Friday, June 27, 2008

Phobias, Anyone?

For a couple of years now my perspective of fear have been evolving and as far as I know, it includes phrases like flying cockroaches, confined places, and butt-ugly people. This is one big change since I used to be acrophobic and it really killed me. I used to skip the escalators in Shangri-La Plaza because they're so damn high and long and everything scary. That's how paranoid I was about falling down and eventually dying or whatever. I overcame it by simply riding a bunch of roller coasters within a span of 3 years and voila! Stupid acrophobic no more. Well, maybe I am still stupid, but who the hell gives a damn anyway?

When everybody loathed math, I loved it. I cannot expound my love on numbers 'n angles any further because I've done this a couple of times before and nobody really wants to hear somebody profess her love for some abstract bullshit (make that REAL and hardcorely abstract). Of course, if you love something, the last thing you can imagine is hating or cursing it. That's like, some guy's rule or something.

But that's what I thought before I received the result my first quiz in College Algebra. I quasi-flunked the thing, for Christ's sake. Now who self-respecting and math-loving person would ever do that? Yeah, that'll be yours truly.

Ever since I hid that stupid test booklet with my disappointing score on the cover written and encircled by no less than red ink in my file case, my conscience kept on bothering my whole system. As much as I would want to review my fucking mistakes, my heart would get in the way and block everything up. It's shameful and saddening at the same time because I used to nail my Algebra quizzes. Like nail, nail. And now, I can't even let it hit the high mark. Something's just really wrong.

An hour didn't pass by without me thinking all about it. It's like a stick of cigarette I'm hiding in the back pocket of my jeans; it's burning and consequently, I have to take it out and use it or else somebody would find it out and I'm sure as hell that I'm dead meat when that happens. It's so guilt-strickening that I wasn't able to fully enjoy Carell's Get Smart we watched a while ago. It just kept on hitting and hitting on my brain and saying 'open it! open it you damn fool!'. And being the damn fool that I truly am, I reviewed my answers lately.

And man, I am really concluding now that I can be so friggin stupid and not know it. Maybe it's a gift God gave me to exercise on something less important, like love. You can always blame your heart and overratedness if all else fails when it comes to love anyway.

But when you get a low score on your college algebra quiz just because you mixed up the signs or forgot to erase the grouping symbols, the only person you can blame is yourself and your careless brain. And boy, I sure do not like putting my brain to onus, because that'll be so degrading. Instead, I just shook my head slowly and scribbled five 'shit happens' phrases on my side table. I never felt so fucking good in my life.

The tragic thing is, all of those mistakes I made are way way waaay less than inevitable, and could have thus been prevented if I'd just hit my head with a metal tube or something as hard. It's like that MV Princess of the Stars tragedy, only less catastrophic and all. I mean, people actually died because of their fault, and hundreds of lives could have been saved if they just acted like smart and responsible people and stopped being douchebags.

Ah, fear.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Rain Babble

Ever since my body clock had adjusted itself a month ago just for the good of my collegiate education (I get sleepy at around 10, I wake up at 5AM. I know it's the weirdest thing ever to happen to me, alright. Don't rub the shit in.), I've been waking up to the sound of birds chirping like hell and the sun's rays glistening on my heat-hating face. Well everybody knows that I'm no morning person, and hearing friggin birds scream like Steven Tyler is the last thing I want to experience. Goodness, it's like being raped by nature early in the morning.

I woke up a while ago with the blurry sight of the branches of our neighbor's tree dancing to some howling tune I once heard back when Typhoon Milenyo is still the deadliest shiznit to hit the country ever. While still lying on my back, my eyes tried to peer through the irritating yellow curtains mom ordered to be put up a few days ago. I can see big droplets of rain hitting the window pane so hard I can definitely hear it. There's no sun in sight for the clouds are relatively unhappy with its dirty white shade. And no singing birds! No siree.

My eyes formed into big circles, just like what I would do when I'm in deep fascination about something. I can't really blame my eyes, you see. My favorite type of morning just woke my guts up, and it's really really good.

My mouth quickly blurted out some orders to my snobby sister to draw the curtains to the sides so I could see the beauty hidden beneath the gloomy atmosphere outside. Right after drawing the curtains, I told her to slide the window panes open so we could breathe in the glumness only typhoons (and real mad typhoons, for that matter) can bring. And for sure, I became more jubilant as the cool wind started to enter our room, and tiny needles of rain smashed into droplets right on our floor. My God, it's like freaking Christmas. And that's only the effect of the typhoon, as you can see. I'll probably burn the house down because of happiness when our whole archipelago will shift itself to the far west where there's a hell lot of snow. I can't wait.

See, I don't even know why I love stormy weathers so much. It doesn't really date back during my childhood years, because my overly-strict grandparents would never allow me to go outside and soak my whole body in the rain. I would always peer through our window, looking at my friends who are obviously enjoying their outdoor shower. One time, when my grandparents weren't around and it was raining like hell, I quickly went out and joined the other kids. I enjoyed it so much that I didn't see my grandparents' car quickly approaching. My ass suffered so much after that.

