Monday, June 30, 2008

omg. can i be more gay?

So aiken was saying in his blog that a post i did two years ago at the brilliant bumz' page at friendster sent him down on memory lane. i figured i should repost it for all time's sake. (i can't believe i was THIS gay. but then again, we all were. haha.)

Brilliant bums: the characters in the fairy tale of my life..

(MAy 03, 2006, lifted from friendster)

Uy watch out, akoa ang una nga entry... Perfect. Oo oy :P

As you all very well know, nandito po ang lola ninyo ngayon sa manila bilang isang sex worker (dapat kaming duha adtong bayot boang aka jello) dala ng hirap ng buhay... Nakakasuka, pero kinailiangang lng talagang kumapit sa patalim...

Yaaaaaak. Buyag. hehe. Pero, siyempre, tagalog. Oo. Watch out, g-sunggo nas manang. hehe. Na-sobrahan rkog lantaw og gulong ng cherva. Ewwwie. :P

Anyway, bet lang nakong mag-update sakong lyf kay kung wala mo nalimot, mga huboga mo, ng-promise ta sa siliman beach (in the absence of the lesser beings nga wala ni-adto due to pa-luvae sessions and other inexcusable reasons na im sure lema ra, gapa-lobot ra jud) dapat mg-update ta sa atong mga mugna kay puro na lang niya echus and keru ang inyong mga huna2 (wla koy labot kay alawae man kyokoms sexlyf iredech. hoy tru. tawon, lay marcus direh) and basin maglaho na parang liquid protein na gitulon ni jaycee ang atong friendship! Bayooot! Judi.

So, let me proceed sa akong update. Daghan pa man gud kaung eching. Anyway, it's a myth! Gamay ang suweldo sa call centers iridey. I repeat! yamagish. Hehe. Azen, 13t (minus tax pana na 1500, and sss na 1000. the horror!) and mao na ang rate sa ppolsupport, convergys and etel. nag-vary lang og 500 or so. Imagine! me naman, mag-work na kunuhay karong may 15 sa ppolsuport. Why people support, u ask? Because I can. And because, mas tsada ilang building sa convergys and wala ang etel sa makati. ka-cheapan. hehe. Babaw, pero kebs!!! Mao ray sueldo yot. Pero, actually, the real reason is didto ko first ni-apply and since pareho lang ang sweldo, alawae diff, daba? Besyds, ppol say cla pinaka-tsada mo-alaga og employee... :) Bow.

And now for ur individual messages:

Angel: Im so happy for u and sean!!! Kanaog pod sa nyong bukid usahay and apas direh!!! Malooy ka!

Paul: Yot, direh work. Asa man ka ron? I miss you!!!

Jello: Hoy bayota ka, i-email kuno na imong plano sa kinabuhi kay mag-dungan tag apply sa supreme court

JC: BAyooot! Hehe.. Luv u jace! NA-imbento ng txt sa inyoha? Sa tambo, uso lagi

Bom: Luv u bom! G-work naka ron? Salamat kau samong pag-pasuya nko last wed. KAbalos niya ko

Sheena: Day!!! Tawon day! Ang layo mo na! P-ramdam ginagmay mam! MIss you so much!

Inday: Musta cebu day???? Regards ko bhadot! MAdayon ka law jud? Wer man? Apas na lng direh!!!! Miss you!

rEN: rEEN-REEN! i MISS YOU!:( Musta namo ni aling siquijor?

Easter: Hoy, kaw bayhana ka, yugno japn ng gna-yama nimoh sa? Tagpila man na be, kay akong palliton pra nimoh!! Miss u:(

Aiken: Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiikkkkkkkkkkkkkkkeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnn! Ang kabo? Asa ang kabooooo!!!!!!!!!! Regards ko agnes, hazlot, majo and dwight oliver and diding and my beloved roomate. Musta imong painting classes? Miss you!!!

Shang: Salamat sa pag-pa-utang. hehe. C chto, dako na. Daghan n bisyo, hehe. MIss you!!

Mameh: Luv u mameh!!! Apas nya mo direh ha? Ummwah! Alagae ako baby for me:)

Din2: LOve u mommy den!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Miss na kau tka... Im so happy nagka-lyf na ka.. hehehehe. Undangan na lagi tka! Na-amaze lang ko kay lau ra kau ka sa mong daan na self. Mas bongga! Hehe Ummmwah!

