Queen's Devirginization Day*

*and other make-believe holidays, more reasons to miss work.

***

Him: You kids don't get Thanksgiving off do ya?

Me: Nope. I work for Aussies.

Him: Aww. What major holidays they got?

Me: Boxing Day.

Him: But we have that whenever Pacman fights

Me: Queen's Devirginization Day...shit like that.

Him: Are you shitting me? Devirginization Day? Aussies are way weird.

Me: Yes, I was shitting you.

Him: Regardless, Aussies - still weird.

***

The only thing I miss more than

convenient sex

is

inconvenient love.

***

A year ago, our kisses made me see colors more vividly. We used to dream of children who'd be darker than our knees. We got drunk on lies and possibilities. We slept and touched and sipped each other's wine. For two sunsets.

A year hence.

I am wearing nothing but a Kenny Open singlet, which I wore the last time Dan and I ran together. He was wearing nothing but a tattoo of the woman he loved before he met me. Our kisses. I don't see colors anymore. All I see is the pale red glow on the ceiling mirrors. Our kisses. Like your favorite food when you have a cold - devoid of flavor.

The heart has a fallible, unreliable memory.

But when you so need it to fail, it doesn't.

***

Me: I don't even remember if I came.

Him: Well I have video. In case you wanna remember.

Me: now you're shitting me.

Him: You shat me first

Sugar Unrush

If I shuttle between states of being spaced out and being plain snappish, 10 times my usual spaced-outness and snappishness, I am NOT even going to excuse myself. Days without rice, pasta, bread, sweets...not even fucking fruits, or even fucking fruit juice! It's almost inhuman. My pee smells like I eat fish all the time BECAUSE I EAT FISH ALL THE TIME. I feel like throwing a tantrum every time I pass by Krispy Kreme. I feel like performing seppuku when I pass by Sbarro. Some part of me that has more sense asks this - WHAT'S THE SENSE OF THIS GUSTATORY FLAGELLATION?

South Beach Diet. Dr. Agatston, the guy whose black and white picture is on the sleeve of the book "The South Beach Diet," (I'm sure they had a hard time thinking of a title) must be unaware that there is an archipelago of 7,000 odd islands, lying in the Pacific, with a population whose diet is 98.7 percent carbohydrates. He must have not foreseen that a copy of his book would somehow find its way to Philippine shores, in some BOOK SALE shelf, cheek-to-cheek with "What To Expect When You're Expecting," being sold for $6. He must have not envisioned that some woman, with a cup of Dairy Queen Strawberry and Banana ice cream on one had, will be reaching for the book with the other hand, and, defying all intuitive sense and logic, will end up buying it.

My typical breakfast would be water. Now, it's eggs, of which I'm running out of ways to cook. My typical midmorning snack would be:

a.) a Krispy Kreme

b.) a Danish from some coffee place (which boasts of serving "ethically traded coffee." This made a friend who lives in Tagaytay, amongst coffee farmers, laugh in disgust.)

c.) turon from our nearest Jollijeep (I only eat the wrapper. The banana appalls me.)

d.) two of the above

e.) all of the above.


Now, my midmorning snack would be:

a.) a slice of cheese.

b.) all of the above.


Lunch, I don't need to use a spoon. Nobody eats salads with spoons. A spoon would be equally inutile if one eats fish. Dinner,I am limited to eating animals with fins.

Brutal. I know. Why am I even doing this? Because I want to live longer? Because I want to look good naked? Because I want to fit better into some pair of pants I bought 3 years ago? Because I want to have the license to make fun of all the morbidly obese people in the office? (wait, I already to this all the time in my head.)

I am doing this because I want to prove myself wrong. I want to convince myself that I am capable of discipline (not the type that involves whips and is categorized as some deviant sexual behavior, no, not THAT kind of discipline). That contrary to what I have deemed myself to be, I am capable of keeping committments. I want to keep this commitment. A commitment to myself. Maybe, eventually, I'd be able to commit to other people.

It won't be easy. Faithfulness to Dr. Agatston. But I will do this. I can do this.

(No, I don't think dreaming of New York Cheescake is infidelity.)


***

I better have better sex after this.

Pencil Fixation*

Yes.

I want it

fat,

hard,

and

sharp.

I want it to

just

barely

fill

my

hand.

Pencils. The Goliaths.

***

I learned to write (and when I say "learning to write," it involves sheets of paper with blue and red linings, riddled with thick lines in every imaginable orientation, but then, imagine the sense of direction of a four-year old and well...you know.) with Goliath pencils. It has something to do with children under seven not having refined motor skills, so the pencils must be fat and long and hard (steadier on the hand).

After the unintelligible (although the scribbles could mean something to some obscure sect, maybe they'd find encrypted in kindergarten calligraphy the meaning of life, or some equally high order wisdom) scrawls, it's the ABC's. Then I start writing words. DOG. GOD. CAT. RAT. CUNNILINGUS. (No, that wasn't the four-year old me. That was me test driving a new pencil).

