thE mAn wiThOut fEar

I have a crush on Daredevil. It has to be the reinforced leather, those cherry glasses, the angst, and the multitude of people inside the books that know who he really is. Oh, I could hug myself.

achijustreadsomespoilers.
foggynelsonissogonnadie.
millablahblahisgonnamarrymatt.
ugh.

disApPeAr oN mE

I will get over this. All I need is some rest and a real freaking meal. Sleep, some rice and a good book. Relax.

Anyway, need to study for Eco, those formulas, the readings. And April and I have to go to the special children's place and pretend we actually like kids, special or not.

I miss the Fine Arts room. I resent the fact that I have to be a grump out in the open. Fak.

liFe iS a hiGhwAy

This is weird. Whitney Houston is wailing in the background and I am unabashedly wailing right along with her. And I am in a public place. This is terminal.

Anyway.

I haven't done a lick of my short story. Sure, I've got stacks of beginnings with no middles and ends in sight but those don't really count. I know I'm worrying about it too much, thinking too fatalistically blah blah blah. I'm taking this too seriously, blowing it all out of proportion, blah blah blah. Whatever. But I sort of like this pressure. It makes my characters crazier than usual.

Oh, and I've been reading Lakambini A. Sitoy and the literary booger complex has really dug in my system. Yehey. Haha.

Am I the only one having a literary snit, fellow fictionistas?

<<-->>

I think I am carrying a grudge. I can't let go of the things you said. I know I should shrug them off like I've done with every other thing you've said but this is just one insult too many. Oh, hell. Merry Christmas, friends.

cAriCatuRe oF dAdaDadA

So what happens now? Will do the trusty list thing, more for my sake than yours.

(one)
Nawawala ata yung payong ko. Tangina, 250 pesos yun! (My lola's doing, not mine.) Oh gosh, losing things always makes me break down.

(two)
I'm being touchy-feely again. When the insults your friends have rained upon you and you've accepted with a grin, ever since you can remember, starts to sting, and you can imagine yourself overturning the tables just to scream, you know your PMS is kicking in. Again.

(three)
I was lying like a wasted whore (where'd that come from?) on the leather half-couch kanina, with my eyes closed, just listening. The sound of so many male voices, reverberating in that tiny, then-homey room, was so surreal. We've never had more than 5.5 males in the Painting Room and they weren't even always talking.

(four)
The straps of my bag are making punit, because I was extremely tamad and decided to make tambak all my gamit inside. (The fuck?) Ahem. MWF makes my bag wish it was never made. Paano pa kaya kung dumating na yung Aesthetic and Fiction readings namin? Wow.

(five)
Tanginang lalaki yan. Ano ba. That's two consecutive days. Argh. Mukha ba akong halimaw pag nakasalamin? Well? Well? Takot ka sa kulot? Or does the wrestling shirt frighten the little boy? Humph. Huwag mo akong titigan (oo, ang yabang ko) kapag hindi mo man lang maiakyat yang kilay mo kapag sinumpong ako ng kabaitan at nginitian ka. Hoy. Hoy.
Ay, wounded pride.

(six)
I can't believe you even think that way about me, much less say it out loud, in front of everyone else. Sus. I thought you were a friend. That hurts me, you know.

(seven)
What do I write about? A prude, a whore, a pair of lezzies, an act of incest? Or do I do the Greek thing and cathart (Verbal form of catharsis. Walang aangal.)? Ugh. Ewan. Wala pa akong short story. I know this is too much pressure on myself but hey, didn't they say first impressions lasted?

(eight)
Sarj and I have a deadline on Monday but not a word has passed between us about it -- it completely flew out of my head. Sorry. But I'll do it. I promise. Will start working on it right after French. Promise. D'accord?

bAcK of tHe reStAurAnt

I am apparently not the only one obsessing about this. I am happy to know that. Jev and Sandi have shed some wonderfully scathing insights about the present displacement of our wretched, writer souls.

Bah.

I could go on and on and on about how freaking cheated I feel, how claustrophobic, surly and generally just childishly pissed. I could list them, could probably even come up with a term paper without a little push but since I have class in twenty minutes, next time na lang. But here's something I've been thinking about for the past few days, ever since The Invasion.

