Joie Unedited

Maybe I Should Write In Sign Language

2009-12-09T03:04:00.005+08:00

I eavesdropped on the most interesting squabble in the history of kindergarten.

It involved someone stealing someone's chocolate bar, and 4 broken pencils. The adults, they didn't care. But this...this was a raging debate, and my attention was unsplit.

She must be 5. I don't remember her name, but it has at least one Z and a C. Some name that excited parents give their children, with no forethought on how hard it will be for the poor thing to learn to write her name. There's a Dora sticker where there was a 1 x 1 picture on her school ID. She has a purple lunch box. Her prettier sister must have the pink one.

He had 4 candles on his last birthday cake. He cannot be named Enzo. Only remarkably cute or remarkably ugly babies are ever named Enzo or Ethan. He is neither remarkably cute nor remarkably ugly. I think he will come out when he is 14 or 15. If it were the 90s, he'd love beauty pageants and Mariah Carey and The Spice Girls. I am too sure.

I thought that crayons will fly. There was the stomping of rubber shoes 2/3 the size of mine. It was intense. I can't turn my head away. I had no shame in watching them. I did not care to be discreet. I know they will not notice me eavesdropping on them.

I know they will not notice me eavesdropping on their fight...in sign language.

I had never seen a more fierce expression of feelings. Maybe I should write in sign language.

***

This is me. In my perfectly imperfect splendor. In my pure awesomeness. Take it or leave it.

***

It went something like this...

Me: So, I dated this starving artist, and he sketched me naked.

Bulalo Person: Well, it makes sense. Writers make poems. Artists paint.

Me: I once dated an Art Director of an ad agency. He gave me a cute trash bin.

Bulalo Person: That...is precisely my point.

***

That

was

play.

An award-winning play.

Because

said

so.

When You Are About To Reach Orgasm...

2009-12-06T22:02:00.002+08:00

...do you say "OHMYGOD, SHITSHITSHIT!!!"

sinasabi mo...

"Aysyetputangina!"?

*A few days ago, I had a chance to get an answer. I forget. Someone should remind me.

***

That

was a poem

because

said

so.

***

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. - Anais Nin

***

Someone I dated curses in German as he nears orgasm, and right after, prays "Hail Mary" in Spanish before he sleeps. Obviously, he is more psychologically flawed than I am...so...it didn't work. I now avoid him.

When I was a small child (now, I am a big child), my father would belt me senseless, cursing in Ybannag incessantly. I hear him argue with work colleagues, in English, all the time.

I know a Fil-Brit, with a dreamy English accent, who dreams in Hiligaynon.

I need to remember.

I need to remember the language in which I breathe, cry and sing. I need to remember the language of my eyes as I look at someone I love. I need to remember the language to which I curse as I near orgasm. I need to remember the language of my tears.

And that language will be the spoken by my pen.

Because I Stayed Up All Night And I Cannot Write

2009-12-04T13:08:00.009+08:00

The rushing

of feet

to meet

new

lover.

The waning moon.

Hands.

Your hands. They make me beautiful.

The swirls from your pipe danced with the curls of my hair.

Peppered with words that we interweave.

I have tasted the color of your skin. Tempered passion.

And we made love as 16 street cats did.

Tomorrow, we are strangers.

***

Last night, I fell in love with a starving artist.

***

Him: And the smoke that rises from the dying cigarette spell you out in contours, swirling in tendrils and the stain of your lipstick.

Me: Honey, I don't wear makeup. But yeah, it's your universe of words.

***

Bad News: It's not about you.

Good News: You don't need to get jealous. Ok. You can.

How Does One Cut a Cake into Seven Equal Pieces?

2009-11-29T11:49:00.008+08:00

I woke up choking on my own tongue. Coughed with tears in my eyes, 5, 6 minutes. A backmasked video in my head. In between coughs, I tried to remember what or who it was about. They say that when you choke out of nowhere, or bite your lip, or maybe sever your tongue with your own teeth, somebody is thinking of you. I spent the afternoon scaring my self by looking at plates of red cars. I cannot deny - I was hoping that he was thinking of me.

I suddenly remember - I wasn't dreaming of someone who has a red car.

***

I woke up choking on my own sheets. It was 9 am. There's panic, then this elation. Panic on waking up feeling the sun, and not knowing what to wear. Elation on remembering that it's a Sunday, and I can indulge in my sheets for an endless number of hits on "Snooze".

I woke up with a weirdly urgent need to figure this out - who should I invite to my wedding?

***

A slice of my wedding cake each for:

7.) Anna. At all costs, she will be there. I am certain.

6.) Tita Lit. There has to be someone who will poke fun at the half-welcome guests.

5.) Sylvester, my favorite cat. Silvey will be ring bearer. I don't know a lot of cute little boys. Well, I do, but:

a .) I am not friends with their mothers, or

b.) I have yet to give birth to them.

