On Ordinariness

A few months ago, my roommate L and I had a memorable conversation about someone she knew. This acquaintance apparently referred to herself as someone very ordinary, someone very normal, and L simply couldn’t understand how someone with potential enough to earn a spot in the country’s top university could ever be so unambitious. At the time, I agreed with my roommate fully. What was, after all, the point of working hard, studying hard, if our only goal was to be? There had been, back then, only obvious goal for me: becoming extraordinary, immortal.

As I was wrapping the new books I bought earlier though, I came to accept something I had always known, something I’d perhaps always considered for a very long time. All the books I had bought, all the books I had read as of late, were chick lit. The kind of reading the me of four years ago would scoff at for being so unabashedly cliché and mainstream. These were the books I was willing to go hungry for, the stories on which my sanity depended on. The semi-adult in me conceded: I was just an ordinary person. There was not much that singled me out from the average single young woman on the street – except maybe, I had messier hair.

The thought doesn’t even bother me that much anymore.

Job Descriptions

One week to the summer, and for once I’m excited.

Six summers ago, I was 14 and touted to become part of my high school paper’s Editorial Board. To earn the responsibility, we had to attend this extremely fun writing seminar that our own moderator – only 24 at that time – organized especially for us, perhaps out of pity that children with such endless free time were letting their high school experience tick by without any real moments of productivity. Miss G, as we called her then and as I call her now, devoted one part of her lecture on grammar and prose and stylistics to Job Descriptions. Six summers on, I fail to recall exactly which English grammar rules we talked about – and yes, I still have trouble with who and whom – but I still remember – almost perfectly – what little we discussed about Job Descriptions.

In a management setting, a leader has to tell her subordinates exactly what is expected of them. A checklist must be provided: do this, do that, you’re forbidden from doing any of the things listed below. I remember this lecture quite well because the examples given were completely far out. Supposedly, at the end of a first date one had enjoyed immensely – therefore, ensuring the occurrence of a second date with the same person – one must write down rules for the other to agree to or to amend. This practice, Miss G convinced us, would make less possible the chances of a couple breaking up due to misunderstandings. See, if you both knew what to expect out of each other, life would be less complicated, right?

[And here, I interrupt my own reflections to promote my favorite anime series of all time, Ghost Hunt. What follows is a line from a Fanfic dedicated to the show, and although the plot of the story’s not at all canon, the characterization is excellent. So Shibuya Kazuya, despicable protagonist extraordinaire, says:

“Wouldn't you think that a relationship that serves multiple purposes would be more likely to endure? It's only logical—as a consumer, you select the option that suits most of your needs. The more functions it serves, the more it justifies itself. That's the way you would choose a cell phone, a car, even a piece of furniture—why not a girlfriend?"~ Shibuya Kazuya, Rules of Engagement by Amaranth Adanae

In the real world, however, no one really lays down the rules first thing. In fact I doubt a lot of people set guidelines for relationships at all. We, all of us, can be saved from a lot of pain if we’re not egged on to believe we’ll be getting exactly what we want out of personal relations. We can be saved from a lot of pain if we know, early on, what we can and cannot have, what we should and should not expect.

And though I’m a personal believer of ‘trial by fire’ I also think not everybody is better off after experiencing heartache. A friend, for example, had believed she would get so much out of an endeavor she had poured all her time, her energy, her hopes into – only to realize, three years later, that the foundations of said enterprise made it impossible for all her expectations to be achieved. Long story short, she got hurt. She’s still hurting.

And while I personally rejoice when my heart twinges, no matter how softly – if only to prove I’m still human – I don’t like seeing the people around me cry. And I certainly don’t like seeing the people around me get hurt because they didn’t know what they were getting into. I think it’s one of the saddest things ever, expectation.

on my half-assed work ethic

better late than half-assed

... is what I like to tell myself when I procrastinate. See, I believe creativity comes from sudden inspiration, that you can't just sit and write a good article, that you can't just wait for the right image to appear on your head and flow out of your brush. It's a sick, skewed, abhorrently twisted line of thinking, I know, but for the longest time, it has been a way of life for me.

I had always known I was lazy and selfish. When Ondoy ravaged Manila and kids my age where active in relief operations everywhere? I was in my dorm room, engaged in activities so inconsequential I can barely remember what they are. Now that Haiti's a disaster zone - and that's putting it mildly - I'm writing a blog entry about me, me, me. Woe to me.

