I guess I'm wont to admit that I expected this year's Valentines to see some kind of improvement. If going on five unplanned awkward dates that end up in me trying desperately to convince myself not to read too much into it counts as an improvement, then I guess I must have done something right. Or maybe not.
My girl friends and I watched Something Borrowed yesterday, and I hated myself for clinging to that hope that I might be reading him right after all, that somehow at some point, he might have felt the same way for me. I am just so tired of waiting and hoping and pathetically expecting more from this complicated thing between us and being disappointed every time.
I hate that I feel happy when people mistake us for a couple. I hate it even more when he becomes all defensive and immediately corrects them with "We're just friends." It sucks to be "just his friend." It's fucking heartbreaking.
But I have learned to be absolutely casual around him, to act unbelievably platonic and loud when we talk because I know somehow that the silence will sound haunting, and it will create some sort of awkward distance between us.
In short, I will spend this Valentines as I always do—alone with some plausible excuse to ward off people, especially myself, from feeling sorry for me. But underneath those layers of being too fucking smart, being happy, being okay with being single, being afraid of relationships, being "just" a friend—I am vulnerable like all other girls really are. I want to be able to blush and be disgustingly sweet in public places. Because the truth is I don't really hate seeing couples being couples on Valentines. I don't hate seeing girls bringing bouquets and chocolate boxes. In fact, I revel in those sights. I love the gooey looks and the soft kisses and the gentle touching of hands.
Though it makes me want to have someone to call special even more, it also reminds me that someday, somehow, it will be my turn to have something as special as the reason why Valentines, and all other things in a philosophical perspective, exists.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Coffee Stains
Thank God it’s Friday. Really, really thank God.
I need to catch up on some sleep. My body is not yet used to waking up deliciously early in the morning, and it still wants to sleep late at night. It might be a contributing factor why I’m still not yet completely well. I just consumed three rolls of tissue (none of them Kleenex, I might add), and I wake up in the middle of the night thankful that it’s still in the middle of the night and I don’t have to really wake up yet—and disappointed that I even woke up in the first place. It’s been like this since Monday. No straight sleep.
My fruit diet never includes coffee, but I’m almost always sleepy at nine in the morning—at work no less. And I can’t afford to recklessly doze off because 1) my boss has made it a habit to pass by my station every 30 minutes, 2) I have to maintain the good and “timely” work that my client says I’ve been doing, and 3) we’re just five in the office and I’m sure my workmates will notice if I unconsciously bang my head against the computer monitor.
They also gave me a mug, which I’m sure was a freebie from the tissue company. (Because it has “smooth bathroom tissue” magnanimously splattered on its front.) It looks outrageously boring, but it does a good job of keeping me alive and warm. And I like how the coffee stains look splashed against its dirty-white roundness.
I’m glad I don’t have to say “it’s just another day at work.” They give me different things to do every day, so I am kept at suspense until I open my mail. It has been a good—more than good—first week.
Now back to work, woman!
I need to catch up on some sleep. My body is not yet used to waking up deliciously early in the morning, and it still wants to sleep late at night. It might be a contributing factor why I’m still not yet completely well. I just consumed three rolls of tissue (none of them Kleenex, I might add), and I wake up in the middle of the night thankful that it’s still in the middle of the night and I don’t have to really wake up yet—and disappointed that I even woke up in the first place. It’s been like this since Monday. No straight sleep.
My fruit diet never includes coffee, but I’m almost always sleepy at nine in the morning—at work no less. And I can’t afford to recklessly doze off because 1) my boss has made it a habit to pass by my station every 30 minutes, 2) I have to maintain the good and “timely” work that my client says I’ve been doing, and 3) we’re just five in the office and I’m sure my workmates will notice if I unconsciously bang my head against the computer monitor.
They also gave me a mug, which I’m sure was a freebie from the tissue company. (Because it has “smooth bathroom tissue” magnanimously splattered on its front.) It looks outrageously boring, but it does a good job of keeping me alive and warm. And I like how the coffee stains look splashed against its dirty-white roundness.
I’m glad I don’t have to say “it’s just another day at work.” They give me different things to do every day, so I am kept at suspense until I open my mail. It has been a good—more than good—first week.
Now back to work, woman!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Marked Fragile
There are times when I like being sick—usually when I’m at home and can sleep whenever I want as long as I want. I find however that I never get sick during these times. I get sick on my first day on the job, on the Christmas party, on Sinulog. I get sick when no one’s there to take care of me and make sure I’m drinking my medicine and getting enough sleep.
I hate nursing myself basically because I don’t want to nurse myself. I feel so weak and ugly and disgusting when I’m sick, and I don’t like being all those things.
This weekend, Aya and I had to go to the emergency room from food poisoning. We were throwing up every five minutes. I had probably vomited all the food I’d eaten during that day that when I threw up the last few times, nothing came out but violent spurts of air that seemed to drain my stomach of its contents. I tried swallowing pills, but I vomited them too. Mom called and told us we should just go to the hospital. When the lab results came out, we discovered that nothing was wrong with us. Doctor said we just probably ate something bad and asked us not to eat cold and spoiled food. Noted!
Then Sunday came and I woke up with a sore throat. I knew what that meant. I probably gargled at least a glass of salt solution; it still persisted. Come Monday and my nose is starting to congest. Tuesday and I'm weak. Now I'm with a fever, a flu, and a cough. Hopefully this doesn't progress to asthma because then I'll be coughing like it's the end of the world. I wouldn't want that. My cousins who will be studying wouldn't want that. My workmates who will be working wouldn't want that.
Curse this weak, weak body! I hate feeling so fragile!
I hate nursing myself basically because I don’t want to nurse myself. I feel so weak and ugly and disgusting when I’m sick, and I don’t like being all those things.
This weekend, Aya and I had to go to the emergency room from food poisoning. We were throwing up every five minutes. I had probably vomited all the food I’d eaten during that day that when I threw up the last few times, nothing came out but violent spurts of air that seemed to drain my stomach of its contents. I tried swallowing pills, but I vomited them too. Mom called and told us we should just go to the hospital. When the lab results came out, we discovered that nothing was wrong with us. Doctor said we just probably ate something bad and asked us not to eat cold and spoiled food. Noted!
Then Sunday came and I woke up with a sore throat. I knew what that meant. I probably gargled at least a glass of salt solution; it still persisted. Come Monday and my nose is starting to congest. Tuesday and I'm weak. Now I'm with a fever, a flu, and a cough. Hopefully this doesn't progress to asthma because then I'll be coughing like it's the end of the world. I wouldn't want that. My cousins who will be studying wouldn't want that. My workmates who will be working wouldn't want that.
Curse this weak, weak body! I hate feeling so fragile!
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Whistle While You Work
It's only been two days, but I feel so comfortable at my new workplace already. I don't feel intimidated or pressured or threatened. I feel relaxed, appreciated, and secure. I guess this is the reason why I didn't last very long with Xlibris. When I was still there, I felt like I had to overcome mountains every day without really knowing why, without ever pausing to check if I'm still all right, if I can still go on. But here, I feel taken care of. My boss checks on my progress every once in a while, and not the kind that has you stiffened scared like an idiot. He monitors me like a child, looking into my work and asking if I have problems. He guides me step-by-step into the process, as if teaching me how to walk. And I'm slowly standing up. My work environment feels so wide, feels like it has so much room for me to learn and grow. This is the kind of environment where I thrive—where I know I will rise and be great.
And that was exactly what this job has given me: an opportunity. I'm the first and only person working on this projet for now, and I feel so privileged that they chose me to define the standards. I haven't been assigned to the real deal yet but so far the feedback has been good on my performance. My bosses say they expect a lot from me, and I'm in a place where I know and am willing to meet and exceed their expectations.
On my first talk with the COO, he asked for my commitment. I hesitated because I didn't know if I could live up to my word if I gave it. But I chose to believe in myself and said yes. And I'm glad I did. I feel so positive about my work that I don't mind waking up very early in the morning. I could definitely last here for two years—maybe even more. Let's cross our fingers and see!
And that was exactly what this job has given me: an opportunity. I'm the first and only person working on this projet for now, and I feel so privileged that they chose me to define the standards. I haven't been assigned to the real deal yet but so far the feedback has been good on my performance. My bosses say they expect a lot from me, and I'm in a place where I know and am willing to meet and exceed their expectations.
On my first talk with the COO, he asked for my commitment. I hesitated because I didn't know if I could live up to my word if I gave it. But I chose to believe in myself and said yes. And I'm glad I did. I feel so positive about my work that I don't mind waking up very early in the morning. I could definitely last here for two years—maybe even more. Let's cross our fingers and see!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Those Days
I'm in one of those moods where I just need to rap on the keyboard and rant. I really wanted to write a post about Sinulog and truly how moving an experience it is. But my Sinulog spirit has worn out and replaced by a hollow anticipation of work. The company hasn't "exactly" hired me yet, but I did such a good job during that work simulation test that—modesty aside—it would be foolish to let me go. I'm very confident about my skill set, and if they don't want me, I'm sure I could find another job in a heartbeat. The thing though is, I'm not really sure where I'm headed right now. Everything in my life—work, boys, friends—they're all a little surreal. I used to think that I know the different versions of myself when I'm with my different set of friends. Now I find myself confused, asking myself if this who I really am, if this is what I want people to see me as. And am I really afraid of stereotypes or am I actually obsessed with them that I try to fit in every category?