4.) Adriane. She has never been a flower girl. My wedding will be her chance. I'll make sure that her dress won't make her feel that she has a cacti on each underarm. Out of 100 respondents, 73 flower girls say that it's the reason why they throw tantrums.

3.) Katrina. In every situation, I always need a dose of panic and worry.

2.) Mom. Because she is my only parent (yes, she gave birth to us in the same fashion that amoeba propagate - by splitting themselves.)

1.) My groom.

I have met all of them except for One.

***

So how does one cut a cake into seven equal pieces? How is love split into seven equal servings? The answer is, you don't. I shouldn't. I should cut it into 8 unequal pieces. A slice goes to me. And I will make sure that it's the biggest slice of all.

***

Oh. I failed to warn you that this is not about sex.

Fifty-Seven.

2009-11-26T12:38:00.006+08:00

I have never had indelible ink on my right finger. In a way, it means that I have blood on my hands.

***

Those 57 bodies.

To me, they are all strangers. They are I-could-not-even-imagine-how-many-miles away from me. Their lives are disjoint from mine. I don't even know what their names are. To me, they will just be the 57 bodies that have been recovered so far in the Maguindanao manslaughter.

I shouldn't be caring at all. I am perfectly safe where I am right now. The only discomfort I am feeling is this longing for spaghetti. There is not one bullet in my body. My hands are free to type, they are not hogtied. My eyes have not been gouged out. My privates have not been slashed. I still have my two feet. I am not decomposing, with blood caking in my jeans and my slippers. Nobody has attempted to turn me into fertilizer together with 56 or so other bodies, all using an excavator which should be building roads.

My heart is beating. I am alive. Yes, very much so.

But something in me has been deeply violated. A part of my humanity has been stolen. I am disgusted. I am indignant. My face is crimson with this anger that has been welling inside of me.

And I do not understand. There's a deluge of images and words and sounds. I try to, but I do not understand. It does not make sense to me. And maybe, it never will.

Events like these could only do two things to us. They could leave us stumped. Disoriented. Jaded. They could push us to resignation, to surrender. To just throwing the towel. To not caring since hey, we're here in the safety of the Capital, and if what we see in the evening news leaves us nauseous, nobody holds our thumbs back from pressing the power button.

Or events like these, they could rouse us from this apathy. They could stir us to action. They could push us to say, "Fuck, this should stop, RIGHT NOW." This collective anger, this mass of disgust, this rightful indignation, this energy - it could move us, more than, way more than 57 bodies, LIVING BODIES, to reclaim that piece of humanity that was stolen from us.

My thumb will not press the power button. My head will not turn away. I will take it all in. I have no right to whine. I have blood on my hands as I have never had indelible ink on any of my fingers. But in May of next year, the mark that my thumb will leave on some ballot (or some overly-priced scanning apparatus), no matter how minute and seemingly insignificant, will be my voice.

***

I really hate it when I need to wipe tears off my eyes, and it doesn't even involve a great sex.

Espasol-ly for You*

2009-11-11T22:25:00.005+08:00

*this is for Kating - bask in my jologs glory, Ading. I love you. :)

***

Cast of Characters:

Joie,26 - Recovering bipolar. Semi-retired pornstar. Serial monogamist. South Beach dieter for n days. Naiirita sa text lingo at sa mga 30somethings na nagbabasa pa ng Twilight. (Teka. Naiirita siya sa Twilight. Period.)

Adriane, 24 - Network Engineer,kapatid ni Joie. Galit sa mga tabinging throw pillow. Ang sweldo niya ay n times ng sweldo ni Joie (where n is greater than or equal to 2). Twenty percent ng sweldong ito ay napupunta sa mga hair products at kojic soap.

Kating, 21 - May secret inggit-slash-fascination sa boobs ni Kristine Hermosa. Magaling sa lahat ng bagay maliban sa pagbibisikleta at pagkanta. Naging ovo-lacto-pesco-vegetarian matapos makapanood ng video ng kinakatay na baboy.

Jay, 24 - Boyfriend ni Adriane. Sabi niya, sana dinala niya ang DSLR niya. Pero ito ang totoo - wala siyang balak na dalhin ang DSLR niyang 50 kyaw.

(with a cameo role from a barkada of espasols)

Setting: Kotse ni Jay, SLEX, Sunday night...

***

(Music: Fix You, Coldplay)

Jay: *drive, drive, drive*

Joie: Aghk. Espasol! (Iyak. Kain ng cashew nuts.)

Kating: Berigud ka, Ate. Sasamahan kita sa endeavor mo.

Jay: *drive, drive, drive* Uy, kain kayo ng espasol.

Adriane: O, wag masyado makalat yung powder ng espasol. Nakakahiya kay Jay.

Jay: Sus. Okay lang yan.

