Chocolate Elephants

A convenience store in Makati with unconveniently bloated prices. Chocolate drink in a paper tetra brick for lunch, banned in grade school field trip buses as it imparts an interesting color to nausea, White Flower won't even stop it. Gooey Jo (an alias) was asking for a straw when...

Emaciated Mahlborow Vlack Promo Girl: Ma'am, Mahlborow Vlack.

*GJ's fake smile here*

EMVPG: Avail nyo na ma'am.

GJ: I don't smoke.

EMVPG: Po? (feigns hearing impairment)

GJ: Lunch break. May dala ba akong lighter?

EMVPG: E baka po gusto niyong bumili para sa boyfriend nyo.

*This rage is powered by Selecta Moo - Now 50% more chocolatier!*

GJ: I don't smoke, I don't need f*cking cigarettes and I DON'T NEED A F*CKING BOYFRIEND.

*GJ's fake smile here*

Someone is shifting careers. I should, too.

***

Him and me. '07. We used to talk. Endlessly. Even in our sleep.

My phone rings.

"Hello, Joie Go."

The voice I knew too well. Something's gone. I know the voice won't lull me to a dream anymore. His words, a blur. All that I get is this - I'm back, you'll take me in.

Four minutes. Monosyllabics - No. Yes. Eto. Ok. Ah.

Fourth minute. Longest phrase - Two years. Go back to the elephants.

And just like that, he's out of my life. I hope for good this time.

***

The self-loathing stops now.

I love me.

Stoicholm Syndrome

I so wish that some, no, a lot of his stoicism, his detachedness, rubs off on me. Life would be a numbed bliss.

***

A lingering feeling of unsettledness on a Sunday morning, to think I started the day with a jumbo siopao from Kowloon House. I had to let out a groan two corners away from our house as we were driving home, and "Genie in a Bottle" (a supposedly happifying song) was playing. After an hour-long shuteye and 5 hits on the snooze button, I got up, washed my tired hair and launched a Spoil Joie Day.

I...

- had a massage. Nida, the therapist, whose remark on me getting chunkier earned her my chagrin, kept to herself. She kept her gab shut when she was kneading my thighs. She was cooperative, mostly acting on self-preservation instincts.

- ate Crispy Noodles and Tofu. They were served by a non-ugly store manager who was most definitely checking me out (Yes. Ego boost for a P78 sale). This is the beauty of my habit of asking for a timeframe when it comes to my food. Service crew would know that patience is a virtue I have yet to earn. If only I can have this attitude of assertiveness packed with extra napkins and forks, and take it home with me.

- bought groceries. Aisles and aisles of canned goods, shampoo and detergents pacify me. All the time. My sister knew something was amiss. I bought fresh produce, which in saner moments, I'd get at the filthy market. I'm a woman with a green bag and bipolar disorder. Persecute me for reckless shopping, I'll call the attention of CHR.

- walked in the rain. Yes, something is really, really, wrong. Not even efficascent oil can make it better.

***

The circumstances are pushing me to make life-altering decisions sooner than I anticipated. Pleasure is easily confused with happiness. I know the things that give me pleasure. I know them all too well. But chasing these fleeting joys have left me very unhappy. This can't go on. I have to do myself a big favor, as well as certain people around me.

The Toblerone Tantrum

My right big toenail, lifeless after the marathon two Sundays ago, is now covered a shade of red called "Desire". I made Unilever a pinch richer today. I bought 300 pesos worth of cleaning products. Two cans of fibre-enriched unsweetened pineapple juice (to help with my sluggish bowel), and 4 new color-coded rags. I got liquid sosa (to help with our sluggish drain), which I later learned works best only for people who want to meet Jesus ASAP. It took 3 hours and two afternoon drama shows for a sink full of unsinkable water, toothpaste lather and facial hair to be pristine again.