So I lost yet another Pilot G-Tec after Saturday night's voter registration. It was crazy. Deadline was the first minute of All Saints Day, 12:00, Nov 1. My sister and I got started on Step 1 of 7 at 11 pm. The literal 11th hour. Wait. This is another story, which ends with the pen being lost anyway. Let me park the story of how I ended the night wiping ink off my thumbs.

Oh. Right. The lost G-Tec. These murder-fine point pens cost P70 each. The hair strand tip makes my already ugly handwriting uglier. I lost Basilio (that's the name of my lost pen) while I was asking for more tokwa to go with my goto. I decided I was depressed, and I am entitled to do retail therapy...at National Bookstore.

Forty-nine minutes. This is my average pen-shopping time. I'd buy a dozen at times, only 3 of which I'd ever get to use an entire sentence. The nine left, I'd use to write at least one word, which is, more often than not, "doppelganger". (It could be "cow" if I'm lazy.)

I was having an unusually hard time picking out a pen that day. This, I attribute to not having sugar for almost a day (another story). So I figured, why don't I buy a pencil. Back to the basics. Back to when I was writing words that don't make men want to turn their liver into liver spread. Back to trying to stay within the right red and blue lines, and having an eraser handy to fix mistakes that could make me repeat Kinder II. Back to when the world was more forgiving, and so was I.

I asked some saleslady where their school pencils are. She asked me, "Misis, ilang taon na yung anak ninyo?" I looked at her, from the pimples on her forehead, to the dust on her shoes, and I walked away, whispering something in a language that I just invented. There's this smelly 11-year old kid (a fat one, who is probably using the same size of underwear as his Dad's.) by that section I was heading for. I had to go elsewhere.

Anyway, I ended up with a Zip-Loc blue mechanical pencil. I didn't buy a stash of leads, I'll just waste them by attempting acupuncture on myself. The pen, it sits by my new notebook. I last used the new pen to write "buy lead."

*Oh. This wasn't really about sex.

[1]

Image is from http://moviesmedia.ign.com

***

Today, at the 1:45 screening of "500 Days of Summer" at the Cinema 4 of Festival Supermall, there were 18 buckets of buttered popcorn, 14 tubs of large fries, and 17 packs of Doritos. There were 27 pairs of heads, and there was one head which was not in a pair - Mine.

People don't understand it. Why I opt to do alone things that are best done with someone. Movies. Lunches. Dinners. Running. Sex. I don't owe anyone any explanation. Yes, I have had happy un-alone Saturdays. I have spent time un-alone in a room not mine, rendered ecstatic. But when I think about it, the best times of my life, my top moments of elation, I was alone. Utterly alone. The only company I'd keep is a pen and a receipt for some Danish pastry. I am happy alone. I just need to be reminded of this every so often.

My sister was wondering where I was between the hours of 11 am and 5 pm. She expected me to have some new clothes that I'd end up wearing twice, then lose somewhere in my chaotic closet. I only had a new mechanical pencil wedged in my wallet. I told her that I saw "500 Days." She said that I wasted my P129 for the tickets. She had the movie on her laptop. First point, it's perfectly fine for me to waste my own money. It was I who suffered minutes at work just for that ticket (and the bottled water that I bought with it, among others). Second point, I attempted to watch the movie at home, the laptop on a chair, while clipping my toenails. In 15 minutes, I was reading some random page off "The Life of Pi." In another 15 minutes, I had this conscious dream about a red car (yes, conscious dreams, where you are dreaming, and out-of-this-worldly enough, you are aware that it's just a dream.) I need to work on my attention span. It's no different from my kindergarten level.

So yes. The Narrator, who was, refreshingly, not James Earl Jones, disclaimed that it was "a story of boy meets girl, but don't be deceived, it is not a love story." Movie poster indicates that it was, yes, judging by the number of twosomes inside the theater, a romantic comedy. Anything that has an eccentric girl in it, plus a soundtrack that will be in everyone's mp3 player soon enough, IS a romantic comedy/love story. It's a love story, yes, but I think it won't have the effect of the "typical" love story. I can say with confidence that of the 27 couples who were in the room with me, at least 20 will be uncoupled before the year ends. I'm a good doom forecaster. I have foresaw that Dan and I won't be talking before the year ends, and unsurprisingly, he can't care less about me now, but that, again, is another story.

I love that Day 312 came before Day 44 in the movie. Relationships can't be analyzed in a linear fashion. Things make sense only if one shuttles to and fro amongst frames of time. On Day 402, Tom says that he hates Summer's knobby knees. On Day 59, he worships the same knees. A birthmark that was in the shape of a heart become the shape of something that one kills with slippers. Things said and done assume different meanings and significances.

(This was supposed to be a review, but I re-read everything I've typed, and I find that I haven't said anything smart so far.)