Kating: *hinuhubaran ang mga espasol*

Joie: *nate-tempt humingi ng espasol. kahit powder lang*

Kating: Yuck. Hindi masarap yung espasol.

Adriane: Ano ka, ang sarap nga e.

Kating: Hindi, hindi siya masarap. (espasol powder sa nguso)

Adriane: Masarap siya!

Kating: (nguso kay Joie)

Adriane: Ay...oo. Pwe.

Joie: (mga leche kayo. ihateyouall.)

***

This was brought to you by Colette's Buko Pie and Sweets.

Singtamis ng Wine, Singtatag ng Sunshine*

2009-11-21T20:29:00.003+08:00

*kapag alam mo kung saang kanta galing tong mga lyrics na 'to, may 54% chance na ikaw si Katrina Go.

***

Mahal Kong Kating,

Na-tempt akong magsorry sa dating sinabi ko na pa-conyo kang mag "Fuck You." Pero hindi ko na babawiin yun. Galing sa puso ko yun. Kung ako ang nasa posisyon mo, kung near-death na rin ako dahil sa isang natataeng jeep driver, malamang, hindi ko sinabi yung "Fowk Yewwww!" Malamang, sinabi ko, "Tangina mo ka, Manong!"

Hindi laging comfortable ang buhay natin. Maraming times na napuputulan tayo ng kuryente at malunggay lang ang laman ng ref. Alam ko na-experience mo na rin na ma-delay ang bayad ng tuition. Hindi sa lahat ng panahon, maginhawa. Pero alam ko na mag-a-agree ka sa akin na kahit hindi laging maalwan ang buhay natin, hindi natin ipagpapalit yung paraan na lumaki tayo. Hindi natin ipagpapalit sa bidet ang tabo natin sa banyo. Hindi natin ipagpapalit ang mga sachet ng toyo at suka sa kusina, at ang Champion detergent (dahil iisa lang ang Champion). Hindi natin ipagpapalit ang mga electric fan natin na kailangang i-pray over para gumana.

Proud ako sa ating magkakapatid, sa pagiging grounded nating mga tao. Kumpara sa mga taong nakakasalamuha natin, mas malawak ang pangunawa at mga pananaw natin sa mga bagay-bagay. Sige, oo na, hindi pa tayo nakakapunta sa ibang time zone, hindi pa tayo nakakaranas ng snow, pero alam ko na ikaw (pati si Adriane at Mayang din) ay a-agree na maraming mga maliliit na mga ligaya sa buhay ang hindi ipinagkait sa atin. Yung mga finer things in life, alam ko na paunti-unti, nae-experience na din natin. Pero malaki ang pagpapasalamat ko na pinalaki tayo sa paraang gusto kong mapalaki ang mga magiging anak ko.

Ita-try kong gumawa ng listahan ng mga maliliit na kajologang bagay na nagbubuklod sa ating magkakapatid.

1.) Videoke. Okay din naman ang RockBand, kaso walang mga kanta ang Aegis sa RockBand. Sulit na pang-alis ng pagod sa trabaho. Hanggang garagal na ang lalamunan. Hanggang may umangal na neighbors. Malamang wala naman. Kanya-kanyang panahon lang naman yan sa pag-abuso ng mic. Feeling ko nga, may unspoken treaty sa Camella Homes na bawal magreklamo kapag nagvi-videoke ang kapitbahay mo. (Teka, bayad na ba yung videoke player natin??)

2.) Teleserye. Nakakainis na dahil sa schedule natin sa trabaho, hindi na tayo nakakapanood ng "Katorse". Pero okay lang yan. Pakwento na lang tayo kay Mylene. Sana lang naliligo siya araw-araw. Pero sabi niya, hindi raw yata siya maliligo hanggang hindi na-re-reelect si Erap.

3.) Pagko-commute. Nakakapagod, oo. Nakakadugo ng wallet, I know, right. Pero naman. Saan ka pa ba makakapanood ng mga movies ni Dolphy at ni Philip Salvador? Which brings me to one realization - gusto ko naman pala ang mga movies na may song-and-dance number sa ending, provided na first na ipinalabas yung movie before 1991. Hindi ko din ma-explain 'to, pero effective na pampatulog yung mga nagpupunta sa harap at nagpapasa ng mga envelope na may nakalagay na "Love Offering".

4.) Street Food. Ma-achieve ko lang ang target weight ko, babalik ako sa pagkain ng kwek-kwek at gulaman. Nami-miss ko na rin yung mga donut na tag-P2, yung piniprito sa tabi-tabi lang. Yung pinagulong-gulong sa asukal. Mas masarap pa sa Krispy Kreme. As in.