I admit that we Creative Writing sophomores have this chasm, that, thankfully, is gently blurring. During freshman year, we'd avoid each other like tawas and BO and I, for one, usually hung out sa libe or sa Art Gallery when I (sob) had no friends. Haha. Later on, we shared more classes and talked more, blah blah blah, but The Great Divide was still there. And also, within those subgroups, there'd occasionally be an awkward silence, a darting of the eyes, the wish-she-won't-talk-to-me-cuz-I-have-nothing-smart-to-say thangs.

But the Painting Room, as mushy and smooshy as it might sound, did something to us that made it less awkward. Maybe it's the wide windows, that shock of sunlight. The bare walls, the industrial light fixtures. The rusty blue chairs and the wide lechon tables. Something, something, something. That was where we stayed, where we hid from the world and let a little loose because in there, we're not artsy-fartsy. We're highly hormonal teenagers looking for that perfect word or phrase, thinking of an enjambment or the validity of a truncated ending. Or talking about Fabio Cana-whatsis, ANTM and the evils our professors put us through.

How many times have I felt a little giddy that the tough guy over there teases the bespectacled poet over here? That the Philippine Borat laughs, not unkindly, at the antics of the socially-inept daydreamer? And, hello, Miss Not-So-Goth, hugging Miss Fashionista.

I'm afraid, really, that with the advent of this dreadful Invention, all that would waver and disappear once more.

"The fuck I care," some of you leather-hearted people might say.

Fine. We all have our reasons. This is one of mine. And I'm sure many in our mental lists coincide.

I just feel so bad cuz I know that the next time I would want to lie down spread-eagled on the wide tables, with an athlete studying Math near the curve of my hips, and a minor celebrity crossing out a cliche from her nonfiction inches from my hair, it won't happen. Ever.

uRiNe oN trEe truNks

I am sure that I am not the only one feeling a little territorial. Okay, so a lot territorial. Fine. We have been invaded. FA is a sanctuary no more. I'm looking for a new hole to climb in. Any blockmates wanna join me?

Oh, we could share. But there's just not enough room. And the motherfucking silence is gone. The easiness too. Ugh. Case in point: When I went to the FA room a few minutes ago, coming from French, I expected blockmates galore to gimme those little smiles and cheeky grins. Guess who stared back at me as though I was a lower lifeform than shit on the table?

Ano beeeh? Saan na ako magtatago? I feel so ... displaced. Tangina.

<<-->>

French is a cure-all. It keeps all my Englipino troubles at bay. (See down for a rather embarrassing emo-ation.)

Toodles. Am trying to remember how to make a reaction paper.

aNd tHat's wHere wE bEg to beGiN

Often, sadness, almost luminescent in its affected beauty, is a pain you feel for other people, real or unreal; it's those sharp pricks at the tips of your fingers, the blooming ache across, under, your chest and the way your eyes well up with tears at a harsh word, a senseless confrontation, a fleeting joy. And sadness, like true happiness, is something to be shared. Hording it and tucking it deeper inside you only creates another kind of ache, this one larger and more encompassing. Certainly more debilitating. And possibly even more beautiful.

Your fingers fall out, having lost all form and function. Hold your hand to your chest and you'll feel nothing but a hollow resonance, as though pressing your damp palms to a bell you know will never make a sound ever again. There are no tears in your eyes. You don't know where they've gone and you don't even know if you miss them or not. After some years, you'd look up from a letter you wrote to yourself when you were seventeen and something, a little tingle at the back of your head, tells you that you've forgotten something familiar. You search the tired room you're staying in for someone to share this with and you realize that still, the sadness you horded once had stayed on, metamorphosed.

That voice returns, again insistent. You think you hear the word loneliness.

And so, you whisper back a word that was once so profound, every story you wrote contained it, but now holds no meaning, like that bell for instance. Rotting away, heavy inside the moldy church towers.

Solitary, you whisper.

You fold up that letter and walk away.

<<-->>

Hellooo anti-fucking-depressants.

deTeRmiNed liTtLe buGgeR

People are getting pissed at me. Haha. My blog entries daw are too long. Oh, well.

I'm bored. And everyone's waiting for the Manny Pacquiao (is that how it's spelled?) fight to start. Contrary to previous reoprts by none other than my whacko uncle, Manny did not get disqualified because they found a drug in his urine: Alaxan. Ha. Ha. Haa.

Mom and I are off tiangge-ing. I'ma find a bag powerful enough to hold my second semester together without ripping at the seams. Buh-bye.