Domestic duties left me tired and reeking of bleach. I (almost) didn't notice that I have not heard from him for most of the day. A little quibble over Llanol (yes, I'm seeing someone of significant seniority). Like he does with me, I leave him be. We have established that cheating has lost its luster. It's not for the X- Games - it's not exciting. I trust him. There's a non-negligible chance that I'm betting on the wrong numbers, but I still trust him anyways. He always has one foot on the ground, but I still trust him anyways. I'm not doing it for him. I'm not even doing it for US. I'm doing it for myself. Trusting him makes me not need Valium. For now.

***

I secretly hurt for you when you tell me tales of the emotionally crippled women you've spent your better years with. It's not funny. At all.

***

I tend to forget just how much my mom loves me. Tonight, I was reminded.

The van was revving outside. Halfway through "The Wedding." Mom is not budging. Dad isn't aware of it (of course, he's not aware of anything). And Mom won't be budging throughout the next show - Showbiz News Ngayon. Fifteen minutes after Boy Abunda said goodnight, Mom was nudging Dad from a rubbershoed nap. Hours of nagging and engine idling, off they go.

The house was quiet. When my parents are not within a radius of 50 feet from each other, there is tranquility. I hear the van again. I will not get up to open the gates. Mom came in without any fanfare and...

Mom: O. Yan.

*hands me a Toblerone bar*

Me: Wow, mahal mo ako!

Mom: Siyempre.

Everybody knows that the I'm a runner up to my Dad in terms of the pain delivered to her. But I know that I have brought her some of the most joyous moments of her life, too. My birth made her a mother. Ours was never a non-traumatic relationship. But her love, I have proven, is relentless. Stubborn. Enduring. Like a stain that no cleaning product ever made can completely remove, to leave a barren surface. I hope she loves me enough to never tell my future husband the tale of the Toblerone Tantrum.

***

(I shall say this only once. Only once.)

If I don't remember having asked, I don't want to know.

No Fail mode

I wish I can go on No Fail mode.

***

Rockbanding with JC and Ate Grace. I can't hear Dan on the phone, I just kept on saying "We're okay, we're okay," then the angry midweek midmorning rain cut us out. Funeralesque umbrella to the rescue. You-huh, you-huh, you-huh oughta know. The college kids are still in their classes, we have the place (it's called Frii Spirit) just to ourselves. Three cousins with a mission - to turn P500 into sore throat within an hour.

I can't play the Rockband guitar to save my life. I can only sing and-everytime-I scratch-my-nails-down-someone-else's-back-I-hope-you-feel-it. Not even trying the drums, I have an imaginary hand-eye coordination. If it weren't for the No Fail mode, we'd never get to finish a song as Ate Grace and myself, we can't wield Rockband strings. We sing well, but holy potato, I do not want to be caught dead singing a Paramore song.

So we talk about getting a Wii set for the cousins. We debate about where to put it. We can't put it in Alabang, not at the risk of the drum pads collecting cat hair (which is increased exponentially as we now have nine cats.) We can't put it in Taguig, Tita Vi(tch)...well...she'll be her usually fire extinguisher self. Tita Lit's place - it might weed Rigel off DOTA. Ate Grace's place was it.

Magic Sing. R.I.P. (2007-2009)

***

No Fail mode. What if I can get a cheat code for this for real life? Would I be braver? Would I have the courage to miss my notes, be out of the beat? Would I sing my song some other way? But what if, what if the peril of failing makes me try better? What if knowing that someone can be deployed to go into overdrive to save me, the thought - can make me not be afraid to hit the chords?

***

Eleven in the evening. Four in the a.m. Three bottles of Red Horse, three bottles of Vodka Cruiser. Eight to nine lonely pieces of vegetarian chicharon (An obese friend told me that this phrase makes no sense. At all.) How many ways can text messages (even those that have never been sent) be interpreted?

He can't find his keys. I didn't hear from him most of the day. His hand hurts. There's a brawl in the bar that he's in. I needed the distraction. Someone else's woes are the best.

***

"I get it. She's being you."

"I can feel the love here."

"Of course, you're my cousin."

"She's being me, huh."

"I mean it in the best way."

Strange, You Never Knew*

*Mazzy Star, 1994.


***

Several lifetimes ago...


"Why do you love that song?"

"Because that's how love should be."

"Right."

"Yes."

"How so?"