5.) Spaghetting matamis. Nakita mo na ba yung bagong commercial ng UFC Ketchup? Naiyak ako dun. Hindi dahil na-touch ako, kundi dahil nami-miss ko nang kumain ng spaghetti. Yung matamis. Yung may 6/7 na bote ng ketchup. Yung natitirang 1/7 na bote ng ketchup, lalagyan pa ng mainit na tubig. Masarap na sawsawan ng galunggong fried to perfection.

6.) Tabo. Dati, naalala ko, for some reason, nawala yung tabo natin. Buti na lang, marami tayong lumang lalagyan ng ice cream. Mas masaya kayang maligo gamit ang tabo. Mas ramdam mo yung hampas ng tubig. Parang dura lang kasi yung shower e. Pero pag marami na tayong pera, papa-install tayo ng European style shower head sa banyo. Para kang naliligo sa alulod, ang lakas niya!

7.) Pamamalengke. Hindi mo masyadong na-experience 'to, kasi ako lang naman ang laging sinasama ni Mama kapag namamalengke siya. Yung mga characters sa utak ko, inspired sa mga characters na nakikita ko sa palengke. Hindi lang mga mikrobyo ang napupulot ko sa palengke. Sa palengke ako natutong magtiwala. Kahit gaano katagal mawala si Mama, alam ko babalikan niya ako kasi babayaran niya yung kinain ko na palabok.

8.) Gay lingo. Dati, nagagamit natin 'to para hindi maintindihan ni Mama yung mga pinaguusapan natin. Pero ngayon, dahil sa lagi tayez nag-ge-Gay lingo sa balaychina, pati si Mudrabelles, chumechever na. Kalerky.

9.) Sarah Geronimo. Tayo lang ang nakakaintindi nito. Dapat talaga siya na lang yung ginawang Vivian, instead of KC Concepcion. Napakapilit. Nakakasakit sa bungo yung pagpupumilit niyang maging jologs.

10.) Wowowee. Epektibong pampatalas ng isip ang game na Hep Hep Hooray (oo, Hep Hep, hindi Hip Hip). Kapag nasa office ako, naiinis ako kapag nasa Discovery Channel yung TV sa pantry kapag lunch time. Nililipat ko agad sa Wowowee. Nagbibigay ng ibang saya sa puso ko ang mga hairstyle ni Pokwang. Mas nakakayanan kong tiisin yung remaining half ng araw ko sa trabaho.

Bigla akong tinamad magsulat. Nag-vivideoke na kayo e. Hindi niyo na naman ako hinintay.

Looking back, wala ako dapat maging bitterness sa buhay. Marunong akong mag-English. Hindi ako nagte-text lingo. Marunong akong magmura ng malutong kapag hinihingi ng pagkakataon. Hindi sumasakit ang tiyan ko sa isaw. Alam ko kung paano mag-commute papunta sa Silang, Cavite. Matatag ako sa init (pero mahina ako sa aircon). Kaya kong mabuhay sa P50 sa isang araw, kung hindi ako lalabas ng bahay. Alam ko ang pinaka-bonggang paraan para ma-enjoy ang P500 sa isang araw.

Masaya ako sa buhay natin. Magaganda tayong mga tao, na kayang mabuhay sa lahat ng uri ng sitwasyon. Kaya natin 'to dahil kahit madalas tayong magmurahan at mag-"hiraman" ng napkin, mahal natin ang isa't isa.

P.S. I-promise mo sa akin na hindi ka mag-bo-boyfriend na mahilig mag-dudeparechong at nagsusuot ng orig na Crocs. Itatakwil kita.

***

If you are real, you will be ugly only to those who do not understand.

Cognac

2009-11-20T22:06:00.004+08:00

They are able to kill.

They are able to give life.

They can cause the dying breath of a man.

They can cause the erratic breathing of a woman.

Your hands.

***

366 days (give or take a thousand shared heartbeats)

No other lover has touched me without touching me.

Here's to distilling the cognac.

***

I want you to

reach depths unreached

then come back to the surface and be my friend.

I want you to take me

the way a man should:

brutal

reckless

almost animal.

Stop Reading Now, This Is About Love

2009-11-18T20:44:00.004+08:00

I was wearing only drops of water.

You kept putting your head between my legs. It wasn't the best time. We share the same bed almost every night. At night, your hand is upon my bosoms. But mornings...mornings are for myself. With your lips at my feet, I knew just what you wanted.

The madness of 5 a.m. I ran away from you. I put on the clothes that you were lying on earlier. You thought I was being coy.

So you did something that you have never done before - you bit me. Twice.

You don't do that to someone you love.

You must go.

You must go, Garf.

***

DISCLAIMER: Garf is our pet cat. I have a lot of sexual deviations, but I DO NOT PRACTICE BESTIALITY.