I just feel so cowardly right now. The first moment of inconvenience, the first sight of a glitch, and I'm running scared. I'm running away. Always have been. And what sucks is I'm not really going anywhere. I just don't want to stay in one place that I allow myself to be sucked into the illusion that I have somewhere good to go. To feed my ego, I have lie to myself that I can survive without my friends, but they can't do much without me. But I'm wrong. Everyone in my life would be happy without me. I'm just a passing, a memory that will stay alive but will also wither away. I have to admit that I'm not that important, not that smart, not that special.
To be honest, I really don't know why I can't let myself believe that people can genuinely care about me. When they try to get close, I always think of the day when they'll go cold and leave me wondering if we ever even had something to begin with. Friendship is something that is still unbelievably strange to me. I have so many people who smile with me in pictures and laugh with me over beer, but I always find myself drying my own tears and facing my own problems. No one ever asks if I'm okay and actually want to know the answer.
Or.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just paranoid because I'm so extremely jealous of people who have best friends and boyfriends. Maybe I'm just sad because I still can't fucking convince myself to feel beautiful. And I'm trying. I have to try. Maybe my friends are all there if I just call them. And maybe it's just me, too damned proud to admit that I'm vulnerable and too cynical to believe that someone cares. And maybe it's the shallowness of it all—of love and life and everything that hangs in between. No one ever ones to dive deeper because we're afraid of drowning, of not knowing what those waters hold. Because reality isn't like the movies after all; things never turn out the way you expect them to. And you're almost always disappointed.
This post is pointless, and maybe that's why it's necessary for me to write this. I have to give myself the chance to enjoy the pointlessness of my life. I have to open myself to the people who make an effort to break my walls and see the wretchedness behind it. I am a mess; most people don't know that because all they see is a shrew who knows how to down a bottle and talk. But I am mostly an idiot. An idiot who is too proud.
I just feel so cowardly right now. The first moment of inconvenience, the first sight of a glitch, and I'm running scared. I'm running away. Always have been. And what sucks is I'm not really going anywhere. I just don't want to stay in one place that I allow myself to be sucked into the illusion that I have somewhere good to go. To feed my ego, I have lie to myself that I can survive without my friends, but they can't do much without me. But I'm wrong. Everyone in my life would be happy without me. I'm just a passing, a memory that will stay alive but will also wither away. I have to admit that I'm not that important, not that smart, not that special.
To be honest, I really don't know why I can't let myself believe that people can genuinely care about me. When they try to get close, I always think of the day when they'll go cold and leave me wondering if we ever even had something to begin with. Friendship is something that is still unbelievably strange to me. I have so many people who smile with me in pictures and laugh with me over beer, but I always find myself drying my own tears and facing my own problems. No one ever asks if I'm okay and actually want to know the answer.
Or.
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just paranoid because I'm so extremely jealous of people who have best friends and boyfriends. Maybe I'm just sad because I still can't fucking convince myself to feel beautiful. And I'm trying. I have to try. Maybe my friends are all there if I just call them. And maybe it's just me, too damned proud to admit that I'm vulnerable and too cynical to believe that someone cares. And maybe it's the shallowness of it all—of love and life and everything that hangs in between. No one ever ones to dive deeper because we're afraid of drowning, of not knowing what those waters hold. Because reality isn't like the movies after all; things never turn out the way you expect them to. And you're almost always disappointed.
This post is pointless, and maybe that's why it's necessary for me to write this. I have to give myself the chance to enjoy the pointlessness of my life. I have to open myself to the people who make an effort to break my walls and see the wretchedness behind it. I am a mess; most people don't know that because all they see is a shrew who knows how to down a bottle and talk. But I am mostly an idiot. An idiot who is too proud.
Monday, January 02, 2012
The Beginning of the End
I don't want to think that the world will end this year. But if it's God's will, then so be it. I'm not very confident that I'll be one of the lucky people on judgment day, but 2011 was such a special year that I don't have that kind of fear that makes you want to be violently religious all of a sudden. I doubt religion can save me later, but my faith has always done miracles for me. And I believe in goodness and love and family. I've had these things and more. I have the best family in the world. I've done things that have made myself and the people who matter to me proud. I've been on a date. I can die happily anytime.
I can't begin to describe how special and wonderful this year's Christmas and New Year have been. I've never felt closer to my family in these past few weeks than ever before. I'm so in love with every one of them—my cousins and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews. I'm more open to my mom and my stepdad. I've had pretty funny conversations over beer with my friends. Mishy even visited. 2011 was one of the best years in my life. And for this I'll be forever grateful.
But this post is my perfunctory New Year's resolution post. So I shan't dally no longer.
1. Never lie (if you can help it).
2. Often laugh.
3. Always love.
I doubt I'll get to keep number 1. I've already broken it in fact, thus the parenthetical element. I've always been a good liar, and I've gotten even better at it. It's just always been a part of me that it's practically impossible to get away. Because lying is what makes people listen to me. I tell them what they want to hear, and they almost all the time love me for it. I'm not really proud of it, but sometimes it helps. It helps me cope. So I will try NOT to lie if I can help it. If there's really no reason to say something that isn't true, then I'll shut up.
I love laughing. It's one of the things that remind you why life is beautiful.
I'm sure I'll keep number 3 until the world ends. Oh yes, pun intended. I guess the real point to number three is not just say I love people but more importantly show them. I'm also extending this resolution to myself. I need to get over my insecurities about being pretty. I need to give myself a chance to think and feel beautiful. I want to respect myself more because in the end, that's all I'm going to have.
People change, and the things that people want change. I change ever so easily that sometimes I'm confused about who I really am and what I really want. I guess I'll try and get along with the idea of constancy and that need to have and feel something familiar every day. I don't always have to change; sometimes I just have to make do with what I am for the moment. I realize this now.
Twenty-twelve, I pray you be good to me and everybody else. Whether or not you're the beginning of the end, we will welcome you with courage and prayer as you come and pass. Here's to another fruitful year! :-)
I can't begin to describe how special and wonderful this year's Christmas and New Year have been. I've never felt closer to my family in these past few weeks than ever before. I'm so in love with every one of them—my cousins and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews. I'm more open to my mom and my stepdad. I've had pretty funny conversations over beer with my friends. Mishy even visited. 2011 was one of the best years in my life. And for this I'll be forever grateful.
But this post is my perfunctory New Year's resolution post. So I shan't dally no longer.
1. Never lie (if you can help it).
2. Often laugh.
3. Always love.
I doubt I'll get to keep number 1. I've already broken it in fact, thus the parenthetical element. I've always been a good liar, and I've gotten even better at it. It's just always been a part of me that it's practically impossible to get away. Because lying is what makes people listen to me. I tell them what they want to hear, and they almost all the time love me for it. I'm not really proud of it, but sometimes it helps. It helps me cope. So I will try NOT to lie if I can help it. If there's really no reason to say something that isn't true, then I'll shut up.
I love laughing. It's one of the things that remind you why life is beautiful.
I'm sure I'll keep number 3 until the world ends. Oh yes, pun intended. I guess the real point to number three is not just say I love people but more importantly show them. I'm also extending this resolution to myself. I need to get over my insecurities about being pretty. I need to give myself a chance to think and feel beautiful. I want to respect myself more because in the end, that's all I'm going to have.
People change, and the things that people want change. I change ever so easily that sometimes I'm confused about who I really am and what I really want. I guess I'll try and get along with the idea of constancy and that need to have and feel something familiar every day. I don't always have to change; sometimes I just have to make do with what I am for the moment. I realize this now.
Twenty-twelve, I pray you be good to me and everybody else. Whether or not you're the beginning of the end, we will welcome you with courage and prayer as you come and pass. Here's to another fruitful year! :-)
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
Finally
Today I give up. Really give up.
It's been almost two years since I acknowledged the fact that I could love you. It has been a Christmas ago when I realized that I already did. And it's been two months when I decided to give up on you. But it has only been now that I finally accepted that you're not for me, and I'm not for you.
I've finally realized that maybe I wasn't in love with you after all. I was in love with the idea of loving you and the possibility of you loving me back. Now that idea's crumbling before my eyes, and I see you for what you truly are—a boy who is frustratingly clueless of how special he is. And I am just sick of dropping clues that you'll never pick up and reading signs that you didn't even put up. We are just friends. And it's time that I accept that, that's all we'll ever be.
