Six and Twenty

In less than 5 hours,

I won't be

25

anymore.

***

Joie: Tell me, how did you get over the pain that I caused you?

Him: I never did. It's still a kick in the nuts everytime.

The Lemonade Sea

3:37 a.m.

Bottles empty. The once sizzling plates are but cold steel.

A man walks dandily. No, those were two men with three feet.

Rushing adrenaline. Sandy legs prancing twice in speed.

No time to wash her face. The tears did the job.

Two and forty minutes of shuteye. Three short dreams.

Up. Alert. Feeling everything. Everything.

A log rotting in saline. Wet. This is her sanctuary.

The darkest hours when midnight dances with dawn, to the songs of the stars.

The lemonade sea.

The lullabies of the monsoon.

The waves. Oh. The waves.

She will remember.

***

Powerless on a Saturday afternoon. The darkness is kind. It makes the eyes blind to clutter. And the rain, the white noise. This is where one sees clearest.

***

Pain, I have learned, is a blessing.

The Modified Essay Type Multiple Choice Test

Clean.

Slate.

Blank.

New.

Zero.

Wash.

Erase.

***

An epiphany - the most avid reader of this blog

is

me.

***

I will miss...

the free dinners. the free movies. the forced hugs. the ride home. the dancing in the car to 80's music. the holding my hand from C-5 to Sucat. the where-are-you's. the kiss emoticons.

the conversations that make me feel smarter. the trip to the Avilon Zoo. all the travelling that will never be done. the Wednesday breakfasts. the rushing of feet as I am about to meet him. the looking forward to tasting my lolo's leche flan.

the people-bashing. the disgust of obese lesbians in barongs. the bulalo place along Felix Avenue. the painful near-win's of the Fighting Maroons. the quick dates to Cash N' Carry. the finish-my-food-for-me-please. the dreams of grandeur.

(the list goes on longer, much longer than the breath I almost missed taking, thinking about the list.)

the stoicism. the knowing that stoicism and all, he did care. did.

him. I will miss him.

(But he has moved on, and so must I.)

***

Q: Who did what wrong?

A: It won't matter in five years.

***

Which feeling is appropriate?

a.) Regret.

b.) Spite.

c.) Relief.

d.) Alarm

correct answer: e.) Hope

***

I need

more time

to correct

my mistakes.

(I've rubbed out the eraser.)

***

True.

False.

Both.

Coming Clean*

*means bringing up dirt. A lot of it.

***

Easier for me to move on knowing that I've been unkind. Easier, so much easier. Cruelty, I find comforting. Especially when I'm on the giving end.

***

I slept with other men. Three of them.

First time was when you were in the mud fields. I was afraid you'd never come back. I slept with someone who got me pancit malabon, and carefully took the shrimps out.

Second time was with the man from the land of elephants. He made me happy enough to bear the next few weeks with you.

Third time. Remember that Saturday I was at "a friend's condo in Ortigas?" I was in some "room" in Pasig.

And I hated that there was a pack of Chocnut waiting for me, with my name on it, not for sharing. Too little, too late. I hated you too much then. And I knew back then that it was over, all over.

I knew it was over much earlier. It was over when you told me that "you lost the feeling." I just followed suit.

***

This is for the stress that you'll never again have over me leaving my socks.

This is for the self-loathing I will never again have, on my way home, as a night ended with a mechanical kiss from you.

This is to the bad days that we'll never again have.

I will not say sorry. Although you have hurt me enough just by not walking away earlier, neither will I expect apologies from you.

I will not say "Thank you." How can I thank someone who made me lose sight of my beauty?

We deserve so much better. Exponentially better.

Red Dress. Blue Balls.

my underwear

he was wearing it like a bracelet

and he was touching me deliciously

and i taste beer and nicotine and politically insensitive jokes in his lips

and i don't remember which legs are mine and which are his

then i remember

that i don't want sex

i want love

in its messy glory

(for finding poetry in my babble, thank you, W.W.L.)