I guess the point of this rant is, right now, I make myself sick. Although I had always been numbly aware of my piss-poor, halfhearted performance in everything, always getting things done, but rarely getting things done as well as I would had I poured in TOTAL effort, that fact never bothered me. Reactive all the way. Sean Covey's eyebrows would rise way up till the high heavens upon seeing me on a typical day.

So yes, I make myself sick. I wish I could feel things. I wish I could get angry at politicians who steal people's money, I wish I could cry over the loss of several thousand lives due to successive earthquakes worldwide, I wish I could worry enough about my future to study more than ten minutes a day outside class. Damn it. What is wrong with me?

never assume

That is the cardinal rule.

When I was in senior year of high school, one of my guy friends suddenly pulled me over and started talking to me about this girl he had a crush on. I didn't like him, not romantically, but for some reason, my heart skipped the moment he started talking about that, about how great she was, how fantastic she was, how he knew there was no one else for him but her. Vanity. Maybe even pride. Those probably explain my heart-thumping moment then.

He talked about how he would go to the place where I ate lunch just to see her. He talked about how beautiful her voice was, how bright her personality was. And silly me - silly stupid me - I thought I knew what he was talking about. I thought that was his prelude.

And then he said he had nursed a crush on her since freshman year. And I thought, we didn't know each other in freshman year. I turned to look at him, heat creeping up my neck out of embarrassment, probably even anger. But he was staring off, that proverbial faraway look in his eyes. I had just been the confidante after all. She had bested me again.

Thawing

For the longest time, I've been nursing a numb heart. I don't know how it became so frigid, but I hardly attribute it to the scarring prison lock-down that was high school. I'm not even talking about an inability to love romantically - I'm referring to an inability to feel compassion, an inability to care about things that move normal people. Undoubtedly, it's benefited me on the whole. I've learned how to listen to my friends' problems without batting an eyelash, offering possible courses of action, and how to bounce-back almost immediately from any roadblock. More than once, I've heard people call me strong. And it felt good, knowing deep down, that nothing could touch me. Because only a handful of things in my life mattered.

Lately though, I've been getting a bit emotional again. I'm not sure why either, but the feelings suddenly just shot up, until I realized my heart was functioning properly once more. I became capable of relating to movies Mary likes, movies like Never Let Me Go and stuff. Watching Skins, my strongest response wasn't my typical 'I'm-so-lucky-I-live-a-normal-life' kneejerk - I actually felt sad for the series' characters. And reading Beneath the Lilac Tree by archangelBBQ on FFNet, I felt moved instead of insecure and jealous.

What is happening to me? Why am I becoming human?

finally, i belong?

The Normal Curve looks like this:

For the first time in my life, I am Normal.

Like something straight out of a cheesy American movie plot - of a type so depressing you dare not shed tears - my existence staged its peak during high school. (Aren't I too young to be going through a midlife crisis?) These college days have filtered by in a succession of multi-colored pixels compressed to form teenage girls in sailor outfits, and I don't remember anything huge or life changing that happened to me in the last four years. No falling in and out of love. No tears caused by an intrepid, close-knit Catholic school faculty. Definitely no lasting effort to reinvent myself for my own sake. For four years, life just happened. Only it didn't happen remarkably enough.

I would offer my entire Harry Potter collection - novellas and all - to be one of those girls who bloom in college. The type to excel so rapidly my progress'll shock everyone. The type to register any progress at all. But I'm past my prime. I've shown all I could show in high school, when my world was smaller, and the other fish liked my scales well enough to think they shine. Here, in the microcosm of the bigger world, I am fish feed. I am the wriggling worm whales look at when they're unsure of their size. And when they see me, their doubts evaporate. Yes. Compared to some, I'm good enough. Or so I think a whale would think.

Consider this my rant page. Or a neon-flagged blog post in a sea of angst-filled soliloquys. The cutesy, witty site mast fooled you, dinnit? I'm your resident Holden Caulfield, just less eloquent. A perfect, well-balanced life can do tortures to an idle brain.

Here's to hoping I'm just hormonal.

How to be a YouTube Celebrity

Lunch with Paraluman Conspiracy earlier today. It's a sorta-habit of ours to meet up at least once a month, for dinner or lunch, or whatever. We try to talk about things, like who's dating who - and other less gossip-ish stuff, of course. And walking home, it struck me how different N and T are now compared to their old, freshie selves.

About two or three years ago, I could still keep up with their conversations about music, about books, and about artsy-fartsy films. But now, I can't even put in my two cents' worth about T's fanfiction.net rebirth - as if I'd lost all capacity to elicit an opinion from my inner depths or something. It's as if... I've stagnated, and they've grown so much more than I have. Kind of sad, really, not being able to relate fully to your friends.