Why does it always have to be me to make the first move? To send the first text? To buzz the first message? Clearly, you're not interested. And it's common sense for me to walk away. I should have walked away sooner.
Maybe in the distant future when I've realized my daydreams, you'd want me. You'd want me when I'm prettier, skinnier, more refined. Maybe you would all finally treat me like a girl, not the friend you can bully anytime you're bored. Because I wasn't born smart without a reason. I've been sharpening that hatchet, and I swear that when before I turn thirty, it will all have hit you in the crotch.
But I will tell you this truth: you made me happy. The times I spent with you are memories I would never regret having. I don't regret loving you, even if it might have been all an illusion. I don't regret meeting you, and I doubt that I ever will. You have made me special in your strange, awkward way, and thank you for that. Thank you for making me feel like you could love me, even though now I know you probably never would. Thank you for your messages that made me smile and kept me all night thinking. Thank you for the words you have laid out for my fingers to find. Thank you for inspiring me to write again. Thank you for your smile and your dimples. Thank you for being alive. Thank you for being my friend.
But these are the last words I will write for you. And these are the last words I will write about you. This I promise.
It's been almost two years since I acknowledged the fact that I could love you. It has been a Christmas ago when I realized that I already did. And it's been two months when I decided to give up on you. But it has only been now that I finally accepted that you're not for me, and I'm not for you.
I've finally realized that maybe I wasn't in love with you after all. I was in love with the idea of loving you and the possibility of you loving me back. Now that idea's crumbling before my eyes, and I see you for what you truly are—a boy who is frustratingly clueless of how special he is. And I am just sick of dropping clues that you'll never pick up and reading signs that you didn't even put up. We are just friends. And it's time that I accept that, that's all we'll ever be.
Why does it always have to be me to make the first move? To send the first text? To buzz the first message? Clearly, you're not interested. And it's common sense for me to walk away. I should have walked away sooner.
Maybe in the distant future when I've realized my daydreams, you'd want me. You'd want me when I'm prettier, skinnier, more refined. Maybe you would all finally treat me like a girl, not the friend you can bully anytime you're bored. Because I wasn't born smart without a reason. I've been sharpening that hatchet, and I swear that when before I turn thirty, it will all have hit you in the crotch.
But I will tell you this truth: you made me happy. The times I spent with you are memories I would never regret having. I don't regret loving you, even if it might have been all an illusion. I don't regret meeting you, and I doubt that I ever will. You have made me special in your strange, awkward way, and thank you for that. Thank you for making me feel like you could love me, even though now I know you probably never would. Thank you for your messages that made me smile and kept me all night thinking. Thank you for the words you have laid out for my fingers to find. Thank you for inspiring me to write again. Thank you for your smile and your dimples. Thank you for being alive. Thank you for being my friend.
But these are the last words I will write for you. And these are the last words I will write about you. This I promise.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Licensed Teacher!
I am now a licensed teacher! *pops confetti*
I didn't get into the top ten as I'd hoped, but I guess I just have to be satisfied that I even passed, considering how many sessions of those review classes I missed, okay, cut. My girls seem to be intensely happy about it; I don't know why I just don't feel anything. I am happy of course, but not the kind that has you jumping off your feet. I feel a normal kind of happiness, like when I score high in an exam or when I'm about to watch a good movie. I guess I really wanted to prove myself again by topping that test, but it's okay. I'm happy that my friends are happy. I'm happy because I know my parents and friends are proud. I'm happy because even though it's not that big of an accomplishment compared to other twenty-one-year-olds who are on prestigious scholarships and inventing robots, I still get to tell myself that I did something right. And at the end of the day, I guess that's what really matters. :-)
I didn't get into the top ten as I'd hoped, but I guess I just have to be satisfied that I even passed, considering how many sessions of those review classes I missed, okay, cut. My girls seem to be intensely happy about it; I don't know why I just don't feel anything. I am happy of course, but not the kind that has you jumping off your feet. I feel a normal kind of happiness, like when I score high in an exam or when I'm about to watch a good movie. I guess I really wanted to prove myself again by topping that test, but it's okay. I'm happy that my friends are happy. I'm happy because I know my parents and friends are proud. I'm happy because even though it's not that big of an accomplishment compared to other twenty-one-year-olds who are on prestigious scholarships and inventing robots, I still get to tell myself that I did something right. And at the end of the day, I guess that's what really matters. :-)
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
It's Mr. Darcy's Fault!
A lot of people look surprised when I tell them that I have been single all my life. I don’t take this as a compliment because I don’t look like the kind of girl who would have boys eating at the palm of her hands. Some attribute it to stereotype, and recently, I have discovered that people have tagged me as the party girl. Party girls apparently juggle boys one after the other. I don’t take offense in that label, but I don’t religiously subscribe to it either. Although I may have passed out drunk one time or another or occasionally indulged in the opportunity of feeling like a rockstar offered by a cigarette stick, I have always drawn a line when it came to boys and the unhappy circumstances when they think you’re an easy A.
In retrospect, I never ran out of crushes. When it came to crushes, I really didn’t put up much of a wall and liked everyone who picked at my hormones. There was the bus conductor, my second cousin, my gay best friend, the class bully, the class weirdo, cute teachers, smart teachers, boys who can read, boys who know how to crack a joke, boys who can sing, boys who can dance, boys my friends teased me with. And yes, I’ve even had a phase when that list included girls. I eventually got past the am-I-gay crisis and can now go back to liking boys 90 percent of the time. (Who says you can’t be 10 percent lesbian?)
But to be truly in love with someone, now that’s a different story. I’ve only been in love twice, and both times had me emptying Kleenex boxes, popping zits, and repeatedly watching Pride and Prejudice. Was it me? Was it them? I honestly can’t answer that. But if I had to psychoanalyze my side of the story, I’d have to inconvenience Mr. Darcy by dropping some of the blame on his lot.
Being an idealist is bad enough, but being both an idealist and a romantic is a curse. I blame it on my surreptitious love affair with young-adult and adult fiction romances. I have outgrown them since high school, but they have left me so scarred with those “heaving bosoms” and “dazzling, out-of-this-world eyes” and “I love yous” and just the whole compendium of those disgustingly clichéd characters and dialogue. They have turned me into a romantic Frankenstein, and it’s too late to turn me back into a realistically sane human being.
Now I look at boys and can’t help but measure them against the debonair gentlemen and Byronic heroes of classic love stories. I can’t help but juxtapose them with Mr. Darcy, the single most perfect man that ever existed on paper. Why can’t they say something that Mr. Darcy would say? Why can’t they be lovingly mysterious like he was? Where is that air of masculine elegance? Where is that sarcastic wit? Where are those courtly mannerisms; those fleeting, meaningful glances? Where is that raw sexual tension cleverly hidden in a disdainful twitch of the lips? The ugly truth is that they have been long gone with the advent of technological progress. They now only exist in fragile pages, in film adaptations, and in the recesses of my brain where they have claimed residence. And when I need to cry, they always come together and materialize into that familiar overcoat and breaches. Mr. Darcy doesn’t come to me; I go to him. Though I can only imagine it, he has always been there for me. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what every girl wants ultimately—a man who will be there for her?
When you’ve fallen desperately and irrevocably in love with a fictional character, it’s hard to put yourself out there in the real world. There are no Mr. Darcys in the real world. Not one even close. There will be no poetic misunderstandings. There will seldom be, if at all, stark but intelligently rewarding verbal duels. There will be no confessions of equal heart and alacrity, no words of such soul and passion. Even in a time and place where Mr. Darcy was real, no one held a candle to him, how much more in a world where he is not? Thus, all romantics are hopeless.
Boys will hate him and say it is unfair to make them measure up to a man of such caliber and who doesn’t even exist. They would be right. The whole point to this Darcy affair, however, is not his breaches, chest hair, or ten thousand pounds. It isn’t even that courtly swagger, that sexy enigma, or those Shakespearean declarations of love. It’s the man that Darcy is—honest, passionate, and kind. It’s his sense of responsibility, his willingness to own up to his misjudgments, and his graciousness in accepting his flaws. These are what make him perfect. These are what make girls like me fall in love with him over and over again.
So why have I remained single? It’s not because I set my standards too high. It’s not because there hasn’t been anyone who showed interest. It’s not because I’m insecure—well, maybe I am, but this is not entirely the reason. It’s simply because I have outgrown the boy that I loved in Peter Pan. It’s not enough to just have fun anymore; it’s time to think about the consequences too. It’s time to grow up. And in this world of computer games, social networking sites, and mass media, you’ll find that there are not a lot of boys whom you can truly call a man. There are not very many who can hold more than just our gazes. So when the unhappy time comes when somebody slaps me with this question again, I’ll probably just shrug and say, “It’s Mr. Darcy’s fault!”