Alone and/but/or Complete

Blood.

Knees.

Salt.

Sweat.

(This is all I remember of the last few days.)

***

"Found what you were looking for?"

"This I found out - I wasn't missing a piece. I have everything I need to be happy. I just have to work on keeping myself together."

***

Surprisingly, in times that challenge one's sanity and belief in the good, friends whom you thought you have lost come to bring aid. More surprisingly, strangers whom you think will cast merciless judgements upon you, give help that you cannot (or for some reason, opt to not) get from your family. And this is where I am reminded that yes, there is a God, and no, S/He is not some Cosmic Hitler.

***

Healing. (In more than one level.)

***

When the salt,

the blood

are

all

washed,

the immaculateness

of being

alone

is

comforting.

(At the least, I still have myself.)

The Ridiculously Horny Disney Princess

"I miss him though. Too much. I miss the friend I had in him. But things got really, really messy."

"I hope he learns. Not necessarily get back with you. But I hope he learns what he didnt fully utilize during his time with you."

"I hope that he learns that I am not a Cruella de Vil. I just had needs. Itches that needed to be scratched."

"I hope he learns that you're a Disney princess who's ridiculously horny."

***

Dear Dan,

I miss you too much. But I know you couldn't agree more when I say that I don't deserve even your friendship. What I did fell under the category Kupalite activity. You have told me well ahead of time that you don't tolerate them, and such activities will make you just go away. I saw this coming. I don't have the right to whine and throw a tantrum over you just leaving me.

I tried to be good. To you. I tried to be good the way I knew good. I was trying, I wanted things to be better, I wanted to be better, but I eventually figured that my motivation was wrong. You laid out to me a chance, a shot to something that will weather years. I wanted more. More of you. I failed to understand that you are still broken, and there is only so much that you can give.

It had to take you going away, but know that I have finally learned the things that you have been drilling into me for the last four, five months. These, I will take with me well beyond the next five years.

Tempted as I am to give myself a pat on the back for having this record time with you, I figured I better not. The show ran for five months not because of me. You should be lauded for the efforts. It lasted mostly because of you. It ended because of me.

You lost the feeling. I lost the trust. I keep telling myself that maybe I was right in retracting the faith. I would rather not know if I am right for doing preemptive retaliation.

I love you. (Yes, I have a very skewed concept of love.)

Joie

***

Still utterly

utterly

confused.

(But I think I have a clue or two.)

A Confused Struggle

"I'm still upset about things. I can't talk right now. I can't think straight. We'll talk soon."

That

was a seventeen-word phrase

for

"Goodbye."

***

Strangers.

Strangers. Strangers.

Strangers no more.

Talk. Talk.

Talk some more.

A touch. More touches.

A kiss.

Another.

And some more.

Sex.

More sex.

And even more sex.

Hands. Sweat. Hair. Smell.

497 kisses.

1 kiss.

Words. A storm of words.

Silence.

More silence.

Strangers.

***

No closure needed.

No explanation required.

Moving forward = new digits.

(The whole melee will eventually be forgotten.)

***

I'm keeping the jacket.

Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh!

I have a very skewed view of love.

I claim to love my cats very much. I stroke their jaws, they love it (Try stroking your jaw, it feels nice. This is how I understood feline pleasure.) I squeeze them until they go "Kakkk. Kakkk." I don't care if I'm wearing black and I'm almost late for work. And the rounded bellies. This is where 1/19th of my salary goes. I make up impromptu lullabies for them. Lately, the lullabies are to the tune of that song that childless ladies dance to (Santa Clara, pinong-pino. Bigyan mo kami, ng anak na pito...), and "Alfie".

But I hate the part where I need to mash cheap sardines with will-be-bad-after-3-hours rice, turning it into a mess that the cats go into a stampede for. I don't like picking up broken shards of vases that they "played" with. I'm not too crazy about bathing them either, and I have not done this. It's torture for all species involved. And I detest, DETEST, having to pick up their digestive products. Cheap sardines make heinous-smelling cat droppings, and it took me a year to learn this.