So I pondered on what I've been doing these past three years, what I've been doing that caused me to veer off the shared track of N and T. And I realized, I haven't been doing anything at all. Except, maybe, finish about twenty anime series, befriend half the Asian romcom celebrity sphere, and write tons of fanfic crap. Which, really, isn't much. Wow. Three years of regression.

But enough ranting. My latest addiction this week is YouTube. I've discovered some really fun people through it, like my future husband kevjumba, my future groomsman nigahiga, and my future bridesmaid happyslip. I'd totally embed their vids here, only I don't know how to... embed. So anyway.

J asked me why I like kevjumba more than I like nigahiga. Tough question - after all, nigahiga's more popular. Thing is, though, I think Kevin's actually a really serious person once you get to know him - the competitive, irritable type who involuntarily hides behind a comedian persona. I like that in people - knowing they have layers you have to peel to get to know who they truly are. Plus, Kevin's got a much cooler voice, and his editing is better than nigahiga's. And I like how he allots a portion of his YouTube royalties to charities - plus points, too, for his cute relationship with his dad.

So yeah, just me, ranting.

heartache

When I’m depressed, I tend to eat a lot of noodles. I know they’re difficult to digest, and so they clog up in one’s intestines, but it’s either that or coffee – and there are times when I’m just not in the mood to see coffee. Take tonight for example.

This morning, my thesis partner S and I went to this Stata workshop our batch representatives organized. It was truly fascinating, taking all those commands in – one of those rare moments when I found joy in my course. Although I understood most of what our speaker had been explaining, however, it seems – irony of ironies – that I’m still unable to apply a certain theory on my own. That one crucial theory. And the worst part is, my thesis partner doesn’t know what to do either.

Stupid dummy variables. To think it’s just a case of dividing the data into responses from males and responses from females. It’s just a case of labeling one 1 and labeling the other 0. It’s just a halving of answers. But it’s giving me such a heartache – hardly a headache, really. My pride can’t accept having come this far into my course yet still being unable to execute this simple step that should be standard knowledge for someone of my educational background.

I could always just ask for help, of course. Problem is, I don’t have too many friends in my own department, and the friends I do have aren’t familiar with Stata either. So maybe, just maybe, in a fit of dramatic depression, I’ll just sit here in my hard wooden chair, and try to keep myself from adding one more pack of my noodles to this evening’s mistakes.

learning by teaching

I read in an ad for a volunteers' teaching center some years ago that you learn 90% of what you teach. Whether this is true or not, I've never been bothered to confirm, though it must be true if teachers generally subscribe to it. Why else would they assign reports as part of a standard curriculum then? Granted, it could also be because: (1) they can't think of new ways to grade their students; (2) they want the rest of the class to learn from kids their age; or, (3) they enjoy making students' lives hell. Whichever.

Since high school, I've been convinced that I am a curse when it comes to group reporting. I don't recall a single report I did with groupmates where everything went perfectly - although maybe this is only due to my propensity to remember the worst of the worst. I remember this particular report for Comm3 about ethos, pathos and logos - and, big surprise, I can't even recall exactly what they're supposed to be - where my part of the report dragged on FOREVER, leaving very little time for the rest of my groupmates to do their part. And Sir Dave... well, he's nice, but he can't exactly go around giving time extensions to students who can't use their reporting time wisely.

If I relayed to you, dear nonexistent reader, a comprehensive account of my encounters with the horrors of group reporting, this entry would span the length of an entire FB homepage - and note that this blog's font is tiny. So to save time and effort, why don't we zone in on a particular event that will serve both as evidence for my argument, and as an interesting conversation piece for parties when drunk people decide to play the let's-embarrass-each-other game.

I promised myself that I wouldn't blog about this, as it's too irritating to think about without resorting to hair-pulling antics. But anyway.

Psych108 (Filipino Psychology) is a fairly lax subject. Requirements: the one thing our readings have been focused on for most of the semester, the concept of kapwa. Apparently, it's the Filipino core value that every nationalist scholar has been trying to unearth beneath all those other qualities the Americans tried to inculcate in us. So shrewdly, our teacher made sure kapwa was the center of everything we did in class: group activities, team building disguised as pakontest, questions on readings disguised as group performances, a group paper, a group performance...