Everytime my aunt would massage my body, she would complain about how this coldness present in my sanctuary wouldn't just go away no matter how many times she would rub me off. She told me once that I'm probably a snake in my previous life, because you know...snakes are cold-blooded and stuff. I used to think that I was a rat before, but that's a different story.

Rain, rain, don't ever go away.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Pelikula (Movie)

Our maid is doing a great job pissing my ass off. And yeah, after not showing up for almost a week, that's the only thing I can say that really makes sense and whatnot.

And surely I'm giving you an early warning that this shit is just a shitload of crap about how I truly loathe our maid and Filipino movies. So if you're an advocate of your own helper, then get the hell out. Like, now.

Everytime our maid would see me doing something that seems so important (like sound tripping, or stalking people) with the computer, she would make this irritating and unmatched effort to disturb my soul. She does a lot of things, but let me assure you that the most aggravating thing she'll do is turning on the television, quickly punching the numbers 5 and 6 on the remote, then therefore watching freaking movies till her eyes bleed out. It's bad enough that our computer is very much near our television set, and she would still turn the volume up. I mean, don't get me wrong. I don't mind her turning the television on and whatnot. What I DO mind is the fact that she keeps on watching friggin Pinoy movies that are nowhere near unique.

And as old folks would usually say; as you get older, you're more susceptible to giving an ass about the BIG things. Like the country's movie industry, and my butt.

See, I used to adore Filipino movies back when I was outrageously blind about the incessant essence of every film. But now, you can''t even force me to watch one, unless it has some unique story indie films usually have. I mean, why the hell are the kidnappers always the antagonist in a comedy movie? And why is there always a scene where they dance and lip-synch near the beach or some resort with a bunch of people? I've realized only now how blinded our maid could get. Why can't she even see the continuing trend among these movies? Ayayay.

No wonder the country's film industry is merely dying. As I can see it, it's dying for its own good. People get tired of seeing the usual story, the usual twist, the usual characters, and the usual setting. They think that since the past generations have widely accepted Redford White and Babalu's antics, or Sharon Cuneta and Gabby Concepcion's dramas, the modern progenies would also do the same. That's why they're probably making movies with the same old plot, and consequently killing us all.

Man, I should've trained that maid to watch HBO instead.

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Thursday, June 12, 2008

Happy Independence Day

Dark and stormy clouds cover the whole city as over a hundred different sounds produced by screaming cars and the husky voices of shouting barkers fill everyone's ears. Of course, the latter's usually the job of the environmental gore brought by air pollution, but nobody gives a shit about how millions of germs and viruses are easily entering their system with every intake of air everyone does. What they simply give a shit about is how the hell did the prices of everything rose up in a snap. And yeah, how the government is being so superficial by giving out subsidies that will surely not help.

A dirty kid whose ostentatiously minuscule physique is enough to kill her on her own creeps through the glass door of a supermarket. The new security guard takes his cap off with his right hand, and consequently pulls his blue handkerchief that his wife have folded in a square and wipes his sweat off his forehead. He puts the cap back again and walks to the glass door to stop that kid from entering again. His boss had reprimanded him once about letting street children enter the vicinity of their supermarket saying that it's 'too posh to be filled with dirty people'. In reality, he is technically a dirty person, because by his boss' definition, dirty people are those whole live in the nearby squatter's area and who are evidently filthy-looking and grubby-smelling. And he still doesn't know how the hell he was able to get inside.

A teenage girl who just bore her second baby three weeks ago stands at the end of the longest line she'd seen. She knows that she arrived too late, because she's already hearing the rumbling of the engine of the NFA truck. After a second or three, the line she was in before had suddenly disappeared as those hungry victims of poverty disperse quietly. She nods her head and walks away, back to her grubby house. It seems that for the second day, her two sons will be begging their neighbor for a cup of rice yet again. She knows it's not her fault that her husband forgot to leave her with another twenty-pesos. He forgot again that they live too far from that place the NFA truck would usually park at. It's a good thing her sister gave her fifty-pesos, at the least.

And while a small percentage of the country are thinking of what they will wear the next day, the remaining are holding their grumbling stomachs that are slowly tearing each and everyone of them apart and somehow still thinking of where they will get the money to buy food at the present.

The gloomy atmosphere of the Thursday afternoon offers the greatest and most accurate description of how our country has been feeling for the last five or so years. It's hard to think how we've been all unfair to our heroes who shed their own lives for this weird-shaped country of ours. They fought with their all might just to set us all free, and here goes the government trying to imprison their own citizens. Is this all worth the sacrifice?

I think not.

Our independence is nowhere to be found, for we are all incarcerated by poverty and violence caused by no less than the people who should be alleviating such. We have yet to find out the taste of the being free, the kind that goes way beyond our imaginations and dreams. And as of now, freedom from all the burden we're all carrying is the last thing they can give us.


How ironic for an independent country.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Quit or Stay

Well you've probably guessed the evident trend already: I'm blabbing too much about college. I mean, it's hard to not do so anyway. With the new environment and new people around me, the last thing I could do is to keep my freaking big mouth shut anyway. If I could just tell you about my everyday experiences and discovered wonders as a freshman, I really would. But doing so would really be so juvenile and stuff. And people would think I'm home-schooled or something.