I love them to shreds, but I hate the messy part of this love. The part that needs work. The part where my hands get dirty and there's a need for Betadine afterwards. The part where there's hurt and stink and more effort than stroking their jaws with my hands. But this...this is the part of love that makes it love even in the absence of the pleasuring touches.

And this, I learned too late. Way too late.

(Someone tell me that I am wrong.)

***

Amusing how I used the word "love" 6 times in the previous paragraph(s).

Wait, I think it was 7.

Anyways, what counts as "love"?

***

Tonight, I learned that I love him. This I knew when someone not him was kissing me, was holding me, touching me in places that make me go "Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh!" And I was closing my eyes all the time. All. The. Time. And I was pretending...

pretending

that

it

was

him.

An Unfortunate Vegetable

I am looking for a plastic bag.

Thankful that the rains have ceased. Track jacket is dry. It won't smell like earth and fungi even if I put it in a plastic bag and take it from Alabang to Makati. I forgot to get Downy for it. Nah. Another reason to put it off. I vowed to clean out my closet. If I don't do it tonight, I never will be able to.

Closure.

Where the hell are our plastic bags?!

***

Those affairs, they start out with exchanges of witticisms.

No different

from

this:

"An Unfortunate Vegetable" - Scene 1.41, Take 15

"What will make you happy?"

"Three things - love, sex and death to Jobert Sucaldito."

"Yes. You and the cucumber lovers of the world."

"He sat on it accidentally, you know."

"Amazing how you can intertwine your woes with that of an unfortunate vegetable. You deserve better, Joie, and so does the cucumber."

***

He... is totally wrong. The cucumber, it's not a vegetable. It's a fruit.

Scared. Very.

I wish I hadn't said certain things that I said. Now it's too late to unscrew things.

Too

late.

The Princess and The Horny Toad

Watching the last few episodes. Series ends soon.

***

Eleven eggs in the fridge. Frying an egg takes 3 minutes, 4 minutes if you're in Nueva Vizcaya (I can tell you why, bribe me with Chocnut). Tofu takes 15 minutes to travel from the vegetable bin to my plate. I nicely ask Princess, our domestic assistant (Joie, it's easier to type "maid") to fry me some tofu instead. She's better at frying tofu than coming up with decent eggs. This is how she does eggs - she takes one, taps the narrower tip, in balut fashion, and lets the contents pour into what would then be a smoking pan. She makes sure that nobody sees her while she prepares eggs this way. I think she intends to have this cooking method patented.

When she first came to our home, her name was Mylene. Now only my mother calls her Mylene now, when needing a massage whilst watching Showbiz News Ngayon. My sisters and I, the cats, yes, they, too, call her "Princess."

She claims to be from a remote island in Quezon. I'd like to believe that she's not dyslexic. She couldn't be iodine-deficient either, she's from a coastal community, seafood should be daily fare. But her knowledge of domestic tasks, I think I surpass. She doesn't know how to wax floors. She doesn't know how to use Joy dishwashing fluid. By the looks of it, chopping boards are an alien concept to her. First week with us, she did the laundry, and 72% of our clothes had crimson stains.

Over one dinner, I presented my theory to Kat. The new maid (there, I said it) is not a commoner. Her ineptness in household chores indicates one thing - she is royalty. She is a princess of some tribe in that remote island in Quezon. She doesn't talk. Aside from remote-island-in-Quezonese, the only language she knows is French. She came back from a boarding school in France, she was forcibly betrothed to a man 3.7 times her age, who fathered more than half the children in their tribe, possibly including her. She escapes. This is how she ends up in our home, tie-dyeing our clothes red. She will start her own fashion line.

And this is the story of why we now call her Princess.

