicism until they start realizing that our dying country needs statesmen, not politicians.

I’ve been too jaded from these hero wannabees who can’t even do something about increasing the overly pathetic minimum wage. I scowl seeing them trying hard to rub elbows with the poor, surprisingly apologizing to one person for an act that happened eons ago, and I scowl all the more hearing them speak as if they are the one true hope for a better nation. I say, let them dine with Spongebob’s Mr. Krabs!

I believe it’s time for the Omnibus Election Code to approve a possible life sentence without parole for candidates with the crappiest campaign ad. Perhaps they might think twice before they run their respective ads.

And I believe it’s time for me to get that old cable subscription back.

Pounce!

It’s just so fascinating how tarantulas can unknowingly teach us patience. I’ve been observing them whenever they eat… and boy, each genus has its own dining ritual. Take for example, Hewey, my Chilobrachy huahini.

I take a cricket from the holed cannister, shake it in the air and throw it inside Hewey’s tank. The cricket’s a bit stunned from my brisk shaking, as well as from the huahini’s gossamer-filled home. Cricket roams around, irked at the sight of this heavily webbed place he’s now in. Unsure of this new terrain, he wanders around and looks for food, not knowing that he himself spells out dinner. Hewey now begins his stalk. The manner in which he eats is quite remarkable: he knows I’ve placed food, but he doesn’t run to it despite the hunger. His appetite is as big as mine, or a lil over it, but he remains discrete about his hunger pangs. Instead, he patiently waits till his sumptuous meal gets trapped at a specific point within the cobweb area he painstakingly weaved.

Mr. Cricket now seemed to stay at one place, unaware of the trap, perhaps thinking of where else to find food. Then, in quick cadence, he moves and gets near the trap, but suddenly shifts direction as if sensing Hewey’s stealth. Hewey, on the other hand, seemed hopeful of his trap’s success, and so, he gets near the cricket.

Mr. Crix gets past him. The two of them suddenly brushed each other’s leg. The cricket is now confronted with the jolting truth… he is food. Hop and run!

Hewey now stands still, disregarding the thought of pouncing on the prey. I sighed. He could’ve feasted by now, I thought impatiently. Growing tired of Hewey’s ritual, I took a pair of forceps and guided the cricket near Hewey. Again, he allowed it past him. Uggghhh…fine! If I were that hungry, I could’ve stuck a toothpick in between my teeth by now.

A couple of minutes later, the cricket seemed to have fallen into the trap! Mr. Cricket tried to break free from the sticky substance he smudged into, but is unable to budge out. I keenly watched as Hewey nears him, lifts two of his front legs to hold the crix in place, and finally eases his fangs into the crix’s soft flesh as it releases its venom.

He was built for this kind of kill, I thought to myself.. He knew that there was a right place and time for his meal.

It’s a known fact that these spiders are voracious eaters. It is just remarkable how they seem to be more human whenever they display such discipline at mealtime.
These spiders constantly remind me of patience in the midst of failure. They tell me how hardwork, through their meticulously woven home, can help me achieve my goals. I get to be reminded that somehow, despite disheartening circumstances, my dreams can still be achieved at the right place and at the right time.

As for now, I must weave… and stalk!

Sky-High Disappointment

I almost sustained a high-spinal cord injury from arching my neck backwards at 2am. Your royal highness has been trying to press her luck to catch a glimpse of the Lyrids, a meteor shower from the Comet Thatcher, in the wee hours of Sunday morn.

I remember last seeing a succession of these celestial wonders way back third year high school at a summer camp in Laguna. I was walking out of our “barracks” when suddenly, streaks of light flashed from the sky to somehow provide useful lighting to the dark path I was treading. Looking up, I saw brilliant shooting stars dancing their way through the vastness of the sky. I shouted in glee, waking the others, and we all had our fair share of this popcorn-less treat. It was all too bad that I never knew it coming, nor did I bring a techy cam to camp to preserve a token of that amazing event.

Not wanting to be as unprepared as I was before, I planned for and awaited this event like all other astro-freaks, as reports have shown that the Lyrids this year will be visible to the naked eye. I planned my meal to be grilled, so I can cook outside on Saturday night in any case the meteor shower would push through a lil bit early. I even told friends about it so they can marvel at these non-daily wonders.