Kit: Kinsa napoy gka-buangan nimoh ron??? hahay. Kaw ba... panguyab na gud! Miss you!!!!!!!!

Love u guys... I miss u so much:( wlay lema... best in cry bya ang yuyi.. pero o well. la ko mahimo... Hopefully magkita rta in the near future! Promise effort tana nga walay ma-usab. K???


Mara :)

what i learned

i learned that life doesn't owe me any favors.

i learned that if it's too hard to hang on, it's time to let go.

i learned that home is a place where they will have to take you in, no matter what sort of shit you get yourself into.

i learned that sex is sex, and that intimacy shouldn't be confused with love.

i learned that maturity isn't about not making mistakes, but facing up to the consequences every time you make one.

i learned that love isn't overrated but our idea of it is.

i learned that when they said 'you should learn love to yourself before you can love someone else', they weren't just trying to be cheesy.

i learned that where i am right now, is exactly where i want to be. it might not be where i should end up, but it's where i should be right now...

i learned that happiness is a choice.

and finally...

i have learned to choose to be happy.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

going mainstream

i try too hard to be emo these days.

i guess i'm running out of genres to ride on.
i am such a walking oxymoron.
the non-conformist who jumps on bandwagons.

the pop spectrum of personalities are just soo...
poppy. it's hard to resist. you even wanna pretend to
be britney or lindsay sometimes just to know how it feels
to be that dysfunctional.

weird that they actually let me teach.
but then again, them kids aren't so impressionable.
i can't believe i hear things that actually shock me in that school.

me. shocked. of what kids do, of all things. i'm too friggin young to
act this old.


but it's what i get. i AM teaching after all.

(i have no idea why this thing looks like a poem)

i can pretend to care. but i'm too lazy.

i like that i am self-absorbed. it's simply less of a hassle
to just care about yourself. anyone who isn't self-absorbed
is a liar. everyone only talks about themselves in the net anyway.
and i am just plain incapable of taking myself out of the equation.

it'd be refreshing if we can all just cut the bullshit.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

text chronicles

(inspired by aiken's text poems and written in memory

of all the phones i loved and lost. haha.)

bleep (!)

to a random beep on your phone
i blink in and out of existence
on those scant seconds
you pause pick up your phone
and read my words
i become a person
worthy of your bemused smile
but not interesting enough
for a reply
just some bored sender
until the next...



the damn thing lights up again
i crane my neck to check
breaking the pretense
of not giving a shit
about whether you text or not
your name flashes
i itch
but wait 2 minutes
before i reach for it
a forwarded message
recycled words
in a broken-up paragraph
and yet
it makes my day



Nothing is sadder than a misled duck who actually expects to become a swan someday. The truth is a lot of us are actually born as ugly ducklings, and that’s it. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start saving up for plastic surgery.


Seriously, the world would be a sad, sad place to be if it was all just about looks. And yet, a lot of people measure each other’s worth (and their own) based on how easy they go on the eyes. And if they were born with not-so-good looks the faint glimmer of hope in their horizons lie on plastic surgery and uber expensive make-up. How could we call ourselves animals of higher intellect and yet thrive on such shallowness?

Personally, I was insecure enough to wish I was prettier, fairer, more endowed… blah, blah, blah. But never did I allow it to drive me to the point of distraction. There’s just a lot more to life than physical beauty. Period.

Now, before I get all self-righteous and annoying, let me explain why I have chosen to rant on this particular topic today.

Okay, let me backtrack on what I just said: The truth is that it is driving me to distraction. Because when before it didn’t seem to matter as much, now it’s what everything is ALL about. I look around and see people primping themselves like goddamn peacocks, showing off fake colored feathers for everyone to go “ooh” and “aah” over. It’s driving me nuts!

I heard somewhere that you should never look at beauty magazines, it’ll only make you feel ugly. Truer words have never been spoken. That’s what’s up my ass actually. Up until now, I’ve never felt ugly. But suddenly I have huge pores, I have the skin of a thirty-year old and a wig has more life than my hair. These may be true, but it didn’t use to matter!

So I’m not a friggin’ made-up Barbie with pink pouty lips and porcelain skin. So? How come the world we live in today makes me feel bad about that? So then we go to YouTube and watch those stupid videos of Hollywood stars looking disheveled and (dare I say it?) ugly without make-up and laugh our asses off because look, they’re ugly too!

