Thursday, September 29, 2011

Baguio residences

I dislike people. Even more so people I do not know. Even more so if I have to be in close proximity with them for an extended amount of time. So you can imagine my hesitation when I learned I had to live in a house-sort-of-dormitory in Baguio for my first year at the UP Baguio. It's a house-sort-of-dormitory because the landlord owns this 3 part house. The big part is for his family, the other two for tenants. You can do whatever you want, sleep where you want, ek ek ek. You can tell he's a newbie landlord.

My mother made arrangements for me to live there because my cousin's friend lives there, so instant someone-I-kinda-know. So there I was, living with 10 other people. I liked them, which was weird. They were okay, and the longer I knew them, the okay-er they got. I'm still living with them (those who weren't evicted, anyway) and I love them to bits now.

That cousin's friend, Ayelle, has a house in Baguio. An actual house. Her family decided to have a resthouse and they had one built. We're living there now, and it's fabulous. We pay for electricity and Internet, and we have water delivered every week or so. We used to have a maid, but she decided to be an asshole so we fired her. We clean (haha) the house sporadically (this has been Ayelle's word the past week) and we look after the dog.

Where do we sleep, though? The house is their's, so we can't stay in their bedrooms. The basement actually has bedrooms, made especially for us (I think). We refuse to stay there, though, because mold is taking over everywhere. So we stay in the living room. We dragged our mattresses to the living room and we've been staying there for the past month or so. Fun, yeah? It's like we're in a never-ending slumber party.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011


If you think this is purely a movie review, you're wrong.

So my mother was supposed to drop me off at the bus terminal. Halfway there she decided she's take me to Baguio, instead. A couple of minutes later I decided school is for chumps and that I'd spend the rest of the week down here. So instead of going to school, I watched a movie with my mother.

No Other Woman is intriguing; it has Anne Curtis, Derek Ramsay, and Cristine Reyes. Cha (Reyes) is married to Ram (Ramsay), a furniture designer/entrepreneur/whatever. Ram's latest client's daughter Cara [Kara?] (Curtis) is hot, and he fucks her. Cha finds out, and the two women fight for the scumbag that is Ram. 

In the end, Ram chooses Cha (probably because Cha's father is funding his furniture business, that good for nothing hunk of muscle), and dumps C/Kara. C/Kara is devastated, and even though she played the let's-just-fuck-no-feelings girl at first, she soon admits to falling in love with him. C/Kara and Ram go on a  car chase, and he hits a truck carrying steel rods, the ones used for construction. He is pierced in several parts of his chest and throat, AND HE LIVES.

C/Kara realizes her slutiness and backs off after apologizing to Cha. Ram gets better and Cha takes him back. Why, I do not know.

After a couple of years, the couple encounters C/Kara. She smiles at them and waves, and they wave back.

Anne Curtis's face saved the movie.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

When I die,

I'd want my funeral to be unforgettable. There are several things I'd like to be done during my:


  • I don't like it when people get sad because of me, especially if I didn't mean them to be. So what I'd like is for my friends and family to dress casual when attending my wake. No sad colors (unless you typically wear sad colors) and no sad expressions. Go to my wake to celebrate my life, not to mourn my death. 
  • Don't talk about the "great things I've done" and the "great things I could've done." Instead, talk about the crazy things we did together. Like that time we shoplifted, or that time we streaked the school, or that time we made fantastic love in a library. Those things. And don't exaggerate on my "good deeds." I don't want people to remember me as the nice, generous, thoughtful, and patient. Those translate as boring, and those don't describe me.
  • Please prepare good food at my wake. I don't want visitors complaining about cheap candy and packed peanuts. If you really loved me, you'd get everyone Jollibee or something. Prepare grilled cheese sandwiches or tacos at my wake. And please, enough with the tetra pack fruit juices. People like soda, prepare soda. With ice. 
  • I implore you, do not play generic funeral music. Play the music that I like. Imagine me there, alive, and I'm in control of audio! What would I play?
  • Don't push your beliefs on the people attending my wake. This is a party. Keep your god to yourself.
  • Superstition shmuperstition. If the stipulations above will be followed, then my wake will be a blast. So don't dampen everyone's mood by not allowing them to bring home food, or not taking them to the door. These superstitions are stupid. If someone who's attending my wake wanted to bring home some of the divine cake or lechon manok, THEN GO AHEAD DEAR, IT'S ON ME.
I'm planning to get cremated, so there won't be too much of a ceremony as opposed to being buried. And excuse me? Feed me to the worms? I don't think so. I'm willing to bet (not my life, not right now) that I'll be living thinking that I'm hot, so why not end me hot? BURN ME. Then all of my friends and family can take a little bit of the ash and put it inside a tiny bottle. THEN THEY CAN WEAR ME AS A NECKLACE PENDANT OR A CHARM ON A BRACELET.