College is no different from high school anyway. I mean, sure the independence thing is the most evident thing you can point out between the two. But the quirks and perks of high school is still there, only more mature and less religious. I for one wasn't really culture-shocked about how things are simply going around me. I don't know if it's because of the apathy thing I'm very famous for, but really, it's like high school all over again, just with a helluva lot of boys and no more religious advocates forcing us all to move to some chapel and attend the mass. I hate reminiscing, but when you're somewhere new (and very very far, for that matter), your mind just kinda drifts off to the past that was just barely four months ago, and compare it to your life right now.

Everytime I get in the train every morning and as my hand grips tightly on the nearest metal pole, visual images of my mother driving our car at the C5 road would always (and I so mean always) appear all of a sudden. My mom would drive me and my sister to school every morning back in high school. When we would leave the house at a lavishly and ungodly time, mom would treat us with a drive-through shindig at a fastfood restaurant. And my God, did my classmates envy me, or what? While they would review for something, I would meticulously set my food on my table and munch on it quietly. And boy, they sure didn't like it.

And now, I go to school alone, with some sleepy old man driving the train, and a sea of strangers trying to drown me with their same old stinky armpits and dripping sweat, fresh from a milliion or two gargantuan pores all over their body. And unless the operator of the train is bazillion times crazier than Bush Jr., and/or he truly loves me like hell, he will not stop the train in a nearby fastfood restaurant if we're too freaking early, much more drive the whole train through it. Instead of using the old look-at-me mechanism by buying food and eating it in the classroom, I would just buy a newspaper and (duh) read it, because there's nothing much to do in an early morning. My blockmates wouldn't envy me, of course. I mean, who the hell would envy a fat kid with an el-cheapo newspaper at hand anyway? And boy, they sure don't care.

And everytime I do the whole commuting process again when I have to go back home, I couldn't help asking myself if I can do this tedious bullshit for four years. Every step I take as I climb those stupiid ladders that are so endless at the stations, a point goes to the option 'oh quit this, there are a bunch of dorms out there. stop being a quasi-martyr and make yourself comfortable, for Christ's sake'. So far, it's leading by a billion points against the option 'stay, you're doing this for your humongous thighs..oh, and for your education as well.'


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Monday, June 09, 2008

Morning Train (Eight til God Knows When)

You grab the zipper of your sling bag and try to open it quickly as the security guard inspects your things. After doing so, you walk to the ticket machine and push that stored value card that has been in your sweaty right hand since you got off at the station approximately 2 minutes ago in the ticket slot. As it popped back at the top of the machine, you hurry to go down and get in the train as fast as possible. You know it's already rush hour, and your first class is at 8 AM. As you join the throng of the people waiting for the south bound train to arrive, you caught a glimpse of the time at the station's digital timex clock. 7:10:27 AM. Yeah, you're dead.

When I'm bored in the train, I try to think of some reason why I never get to see these people in front of me ever again. I think there's some rule God invented that strangers in the train are like dog's shit; you don't really want to have it near your body because it's useless and as far as strangers being all strange and whatnot, they're disgusting. Not really THAT disgusting, but you know. I know you know.

And no, I don't really want to see these strangers ever again. I'm just wondering why I never get to see the same strange faces again when I ride the train in the afternoon or the morning after. Ah, the wonder of futile curiosity.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Oh Quit It

Omigod. My grandparents are at it again.

I know I posted something with the same banana almost a year ago when the college-slash-course issue was still raging hot and I was still yet to finish some chapter of a thesis. But my eyes are really getting heavier and heavier by the minute that lethargy is kicking my head like hell. I'm too sleepy to do some back-reading, dammit. It seems like only yesterday that I'm begging God for an afternoon melatonin shower because my whole system was exorbitantly restless and ironic as it seemed to be, it constantly refused to sleep and/or to rest. And now I have lots of sleeping potion. Now that I don't really need it.

Anyways, yesiree my grandparents are yet again scrutinizing my course of choice, saying that it's too damn manly and all. And they still don't get it. I've already had two Mondays with friggin' three hours of Algebra in the afternoon and for Christ's sake, they still don't get it. And there is no way that I'll explain the whole engineering thing, like, again. I'm tired of blurting out to them the reason why I even bothered choosing an engineering course in a school that's kinda like in the prairie but then the prairie's not too prairish over a science course in a school that's less than thirty minutes away from home.

I mean, forget it. It's not even all about the school, it's all about the course I've chosen for my collegiate education. They're claiming that I don't have the guts to play with some computer hardware and solve mathematical bullshits. They want me to take up some course that I'll be taking for granted- Journalism, Literature, or Mass Communication and the like. I'm not saying that one should deteriorate kids who are taking up courses like those, but it's just that we have our own skills and talents that have been already honed and surely, my talent belongs in the manly section and nowhere else.

I wish they could just shut up for a while and appreciate the beauty of having me as their granddaughter. Well, yeah if you look at it, there is no damn beauty. But then again they're all depending on me to help them afford their luxuries by the time I'll graduate and consequently work. It's either they appreciate me, or nothing. Damn life.