*Kisses me*

"You'll figure it out."


***

The pro's of growing a plastic plant:

1.) Svelte vegetarian women won't eat it (this is arguable though).

2.) You can put it anywhere, it won't need sunshine. At all.

3.) If you lose it, you can buy a new one (and you don't have to wait for it to grow).

4.) For some reason, it won't harbor mosquitoes.

5.) You can let your best friend take it to her room.

6.) No weeding and watering needed.

7.) It never wilts.



The con's of growing a plastic plant:

1.) It will never bear fruit. Ever.

***

Breakfast of fries and (un)hot chocolate. It's raining. I should've taken my denim trench coat, but it won't go well with my borrowed flip flops. I'm out of moisturizer, my skin looks like I do drugs and I backstroke in alcohol. I might as well take advantage of the rockstar complexion. Thanks to the high heavens for the skill of putting on eyeliner whilst in a moving vehicle (A tricycle, in a village called Soldiers Hills.)

A few minutes shy of two hours, waiting for the only doctor who takes a health card. Un-cute, barf-scented babies kicking me no end. Must resist the urge to retaliate. Crying, wheezing, coughing, paging doctors who'd most likely be taking their sweet time to come. For someone who once dreamt of being a doctor, I abhor hospitals. Three visits in less than a month. I don't want to step in one for a long, long time.

***

To Kristine,


This is what I got of the story:


You: So, tell me, what are we?

My Cousin: Huh?


*48-hour silence ensues*

Now my cousin is bamboozled. You turned him into a 13-year old! And this morning, he was all agog about sending you...gasp...flowers! Very brave, what you did. To think that he might not even be here before the year ends. You have my respect. This is something that I CANNOT do due to genetic limitations. I so hope I can, but the gene pool of human males is just limiting. What you and my cousin have - maybe it's love. Maybe you stand a chance. Maybe he'd be willing to totally uproot himself from his native Cali just to start a life with you. Funny I say this, knowing that you met in a minefield of one-night stands. I salute you. Only the brave deserves love. Or even the chance at it.

Here's to more chicken wings and Rock Band Sunday afternoons.

P.S.: Even if you're effortlessly pretty, even if you use text lingo on a QWERTY keyboard, I can't hate you. I can only hold you in high, non-envious esteem.

***

Bravery. I think I have a clue.

Editing Joie

Concerned Citizen: So you consider weekend date as a one step forward, one step back, 3 steps forward 2 steps back or whatever dance step I'm trying to drop on this sentence?

Me: Weekend date = weekend date. No hardcore analysis of symbologies embedded in Ice Age 3.

***

I used to love the rain. As a child, I thought it was magical. But now, I think it's just filthy water from the skies, ruining my outfit and making me very, very late for work.

***

CC: You think he's doing it with someone else? I mean.. giving up sex just like that. After doing it every week isn't easy for a guy.

Me: Well, it's not impossible that he's doing it with someone else...he must be thinking that I've been doing it with someone else, too

CC: How important is sex to you? With him? 50%? 25%?

Me: 50%. At least.


***

"The idea that when people come together, they stay together. I have to take that with me when I'm going to bed at night, Even if I'm going to bed alone. " - Ally McBeal

***

Random ranting to start in three...

two...

one...


I hate my job. I hate my thighs. I hate being harassed no end because I am single and I like wearing there's-a-fabric-shortage-in-the-Philippines skirts. Nobody loves me except my smelly kittens. My world is shrinking by the minute. I want to travel, but I can't effing afford it. The package says ruby, why is my hair still black when I marinated it in ammonia and dye for two hours? I can't find my phone. Why is he ignoring me? Why would this other he not leave me alone? Where's the ESC key? Will someone come back? Will someone come along? Who am I kidding? The whole deal is bleghk. I should stop caring. How much does she need now? Five hundred? Go away. No, not you. You. I wish I never quit school. I feel dispensable. If I hit the ESC key, nobody will notice. My back hurts. My wrist hurts. My hair hurts. Eye hurts.

I hurts. (sic)

(Sorry, I can't stop editing myself.)

***

Googling "pathetic."