The day of our performance, most of my groupmates - who are a batch younger, although we all belong to the School of Econ - had exams in some of the most horrible subjects I've ever had to go through in all my four years at SE. Naturally, given my thick-faced nature, I volunteered to do the powerpoint for the performance - we had settled on doing a skit inspired by Hiraya Manawari and revolving around the idea that the Americans tried to instill 'unnatural' values in us through the textbooks they made our kids read during the early 1900's. It took me SEVEN HOURS to finish that powerpoint; I am honestly very proud of it, because almost each slide has a video or SFX, and I gathered all the pictures despite my crappy Internet connection.

Given I spent seven hours on that thing, and I started working on it late at night, and I had to wake up at six the next morning to get to the seven AM class that I could not afford to miss, I SLEPT FOR JUST ONE HOUR. Normal to others, yes, but a highly disturbing thought for me, a girl who reverts to zombie mode if forced to function with less than six hours of snoring. Surprisingly, though, I held up pretty well, even given my poor experience with lack of sleep. Until the report proper, that is.

The man who set up the LCD projector had told me NOT to step on any of the wires he had laid out on the floor near my feet. He had told me that if I put a single toe on that extension wire near my left foot, the LCD would die, and so would our group report. I told him I understood his instructions perfectly; I had spent SEVEN HOURS on this one twenty-slide strong ppt - I was not going to put all that hard work to waste. And so the play began. The speakers weren't working so well - tough luck, but we tarried on. Our lead actress didn't seem to have internalized her role properly - heck, at least she's trying. And now, now, it's my part -

Oops. Did I step on the wire? Why is the wall suddenly a spotless black?

You get the idea. Surely. Another mishap care of yours truly. The good news is that none of them felt like I was at fault for our disastrous performance - and to be honest, even I don't think it was all my fault. The bad news is that things would have gone a lot better if the ppt had worked; after all, things we work SEVEN HOURS on can't be all that worthless when applied, can they?

This whole thing has unleashed in me a fresh fear that I'll bungle up my next group report, in Geog105 (Economic Geography) this time. I mean, how good can your report be if you're tasked to answer the question: What is the role of economic geography in the development of different countries? Attempting to answer that would be a lot like attempting to answer the question Why do birds have wings? only to find out you weren't supposed to research on the topic - you were expected to say, Because they were destined to fly. Or something as in-your-face as that.

Stagnation

16th August, 12:29 AM

Has it ever bothered you that 12MN is also known as 12AM when it actually follows 11PM?

Had a long, enjoyable, enlightening talk with Chinnie at the Araneta complex earlier. We sat on those stone borders separating the Araneta Coliseum plant life from the sidewalks, chatting for hours, pondering the behavior of our friends, discussing the concept of stagnation.

Stagnation. To me, it seems the complete antithesis of progress. So if one doesn't progress at all, that's literally decay, even if one does manage to produce "something". Personally, the idea is vague to me. I'm not an artist, or even an artsy type, so I don't know how to gauge my "progress" as a person. Is growth measured by the number of friends you accumulate in your Facebook account? Is it the steady rise of your grades from freshman year to senior year? (Empirically, I would argue such a case is close to impossible, but anyway.) Is it the number of books or movies you've read or seen, including the amount of reviews you've written about them? What is growth? How do you know you're maturing, developing as a person?

Is it always something other people have to point out for you to understand? Must your opinion of yourself always be based on what other people - regardless of whether they know you well or not - have to say about you? Doesn't that mean that somehow, your happiness is hinged on what other people think of you?

...

On a lighter note, Sassja and I saw Orosman at Zafira, the 3PM screening today. That was my second time seeing it, and I believe it's gotten better. I didn't recognize most of the faces onstage this afternoon, but all the same, the production was beautiful. Some pictures from the show:

Good show, good show. Makes me proud to be part of the UP family, even if I'm not DUP at all.

Schoolgirl Tendencies and Long-Forgotten Twinges of the Heart

During my inner-child bonding moments, I tell myself I will never subscribe to my peers' tendency of talking too much about their love lives - both real and imaginary. It's not that I don't enjoy the hormonal fluctuations that leave me feeling high for weeks on end - because I enjoy kilig stories just as much as the next girl - it's just that there are times when I feel talking about "love" is excessive. For example:

Oh my God, I just saw him today, and he was so cute!

Despite that random impersonation being an utter failure of an illustration, I'm sure you get the idea. I do not enjoy going fangirl over people I see up close on a regular basis - the idea of seriously stalking a person and dreaming about being together with said person just didn't appeal to me.