***

Up in the ranks with mascots and dogs in bringing me intense fear would be needles. Today, I needed shots to make sure that I don't end up fearing water, too, in a few weeks. I was scared beyond my wits (and I have a lot of wits, so that's A LOT of scared-ness). It's Wednesday. Everyone is busy wrestling with the week, to get it halfway done. I didn't expect anyone to go out of their way to be with me.

Today was a lesson in faith.

***

"Kung marami kang gagawin, wag na. Okay lang ako. Ninenerbyos lang ako ng bongga."

"Sigurado ka, okay ka lang?"

"Hahanap na lang ako ng puwedeng sumama sa akin. Yung malapit lang. Malayo ka pa e."

"Ako na lang. Paalis na ako."

***

Sitting on some rickety, many-times-repainted bench in some emergency room, remembering my disgust of hospitals and why I didn't become a doctor. The a/c unit (yes, unit, there was just one) wasn't working, but it wouldn't matter. I was cold anyways, and it was 1 pm. I'm not in love with my job, and I should be happy that I got a day's worth of sanity break, but I was endlessly annoyed that it had to be because of a cat bite. I don't know who to hate. Myself? The cat? My sister? Saddam Hussein?

So I sat there. Bored. Scared. Texting everyone I knew (and it's a good thing that it's not a very large number of people). "Oh, that's horrible." "Oh, I'm sorry." "Yes, you deserve it." Words that comfort the way your own saliva eases thirst.

So I sat there. Looking at my Betadyne-stained foot. Rubbing my hands with sanitizer every 3 minutes, hospitals make me feel filthy. Watching a girl who couldn't be older than 7, crossing an imaginary bridge made of tile lines. Wishing I could be a little girl again, so I could have the license to be scared. So I could have the license to throw a tantrum because I don't want needles, thank you. So I could have the license to hold someone's hand, close my eyes, then have ice cream when all of it was over.

Then she walked through the swinging doors. And at the age of 26, I was a little girl again. She held my hand as a needle pierced my arm. She didn't let go until the second needle was out, until I opened my eyes and sighed and smiled. She didn't promise me ice cream, but having her around was enough to make me feel that it's okay to be scared, I am still a little girl, and this will all be over.

I never had to look elsewhere. My mom will always be there.

***

Love. I have too much to learn. I have a great teacher.

A Letter to Someone Who Will Definitely NOT Be Named Jennifer

2009-11-15T23:23:00.005+08:00

If a little girl comes up to me, introduces herself as "Jennifer," claims that she comes from the future and declares that she is my daughter, I will not believe her.

No, it's not because I don't see myself having children. Do not get me wrong. I see myself, in the not-so-near future, raising an amazing human being made from amazing sex. I can see myself, in the not-so-near future, being an amazing mother. See, I don't find it hard to believe that I will have children some blessed day. I just do not believe, at all, that Jennifer is my daughter because of this - Jennifer is right on top of the list of names that I will NOT give my daughter.

***

To someone who will definitely NOT be named Jennifer,

That I did not name you Jennifer is something that you should be very, very thankful for (especially if you are a boy.)

I write this and I know that at this point, I am too selfish to have you in my life. I am too selfish to even have someone in my life who will donate the remaining half of your chromosomes. I am too selfish. Period.

I write this though I do not know when or how you will exist. I write this without any clue as to how things in my life will unfold to the part where I will get to smell the top of your head (I know your scalp will smell of lovemaking), and sing to you the music of my veins. Right now, I don't have much. I don't have enough to have you (save for my uterus and some other internal organs, but let's not get to the boring details). All I have is this - the stubborn belief that I will, in The Great Is's time, someday, hold you and keep you and love you with all that I am.

I have a messy life right now. Messier than my closet/hamper/recycling center. Messier than our house which is being renovated. Messier than my big yellow bag (it contains cashew nuts and bus tickets and a mascara that I don't use, save for when I'd be on a date, but then, I'm not dating right now). It's a mess, I don't even where to start mopping. And my concept of love, like my life, is very messy. I am reckless with people's hearts, including mine. I have a lot of things to learn, and even more things to un-learn. But at this point, I know this - I love you with a love that I cannot even imagine, or measure, or describe. I love you with a love that gives me hope, the hope that I will be able to heal and grow and blossom and someday, bear you.

I may not know the sound of your laugh when I say (or do, or both) something funny. I may not know how if feels like to get angry at you when you say (or do, or both) something that we will, in the future, realize to be funny. I may not know how life would be for the two of us (if it's the three of us, I am not sure, too) but know this - I dream of your laugh, and right now, when things are unbearable, I think of that laugh, and the fear, the pain, ebbs.

You. I do not know your name (but I know it will NOT be Jennifer). You inspire me to be a better human being so that when you come into my life, I will give to you, completely, without reservations, the very best of me.

You are my prayer.

***

I have a confession to make (but I'm sure you know this by now) - your father is NOT Phil Younghusband.

You Say You Plan To...