In retrospect, I never ran out of crushes. When it came to crushes, I really didn’t put up much of a wall and liked everyone who picked at my hormones. There was the bus conductor, my second cousin, my gay best friend, the class bully, the class weirdo, cute teachers, smart teachers, boys who can read, boys who know how to crack a joke, boys who can sing, boys who can dance, boys my friends teased me with. And yes, I’ve even had a phase when that list included girls. I eventually got past the am-I-gay crisis and can now go back to liking boys 90 percent of the time. (Who says you can’t be 10 percent lesbian?)
But to be truly in love with someone, now that’s a different story. I’ve only been in love twice, and both times had me emptying Kleenex boxes, popping zits, and repeatedly watching Pride and Prejudice. Was it me? Was it them? I honestly can’t answer that. But if I had to psychoanalyze my side of the story, I’d have to inconvenience Mr. Darcy by dropping some of the blame on his lot.
Being an idealist is bad enough, but being both an idealist and a romantic is a curse. I blame it on my surreptitious love affair with young-adult and adult fiction romances. I have outgrown them since high school, but they have left me so scarred with those “heaving bosoms” and “dazzling, out-of-this-world eyes” and “I love yous” and just the whole compendium of those disgustingly clichéd characters and dialogue. They have turned me into a romantic Frankenstein, and it’s too late to turn me back into a realistically sane human being.
Now I look at boys and can’t help but measure them against the debonair gentlemen and Byronic heroes of classic love stories. I can’t help but juxtapose them with Mr. Darcy, the single most perfect man that ever existed on paper. Why can’t they say something that Mr. Darcy would say? Why can’t they be lovingly mysterious like he was? Where is that air of masculine elegance? Where is that sarcastic wit? Where are those courtly mannerisms; those fleeting, meaningful glances? Where is that raw sexual tension cleverly hidden in a disdainful twitch of the lips? The ugly truth is that they have been long gone with the advent of technological progress. They now only exist in fragile pages, in film adaptations, and in the recesses of my brain where they have claimed residence. And when I need to cry, they always come together and materialize into that familiar overcoat and breaches. Mr. Darcy doesn’t come to me; I go to him. Though I can only imagine it, he has always been there for me. And at the end of the day, isn’t that what every girl wants ultimately—a man who will be there for her?
When you’ve fallen desperately and irrevocably in love with a fictional character, it’s hard to put yourself out there in the real world. There are no Mr. Darcys in the real world. Not one even close. There will be no poetic misunderstandings. There will seldom be, if at all, stark but intelligently rewarding verbal duels. There will be no confessions of equal heart and alacrity, no words of such soul and passion. Even in a time and place where Mr. Darcy was real, no one held a candle to him, how much more in a world where he is not? Thus, all romantics are hopeless.
Boys will hate him and say it is unfair to make them measure up to a man of such caliber and who doesn’t even exist. They would be right. The whole point to this Darcy affair, however, is not his breaches, chest hair, or ten thousand pounds. It isn’t even that courtly swagger, that sexy enigma, or those Shakespearean declarations of love. It’s the man that Darcy is—honest, passionate, and kind. It’s his sense of responsibility, his willingness to own up to his misjudgments, and his graciousness in accepting his flaws. These are what make him perfect. These are what make girls like me fall in love with him over and over again.
So why have I remained single? It’s not because I set my standards too high. It’s not because there hasn’t been anyone who showed interest. It’s not because I’m insecure—well, maybe I am, but this is not entirely the reason. It’s simply because I have outgrown the boy that I loved in Peter Pan. It’s not enough to just have fun anymore; it’s time to think about the consequences too. It’s time to grow up. And in this world of computer games, social networking sites, and mass media, you’ll find that there are not a lot of boys whom you can truly call a man. There are not very many who can hold more than just our gazes. So when the unhappy time comes when somebody slaps me with this question again, I’ll probably just shrug and say, “It’s Mr. Darcy’s fault!”
Sunday, November 13, 2011
The Thing about Acne
The thing about acne is that it makes you want to die.
I remember going to the dermatologist when I was in high school because my acne flared up all of a sudden. There were pictures of the stages of acne severity on a poster beside her table. I remember being consoled because mine could be categorized as mild acne. Every time I’d break out after that, I’d think of those people in the picture and thank God that my face problem isn’t as big as theirs.
Now that I practically don’t have a face anymore, I remember those pictures and I see myself in them. I am categorized as severe. Worst. It has me feeling suicidal—yes, suicidal—for the past couple of weeks. When I had myself checked up by a different doctor here in Cebu, I was positive it’d be gone in a month. Woe is me. It got even worse. And my fear has finally punched me literally in the face—I am now unarguably ugly.
My friends will tell me I don’t look that bad. I’ll probably tell them the same thing if they were in my situation. But the only thing that can’t lie tells me I’m probably in the list of the top ten ugly people you’ll ever see. The mirror tells me to kill myself. Sometimes, it sounds a much better option than to wake up every day feeling dead anyway. This vicious condition has sucked me into a black hole of misery and self-loathing. To try to pull myself out, I’ve quit my job—the job I’ve secretly learned to love.
The thing about acne is that no matter how much makeup you put on to try to cover it up, you still feel like shit. You know people are looking at you and calling you ugly in their minds. You feel more depressed when people tell you they’re sorry your face looks like the surface of Mars. You cringe inwardly when they give you the half-disgusted-half-sorry grimace. And you try to smile and explain and say, “I know” even if it kills you inside. And you wait to be alone so you can cry.
The thing about acne is you know you can’t fall in love. And I like falling in love. And who would fall in love with me looking like this anyway? They say you can’t love if you don’t love yourself first. And I’ve lost that kind of love. I’ve become empty, hollow, and useless. I look in the mirror and feel disgusted at the person looking back. Yes, I think I hate myself. A shame.
I remember going to the dermatologist when I was in high school because my acne flared up all of a sudden. There were pictures of the stages of acne severity on a poster beside her table. I remember being consoled because mine could be categorized as mild acne. Every time I’d break out after that, I’d think of those people in the picture and thank God that my face problem isn’t as big as theirs.
Now that I practically don’t have a face anymore, I remember those pictures and I see myself in them. I am categorized as severe. Worst. It has me feeling suicidal—yes, suicidal—for the past couple of weeks. When I had myself checked up by a different doctor here in Cebu, I was positive it’d be gone in a month. Woe is me. It got even worse. And my fear has finally punched me literally in the face—I am now unarguably ugly.
My friends will tell me I don’t look that bad. I’ll probably tell them the same thing if they were in my situation. But the only thing that can’t lie tells me I’m probably in the list of the top ten ugly people you’ll ever see. The mirror tells me to kill myself. Sometimes, it sounds a much better option than to wake up every day feeling dead anyway. This vicious condition has sucked me into a black hole of misery and self-loathing. To try to pull myself out, I’ve quit my job—the job I’ve secretly learned to love.
The thing about acne is that no matter how much makeup you put on to try to cover it up, you still feel like shit. You know people are looking at you and calling you ugly in their minds. You feel more depressed when people tell you they’re sorry your face looks like the surface of Mars. You cringe inwardly when they give you the half-disgusted-half-sorry grimace. And you try to smile and explain and say, “I know” even if it kills you inside. And you wait to be alone so you can cry.
The thing about acne is you know you can’t fall in love. And I like falling in love. And who would fall in love with me looking like this anyway? They say you can’t love if you don’t love yourself first. And I’ve lost that kind of love. I’ve become empty, hollow, and useless. I look in the mirror and feel disgusted at the person looking back. Yes, I think I hate myself. A shame.
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Puss in Boots
I can't help but smile when I look at this snapshots.
My first cat, whom we named Kit, had the same color. I found her when I was three or four nesting below our stairs. My sister and I are asthmatic, so Mom didn't let us keep her. On on our way to Ormoc, we dropped her somewhere far. I was really sad, but then she found her way back to us. I couldn't believe it! But when my mom found out, we had to leave her again. This time, she didn't find her way back. :-(
My first cat, whom we named Kit, had the same color. I found her when I was three or four nesting below our stairs. My sister and I are asthmatic, so Mom didn't let us keep her. On on our way to Ormoc, we dropped her somewhere far. I was really sad, but then she found her way back to us. I couldn't believe it! But when my mom found out, we had to leave her again. This time, she didn't find her way back. :-(
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
I love sunflowers. But it's just now that I realized it's my favorite flower.
I tried planting a bunch of them when I was in sixth grade. This environmental endeavor didn't prove successful though. Partly because of the soil. Partly because of the sun. Partly because of me. I was sad for a long time because I really wanted to see bright colors in that too-green piece of lot. I don't know what I did wrong. My surmise now is the climate here in the Philippines isn't conducive to a sunflower's growth.
This flower always reminds of a pair of eyes. I don't know whose yet, or I don't know whose anymore. At one time, they reminded me of a first love. But when I look into those eyes now, I don't see that brightness anymore, that glint of youth and hope. All that I see now are a desperation and a fear of being lonely. He has lost that tantalizing spark. And I feel sorry for him.