0000. Grilled pork looks yummmeee, but I’d have to save it for the Lyrids’ show. I fidgeted around the backyard like a looney, even planning to hike up the wall and sit there. I chose to rest both feet on the ground, and sat on the garden chair.

0100. Grilled pork still looks yummy, but is too cold already. Jeepers. I should’ve grilled it a little later. Went to have it microwaved so I can start gobbling it all up. Anyway, in an hour, everything will be all too perfect.

0230. My empty plate featured a trail of tiny black ants moving briskly. I was a little bit annoyed, but was still expecting. I frantically reached for my all-set cam because I knew that in any moment, the Lyrids would start shooting like crazy and I had to make sure I have a hardcopy.

0300. My entire spine and nape felt numb now. I ditched the dirty plate inside the house, and ran outside, almost tripping, just to make sure I won’t miss anything. But nothing new seemed to happen. It’s just that I seem to see more stars than I did earlier.

I have to get in touch with reality. All I’d see is the metro’s soot disguised as the urban air. I’ll never see those streaks of light I expected, that meteor shower from Comet whatever, those Lyrids… those once-in-a-lifetime stars. And then I started to hate those rotten jeepneys charring the streets, those vehicles who passed the PSEUDO-EMISSION TESTS, those fat-bearded politicians who keep ignoring the Clean-Air Act.

And I started hating myself for grilling dinner.

All Glammed Up

I tried to fake a streak of confidence as i quivered at the thought of my wardrobe's mediocracy. In the middle of Le Souffle's finest function room, I trembled at the thought of being seen wearing something so ordinary to an event where almost everyone nonchalantly displayed the finest coutured dresses and gowns.

Slowly, I tried to have that thought put off, as it has been bothering me for the longest time, even back at the Archbishop's Palace where the wedding rites took place. I tried to muse at the Boucard paintings that hung on the wall and concocted a simple game that would relate to it just to release the suffocating tension I felt. What the hell was I thinking that I even forgot it was one of the posh weddings that I'd be going to???

Ate France is such a dear friend and "ate" to me and my sibs. Her family's a close family friend, too. She did decide to tie the knot at 30, and who knows how old she might've gotten had everyone failed to push her into settling down. She's overly career driven, forgetting that we, ladies, do have an expiration when it comes to bearing quality kids (champion breed, as mutts would put it). Everyone just feels so happy that she and Vince, both chief editors of their respective esteemed magazines, finally took time out of their erratic work schedules to get their vows declared in the eyes of God and of men.

In the absence of a chauffeur, I voluntarily tasked myself to do the honors for my mom and her bestfriend. My dad can't fulfill that duty as it fell on a weekday. Thinking that choosing a glam outfit would be much of a detriment to my driving assignment (a long drive, my friends), I chose to wear something I was totally comfortable in, while still staying elegant. My dress will have its limitations, while my shoes won't since my bare feet would just kiss the gas-break-clutch pedals. It is in this light that my shoes were so fab, while my dress was just... so-so. Driving, I felt good about the way I looked, and I loved the comfort it brought me. 3:00 pm's sunlight-aircon battle irritated my passengers, who were grandiosely clothed, while I sat humming to the radio's tune ignoring the glaring heat outside.

I guess I should've stayed in the car. I felt like a total gatecrasher.

The reception programme went on as I dug into my Chilean Sea Bass number. Yummy. I'll just concentrate on my food and on how this French meal has been perfected. I really don't want the night spoiled in the middle of this fantastic meal, the fantastic orchestra playing, and this fantastic union of hearts.

I suddenly noticed heads jolting to one specific direction... MY DIRECTION. I sat stunned looking at their faces as my mom, who was beside me, whispered, it's Tessa Prieto behind us. I then remembered that we sat near the room's entrance, and that anybody who might've come in late will surely receive a grand welcome. Well, perhaps, not as grand as Tessa Prieto's.

She wore a colorful haltered number, with its neck and backline cut extremely low, as to deliberately show her heavily sequined black brassiere. The headdress, of course, is quintessential to her, which seemed to have invoked a handful of peacocks and some of its feathered relatives.

Wow, i thought. Wow to the cognizance she might've received at every occassion she was in. The perks of having the guts and that sort of fashion sense. She came in a bit late, but garnered the highest number of attention, while I sat stupefied of how I was enrobed, claiming only the admiration of the floor who stunningly marvelled at my shoes.