My life is already boring. Don't let my death be boring, as well. 

Saturday, September 24, 2011

I'm not asking for the world. I'm not asking you to bring me the moon, to get me a star, to give me the sun. Your love is enough, you know? And when I say love, I don't mean I love you love. I mean show me love.

It's like this. How difficult is it to text me good morning when you've already tweeted the same thing on your phone? How difficult is it to answer yes or no to a question when you're already talking anyway? If you think I'm shallow for setting too much store on texting, then I think you're just heartless. That's the only way we can talk constantly. And I'm not even asking you to give me a blow-by-blow account of your day. I'm only asking for you to tell me where you're going, who you're with. Not even what time you'll be home, because we both know that's a hopeless case.

And when I ask a question What time are you going to Manila tomorrow don't reply with Bus na ako because what?

Don't complain about me being needy. I wouldn't be needy if you met me halfway, you know.

Friday, September 23, 2011

We're all a bunch of nothings.

If you think about it, we think ourselves too important. We put too much pride in our words, we imbue our actions with significance, and we think we think the best. How significant are our words when 6 billion other people say them? How important are our actions when other people have already done them, maybe even better than we have? How great are our thoughts when right now, several other people are thinking them?

How small and insignificant are we, really? How little is our role in the world? Minuscule, I think. We're nothing. We're all a bunch of nothings.

Make up sex. Almost the best kind there is.

It's that confusing phase between intense anger and euphoric romance. There are still traces of rage trying to overcome a feeling of senseless pleasure. It fails, of course, because the pleasure is so great you lose yourself. You forget everything but. You try to recall what everything was about, why it all came to be, but you're lost in that spasm-inducing, eye-rolling-to-the-back-of-your-head, ass-clenching, lip-biting pleasure that only he can give you.

Then the pleasure, that glorious pleasure, envelopes your brain, your being, your very soul.

And you can't wait until you fight again.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

You know that silence that comes after you've been talking for so long? I think that's the worst kind of silence there is. You expect someone to react. Anything at all, really. Even just a grunt from a friend, or even a nod, or a slight eyebrow rise. That annoying scrape of a chair being pulled back, or the creak of a door swinging open. A flicker of light from a fluctuating lightbulb, a rustle from the turning pages of an open book. A stuffed toy animal speaking, or the couch moving away from you.

But nothing. Nothing at all, and you realize how alone you are. You turn around and everyone's asking you.

What did you say? they ask.

Fuck you, I've been talking for the past hour! I've expressed my anger on the budget cuts! The cabbies asking for a higher flag-down rate! The preposterous labor fees for getting my MacBook repaired! The long walk from the campus to the mall! Does no one listen to me? you scream.

And then you realize that no one said anything, and everyone's now staring at you, surprised at your outburst.

What are you talking about? they ask.

I'm sorry, I must have drifted off. What are we talking about?

And again you realize that no one's talking to you.

Did anyone say anything? you ask the wind. It whispers back what did you say?

What did you say? 

And nothing. Nothing at all. And you realize how alone you are.