***

Ooh, you'll wait a long time for me

Ooh, you'll wait a long time

***

"I want a new pet. I'm thinking in the reptile lines."

"Cold and scaly."

"Did you know that the horny toad is a lizard? I want one for me birthday."

Silence.

Rejection Is The Best Aphrodisiac

I have

at long last

found

the

Kilometer Zero

of my misery.

***

"Full. Tired. Sleepy. I want to teleport myself home."

"No. Teleport to my bed."

Silence

"What about the cats?"

"This will not be a very tought choice."

Of course, I will pick love, warmth and fur. No-brainer.

***

"Rejection is the best aphrodisiac." - Kimmy Go Dong Hae

Oh. This must be the reason why they all coveted me. All of them, save for him.

***

Dried my hair, this time, under the filthy bus a/c vents. In my bag is a copy of "The Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I stuff this book into my bag, no fail, for the last two, three weeks. I get to read at best 1 and three-quarters of a page of it only when I'm in bed, after I lotion my feet. I don't have my music player with me. The day is so wrong. I won't be surprised if I'm not wearing any panties.

Bus conductor decides to screw up with my change, and I noticed this only when I was buying boat tarts, realizing that I should have at least 3 P20 peso bills in my jeans pocket and I just had coins. I try to calm myself by remembering the many times that I didn't pay my bus fare. It didn't work. I already had too much sugar.

I keep counting the minutes, no, seconds, to my scheduled breaks. I fight the urge to leave my work station, lock myself up in one of the comfort room cubicles, and just scream, scream, SCREAM until our big bosses (bigger that Queen G, not needing be literally) decide to halt operations as all lighting fixtures in our office get busted.

I scram to the pantry for lunch and for a breath of sanity. There are only peas left in a bin labelled "Chicken Afritada". I end up Jollijeeping with Mikah. It still rains. In a choice between pneumonia and bad food, we pick the former. We share an umbrella, and I learned this - the right half of my body is not waterproof. She was wearing white pants, a bad, bad decision for a rainy day, but somehow, my jeans ended up getting more muddy.

The gym buff chicken I had won't yield to the cheap plastic utenstils. I should've just bought 2 cartons of non-fat milk. I'd have more nourishment. What I had for lunch was essentially just patis, starch and hair.

Dreaded end of the lunch hour. Back to work. So much stress, I felt the need to harm 8 random people. Browsed through the Employee Handbook for the sanctions of assault. Changed my mind. And Besty was resting, I can't mass send messages of frustration to people who love me enough to tolerate my rantings. So I distract myself, with Math, again. I pull up a calculator and compute how much I'll be getting for my final pay if I quit my job right away.

The day ends with me not missing more than 200 strands of hair.

I sit beside two shamefully fat people in the bus. I think to myself, could they be any more lonely than I am? I nap saying, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." They sense my displeasure. They try to keep their bare skins from touching mine.

I get home. I leave the gate agape. I leave my red umbrella open, a tired ballerina.

Adriane made omelette. For dinner. We feasted on it as we feasted on Jay Cuenca and Coco Martin. I was enjoying eggs and, well, eggs, when one of our cats turned on me. My thighs became scratching posts. Betadyne bottle in my hand. What a way to cap my day.

***

Stomp: Yes, you deserve better.

Fiery: We all do

Stomp: You deserve the fire. The carnal worship that makes us alive.

Fiery: There's nothing but embers where a fiery woman used to be.

Stomp: Once can still fan the embers.

Garden-Stolen Fowers

"We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that holds what is valuable for us. We create the being, but it is nothingness that we use. "- S

***

Wednesdays are a celebration of the week half done, and Friday is, well, Thank God It's Friday. So I have no love for Thursdays. This blah, uneventful day keeps me away from that bottle of subzero beer.

***

He remembered.

...and I have to speculate, that God Himself did make us into corresponding shapes like puzzle pieces from the clay.

Sweet closure.