2009-11-15T15:33:00.004+08:00

...fuck me

sober

drunk

stoned

in every state of consciousness

every level of being

every bit of my soul.

Knowing you, knowing me,

this will most likely be

THE

best sex we NEVER had.

***

" you know enough

that the consummation

the act itself

isn't the point.

It's the psychology behind it

I like all these poetry and shit

when we talk."

***

Yes, I steal your verses. This is for all the orgasms that you will never give me.

Rediscovering Passion

2009-11-13T20:26:00.004+08:00

Today, I rediscovered this - I still have passion in my heart. That if I want something very, very, VERY badly, as if my life depended on it, I'd sacrifice a great deal of comfort to get it.

Today, I rode

a tricycle (7 minutes),

a jeep (15 minutes),

another jeep (40 minutes),

one more jeep (20 minutes),

a bus (1 hour),

walked 700 meters of gravel-slash-dirt road, under the 3 pm sun

just

for

P65-lip balm.

I spent my rest day, getting lost, getting hit on by jeep drivers wearing beer perfume, getting stuck in Alabang-Zapote road traffic (hands down worst traffic in the metropolis), eating cashew nuts, watching Eat Bulaga, reading at the most 2 pages of a book, telling the bus conductor "Kuya, ibaba niyo po ako sa Ilog Maria," every 7 minutes, as if I knew where the bee farm is. I spent the equivalent of two tolnampatchaitealattey's (my default Starbucks drink for now) in fare, just for a lip balm that costs less than half the caffeine fixes.

And of course, with the trouble that I went through just to get to Ilog Maria, I thought that I can't just go home with one lip balm. I ended up hoarding P740 worth of spa products, which, if I bought online, would cost me a little more than P1000, shipping and handling included. But the, where's the fun and excitement and life-endangerment in that?

I have become convinced that after a lot of failed dreams and relationships, I have turned into a passive person. I'd just take the most convenient person who comes around. I'd just sign the most convenient job contract that comes. I'm all about comfort, settling - which eventually leave me in a great deal of discomfort, a raging feeling of unsettledness. Today's trip to Revilla-land, to the bee farm, to a place of honest-to-goodness, no-to-advertising-it's-the-devil's-hand-at-work products, convinced me otherwise. I am still a person of passion. I'd go to great lengths for the perfect kiss.

I spent more than I thought I would. I got more tired than I thought I would. But I have no regrets save for this - I should have worn at least SPF 50.

***

Today, I finally had sugar again. Just a lick of it. But it's okay. The honey scrub is for my face, not for my tongue.

Today, I re-learned the value of sacrifice. Of perseverance. Of plain not giving up.

Today, I re-learned this - that life, yes, is sweet. And it's not just for the bees.

Today was a good day.

This woman needs eyebrow threading. Very badly.

2009-11-12T23:43:00.002+08:00

The following is the most enlightening conversation I have had in my 26 years:

Joie: Uy, Mylene, kumain ka na ba? (Hala. Bakit nakatingin lang sa kin si Mylene? Kinukulam ba niya ako in her mind? Wala na talaga akong time maglaba ng panty, pasensya na, Mylene...)

Mylene: (Jesus. This woman needs eyebrow threading. Very badly.)

Joie: O, ano, bakit di ka sumasagot? Kumain ka na ba? Baka bigla mo na lang kaming isumbong sa asawa mo na hindi ka namin pinapakain. (Shet. Pinakuluan niya yung panty ko, at hipnotismo na 'tong ginagawa niya. Mamaya, may lalabas ng bayawak sa ilong ko. Shet.)

Mylene: (And upper lip threading, too) Oo man, ati.

Joie: Sumasagot ka naman pala e. E ano namang kinain mo? (Paano kung gusto pala niyang kainin ang atay ko?! Oh holy kamote tops!)

Mylene: (Oh. Those pores. Does she even get paid enough to have a facial?)

Joie: Ano ngang kinain mo? (Please, don't say na kaluluwa ko.)

Mylene: (Oh Lord. I really, really need to speak to her.) Pagkain, ati.

Joie reaches Nirvana.

***

I complain no end that I am having a shit time at work, that my job is sucking the life out of me. I have about 27 hours to do something insane, something to bring my joie de vivre back, and I am totally clueless. I don't want to plan. I am waiting for some wild, undismissable compulsion to attack me. Something that will rouse me even from the deepest of sleeps, make me pack just the very basics (money, underwear, valid ID) and just hit the road.

I want to live. Really live. I want to reclaim my passion. I want to fix me. I want to heal. I want to dance. I want to remember, remember the lyrics to my song. The song that The Great Is whispered to me at birth. The song that will guide the dance of my life.

***

Brutal truths that I have to chew today, in the absence of carbs.

1.) I have been an underachiever.

2.) I don't have a career, just a job that gets me through from payday to payday. Barely.