I was thinking of buying a fiery red lipstick, like that worn by Zooey Deschanel. But my sister Kat (She's the only person whose opinions matter to me. I don't even listen to our mother at times, but Kat's advice, I'd most likely heed.) suggested that I stick with the corals and the nudes. Over a Blizzard, she called me a Korean girl who went to Boracay. My skin and red lipstick, she implies, are not friends. Whitening products good for two years will cost me a month's salary. A tube or red lipstick, which will last at least two years, will cost 300-500 bucks. I think I'll choose red lipstick. Boo whitening products.

I'm still thinking about the truth of Kat's statement that my complexion and crimson lips are incompatible. She was right about one thing though - watching the movie will make me feel better. I'm 26. I may have commitment challenges, but I have not denied to my closer friends that I still subscribe to concepts like destiny, The One, romance. But this is something that makes more sense - there is no one pivotal moment that will set how the rest of our lives would be. Choices. Series of moments. Even with the best of intentions, things happen. And we all ask, like Tom did, "What happens?" As Summer replied, "Life. That's what happens."

Like some dear friend asked me to do, I will be kinder to myself.

(FatBoy, I never, ever, for a heartbeat, forgot you. )

***

[1] is my favorite part of the movie. Where the [500] Days of Summer end, and Autumn begins. We can choose to wait for the leaves to fall, or we can ask those people out. Anyways, for messes, there's always a broom handy.

***

I want someone

who will NOT

cover my mouth

when I shout the word

"Penis"

in the middle of a crowd.

(Mis)judgments

I am loving/hating

that I DON'T have to think

for more than five seconds

to say "Yes" to this question -

"So, are you single?"

***

It's so hard to be unforgiving. It would be hardest to forgive oneself. Because of things that happened in the last few weeks, I am not the same. It will take a long time for me to get my groove back. I made some choices, (mis)judgments. Calls that I should've made so long ago. I have yet to find some vindication. I so want to be right.

***

Hiatus

starts

now.

"No" Means Rape*

*Statistics show 75% of the times that Joie Go said "No," she lied.

***

"I didn't know you were interested in fucking the last time."

"I was."

"With your litany of 'we'll see' "

"Now you know that I am. Does it make any difference?"

"It does. Of course we still live in a society where 'no' means rape."

"I never said no. I just said 'we'll see' "

***

When someone bitches at me, I bitch back. More, way much more.

Immabiggerbitch. You wouldn't want to know how much so. :)

***

A tired foot atop the equally tired other. Head propped on hand and a bottle of The Bar(rrrr. I can add an infinity of R's). Chin to the sky - a black shirt worn by someone who has bad dandruff (is there good dandruff?). I realize this - I am one with the stars.

Reach.

***

"Honestly I don't think you're hard to please. In bed, or out of it."

"Yes. You're right."

"You must have been involved with the wrong men. Deranged men."

"But if I don't like you, nothing you can do will ever please me. Even if you put an MRT station right in front of our gate."

"But if you like him, like your plastic plant of an ex, anything he does is still worth your while."

"He was a habit. "

Aling Diosy Learns How To Blog

*but changed her mind and watch SNN instead.

***

This is what my Mom's blog entry for today would look like. That is, if she had a blog in the first prize. (It took us 3 months to teach her the mechanisms of e-mailing).

Monday

October 12, 2009

Nagpatahi ako ng bagong pillow case. Hinihigaan lang ng magrasang ulo ng asawa ko na walang pakinabang. Yung anak kong bunso, alas diyes na, hindi pa rin nagpaparamdam. Pinatawagan ko kay Joane. Cannot be reached. Ang tanda ko na masyado para sa ganito. Ang dami ko nang hinanakit diyan sa panganay ko.

At yang asawa ko. Ang dami niyang opportunity para maging maayos ang buhay namin, ng pamilya namin. Wala. Lahat sinayang niya. Wala man lang kainvo-involvement. Pag may reunion ang pamilya ko, di man lang magpakita. Pag may reunion ang pamilya niya, ako pa ang naghahanda. Wala talagang kapaki-pakinabang.

At yung panganay ko na si Joane. Hay. Ewan ko ba kung bakit andami-daming oras na sinasayang sa tapat ng computer. Hindi ko nga alam kung ano ba talagang trabaho nito. Alis-alis pa kasi ng UP. Kung kani-kanino sumasama, wala namang magandang nadulot sa buhay niya. Sayang na bata. Sa lahat ng anak ko, siya pa naman ang pinakamatalino. Sayang, kinapos sa EQ.

Sana magising tong buntis naming katulong para maghugas ng pinggan. Ang daming pusa dito sa bahay. Puro buhok. Puro tae. Niligaw ko na tong mga to, nagsibalikan pa.

Ang dami-daming impertinenteng tao sa paligid ko. Parang mga turista. Putangina. Dito. Doon. Makatulog na nga.

***

Amazing how angsty Aling Diosy is. Just like me.

***

Whether we realize it or not,

we

are always on a spiritual journey

- even when we feel most lost.

- Frank, postsecret.blogspot.com