But enough of that love thing, which seems to ruin every attempt I make at writing a fairly happy post. Other than eyes, which I have loved a long time ago, sunflowers always remind of warm, happy days. You can't help but picture a clear blue sky and a sun when you look at an image of a sunflower. The image it brings to my head is so vivid that I can almost feel sunrays on my skin.
One of the items on my nonexistent bucket list is to visit a sunflower field. They say there is one in California. I particularly want to visit that one because I've heard the California sun is amazing. But since I'm stuck in a country where the only way you can get your hands on a sunflower is in a flower shop, which will then charge you ten dollars or five hundred pesos for a single flower, pictures will suffice for now.
I tried planting a bunch of them when I was in sixth grade. This environmental endeavor didn't prove successful though. Partly because of the soil. Partly because of the sun. Partly because of me. I was sad for a long time because I really wanted to see bright colors in that too-green piece of lot. I don't know what I did wrong. My surmise now is the climate here in the Philippines isn't conducive to a sunflower's growth.
This flower always reminds of a pair of eyes. I don't know whose yet, or I don't know whose anymore. At one time, they reminded me of a first love. But when I look into those eyes now, I don't see that brightness anymore, that glint of youth and hope. All that I see now are a desperation and a fear of being lonely. He has lost that tantalizing spark. And I feel sorry for him.
But enough of that love thing, which seems to ruin every attempt I make at writing a fairly happy post. Other than eyes, which I have loved a long time ago, sunflowers always remind of warm, happy days. You can't help but picture a clear blue sky and a sun when you look at an image of a sunflower. The image it brings to my head is so vivid that I can almost feel sunrays on my skin.
One of the items on my nonexistent bucket list is to visit a sunflower field. They say there is one in California. I particularly want to visit that one because I've heard the California sun is amazing. But since I'm stuck in a country where the only way you can get your hands on a sunflower is in a flower shop, which will then charge you ten dollars or five hundred pesos for a single flower, pictures will suffice for now.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Something funny (for a change)
This is hilarious! There is not one dirty word in it, and it is funny.
The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the proxy father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, 'Well, I'm off now. The man should be here soon.'
Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby photographer happen ed to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. 'Good morning, Ma'am', he said, 'I've come to...'
'Oh, no need to explain,' Mrs. Smith cut in, embarrassed, 'I've been expecting you.'
'Have you really?' said the photographer. 'Well, that's good. Did you know babies are my specialty?'
'Well that's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat'.
After a moment she asked, blushing, 'Well, where do we start?'
'Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room floor is fun. You can really spread out there. '
'Bathtub, living room floor? No wonder it didn't work out for Harry and me!'
'Well, Ma'am, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles, I'm sure you'll be pleased with the results.'
'My, that's a lot!' gasped Mrs. Smith.
'Ma'am, in my line of work a man has to take his time. I'd love to be In and out in five minutes, but I'm sure you'd be disappointed with that.'
'Don't I know it,' said Mrs. Smith quietly.
The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his baby pictures. 'This was done on the top of a bus,' he said.
'Oh, my God!' Mrs. Smith exclaimed, grasping at her throat.
'And these twins turned out exceptionally well - when you consider their mother was so difficult to work with.'
'She was difficult?' asked Mrs. Smith.
'Yes, I'm afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a good look'
'Four and five deep?' said Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide with amazement.
'Yes', the photographer replied. 'And for more than three hours, too. The mother was constantly squealing and yelling - I could hardly concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots. Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just had to pack it all in.'
Mrs. Smith leaned forward. 'Do you mean they ac tually chewed on your, uh...equipment?'
'It's true, Ma'am, yes... Well, if you're ready, I'll set-up my tripod and we can get to work right away.'
'Tripod?'
'Oh yes, Ma'am. I need to use a tripod to rest my Canon on. It's much too big to be held in the hand very long.'
Mrs. Smith Fainted!!
The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the proxy father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife goodbye and said, 'Well, I'm off now. The man should be here soon.'
Half an hour later, just by chance, a door-to-door baby photographer happen ed to ring the doorbell, hoping to make a sale. 'Good morning, Ma'am', he said, 'I've come to...'
'Oh, no need to explain,' Mrs. Smith cut in, embarrassed, 'I've been expecting you.'
'Have you really?' said the photographer. 'Well, that's good. Did you know babies are my specialty?'
'Well that's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat'.
After a moment she asked, blushing, 'Well, where do we start?'
'Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch, and perhaps a couple on the bed. And sometimes the living room floor is fun. You can really spread out there. '
'Bathtub, living room floor? No wonder it didn't work out for Harry and me!'
'Well, Ma'am, none of us can guarantee a good one every time. But if we try several different positions and I shoot from six or seven angles, I'm sure you'll be pleased with the results.'
'My, that's a lot!' gasped Mrs. Smith.
'Ma'am, in my line of work a man has to take his time. I'd love to be In and out in five minutes, but I'm sure you'd be disappointed with that.'
'Don't I know it,' said Mrs. Smith quietly.
The photographer opened his briefcase and pulled out a portfolio of his baby pictures. 'This was done on the top of a bus,' he said.
'Oh, my God!' Mrs. Smith exclaimed, grasping at her throat.
'And these twins turned out exceptionally well - when you consider their mother was so difficult to work with.'
'She was difficult?' asked Mrs. Smith.
'Yes, I'm afraid so. I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around four and five deep to get a good look'
'Four and five deep?' said Mrs. Smith, her eyes wide with amazement.
'Yes', the photographer replied. 'And for more than three hours, too. The mother was constantly squealing and yelling - I could hardly concentrate, and when darkness approached I had to rush my shots. Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment, I just had to pack it all in.'
Mrs. Smith leaned forward. 'Do you mean they ac tually chewed on your, uh...equipment?'
'It's true, Ma'am, yes... Well, if you're ready, I'll set-up my tripod and we can get to work right away.'
'Tripod?'
'Oh yes, Ma'am. I need to use a tripod to rest my Canon on. It's much too big to be held in the hand very long.'
Mrs. Smith Fainted!!
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Happy Birthday
I turned twenty-one today.
I wanted to sleep early last night, but I ended up worrying about my manuscript till it was ten o'clock. I slept immediately though and was awoken by my first birthday greetings. Well, what do you know? Paul took the first, and Jodie was the second. I tried not be really happy about it, but I am. I am such a loser. I really don't want to focus on anyone right now. I don't even feel that it's my birthday today, for crying out loud!
But i did go to church this morning and was ogled by several men (one was in a car). Last night too when I got my brows done, the guy there (who was doing my brows) flirted with me---too obviously for my taste. I guess I should be happy about it now that people are starting to tell me I'm pretty again. My pimples have miraculously (thank God) relented and are now on the way to getting healed.
Kuya is here so I'll be having my birthday dinner on his expense hahaha. I'm looking forward to Friday too, but I can't say that it's an absolutely positive feeling. Part of me still hurts, and it's probably still too soon to see him again. But oh well. I should be over it sooon.
Now I'm at work, fact-checking and trying not to suck too much with this manuscript. It's not greatly written, but it's not bad either.
Gosh, I'd hoped to write a more happy birthday post, but I'm sounding really bored, aren't I? Oh, well. Happy Birthday to me.
I wanted to sleep early last night, but I ended up worrying about my manuscript till it was ten o'clock. I slept immediately though and was awoken by my first birthday greetings. Well, what do you know? Paul took the first, and Jodie was the second. I tried not be really happy about it, but I am. I am such a loser. I really don't want to focus on anyone right now. I don't even feel that it's my birthday today, for crying out loud!
But i did go to church this morning and was ogled by several men (one was in a car). Last night too when I got my brows done, the guy there (who was doing my brows) flirted with me---too obviously for my taste. I guess I should be happy about it now that people are starting to tell me I'm pretty again. My pimples have miraculously (thank God) relented and are now on the way to getting healed.
Kuya is here so I'll be having my birthday dinner on his expense hahaha. I'm looking forward to Friday too, but I can't say that it's an absolutely positive feeling. Part of me still hurts, and it's probably still too soon to see him again. But oh well. I should be over it sooon.
Now I'm at work, fact-checking and trying not to suck too much with this manuscript. It's not greatly written, but it's not bad either.
Gosh, I'd hoped to write a more happy birthday post, but I'm sounding really bored, aren't I? Oh, well. Happy Birthday to me.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Mac
I’ve been dreaming of home for three straight nights now. And not just home, it’s always in the town plaza right across our grandma’s house. The first one, I was dancing in the rain with my cousin Erika. We were in our underwear. The second, we were listening to this creepy guy doing lame-ass street magic. The third, there was some kind of street party. All the townspeople—everyone we knew—gathered at the town plaza dancing, doing what seemed like exercise stretches, sitting at the fountain, just walking about. Even Brent and Bianca (our old childhood friends and neighbors who are now in the States) were there.