3.) Carbs make people happy. I don't eat carbs. Therefore...

4.) I miss Dan so much. I miss him more than I miss carbs.

The Best Diet/Relationship Tip*

2009-11-09T22:23:00.006+08:00

*came from someone who once fed me something that was bad for the heart.

***

Bulalo Person: You're on a fucking South Beach diet?!

Me: I am. Stop mocking me?

BP: Okay, okay. I’ll try. What mortal sin did you commit to deserve such a predicament?

Me: I just thought I'd challenge myself.

BP: Well good for you. Who's gonna want you when you're hot and sexy already? tsk tsk…wait....I'm not saying you're not hot and sexy yet.

Me: It’s a commitment exercise.

BP: So it's easier to commit to your diet than most things eh?

Me: Yes, that's exactly my point.

BP: You should print that on a shirt.

***

I am alarmed. I'm losing a LOT of hair, the amount of hair that one loses after engaging in a cat fight (yes, you're right, I know this first hand.) In a choice between being fat and bald...I'd rather be...bald.

***

Impromptu trip to Tagaytay with sisters. Reveling on a chilly Sunday. Choco-dipped donuts, buko tarts and cups of chocolate, all with a warmth that makes one temporarily forget that the mania of Monday is just hours away. All I had were cashew nuts and non-fat chai tea latte. Their freezing fingers made L-signs on their heads. Moments like these, I am all the more convinced that my sisters do love me.

***

Me: The diet spans 6 weeks, which is longer than most of my relationships.

BP: So like most things, resist the urge to cheat with an ampaw.

Joie: That's the best relationship tip thrown my way in years.

BP: I was talking about the diet.

Joie: That's the best diet tip thrown my way in years.

Queen's Devirginization Day*

2009-11-08T00:46:00.003+08:00

*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

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

2009-11-04T23:13:00.009+08:00

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*

2009-11-02T22:16:00.007+08:00

Yes.

I want it

fat,

hard,

and

sharp.

I want it to

just

barely

fill

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]

2009-11-01T16:02:00.005+08:00

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

2009-10-18T20:23:00.002+08:00

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*

2009-10-17T10:59:00.005+08:00

*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

2009-10-12T22:05:00.005+08:00

*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,

are always on a spiritual journey

- even when we feel most lost.

- Frank, postsecret.blogspot.com

The Law of Impenetrability*

2009-10-11T13:05:00.003+08:00

*states that no two things can occupy the same space, at the same time.

***

I haven't heard from him for weeks now, but he's still here. So here.

The Friendster pen that I used to jot down "buy hangers and panty shields". The Kermit green micro waste bin where my bus tickets are crumpled, together with my last pay slip. The nasal spray that I won't be needing anymore (and is now in the Kermit green micro waste bin.) The crayons, waxy stubbles of colors, that are gathering dust now, all of them are grey to me now. The bottle of Olay Total Effects cream that made me break out (which is going to the Kermit green micro waste bin as well.) The P80 track jacket, which my sister is wearing. Conversations that play no end in my head. Tastes. Touches.

Restless, I try to run.

But he's still there. With me. In me. All around.

The Daft Punk track blasting through the earphones that he bought me. The Kenny Open race singlet I'm wearing. The socks that once wrapped his feet, now embracing mine. And the AdiZero shoes, of which he has a male version, his superadvanced birthday gift (although I knew back then that he'd give me something else).

I don't want to do another postmortem analysis of what happened, who did what wrong. But I will not deny that I never stop missing him, breathing is labor many times, that I feel empty because he's not here but fuck, he's still here, and that right now (and yes, right now's end, but they linger for a painfully long time) nobody else can sit in that spot in my heart where he has carved the shape of his ass.

***

Dear Anna,

You know me all too well. I am hurting. I don't say much but as I sat there very, VERY still, right across from you, you knew something was amiss. You know that I am not the same. I do not keep it from you. And I know you are not the same, too. I don't know though if we're different now in a good or in a bad way. I take comfort in the fact that floods, yes, they come, but there are things that cannot be washed over, like this friendship that we have.

It doesn't matter who hurts more. The circumstances, our respective circumstances, are not comparable. Only one thing is parallel - both of us, we are in pain. It will take countless cups of expensive coffee and lunches for this to go away. Or maybe, the pain won't go away. At all. We'll just get used to it.

Contrary to what you may think, I do pray. All the time. I don't understand a lot of things now. I'd think I do, then I'd change my mind. Just when I thought the silt and mud and dust has settled, the waters become turbid again. At times, things don't make sense. There's anger and pain and spite and regret and sadness...just this consuming sadness. I do pray. If I don't, my breathing, hard as it is right now, would stop.

All will be well. We both know that.

I missed you a lot.

***

I know he doesn't care about me at all. But just so he knows, I wish that someday (and I know this might not be soon, but I know that this someday will come) I'd make him proud.