So what?

Why do we need to rationalize our looks with pictures of movie stars without make-up? At least it’s their job to look good, who made it everyone else’s too? Oh I know, blame on the media, on those stupid advertising agencies that market lies, on those cursed beauty magazines that profess that the standard of beauty is those mannequin stick-like figures we call models, with their bleached teeth and 5-inch lashes. Well, I definitely agree that they are the root of all these evil. But then, where does that leave us? Where would that leave me? Nowhere. Just back to my PC, still bitchin’.

At the end of the day, we gotta eat a piece of the blame pie too. We know it only matters because we let it matter. I’m only ugly because some stupid magazine said so, and I let myself believe it. (Sorry for those whose been expecting some brilliant epiphany at this point, hehe.) So now, I look at myself at the mirror and for the first time, start wishin’ I looked like someone else…

But I’m holding myself from completely believing that. Right after I condemn yet another clump of whiteheads, I say, “Fuck it, I look pretty. I’m not Barbie but I’m not ugly either.” Besides, I’m freaking oozing with inner beauty here.


Seriously, if you’re suffering from the same dysfunction, straighten yourself up, stop buying beauty mags and stay away from shampoo commercials. Look yourself at the mirror, smile and flush all ugly thoughts away. (Watch out the cheesy part’s comin…) However you look, it’s doesn’t matter. What matters is what’s inside you. (Holy friggin crap, I really said it, ack!)

If that doesn’t work, just think that you can’t be uglier than Pamela Anderson without make-up and take comfort in that. Hehehe – kidding! Really, those TLC gals got it right, we are the only ones in the position to make ourselves feel damn unpretty.

And I for one, sure ain’t unpretty. MAC or no MAC.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

scholastic torture

so i just came home from attending one of THE most boring things
in the world: an icky, loathsome affair aptly called a "strategic
planning workshop" (did i lose you at strategic?) where old
people gather and make 10-year timelines for unbelievably
boring plans. plans on things that only old people are concerned
about. and i am purposely being vague because i was just
sitting there the whole 2 days, pretending to be supremely
interested when im really trying to sleep with my eyes open.

well... okay. that wasnt entirely true.

there were some instances when i forgot to be bored. fine.
i might even conceed that there was once when i actually
formed what can be described as an amused grin.

but that's it.

NO One should misconstrue what i just said to mean i had
a good time. i will not be accused of ENJOYING the company
of old boring teachers.

(haha. trying hard much?)

Thursday, June 12, 2008

immortalized by zola

(did that sound as kinky as i think it did??? hahaha)

here's another one of zola's brilliant compositions inspired
by my big-ass scar. i swear, this girl's talent in finding
inspiration in the trivialities of my insipid half-life
-my so-called mini-tragedies- is almost as inspired as her
poetic prowess. (inspired?! prowess?! --
sorry zo, im only trying to sound
literati-ish... haha.
but you do know i am in awe of your talent!:))

They cut you open on the operating table
(for Mara and 500 cc’s of pus and blood)

After much thought
and matchless conviction,
they wheeled you in for the butcher.

Pain is a rock in the gut-
flat, black, and igneous,
swimming in the pit of your thorax;
the metal bed, a planet with four moons
put up low and suspicious,
overbright, overlit,
blatant over your body
split two-ways under the glint of knives.

Bleakly, wake stood waving
from the edge of the dock
at the pier where you set off
to seek worthy finds-
perhaps a heart-
that dropped from a rib,
a panel sliding wetly open
the ashes from the cash
burning swift,
at the tips of harried hands;
the solid smell of soap
and shit lingering like a bad memory
of musty motels and men’s rooms;
the sordid aftertaste
of a kiss that landed in another’s mouth.

They sewed you shut,
the stitches neat, surgical,
your middle, like a drum to thump
the room to silence.

These specters in white,
they hover above their handiwork,
soldiers trooping over your carcass,
they hold your guts up against the light,
(housewives shopping for jams in a grocery aisle.)