But the weird thing about this last dream is the presence of a boy. I don’t recognize his face, but he was handsome. His name was Mac. He was sitting by the fountain with a bunch of kids, and we were passing by talking about something (I’ve forgotten what). Whatever it was, this seemed to have touched a nerve because he suddenly butted in with a really irritated voice. I don’t know if I’d do it in real life, but I answered back as curtly, and we were soon having a verbal faceoff. This ended with me walking away (with my escapist tendency with arguments) and him following behind. Apparently, he wasn’t finished arguing. I’m desperately trying to remember what the topic was, but all I can recall is that he said, “You don’t know because you’re not a teacher.”
I remember feeling appalled at the statement, and I looked at the kids he was with (one looked like my second cousin Ken). I told him, “We’re teachers too you know!” And now I forget who I was with during that time. Probably college friends. So we ended up laughing and walking toward the street where I grow up. We stopped at the store that one of my godmothers own. He suddenly put his arm around me, and I held his hand and felt warm and alive. We then went inside my godmother’s backyard to have a drink. Then his father arrived and joined us. He later told me that he was one of my dad’s closest friends. I don’t really remember what happened next, just that Mac and I stared at each other until I woke up.
And this morning, I really feel a little more alive. Probably because of that dream, because I got a good night’s rest (fever’s gone, thank God), because my mom texted me last night. Oh well, at least there is a reason for me to smile today.
But the weird thing about this last dream is the presence of a boy. I don’t recognize his face, but he was handsome. His name was Mac. He was sitting by the fountain with a bunch of kids, and we were passing by talking about something (I’ve forgotten what). Whatever it was, this seemed to have touched a nerve because he suddenly butted in with a really irritated voice. I don’t know if I’d do it in real life, but I answered back as curtly, and we were soon having a verbal faceoff. This ended with me walking away (with my escapist tendency with arguments) and him following behind. Apparently, he wasn’t finished arguing. I’m desperately trying to remember what the topic was, but all I can recall is that he said, “You don’t know because you’re not a teacher.”
I remember feeling appalled at the statement, and I looked at the kids he was with (one looked like my second cousin Ken). I told him, “We’re teachers too you know!” And now I forget who I was with during that time. Probably college friends. So we ended up laughing and walking toward the street where I grow up. We stopped at the store that one of my godmothers own. He suddenly put his arm around me, and I held his hand and felt warm and alive. We then went inside my godmother’s backyard to have a drink. Then his father arrived and joined us. He later told me that he was one of my dad’s closest friends. I don’t really remember what happened next, just that Mac and I stared at each other until I woke up.
And this morning, I really feel a little more alive. Probably because of that dream, because I got a good night’s rest (fever’s gone, thank God), because my mom texted me last night. Oh well, at least there is a reason for me to smile today.
It gets worse before it gets better
It gets worse before it gets better. This is what I tell myself every morning when I wake up finding two or three papules sprouting from a last one that just healed. It gets worse before it gets better. This is what I tell myself when I look into the mirror and feel absolutely repulsed by the person looking back. It gets worse before it gets better. This is what I tell myself every time I’m tempted to slip away into a daydream that I know will always be just a daydream.
It gets worse before it gets better.
Sometimes I wonder if my face is a reflection of my life. And maybe, in some weird, scientific fact connecting hormones to oil production to psychological stress, it probably is. All I know right now is that when I’m happy or disgustingly in love, my face is a ray of sunshine—all clear and pretty. Even though my skin is far from perfect, I don’t give it much thought because I’m somehow convinced by the proverbial “when you think you’re pretty, other people will too.” Usually, my life’s a breeze too when I feel beautiful. Though there are the occasional glitches and power outbreaks, I usually just sit and smile through the temporary stop and pray to God that everything will run smooth again. And when I’m lucky—which I usually am—they do.
But now. My life feels so broken, I’ve almost given up hope that anything could be done to repair it again. And maybe even then, it won’t run the same way. The question that’s been eating at me right now is—how did I get here? Why did I become so sad and so lonely?
Looking back, I guess part of it is because of the psychological damage that comes with the breakouts. I’m pretty big about looking pretty because I know I will never ever live through my life without proving to myself and others that what that stupid boy said in the movie theater wasn’t true. Yes, I may be shallow, but if you were told that you were extremely ugly and fat, wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t you spend the rest of your life wondering if that is true? Wouldn’t you try everything to make yourself feel otherwise? And yes, that is exactly why I’m losing weight. That is exactly why my life has gone to a halt now that I’m breaking out like hell.
But I guess the bigger part of why I’m suddenly empty is because of love. And isn’t that always the reason? Always?
I should probably stop ranting since I’ve experienced “unreturned feelings” one too many times. But this . . . it’s the worst heartbreak yet. And I’m just so lucky that it had to happen at the same time as my downward spiral. Talk about pretty timing.
There are so many things I’m unsure about my life right now: Should I quit my job? Should I go home and rest for a year? Why am I not studying for that board exam? Am I going to top it? Am I going to even pass? Does anyone love me? Why doesn’t he love me? Do I look disgusting to other people? Am I sick? When will these zits go away? How may pounds have I lost? How many more pounds do I have to lose? Should I go back to school? And if I do, would I still be smart?
So many fucking questions. I wish I knew the answer to just one of them. Yet there is one thing I don’t doubt, this one thing I’m absolutely sure of: I love him. I fucking love him.
I want to hold on to those feelings, those warm tingles that remind me life is still beautiful. But even they have left me cold. And those same feelings that once made me so alive and gave me beautiful dreams that got me through awful days—they’ve turned into ugly, calloused hands violently wrapped around my neck, choking me to death under the illusion of gentleness. Yes, even the love I feel for him has turned ugly. Along with everything else in my life.
In retrospect, I rise above these emotional stupors eventually. After a good book or a warm hug from someone I miss or the smell of sunshine at home, these ugly feelings eventually just come off and I just find myself happy again. So far, this is all that gets me through these days—the thought that I’ll come around someday. My birthday is coming, and I want to be back when I turn twenty-one. I want to face another year in my life with a smile, with gratitude and appreciation and happiness. I want to feel alive again.
But until that day comes, I’ll just hold on to these words and to the people that still give meaning to my life. I’ll be waiting.
It gets worse before it gets better.
Sometimes I wonder if my face is a reflection of my life. And maybe, in some weird, scientific fact connecting hormones to oil production to psychological stress, it probably is. All I know right now is that when I’m happy or disgustingly in love, my face is a ray of sunshine—all clear and pretty. Even though my skin is far from perfect, I don’t give it much thought because I’m somehow convinced by the proverbial “when you think you’re pretty, other people will too.” Usually, my life’s a breeze too when I feel beautiful. Though there are the occasional glitches and power outbreaks, I usually just sit and smile through the temporary stop and pray to God that everything will run smooth again. And when I’m lucky—which I usually am—they do.
But now. My life feels so broken, I’ve almost given up hope that anything could be done to repair it again. And maybe even then, it won’t run the same way. The question that’s been eating at me right now is—how did I get here? Why did I become so sad and so lonely?
Looking back, I guess part of it is because of the psychological damage that comes with the breakouts. I’m pretty big about looking pretty because I know I will never ever live through my life without proving to myself and others that what that stupid boy said in the movie theater wasn’t true. Yes, I may be shallow, but if you were told that you were extremely ugly and fat, wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t you spend the rest of your life wondering if that is true? Wouldn’t you try everything to make yourself feel otherwise? And yes, that is exactly why I’m losing weight. That is exactly why my life has gone to a halt now that I’m breaking out like hell.
But I guess the bigger part of why I’m suddenly empty is because of love. And isn’t that always the reason? Always?
I should probably stop ranting since I’ve experienced “unreturned feelings” one too many times. But this . . . it’s the worst heartbreak yet. And I’m just so lucky that it had to happen at the same time as my downward spiral. Talk about pretty timing.
There are so many things I’m unsure about my life right now: Should I quit my job? Should I go home and rest for a year? Why am I not studying for that board exam? Am I going to top it? Am I going to even pass? Does anyone love me? Why doesn’t he love me? Do I look disgusting to other people? Am I sick? When will these zits go away? How may pounds have I lost? How many more pounds do I have to lose? Should I go back to school? And if I do, would I still be smart?
So many fucking questions. I wish I knew the answer to just one of them. Yet there is one thing I don’t doubt, this one thing I’m absolutely sure of: I love him. I fucking love him.
I want to hold on to those feelings, those warm tingles that remind me life is still beautiful. But even they have left me cold. And those same feelings that once made me so alive and gave me beautiful dreams that got me through awful days—they’ve turned into ugly, calloused hands violently wrapped around my neck, choking me to death under the illusion of gentleness. Yes, even the love I feel for him has turned ugly. Along with everything else in my life.