Lately though, I've (involuntarily) been waking up to the image of one person - and it's becoming increasing difficult to pull myself from dreams which I find lucid enough to be alarming. (This snooze syndrome has "encouraged" me to cut through two early morning classes this week alone - but that's another story.) What's worse is that during my supposedly waking hours, I also think of said person - the WORST part is I actually enjoy thinking about him.

Whatever happened to the me who was cynical about "love"? Katkat once commented I was "too young to be jaded"; this she concluded after one conversation - in McDo Philcoa, no less. I've never been particularly emotional, or prone to posting love-related status messages on Facebook. So why why why does my balance go berserk with a single thought of this person?

I wanted a solution to this personal dilemma. Predictably, I turned to signs from heaven for help:

If, on the 23rd of July, any of these three events would NOT occur, I would quit him for good:

1. Airplanes by BoB feat. Hayley Williams playing somewhere

2. Seeing Baby James Yap anywhere

3. Sunny weather from 2:30PM-4:00PM

The morning flitted by uneventfully - though I dreamed about him again, I managed to get out of bed 45minutes before my first class. Early afternoon came and I was beginning to feel depressed; owing to my absent-minded nature, I actually sang Airplanes to myself. Also, I had scoured the day's PDI, and there was no sign of Bimby on any page. Around 1:50 in the afternoon, I was sitting in my NatSci1 class, wondering how the day would end.

And then thunder boomed. I knew it was going to rain, tsk. What I didn't expect was for the skies to pour all its pent-up raindrops - hoarding, just to spite the presently-smelly people of Metro Manila - from 2 to about 4PM that day. God's just got the funniest sense of humor, doesn't He?

After that, I knew this was my customized wake-up call; the high was just too good to be true. And although this evening, I came across a picture of the Aquino-Yap family (minus Josh) on the cover of Buzz, wala na, alam na. I'm surrendering. I'm too transparent to lie about my feelings anyway, so nipping a potential love story in the bud is my best course of action.

I'm posting this rant here just to humor myself. Ma'am Grace, after my heart broke that year, told me that one day I'd look back on everything that had happened and laugh - which was true. I'm hoping that at the end of this year, when I look back on this post, I'll laugh. And I'll think how hilarious it is that I was so frustrated by a scenario that was too vague to cause any serious problems in the first place.

the bored and the ornery

That's the name of a certain Maiko (MaixZuko) community on fanfiction.net. Right now, I really want to read through the fics they've archived, but I can't. Because the nearest, decent internet cafe from our flat charges 20 shekels per 1.5 hours. That's 200+ pesos devoted solely to Facebook and keeping FnQ together - a vain attempt.

Life in Israel is actually pretty swell. Gorgeous people - seriously. Tel Aviv is like a scene out of Europe, not the Middle East. Walking to the net cafe I'm at right now, one passes through more clothes-boutiques than all other shops combined. At least that's what it seems like. Also, every woman who flits past is decked in what would seem in the Philippines like fitting nightlife wear. I don't mean promiscuous, or Gossip Girl-worthy, just... so fashionable it's slightly surreal.

I am in constant danger of being run over by bikes, of getting sniffed by dogs - both of which are abundant in the streets of Tel Aviv. The people from the building next door have a balcony overlooking our bathroom - and I didn't notice that until two weeks after I got here, spending more than 30 minutes on my daily showers-cum-meditation sessions. I am desperate for Nissin Cup Noodles, Fuji apples and seafood. There is an excess of what Auntie Fely calls pita bread, but really, I never liked bread.

Israel is beautiful. It really is. But I've yet to see more of it. So far, my favorite out of all the places I've been to with my family that one day we actually went out for sightseeing is Mount Tabor, where the disciples sought refuge after the death of Jesus Christ. I truly wish I could properly describe the feeling of driving up that mountain in a narrow, two-lane street. The whole time I was thinking the car would fly off the mountain and crash hundreds of meters in the city below.

I am not thinking straight. Seriously. Maybe, just maybe, I am bored and ornery due to my own lack of initiative to find something interesting to do with my summer. I am looking forward to more of Israel, and although I always argue with my family, I sincerely love them to bits and do not mind living under the same roof as them. But I know that our living situation (wake up at 10, sleep at 12, eat, bathe, watch TV in between) is not helping my sanity. I am going insane here. Almost.

PS. I used to think Tel Aviv was the capital of Israel. Actually, it's not. It's Jerusalem.

writing fiction

After a very complicated ICTUS Miting de Avance last night, I took the long route home with Banana and Melbert. We ended up talking about light stuff - I think because we all wanted to relax after a very tension-filled event. Somehow, we began talking about Melbert's little notes in Facebook, stuff he had written, stuff I had read, stuff Bana will no doubt be able to read one day. Melbert, knowing I had read his work, asked what my thoughts on his writing were. And I told him, honestly, that I believe he's more suited to commentary than fiction. In fact, I think he'd make an excellent opinion columnist, should he wish to pursue that career path.