Under the sheets, your body,
Hollow, quiet-
in open tomb in a full cemetery.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Girlfriends: A Definition (for Mia and Mara)

from my uber-talented poet friend-slash-alcohol guru zola gonzalez, thanks zol:)

When we're done shuffling the cards,
and dealing the boards,
turning over red jacks and black hearts,
we sit by the pool.
Day peels itself off
a poster sky holding itself together
till the arrival of stars.
Silence is slow
as blood leaving forgotten wounds.
We lie,
poker facing umbrella trees.
(They tell a different story.)
We lie,
our woman breasts heaving,
reaching different summits,
our rummy breath losing all sense of open air.
We lie,
our feet dangling,
slicing the gelatin water,
making beaver-tail splashes
to warn the colony of the heart.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

teacher mara. (what the - ?!)

And now, for another one of Mara's pseudo-tragedies:

i'm wilting. i'm drooping and sunshine just makes me tired, dehydrated
and more droopy (not to mention sticky). water doesn't help either.
i'm supposed to be blooming and shooting pollens into the air at 22.

okay. the sucky metaphors aren't working. i'll go literal.

i'm unhappy. not depressed-unhappy, more like the whiny
im-not-getting-my-way brand of unhappiness. which has
been my perpetual state since, i don't know, fifth grade? when
i realized i was a loser because i got along better with boys
(by the way, getting along is an extremely relative term)
and was scared of the girls.

amazing how self-absorption ceases to tire a person. much like
permanent narcissism is the bane of beautiful people. (see? hehehe.)

anyway, since i always take myself seriously, under the guise of an
i-don't-give-a-rat's-ass aura of course, i will spend a whole blog post
discussing and dissecting this little tragedy of mine. (i'm loving the
endless supply of cyberspace to fill with my incessant rantings, by the way.
internet is truly the most useful useless thing man has invented.)

back to my tragedy.

(hmmm, sucky metaphors, notes within notes and an oxymoron.
this blog is getting more promising. moving on...)

i still haven't wrapped my head around the idea of me as a teacher (i'm still trying not to gag at the mere mention of it) even after almost two years of the daily torture of standing in front of a seemingly unending parade of bored, uninterested, distracted eyes completely insensitive to my struggle to not spray too much spit. don't they realize how painful it is to be icky and awkward in front of people you don't even like but by some unfortunate cosmic joke you end up being a teacher to?

i mean really, there are only, like, five worse things in life: tsunamis, global warming, poverty, the Mindanao conflict and kris aquino. (okay, SIX worse things. i forgot her icky partner, boy abunda.)

and it's not my fault, mind you. my main charm has always been that i am supremely interesting. and let's not forget my stupendous communicative skills. i'm the life of the party without even trying. it's their fault i don't like them. (and i'm exaggerating my stalwart qualities because it's difficult when you let critics judge for themselves - you always come out less interesting than you actually are.)

don't even get me started about the people i work with. i mean, really. don't. they have internet connections now- much to the utter shock and amazement of my Manileno ex-friend who thought we didn't have electricity in Iligan. (ex-friend meet Maria Cristina Falls, MCF meet the idiot who thinks electricity is shipped from Luzon to Mindanao) as for my co-workers, perhaps it would be suffice to say had i the liberty (or the guts, more like) to talk about them, this blog would be waaay more interesting.

anyway, despite my roundabout (but entertaining, i'm sure) way of expressing my zany self, i do have a point and that is that i have had a realization: for some insane reason, i've convinced myself that this profession is a cross between a death sentence and keloidal scars therefore i have to be miserable. that i haven't given myself even the briefest chance to NOT be miserable. because, then, well, where's the fun in that? seriously, is there anything more boring than a 22-year old SINGLE teacher whose HAPPY with what she does??? that's like a one-way ticket to spinsterhood in my book!

i think i just blasphemed my mom's profession to hell and back (twice in the same sentence) but i'm not talking about this from an adult's point of view. all adults think all professions are to be thought highly of and that teaching, beyond all professions, is the most noble.

but i come from the extreme side of the spectrum here, where teaching is for people who want to "settle down" and be "stable" whereas, "settling down", "stable" and "I" will not be found in the same sentence until ten years from now. (if you can kindly ignore the fact that they just did in the sentence before this.)

there is no room for spunk in this profession. and your idealism gets shot down the drain in an hour-and-a-half to an hour-and-a-half frequency. people think it's about helping the country have a bright and promising future. but there's nothing bright or promising about the faces i see everyday. they just look plain bored.