In retrospect, I rise above these emotional stupors eventually. After a good book or a warm hug from someone I miss or the smell of sunshine at home, these ugly feelings eventually just come off and I just find myself happy again. So far, this is all that gets me through these days—the thought that I’ll come around someday. My birthday is coming, and I want to be back when I turn twenty-one. I want to face another year in my life with a smile, with gratitude and appreciation and happiness. I want to feel alive again.
But until that day comes, I’ll just hold on to these words and to the people that still give meaning to my life. I’ll be waiting.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Rain
In my dream, I was dancing in the rain. Naked and shameless. I don’t know what that means, but something tells me it’s finally time to let go. I know I promised to wait until my birthday, but it’s getting harder every day. And there really is no point in hanging around anymore when I’m practically, absolutely sure that whatever it was that I felt existed between us was merely an illusion—one of the stories my mind desperately weaves when I’m feeling beautiful but lonely.
Now that I feel horrible—with my recent breakouts and this feelings of emptiness following me like a shadow—the story’s finally beginning to crumble, and I can see us for what we truly are: nothing. All those messages, those dates that aren’t even dates, those accidental touches, they’re now just part of the huge dagger that life thrusts into me further every waking day. They’re all just figments of happiness that are now long past. They are no longer real.
I can’t remember the last time I was happy. Sure, there are people who make me smile every day, but there is a special kind of happiness that only I myself can conjure. And I’m discovering that I can’t do that anymore. I’ve lost that magic, that innocence, that sight of something wonderful at the end of the day. I feel so lost, so empty, so away from myself. Is this what they call depression?
God knows how much I’ve been praying for something to make me alive again—music, poetry, a boy, anything. But I’m still slumped and useless, all my insecurities and self-reservations eating away with what’s left of my pride.
And maybe what I do need is the rain. A cleansing, some sort of renewal. Maybe I just need to get home desperately, to be in a place where there is sunshine and familiar faces and family. Maybe I just need to get away, for a while. To forget. To heal.
Now that I feel horrible—with my recent breakouts and this feelings of emptiness following me like a shadow—the story’s finally beginning to crumble, and I can see us for what we truly are: nothing. All those messages, those dates that aren’t even dates, those accidental touches, they’re now just part of the huge dagger that life thrusts into me further every waking day. They’re all just figments of happiness that are now long past. They are no longer real.
I can’t remember the last time I was happy. Sure, there are people who make me smile every day, but there is a special kind of happiness that only I myself can conjure. And I’m discovering that I can’t do that anymore. I’ve lost that magic, that innocence, that sight of something wonderful at the end of the day. I feel so lost, so empty, so away from myself. Is this what they call depression?
God knows how much I’ve been praying for something to make me alive again—music, poetry, a boy, anything. But I’m still slumped and useless, all my insecurities and self-reservations eating away with what’s left of my pride.
And maybe what I do need is the rain. A cleansing, some sort of renewal. Maybe I just need to get home desperately, to be in a place where there is sunshine and familiar faces and family. Maybe I just need to get away, for a while. To forget. To heal.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
That Moment
We are swimming in this crowd of strangers, of faces I’m suddenly finding myself looking at as an excuse not to look at you. You walk quietly beside me, your arms swinging dangerously close to mine; and when the occasional person who wants to get past us unintentionally shoves you toward me, some of your fingers meet the skin of my hand, leaving a trail of a slight tingle, resembling a kiss.
I get a good enough reason to look at you. You give me one of your awkward smiles—eyes twinkling, teeth bare, cheeks sinking into that dimple where I’m sure you hide some of your secrets. I give out a small laugh, a constricted sound somewhere along annoyance, embarrassment, and frustration. It’s not one of my genuine laughs; it’s a laugh that I unconsciously make when I want to say something and decide against it.
We walk, but now I can’t take my eyes off your hands. Your hands are the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, and I keep coming up with excuses to touch them without you suspecting that I want to. I love your long fingers, and I often dream of them entangled in mine. They must be soft and strong and safe. That’s how you make me feel. Safe. I love your clean-cut fingernails too. They tell me so much about you as a boy—how different and how strange and how appealing you are to me. I’m probably drawn to your silence, to your almost hateful indifference, to the peace that emanates from your presence. But what I love, most of all, is the protrusion of veins that snake from the middle of your arm to the point where your fingers start. I’ve always had a thing for them—not exactly a fetish, but a longing or a wish or an out-of-this word fixation. They are what caught my attention. They are what makes me see you differently from anyone else. They are what makes you a man in my heart. They are one of the many reasons why I love you.
Silence. People say it’s sometimes comforting, but it never is between you and me. Everything else—the voices of people, the whoosh of paper bags, the electric creaking of escalators, the impatient brush of shoes against marble, the indistinct buzz of the outside traffic—is drowned out, sucked by the thin thread of space between the right sleeve of your black shirt and a disobedient strand of my hair. And now all I can really hear is the sound of your jeans when they collide when you walk, the gentle, seemingly calculated steps your slipper makes on the floor, the beep that the keypad of your cell phone produces when your fingers fastidiously press on them, the occasional huff of your breath. And suddenly, it looms visibly, so unmistakable, so clear. It’s the cruel distance between us.
“They’re not coming.”
You manage to say it matter-of-factly, but there is a tinge of disappointment in your voice. Maybe not a tinge. You’re probably very disappointed that you’re stuck with me, that our other friends couldn’t be with us. You probably don’t want some friend or acquaintance to see us together because you know they’ll assume we’re on a date. A date. Will you ever take me out on a real date?
But I guess I’m not really your type. Compared to other girls, I don’t really think I hold a candle in the physical department. That’s what kind of sucks though. You’re not exactly my type either, and here I am, devouring every nicety of every moment, desperately rummaging my brain for something cool to say, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear like a crazy, unbelievably obvious, lovesick teenager. But I guess that’s why I know my feelings for you are real. I don’t care anymore if I slip into one of those helpless romantic archetypes. I don’t care anymore if I’m sounding like those girls I hate. I don’t care anymore if you’re nothing like those boys in sappy young adult fiction novels that I secretly love. If it’s you—to hell with all those. I don’t care anymore.
“Okay, so do you want to go home?”
“Do you?”
Here you go again. Letting me decide. Always letting everyone else decide. Sometimes, I hate you for that. Why can’t you just tell me you want to go if you do? Why won’t you tell me you want to stay with me a little longer if you that’s what you want? Why aren’t you trying? At all?
“Not yet. Let’s walk for a little longer.”
I know that when “a little longer” has passed, it will have passed. So I swallow whatever holds me back and boldly take your arm in mine, pretending to drag you away from the crowd. I let the touch linger for a moment and then I pull away, knowing it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t seem to mind the contact, but I know you’ve probably analyzed it. I want you to analyze it. I want you desperately to know that every second of my existence right now—with you, with the consciousness that I could just lean a little close and feel you, with the possibility of so many wonderful things hanging between us, with the world rendered unfamiliar, with this feeling threatening to free the words my pride has worked so hard to contain—is that one prayer God has finally answered. This is the dream that I know will fleet away before I get the chance to wake up. This is the moment that will too soon pass. This is where time finally stops, long enough for the words to form themselves from the silence. This is where I will love you always. And this is where I know you will break my heart.
“Let’s go home.”
I get a good enough reason to look at you. You give me one of your awkward smiles—eyes twinkling, teeth bare, cheeks sinking into that dimple where I’m sure you hide some of your secrets. I give out a small laugh, a constricted sound somewhere along annoyance, embarrassment, and frustration. It’s not one of my genuine laughs; it’s a laugh that I unconsciously make when I want to say something and decide against it.
We walk, but now I can’t take my eyes off your hands. Your hands are the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, and I keep coming up with excuses to touch them without you suspecting that I want to. I love your long fingers, and I often dream of them entangled in mine. They must be soft and strong and safe. That’s how you make me feel. Safe. I love your clean-cut fingernails too. They tell me so much about you as a boy—how different and how strange and how appealing you are to me. I’m probably drawn to your silence, to your almost hateful indifference, to the peace that emanates from your presence. But what I love, most of all, is the protrusion of veins that snake from the middle of your arm to the point where your fingers start. I’ve always had a thing for them—not exactly a fetish, but a longing or a wish or an out-of-this word fixation. They are what caught my attention. They are what makes me see you differently from anyone else. They are what makes you a man in my heart. They are one of the many reasons why I love you.
Silence. People say it’s sometimes comforting, but it never is between you and me. Everything else—the voices of people, the whoosh of paper bags, the electric creaking of escalators, the impatient brush of shoes against marble, the indistinct buzz of the outside traffic—is drowned out, sucked by the thin thread of space between the right sleeve of your black shirt and a disobedient strand of my hair. And now all I can really hear is the sound of your jeans when they collide when you walk, the gentle, seemingly calculated steps your slipper makes on the floor, the beep that the keypad of your cell phone produces when your fingers fastidiously press on them, the occasional huff of your breath. And suddenly, it looms visibly, so unmistakable, so clear. It’s the cruel distance between us.