Earlier this morning, after reading more stressing stuff out of the ICTUS Execom YG, I wandered into Edzel's page hoping to ask him some stuff about the org newsletter, which we're handling as a two-man team. On his profile, sorta, I found a link to our mutual friend Simoun's notes page, where the latter had written his "very first attempt at short-story writing". I read it, and, boy, was I impressed. Jealous, even. Such talent! Such intelligence! Great story, especially if it's only his first attempt. And having read his work, and the praises heaped upon it, I remembered Aiko's Gakuen Alice fanfic My Heart's Back, with its 170+ reviews, and I thought... of everyone else.

How many kids in this planet hope to become writers when they grow up? When I was in Grade 4, even more gullible than I am now, I believed what my father said about making a wish upon entering a church for the first time. And I remember that, aside from praying for all the stuff my righteous, strict Catholic school had taught me I should wish for, I sincerely requested God to make me a writer someday. Like JK Rowling and RL Stine. So I could spend my whole life writing the things I love coming up with, and earn enough money to survive, and have people read my work and appreciate it, having thought of the same ideas themselves.

How many people out there are like me? I can write, but I can't write. I can come up with thoughts well enough, but they're the same old thoughts that have been swimming the pages of lit-dom for centuries. I don't think I'm meant to be a writer, and I've known that for quite some time now, but I still write simply because I love writing. I love the feeling of committing my thoughts to paper (or electronic media, in most cases) and knowing that I can always return to them any time I wish. I'm not sure I consider my lack of talent a curse or a blessing. On one hand, I wish I could write better, so I could write more, and perhaps get more satisfaction out of the act of writing. On the other hand, if I did have the talent... I'd probably just be writing day in, day out. I wouldn't be able to "spread out" and try all sorts of things the way I am now. Most probably, I wouldn't be talking Econ and PolSci and MATH; consequently, I'd never be embarrassed by board work and recitations, and I'd probably never grow.

My heart feels bad now that I'm sure I'm not meant to create life-changing literature, but my mind's telling me it's all right because I'm meant for other things. Thing is... I wish I knew what I'm really meant for, what my true purpose is. Now that the greatest thing I've aspired and worked for for most of my life has been "taken" away from me, I find there's nothing else left. Just a girl with a bit of grit, floating around with nothing but her naive optimism in tow.

i smell something fishy... love is in the air

I've never been the type to hate couples who go all lovey-dovey in front of me. I've never entertained thoughts along the lines of "Pleeease, spare me a migraine and get a room", because every time I feel awkward due to overt displays of affection, I just turn the other cheek and pretend I (yes, I) don't exist. Recently though, I've felt a bit uncomfortable with every mention of the word love - or each implied reference to it...

Scratch uncomfortable. Maybe irritated is the right term for it.

It all started last night - picture me having dinner with a good friend, chatting over our identical set meals about her love life. Honestly, I was feeling very happy then; although I felt sick (and I knew I was going to be bed-ridden the next day) I felt strangely happy that she was seriously in love. Not in crush or in like or delusional - as most people whose love stories I overhear are - but truly, madly, deeply in love. And even after we had gone our separate ways, I was still feeling elated to discover that there was still a bit of love in the world.

Then this morning, I woke up to a headache and a clogged nose. I told myself I'd skip both Econ classes for the day and turn up for my 5:30 - 7PM PolSci 160 class - then, I turned to Lavinia for comfort and ended up working on the next FnQ issue. When I got tired of doing layout work, I decided to start on the personal Valentine's Day project I had concocted some days ago, a sort of love stories compilation featuring one story or poem or song per day leading to Valentine's.

And that's how I spent my entire morning - classifying love songs, editing love stories, searching for cheesy poems. All in the spirit of LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. And it didn't make me happy at all.

Skip a few hours - I'm in a classroom in AS, wiping my nose with a handkerchief while my teacher is talking about her marriage. Admittedly, I found her story funny - and I found myself wishing I'd find someone I'd love as much as she loves her husband. But then, I dunno, when I got out of the classroom, I began feeling down again. Even after I had read the first two chapters of Kare Kano no Jijou, I was still feeling down.

It's been four years since I fell in love. Although I'm perfectly content with my life right now (although I wish I'd show some signs of intelligence through my UPG once in a while) I'm currently feeling resentful towards love. I don't understand why. Is it because I'm not in love? I doubt being in love is the answer.