***

I will do what I need to do

so I can do what I want to do.

I will chase what I need to chase.

I will stay put

and wait

for the icing on the cake.

But the cake, I know

I need to bake.

(So I can eat it, too)

***

Things I want for my birthday:

1. At least 24-hours of anxiety freedom.

2. Garden-stolen flowers.

3. A pack of Chocnut that I will not share.

4. A song number that was rehearsed for no more than 45 minutes.

5. Love.

6. World peace. (People who know me well will know that I kid not.)

(One out five. Not very bad.)

***

Someone explain this fondness for parentheses.

I Heart Mittwoch*

*When Sunday is taken as the first of every week, the day in the middle of each week is Wednesday. Arising from this, the German name for Wednesday has been Mittwoch (literally: "mid-week") since the 10th Century, having displaced the former name: Wodanstag ("Wodan's day").

- Wiki-grabbed by a very lazy, feverish writer.

***

The perfect recipe for a fever requires:

- A broken umbrella. Quaixi (it could be Bee Ghiao or Li Zhiou) of top Chinese quality, sold beside Maxx candies and cigarettes. Fifty pesos each (but if you're wearing a scandalous skirt, you can get it for P45 and a fake number). These umbrellas are good for 2 and a half storms at best. Can be conveniently "left" in a bus if it fails to open (or to close).

- Jeepney driver with an auditory impairment. This is what happens if one listens to all of Aegis' albums, stereos fully blast, all day. It's not enough to say "para" once or twice, in conversation decibels. It must be screamt at least 8 times. And by the eighth "Para ho!!!" he drops you off 15-20 meters from where you wanted to alight. The only people who get off the jeep right on time are stunt men.

- Mad rains, and winds to make the downpour tilt at a 45-degree angle, making the rain drops hit stronger because there would be a vertical and horizontal component to the force (one of the useless things I learned in College Geometry).

- A waterproof jacket that happens to be NOT waterproof.

***

It's no secret that I love Wednesdays. He needs to be in Makati schoolboy early, lest he wants to have encounters with the friendly guys in blue (MMDA Labs You). So we have breakfast on Wednesdays. It's Jollibug always, the one in our building, as I need to be in for work right on the dot. He says he's willing to bear food monotony for a little more time with me. I try not to find this sweet, but I fail.

6 am. Confirmed.

I've trained Besty to dance at 4 am. I wake up burning. All, yes, all of our 8 cats were snuggled to me for warmth, the way they gather around the back of our ref. I am their fireplace. I try to shout at them but I only let out a croak. I beg for more shuteye and hit the 10-minute snooze button.

It was 6:09 when I wake up. Hollow blocks were all over my body. The cats were gone. I look at my phone. An SMS from him. 5:44 a.m. - Are you awake? He's a seer. He must've known that I won't make it.

I taste phlegm. An attempt to rise, but it looks like I'm too weak to brush my teeth. I tell him that. I apologize profusely. Fortunately, my vitamins are on my bedside table. Three tabs of 500 mg Vitamin C on my tongue. I text Glenda that I'm rendering half day. An hour flies, I get acid reflux. I don't know if it's due to my anxiety over G not replying, or me having ascorbic acid for breakfast, or me missing another Wednesday with him.

I sleep some more. Still no word from the boss. She's most likely going through some rework I generated.

He says "It's ok." I feel better.

Fever and hyperacidity, coughs that give my temples misery. Miraculously, I was dressed (rather shabbily) by 10 a.m. I don't have to dry my hair, it will not be dry when I go out. It looks like fear of G's chagrin is a good anti-fever and antacid.

DISCLAIMER: I don't hate my boss. I can't.

***

"Next to doing a wheelbarrow, the best rush-of-blood-to-the-head is drying your hair with a hand dryer."

"You should do that more often."

I dare not ask what he was referring to.

***

All this, and I still love Wednesdays.

The Tao of Kating

She has the wisdom of a lazy-eyed astrologer. I better listen to Kat more.