“They’re not coming.”
You manage to say it matter-of-factly, but there is a tinge of disappointment in your voice. Maybe not a tinge. You’re probably very disappointed that you’re stuck with me, that our other friends couldn’t be with us. You probably don’t want some friend or acquaintance to see us together because you know they’ll assume we’re on a date. A date. Will you ever take me out on a real date?
But I guess I’m not really your type. Compared to other girls, I don’t really think I hold a candle in the physical department. That’s what kind of sucks though. You’re not exactly my type either, and here I am, devouring every nicety of every moment, desperately rummaging my brain for something cool to say, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear like a crazy, unbelievably obvious, lovesick teenager. But I guess that’s why I know my feelings for you are real. I don’t care anymore if I slip into one of those helpless romantic archetypes. I don’t care anymore if I’m sounding like those girls I hate. I don’t care anymore if you’re nothing like those boys in sappy young adult fiction novels that I secretly love. If it’s you—to hell with all those. I don’t care anymore.
“Okay, so do you want to go home?”
“Do you?”
Here you go again. Letting me decide. Always letting everyone else decide. Sometimes, I hate you for that. Why can’t you just tell me you want to go if you do? Why won’t you tell me you want to stay with me a little longer if you that’s what you want? Why aren’t you trying? At all?
“Not yet. Let’s walk for a little longer.”
I know that when “a little longer” has passed, it will have passed. So I swallow whatever holds me back and boldly take your arm in mine, pretending to drag you away from the crowd. I let the touch linger for a moment and then I pull away, knowing it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t seem to mind the contact, but I know you’ve probably analyzed it. I want you to analyze it. I want you desperately to know that every second of my existence right now—with you, with the consciousness that I could just lean a little close and feel you, with the possibility of so many wonderful things hanging between us, with the world rendered unfamiliar, with this feeling threatening to free the words my pride has worked so hard to contain—is that one prayer God has finally answered. This is the dream that I know will fleet away before I get the chance to wake up. This is the moment that will too soon pass. This is where time finally stops, long enough for the words to form themselves from the silence. This is where I will love you always. And this is where I know you will break my heart.
“Let’s go home.”
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Janty—a revolution.
We knew it was only a matter of time before somebody thought of having cigarettes join the electronic bandwagon with mails, cards, books, and well—pretty much everything else. Yes, the cigarette has now earned the iconic e- nomenclature! Though not a lot of people know, the electronic cigarette (or the e-cigarette or e-cig) has actually been around as early as 2004. It was invented by a Chinese pharmacist in 2003, introduced to the market the year after, and received its international patent in 2007. It is relatively still in its baby stage so you probably haven’t heard much about it or seen people ostentatiously wielding it around—but pretty soon you will!
E-cigarettes work by utilizing heat or ultrasonics to vaporize a liquid solution (known as e-liquid—yes, an e-liquid!) into an aerosol mist that can be inhaled. Think of nebulizers and humidifiers—it more or less works by the same principle. (And isn’t that ironic?) It is essentially designed to simulate that act of cigarette smoking so it looks, tastes, and even feels just like a real cigarette stick. In case you were wondering, the e-liquid isn’t a digital electronic liquid like those digital waterfalls in electronic landscape frames. It’s an actual liquid solution that contains the heart and soul of a cigarette stick—nicotine. E-cigarettes are therefore not technically smoking cessation devices. (Duh, it still contains nicotine!) It is, however, a healthy alternative to smoking. Think about it—the same physical sensation, the same flavor, the same feeling of confidence and freedom, all the fuzzy, relaxing, stimulating effects of smoking without threats of lung cancer or asthma or disturbing the old lady that sits beside you in the waiting area. Dads could smoke without worrying their kids might harness some of the harmful effects of their—let’s face it—bad habits. Already sick people who would rather stay sick that put the stick down can put the stick down and pick up the e-cigarette!
The leading brand and manufacturer of e-cigarettes today is Janty by Janty World. Janty has been in operation since 2006, first producing the Janty Yentl, followed by the Mini-fogger series. These pieces come in slick and elegant designs that fit perfectly with anyone’s daily swagger. They come in black too so you can’t help but look fly with them. They then introduced the Kissbox series, which was patterned from the KISS (keep it simple and slick) principle. The Kissbox features user-friendly ease-of-control buttons and can be powered via USB (so you can charge your Janty Kissbox with your iPod while you’re working). After the Kissbox came the Janty Stick, the first ever e-cigarette in a non-cigarette shape. It is also tagged as the most durable and best-selling e-smoking device in the market. Come 2009 and Janty launched the eGo Tank, a long-lasting battery-powered e-cigarette with a unique, ergonomic design. This was said to have wowed both consumers and critics alike. Janty’s innovations in the new but soon-to-thrive business of electronic smoking is constantly in the process of upgrade, development, and, ultimately, perfection. In 2011, they will again launch another series that will surely knock the socks off smokers—electronic or actual—and nonsmokers alike. Their electronic smoking devices are guaranteed safe; no need to worry about getting cancer, whether from electronic radiation or malevolent cellular growth, or asthma or any other diseases associated with tobacco smoking. Janty products are designed for the satisfaction, convenience, and safety of the consumers.
“Smoking is like jumping off from a high-rise building; you might enjoy the feeling of falling down, but you’re going to hit the ground sometime and die.” This was what my health teacher told the class way back in high school. Looking back now, I know she’d been right. No matter how glaringly bold the health warnings are on cigarettes, people still don’t care. One out of five people have jumped off the building. One out of five of those who jumped have hit the ground; the other four are on their way. Janty changes this picture. Janty takes care you don’t hit your head on the cold hard ground. Janty lets you fly. Some inventions make evolutions in the world of the digital and the electronic, but Janty takes the evolution and turns it into a revolution. That is what real innovation is about.
E-cigarettes work by utilizing heat or ultrasonics to vaporize a liquid solution (known as e-liquid—yes, an e-liquid!) into an aerosol mist that can be inhaled. Think of nebulizers and humidifiers—it more or less works by the same principle. (And isn’t that ironic?) It is essentially designed to simulate that act of cigarette smoking so it looks, tastes, and even feels just like a real cigarette stick. In case you were wondering, the e-liquid isn’t a digital electronic liquid like those digital waterfalls in electronic landscape frames. It’s an actual liquid solution that contains the heart and soul of a cigarette stick—nicotine. E-cigarettes are therefore not technically smoking cessation devices. (Duh, it still contains nicotine!) It is, however, a healthy alternative to smoking. Think about it—the same physical sensation, the same flavor, the same feeling of confidence and freedom, all the fuzzy, relaxing, stimulating effects of smoking without threats of lung cancer or asthma or disturbing the old lady that sits beside you in the waiting area. Dads could smoke without worrying their kids might harness some of the harmful effects of their—let’s face it—bad habits. Already sick people who would rather stay sick that put the stick down can put the stick down and pick up the e-cigarette!
The leading brand and manufacturer of e-cigarettes today is Janty by Janty World. Janty has been in operation since 2006, first producing the Janty Yentl, followed by the Mini-fogger series. These pieces come in slick and elegant designs that fit perfectly with anyone’s daily swagger. They come in black too so you can’t help but look fly with them. They then introduced the Kissbox series, which was patterned from the KISS (keep it simple and slick) principle. The Kissbox features user-friendly ease-of-control buttons and can be powered via USB (so you can charge your Janty Kissbox with your iPod while you’re working). After the Kissbox came the Janty Stick, the first ever e-cigarette in a non-cigarette shape. It is also tagged as the most durable and best-selling e-smoking device in the market. Come 2009 and Janty launched the eGo Tank, a long-lasting battery-powered e-cigarette with a unique, ergonomic design. This was said to have wowed both consumers and critics alike. Janty’s innovations in the new but soon-to-thrive business of electronic smoking is constantly in the process of upgrade, development, and, ultimately, perfection. In 2011, they will again launch another series that will surely knock the socks off smokers—electronic or actual—and nonsmokers alike. Their electronic smoking devices are guaranteed safe; no need to worry about getting cancer, whether from electronic radiation or malevolent cellular growth, or asthma or any other diseases associated with tobacco smoking. Janty products are designed for the satisfaction, convenience, and safety of the consumers.
“Smoking is like jumping off from a high-rise building; you might enjoy the feeling of falling down, but you’re going to hit the ground sometime and die.” This was what my health teacher told the class way back in high school. Looking back now, I know she’d been right. No matter how glaringly bold the health warnings are on cigarettes, people still don’t care. One out of five people have jumped off the building. One out of five of those who jumped have hit the ground; the other four are on their way. Janty changes this picture. Janty takes care you don’t hit your head on the cold hard ground. Janty lets you fly. Some inventions make evolutions in the world of the digital and the electronic, but Janty takes the evolution and turns it into a revolution. That is what real innovation is about.
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