Three Questions

When I was younger, each night my parents tucked me into bed and I'd ask them three questions:

1) Will the sun come up tomorrow?
2) When will the world end?
3) *I forgot but no doubt it was something apocalyptic*

My parents would tell me: 1)Yes; 2) Not anytime soon; and, 3) ----. As a child, I began thinking that the world would end "tomorrow" because I read an article saying that the sun would die someday, and then it'd create a black hole that would swallow the planet, extinguishing all life on Earth. Until now, I have to admit I still have fears of the world coming to an end (and this is why I'm not fond of end-of-the-world movies like 2012) but I'm not as paranoid as mini me to pester my parents nightly for answers - as if I could.

I came across a very interesting article at the National Geographic website today. I'm not sure what the writers wanted their readers to feel, publishing something like that. To me though, discovering all those failed doomsday warnings felt oddly relieving. I suddenly began to see today's doomsayers as "wet blankets" - warning us out of concern, probably, but not making life on Earth better for anyone.

Bah. I can't describe the feeling. But this line from Peanuts sums my thoughts up:
"Don't worry about the world coming to an end today...
It's already tomorrow in Australia."

birds of a feather...

I keep posting these days. Maybe it's because I need an outlet, and I'm too tamad to write by hand in my diary. I can't talk to other people either, because most people, I think, think of me as someone who listens, not someone who wants to be listened to. Also, most of the time, whenever I do talk about what I really think, I regret my words later on.

So I'd rather not talk. I'd rather blog.

The latest thing that's happened is that the Jumpel, Sunshine, Trisha and moi gathered at LB earlier to talk about our Christmas party-slash-Nina despedida on the 17th. It's a lucky coincidence that I haven't got any big exams on the 18th; the French dialogue I don't consider acadwork because I enjoy the subject immensely.

So anyway, hanging out with the friends I haven't seen in the longest time - aka a month - I felt somewhat... unsure. Somehow, I didn't think the connection between us (or at least some of us) was right. It was awkward.

For the first time, I'm hoping it's just me.

juvenile delinquent

So I skipped PolSci 160 and ended up going to ICTUS' 28th birthday party - where we sang for the 5pm mass celebrating the Immaculate Concepcion. To top that, after stretching our vocal muscles, we proceeded to the tambayan and laughed our hearts out as Trevor, Migs, Monsee and Julian hid behind the life-sized 3D letters Jako and the (WOOHOO) seccom came up with for the exhibit. And did I mention that we were eating lugaw and pandesal from Pan de Manila because today is Sacrifish? In fact, I've been eating lugaw all day - I daresay I'm the ICTUS mem who's eaten the most servings of lugaw. But ssh, that's a secret.

For this sem, this is the first time I've skipped class. I'm actually a bit worried because we haven't met Ma'am Jamon for the longest time in PolSci 160, and I just ditched?!?! But anyway, what's done is done and DONE.

Right now, I feel like commemorating every bit of kagaguhan I've ever in class. I was a good student in grade school and high school - if not a bit pretentious - so I don't have any memories of being a hard-headed delinquent from when I was 16 and younger, but the moment I entered UP... Totally different story.

Math17, freshman yr. Our teacher, Sir Montes, was a liberated young man almost-fresh from college himself, handling a class of Chemical Engineering students and a handful of non-eng'g kids. I was one of the non-eng'g kids; I was the only Econ student there, which had its perks in a way. Back then, I would turn up late for class - mainly because I hated Math, partly because it was a 1PM class and I loved to wake up late. And when I did turn up early, that meant I was in a good mood, so RS and I would sing random songs from our seats at the back of the classroom. I'm pretty sure our voices rang loud and clear, but Prof. Montes never complained. Hm. He was too nice. Hope he's happy in Germany.

Econ131, junior yr. Yet another numbers class; I hated attending it because I always answered the recitation questions incorrectly, and I hated the disappointed expression on Ma'am Navarro's face. So one day, when I wasn't feeling high and perky as usual, I convinced myself I was sick with sore throat, and I trooped over to the infirmary to get a "check up". Of course, the doctor didn't find anything obviously wrong with me, but I really didn't feel well enough to combat two hours of derivatives so I just spent the morning in bed. And then I returned to class the next meeting bearing an official excuse slip.