***

"I have to warn you though. There's a song number." - Katrina Go, on "KimmyDora"

***

Me: We should watch "KimmyDora"

Him: You. Can't. Be. Effing. Serious."

*I show the text message to Kat*

***

So I saw KimmyDora with Adriane, the sister next to me, with whom I share my birthday and a loathing for Bea Alonzo. When we were kids, I chewed off a leg of one of her toy plastic figures. A C-shaped scar on my left (or was it right?) buttcheek is the mark of her retaliation. This is the first time in ages that we see a movie without holding hands with some guy we'd have a fight with later in the evening.

The highlight of the movie, for me, was the slipper beating. Spartan's (they should have used Rambbo's, although these are rarities, I will marry the man who gifts me with a new pair.) fresh from the crumply plastic wrap. My sister wasn't laughing as profusely as I thought she would, so I had to say "tsinelas" in between guffaws. Instructions for cockroach disposal were mistaken for human torture methods, with a riotous outcome.

I changed my mind about nine minutes before the movie ends. Extended shots of Zanjoe Marudo's crotch did it for me.

I changed my mind when I heard these lines:

Dora: I'm so happy, I feel like singing.

Kimmy: Me, too, I feel like singing.

Uh-oh. And I hear Kat. The whole thing becomes a blur of dashboard doggies, petticoats, fake rain and umbrellas. In my adult life, I can only appreciate movies culminating in song and/or dance numbers if the following are involved:

a.) hot, naked male contortionists

b.) oily midgets

c.) 20 tons of sago

d.) Dan

e.) all of the above

I have decided. My favorite part of the movie is when Adriane takes out a P500-bill for our tickets.

***

"I don't like him." - Katrina Go, in response to a text message punctuated by too many periods.

***

She has the wisdom of a lazy-eyed astrologer. I better listen to Kat more.

4.99 Years

Can't watch UP vs Ateneo, our TV conked out for some unfigurable reason. I don't know if it has something to do with the rains, our unpaid electric bill or our cats having fever. So I try to find a way to catch it online. And this internet connection that makes me bleed P2,000 a month fails me. I read my blog entries instead. Since May 2008. It was stressful, and I am left with the brand of embarassment one gets looking at old high school pics.

My entries, so much angst. My concerns, repetitive. Dissatisfaction. Over my job. My relationship(s). My weight. How missing socks demotivate me from wanting to shape up, and how getting stuck with an ugly seatmate on a bus on my way to work (up)sets the tempo of my day. I am so much affected by these little things. This reflects my level of (im)maturity. I turn 26 in a few days. Now, I know it's wishful thinking to say that the next, what,couple of dozen days will make a noticeable difference (unless I have massive amounts of fat suctioned from my body, enough to make 100 bars of soap, which is so much, I think I'd meet my end.) I'd still try.

I so want things to change. How I feel. About myself. About these, well, things. And I feel that I don't have a partner, an ally, not even from my family. Save for him. And he thinks that he's "nicer to me than he gets credit for," but he's dead wrong on that. I appreciate the things that he does, the things that he's not even obliged to do. Little things - getting me socks, buying me earphones with bass vents, bugging me no end to work on my portfolio (something we have incessantly and intensely argued about). I appreciate that he does these things because he is well aware of my dissatisfaction(s), and he wants to address those things that do matter.

Yes, those that do matter, and would matter still in 5 years.

***

D,

(I will try not to hit the backspace button as I write this. I will try.)

This ground that I stand on, that we stand on, it's alien to me. I don't know the rules in this arena. I have for so long been subscribed to the Scram and Change Your Number When Things Get Messy and/or Boring school of thought. Five months. I keep saying that I deserve a pat on the back for having stayed loyal. To me, it is an achievement worthy of a stamp on my hand. You say that it's the bare minimum, that one does not get an "A" for perfect attendance.That what we're doing, it requires work, something that I admit I'm not used to.I'm trying. We have different concepts of trying, but I know that I AM trying. I ask for more patience. I will buy you hypertensive medication when my bookS see the light of print.