and do not get me started on the COMPLETE and UTTER LACK OF CUTE GUYS. i swear, any hope for a love life in this environment is down the drain. all i see are married men, old weird types and male children. i have had cute students. but they are INFANTS.

okay. maybe i should give more credit. my students, i mean. but see, i'm just not big enough to. which is the point of this whole convoluted blog, really. teaching is not inherently sucky, in fact, i'm sure there are a lot of arguments for it being noble (all of which escapes me at the moment). it's only sucky because i am simply NOT A TEACHER.

tada. yep, that was the big conclusion. i know you knew that all along, that i'm not college professor material, that is - despite the fact that i am. that was the premise after all. but i'm not here to be brief. i'm here to be brilliantly annoying and funny at the same time, despite the lack of any real insights to share. a feat, unsurpassed by millions of wanna-be ranters out there.

as for my little dilemma. rest assured, i will not attempt to resolve it until my next psuedo-tragedy. lest i doom the cyberspace of a rant-free blog.

the horror.

Monday, June 2, 2008

kwentong yosi

I hold the smooth, slim stick in my hand and feel for the lighter in my bag. The light touches the flammable tip and I inhale, cloud myself with the haze of indifference. My few moments of oblivion, my few minutes of the day when I can puff sweet relief and silently declare that I don’t give a shit. A stick, then another, and then the moment is gone. My smoking buddies and I glance at each other and sigh, ‘Yep, back to reality.’

People say smoking is overrated. Whatever pleasure or relief you get from it is only psychological. If we’d been face to face, you’d hear me chuckle. That’s just the point, isn’t it? Everybody needs a little relief, a little forbidden pleasure, now and then. Wherever you get it, the pleasure you get is still something that you only mentally conceive. It’s not really about where or what you get it from - it’s all about how you want it to make you feel.

Overrated? Psychological? It is and it isn’t. It depends actually… what do you need relief from? This little cancer stick isn’t for everybody you know. In fact, it isn’t for anybody at all. But smokers have come to rely on it so much, they’d rather forget. From five sticks a day, to ten… to…to sticks?! Who does a couple of lousy sticks a day? More like a whole pack. Or two.


I’d rather forget. I know it’s not called CANCER stick for nothing. Heck, every smoker knows that. More importantly, smokers know that you can’t really say, “At least I was happy,” when you’re bedridden and diagnosed with lung cancer. But I’d rather forget. Stuff like that just don’t register anymore. You’d paste a graphic ‘Smoking Kills’ poster on my face and I’d just blow smoke right through it. Not a cynic. World’s crazy, but it hasn’t jaded me yet. Just being honest.

At a fragile, vulnerable age where the slightest fight between friends could mean the loss of the only security you know, the need to find an outlet overwhelms common sense and people like smokers turn to the momentary respite of the taste of smoke, the brief interlude between reality and pretense, so that even for a couple of precious minutes you can pretend you’re fine. It’s amazing the sense of false relief and security a meager stick of ground tobacco can give, but when you’re grasping at some form of sanity, some vestige of normality, you’d be willing to find that in just about anything. Even if it is only pretend, even if it’s only in your mind.

But somehow, somehow… despite all the psychological shit and cancer risks? Smoking does give me something tangible. Something that’s not only in my mind. I sit on one of Sted’s empty chairs, feel my empty pocket and look around. I never worry if I haven’t got a smoke. There’s always somebody who’ll readily give a stick or two. No lighter? Just a little hand signal and I’ve got a light. I hear some people preach, “Pati bisyo mo inaasa mo sa iba,” but here in Dumaguete? That’s never true. It’s the camaraderie ng mga nag-yoyosi. You don’t need to know each other’s names, don’t need to have anything in common, just the generosity to share a smoke, a light and you can settle in comfortable silence, filling the air in between with your brand of oxygen.

But sometimes, at times like this, I think and realize, even though I’m almost devoid of the ability to, I want to care. I want to remember. I want to stop depending on it, stop needing… stop thinking I need to depend on it… I know but I want to remember. I am aware and I don’t want to forget…I am aware I shouldn’t smoke. I know this bad for me. I realize this is a deadly habit. And I am painfully, painfully, conscious of the fact that despite all the relief and pleasure I derive from it… I DON’T FRIGGIN’ NEED IT AND I T’S NOT F**KING HELPING ME!

Damn. I need a smoke.