Erm yeah, I realized I don't have a lot of wanna-ditch-class moments. In fact, for most of my classes, I loved attending the lessons. I'm pretty sure I have near-perfect attendance for majority of the classes I've ever enrolled in, but there's this one class that stands out easily above the rest:

English12, freshman yr. It helped that I had some sort of crush on the teacher. He was an amazing lecturer, seriously. He never told us to think in any particular way, and I remember that one time he even told us,

"If you get out of this classroom thinking what I think,
then I will have failed you as a teacher."

But before you start thinking I attended that 7AM class without fail because I had a thing for the prof, think again. I loved it because of the lessons; the interesting professor was just a bonus. World literature, the subject's called, and we discussed The Iliad, The Decameron, Inferno, Sinbad, and etc, all under the careful supervision of our teacher. My classmates were pretty amazing, too. Although I never got to befriend them past the point of mere acquaintance, I appreciated their insights, and their ways of thinking, and it was a class where I felt free to talk about what I really wanted to talk about. Where sounding stupid didn't matter because all views were accepted.

Which makes me wonder, again, why I signed up to study Econ.

i have direction

As a matter of fact, i don't. For the nth time, I've just been reminded that as of now, my life ain't going anywhere. Emo, noh?

When I feel sad, I buy a good DVD and drown myself in movies. It's not that I want to escape reality or anything - scratch that, maybe I do. I want to go on an adventure, and be an explorateur, and belong to a world where the things that matter aren't talent or money or brains or PR skills. Although it pains to admit it, I really don't think I have any redeeming quality except for the fact that I'm nice.

Nice. There's a running joke that if someone asks you whether someone else's girlfriend/ boyfriend is a looker and you don't think so, you should say "S/he's nice." And doesn't it originally mean foolish or something? Not exactly the best adjective I'd like to attach next to my name.

So anyway, I just came here to rant. I'm ranting because, after several years of trying to figure out exactly what I want to do with my life - and I had to rush my rumination, you know, because I am supposed to be a graduating student next year - I figured out what I wanted to do, only to have that dream shattered by a single statement by an innocent friend.

Walking past the Parish of the Holy Sacrifice this afternoon, Phillter suddenly said that what he really wanted to be was someone in the Philippine diplomatic corps. Out loud, I just sort of teased him because he had also mentioned something about wanting to be a magazine editor, but at the back of my mind, I thought, "Hmm, same dream." And then, perfect follow-up, he said that he wanted that job all right, but lost hope when KLou told him that out of 5,000 applicants, only 2 are accepted in the DFA as part of the diplomatic corps.

It didn't hit me then, the weight of that simple statement. But now, after FBing, and seeing works of a certain young friend of mine - I used to want to be a writer but I gave up without progressing even one notch up the ladder of talent - I realized how pathetic I was. If I ever become part of that 5,000 and even just one out of half the people I know would be applying for the same position as I am, then I'd lose my chance without ever being given one.

No, seriously. What I am I gonna do with my life?

without saying goodbye

I know I promised myself I wouldn't go online today, but I couldn't help it; it's too boring in my room. I should be working on my Kumon worksheets, and I even bought a special dustless eraser to prove that I'm serious about it, but when I actually faced the papers, I felt the sudden urge to do something less productive but fun. It sucks being alone in your dorm room; even a loner realizes that after a week of having no one to talk to properly. Worse, the pasalubong I got for my roommates and for the dorm's pasafest has expired. Why does pastel have to perish so soon, anyway?

I thought that since the sem hasn't started yet, tonight would be the perfect opportunity to meet up with the rest of PC over a hearty dinner. Bad news: Roshan's trying to get her diver's license (and yes, diver's not driver's), Tichang is with her mom, Nina has gone back to Davao, and Sunshine has gone back to Batangas for the last time before sem starts. That leaves just Jumpel and me in UP - and 'dinner' with just two out of six doesn't sound right at all.

So, we've postponed it. To next week. Which means I'll be eating tapsilog all by myself again.


If this week's biggest realization were a quote, it would be:

"Go often to the house of thy friend for weeds soon choke the unused path."

It's sad, because, I have a friend who I care for dearly, although, being somewhat self-centered, I don't tend to show affection most of the time. Because of this, despite our degree of closeness in years past, we have gone - er - shall we say, separate ways. It's sad. She's left on a jetplane without even saying she'd be leaving. I kind of blame myself because it was my fault;I had said some rather tactless things, and thinking that she would understand my tactlessness and sheer stupidity, I didn't apologize properly. After that incident, we never talked again.

The saddest part is, her mother once told me that her daughter, once convinced of someone's sincerity, will never leave that person's side. I guess, I have been weighed, measured, and found severely wanting.