The Right Way To Pronouce Chaos*

2009-10-08T22:28:00.014+08:00

(image is from the Instituto Cervantes website)

*is NOT "tsawos." But this is debatable.

***

Three Spanish films in five days. Some badly needed culture. The fat blob inside my skull has been disintegrating aggressively. Caotica Ana is up in the ranks with Trainspotting as one of the most beautifully disturbing films that I have seen. First time in a movie that I saw someone shit on someone's face. Literally. The second time I see it won't hit me that hard, I'll automatically deem it as a rip off. Odd that I find it easier to appreciate a film if the actors don't speak a lick of English and I need to rely purely on subtitles.

Caotica Ana was pregnant with metaphors. Doors. Dreams. Cracked skulls. I felt retarded as I was watching it, more retarded than Anglo, the guy who spoke Spanish with an American accent (Re-queer-dow. That was a giveaway). He reminded me of my cousin JC, (who just headed back to his "native" Cali and is sorely missed by the Cortina girls) who speaks Filipino just a knot better than Troy Montero (Who is most retarded of the lot. Geez. Ten years in Manila and he still bastardizes the language.)

I doubt that I will ever see a more brilliant sex scene in another movie. Mouths agape in orgasm. Skins bronzed by erotic sweat. The tension of the muscles. A momentary regression in the evolution ladder. The seismology of making love. The motion, yes, the motion. How the other senses blur, drowned by some electricity.

Ravenous birds. Circling. The last breaths of the dying woman was perfume to them. Tearing her up piece by piece. The sinews of the eyes being pulled out. Powerful images.

And the shitfaced white man. The "stolen" sausage. The brutality that Ana took, in her nakedness and vulnerability, in which she discovered her truth and beauty and strength. A bruise. A blow in the head. A lip busted. A tooth missing. A dementedly enlightened smile.

This is a woman's journey to the center of herself. The excruciation of going through lives (and deaths) of other women. In going through many, many deaths, slipping through borrowed dreams like one does into borrowed dresses, Ana was born.

I so wish to be born. It looks like I need to die first. Many times over.

***

Significance. Yearning for significance.

Three Thousand Six Hundred Seconds

2009-10-06T20:53:00.003+08:00

You try to hit me just to hurt me

So you leave me feeling dirty

Because you can't understand

- Mayer

***

I spend 9 hours a day

five days out of seven

hating, hating myself

being constantly reminded of the disgusting choices that lead me to the draining, mind-maiming grind that is my everyday

of the incessant, "Shit, shit, shit, I'm am so fucking better than this."

The pretending to care.

The knowing that we're good, but plain sucking at what we do.

And there's that one hour

that one hour out of the nine...

an hour of sanity

of unpretentiousness

of knowing that we can curse in rage (and knowing that the other understands, really understands)

an hour of saying things without regard for propriety or manners (or eavesdroppers)

of saying things without regard for pertinence.

The bad food.

The people who have less IQ points than we have (but whose paychecks are less malnourished than ours).

The stunningly beautiful women. The stunningly ugly women.

The science of orgasm races.

The sorry state of this republic (and me choosing not to complain as I haven't casted a single electoral ballot in my life).

Intellectual masturbation over lunch (and wiping our messes, knowing that the hour, the 3600 sweet seconds, will be over).

The lunch hour is over.

The day is halved.

The day was made bearable.

(Here's to more Frosties and laughter and the things they'll never figure out)

***

Oh, no, don't get me wrong... I still won't sleep with you. :)

Noodles, Canned Goods and Sex

2009-10-03T15:15:00.002+08:00

"I had birthday sex. With a guy who came from the seminary."

"Good for you."

"It was as good as instant noodles. Go figure."

"Depends on the brand/type of instant noodles."

"Quickchow."

"Soggy noodles, or just right?"

"Soggy. Melts in your mouth."

***

"I really need to get laid. Soon."

"Well there's tomorrow. Oh wait. I'm still exempt from your request."

"You are?"

"I remember you communicating I'd be more of a desperate choice."

"I did?"

"Yet I'm still here. Fancy that. Why? Have I been promoted in your list?"

"Huh? Not really. I'm just horny. Anyways, I'll text one of my exes."

"Regardless, pretty sure I've made thinly veiled hints of my willingness."

"Yes, yes."

"Perhaps I should text one of my exes. Soon as the flood goes down."

"Exes. They're like canned goods."

"They still expire over time."

"2 years."

"I suppose you've stocked up quite a menu over those two years."

"Oh yes."

"Lucky you. I think you outlining your escapades will drive me mad at some point."

"Come on. Give yourself more credit than that. I'm 26. I can't sleep around when I'm 43, can I? Or God forbid, 57.

***

This I have figured out - I don't really want a relationship. I just want intimacy.

(I will change my mind. People hope so.)