It was a mixture of what kind of attention she got--- positive and negative. Of course, for those who knew her, they admired her; as for those who didn't, they thought of her as too scandalous and inappropriate.

I never knew her, but I casted my vote as an admiration ballot. I admired her for her boldness and for her sense of freedom. I admired her for breaking free from conformity and for ditching what was traditional. She was like that because that was who she really was. One may raise the question of appropriateness, but all I can do is just marvel at someone who can defy what was supposed to be and take responsibility for it.

As I thought about her, perhaps, I shouldn't be so timid about how I was dressed. I ought to show some genuine confidence, because I really am proud of how I looked, and it's just the trite that "gowns-and- that-kind-of-stuff-are-worn-in-weddings" thing that rubs off the confidence in me. I look elegant and comfortable, and that's what's important! Oh, and I have uber nice shoes hidden 'neath the tablecloth, too, I almost forgot.

At some point, I was able to free myself. Thanks to the Sea Princess.

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Epilogue:
The entire entourage was so, so, ... splendid! The girls were all in their Kate Torralba number with pink andbrown (more like, copper) as their motif. I'm so in love with their gowns! Well, gowns would really be an understatement, and so I label it, Kate's. :) I love their Kate's!

I wish Kate Torralba accidentally reads this, and adds me to the roster of her "admirers". Their Kate's were the types you can "re-wear" to other events without having this awful which-wedding-have-you-gone-to-recently look. It's totally a standout with those Kate bags to match! So totally perfect! I loved how Tita Au looked non-conforming in her Kate's,, defying the typical mother-of-the-bride-matronic-look. Lol. I hope I can get Kate to design for me one of these days. She sings, she writes, she's an influentially fashionable person... what else can't you do???

Literary Imprisonment

I trashed my bed with several creased sheets of paper while stashing my dandy signpen back in its case. I hardly noticed that it took me over half a day to come up with an impressive essay about the meaning of freedom, and still, I ended up with a bunch of pen-stricken paragraphs and a few sentences that do not even adhere to the the entire thought of what I wanted to express! Much to my dismay, there were several ideas outrageously popping inside my head, but I couldn't even get my tongue (err, my pen) to complete a paragraph containing the thought. All I wanted was something impressively written to complement the splendid ideas I had in mind, but all I had was a pfffttt of broken phrases trying ever so hard to achieve coherence. Nothing rhetoric, really... all I wanted was a piece that could've stirred others to think about the costs of being able to do what they want to do contemporarily.

I have never felt so imprisoned in my entire "literary" life! The synaptic inconsistencies of my dear neurons caused my brain to think so right, opposed to the erratic manner that my hand was jotting down screwed ideas. Now I'm thinking, is it really me? or was it just an isolated case of a peculiar "hand-brain" relationship. I've never felt so betrayed in my whole life... what can be worse than being betrayed by your own self? I wanted to free the wonderful thoughts I had in mind, but I just plainly couldn't.

I now wonder...

...if William the Conqueror ever had that torn feeling between freeing Scotland's people in an honorable manner and getting the Scots asses (and his own!) publicly displayed in the middle of the battle. Well, surprisingly, in the end, he was able to do both... strut a multitude of Scottish flesh and honorably opening the path to freedom for his country.

...if the acclaimed Dr. Jose Rizal suppressed the littlest tinge of willingness to take up arms against the colonizers (imagine having to put up with your family's tragedies courtesy of these gatecrashers), and instead, fight with the might of his pen and his renowned eloquence. In the end, his inspiring works became his fellow Filipino's strength and will to fight for freedom despite the lack of arms.

...if Benjamin Martin felt as imprisoned as he was between choosing to be a protective father to his children against enlisting in the Continental army. He did lose two of his seven children (whom he called "better men")as he became the militia's leader, for the cost of achieving South Carolina's freedom from Cromwallis.

These men had to go through contradicting circumstances as they strived for freedom. They were able to reconcile opposing situations, and managed to serve as an avenue for their much coveted dream. Perhaps, like them, I can come up with something to reconcile my erroneous "hand-brain" relationship, and get those profound thoughts finally scribbled. Wouldn't that be such a freeing experience?