Now I know that your fuse can only last long. I have seen you go ballistic over the things that I do (and the things I fail to do). I never tell you this, but it scares me when you TEXT ME IN ALL CAPS. I always contradict myself and always ask you to let go of these little issues, telling you that they would "not matter in five years." You say you'd just grin and bear it for "the next 4.99 years" just to make me happy. But this leaves neither of us happy.

I suddenly lose sight of the point that I'm driving at.

Anyway, know these things:


1. When I run, I wouldn't sway my arms unnecessarily, as I'd be wasting energy.

2. You're not a fat cow - you're a fab cow.

3. Bear with my hugs. I will not excuse myself for hugging you anymore.

4. We both have one foot on the ground, and it's perfectly understandable.

5. I will finish the Dan series first before popping in another DVD.

6. When I'm not replying to your messages, specially those IN ALL CAPS, I am busy. I am busy at work and busy being scared.

7. It still fills my heart with joy watching you dance while driving.

8. Wednesday is my favorite day of the week.

9. My universe does not revolve around you. It revolves around me. I know you would not take this selfishness against me.

10. I'm your fan. When I grow up, I want to be like you. So this means I have 10 years to grow up. I have enough time, it seems.

11. If you walk away, it means that I have grown up. And this, we both know, is a great thing.


(I don't even know what I'm trying to say, but I do know that you get it.)

***

You know what? You're warmer than you give yourself credit for. But then, you call yourself "an image-distorting manipulate." Can't care less. The ride is fun.

***
You're my bestfriend. Is it okay if I go looking for love elsewhere? If you say it's not, I'll sit here, next to you, and wait.

Mr. Deeds' Black Foot

Deedsy's frostbitten foot, soot black and devoid of feeling, with its "hideousness that will forever haunt my dreams," reminds me of someone.

***

Tired from last night's argument, but something tells me that nothing was resolved. I hope I'm wrong.

***

Man With A Joie Tumor: You know what..I haven't found anyone better than you after our last date... it's not na nanunuyo ako now or something.

Joie: Keep searching then, if you haven't found someone better.

MWAJT: Would you do the same?

Joie: Do what?

MWAJT: Looking for that better someone...

Joie: I've stopped looking.

***

A little girl drowned by a lily cluster in the River Pasig. Story is, her playmates insist that she does know how to swim, she just panicked when the current swelled. All night, there was a search and rescue operation. They find only more lilies, Lucky Me Pancit Canton wrappers and dentures.

After 12 hours, it became a search and retrieval operation.

***

Why are they taking so long to retrieve me?

***

The maid must've fed the kittens cheap sardines again. The smell on my hands tell me, and I was bothered. Then I remembered that the smell on my hands was from somewhere else.

***

I think the opposite of a writer's block has the very same effect.

I Will Never Have A Boyfriend Named Mark

This morning, whilst playfully blowing shampoo bubbles (with full knowledge that I will be late for work if I waste another 48 seconds), I have decided that I will NEVER have a boyfriend named Mark. Or Jonathan.

***

I shouldn't be ashamed of my fixation with lesbian porn. (And I am so straight, I think I'm a gay man.)

I shouldn't be ashamed of almost-one-week-still-unshaved underarms. (This makes it twice as hard for me to pick something to wear for work because 60% of my clothes don't have sleeves...or backs.)

I shouldn't be ashamed of my liking for Wowowee. (Next time someone flips the channel to Start Sports, I'll run amuck in the pantry.)

I shouldn't be ashamed

of

my

infinite

capacity

to

love.

***

I am convinced that Pokwang's head dress is connected to traffic density along Skyway at 5:49 p.m.

***

"You cannot bully me, or make me chug Baygon, but I offer myself just the same." - An Anybody.