PS: Okie, methinks I'm over that really weird phase I was in last night. You should have seen me after the blog entry. Really messed up shit, haha. PMS is so the bitch.

hUrt yOu iN tHe woRst wAy

UPDATE: (Fifteen-ish minutes later.) Sometimes, I annoy myself. Get a fucking grip, Sasha. Sorry about this. Haha. Stupid Christmas lights.

I am so sad. Ugh. I am feeling very much the typical seventeener. And I feel fat. When I look at the mirror, all I see are cheeks. Agh. And don't let me start on full-length mirrors. Thighs. Ass.

So far, a considerable number of people have told me that the reason I'm still single, or at least, pathetically lacking of prospects and recipients of, er, special affections, is really physical. (Ah, attacked by the virus of superficiality.)

I am tall.

So, it's either cut off parts of my legs, find a smart, non-Chinese basketball player with time for me or live as the butch part of a lesbian relationship.

That's it? Come on: I'm too perky, I sing too loud, I have a weird touchy-huggy personality, I laugh at jokes I don't even get and I can't make up my mind, really, if Stephen King is a hack or not. There must be something else.

I'm sorry. I don't want to complain about boys but this is all just too much. Or, rather, nothing. I'm just... feeling like the really fugly girl that no one asks to dance.

Shit, I'm gonna cry. It's the Christmas lights, really. Sniffle.

I am never gonna marry, never gonna have kids. I WILL DIE A VIRGIN! Oh my fucking gaaawd.

PS: Nikita, feel free to laugh at me right now. Buwaaaaaah.

PPS: And because I was biten last night, I might drink with my mother mamaya. (There's a family party thing here. I'm in Pque.) Oh, that's even more pathetic. Ahh.

uNdeRnEath iT alL

Everything smells and tastes like cheap cigarettes and bitter, lukewarm beer. It's Catholic guilt, I'm sure.

Details? Sarj. She sums it up pretty nicely. But, fine, I'll do my stinking job...

Watched Bakeretta (is that how you spell it?) at CCP (Atlantika), with Charz, Gab, Nikay and Sarj. Of course, someone broke her slippers and had to buy "overpriced" ones. Three emo kids hung out at Shoeville, smoking ciggies, while some ditz with curly hair stood around with tears in her eyes, trying to breathe and pretending that she's not trying too hard. And then Mr. Designated Driver screeched by, ten minutes and thousands of miles before the play began. And we all got lost. But really, can you feel the love tonight? It's a whole new world out there and it's simply the circle of life.

Sorry. LSS-ing, to the bewilderment of my young roommies.

Then we drag-raced a couple of times; hindi mawawala yun since Mr. Designated Driver's abilities have been restricted to U-turning along Katips. And the proverbial life-flashing-before-one's-eyes happened lotsa times too. Especially when, on the way home, I glanced over at Gab and saw he was sleepy as hell. That really did me in.

Okay. To the play. We got lost, of course. Again. Parking, blah. Entered play thingie with fifteen minutes left in the first act. Of course, three-fourths of my gigantic ass was hanging off the triangular seating. Galing.

And I saw the greatest nightmare of my high school years come to life: Rainier Castillo. Hello, little boy with the I'm-A-Moron smile.

I'm a level five. I've got boobs. (I think.)

Then we went to Chowking (to the utter disappointment of Charz, who wanted to traipse to Malate and corrupt us innocent ones), where a haunted gravy saucer, well, haunted us.

Hello, Kuya Bodjie, Kiwi, Kristeta Aquilino and Girl with Erect Headlights for boobs. (You get what I mean.) Jollibee porn!

Oh, and the play was nice. Real funny. Yep, that's the extent of the review.

<<-->>

Slept over at Nikita Launcher's, where I nearly plunged into depression when we learned that no one was willing to sell us liquor past 2 in the morning; that I learned how profound it is to walk into someone's vagina and stay there FOREVER; that I can so drink a can (of sorts) of really nasty tasting Red Horse beer; that I will never get this smoking thing.

Labyu, Nik. (And I imagine you squirming.)

Kiwi!

(predated)

mY giRL's iN tHe nExt roOm

Although the computer here in RSF is so slow, I can practically see the frames crawl by, I'll take the time to orient you on the wanky chaos of my life, so far. And since it's four days into the new semester, I'll take this update bit by the subject.

SCI10. This is probably going to be the most cumbersome (I just like to use that word, really) subject in my load. The workload's ridiculous, with 3 oral examinations, which is truly one of my most hated things to do in college, second only to talking to Yaps. I wasn't even to take this subject under the professor we have now -- I wanted Dr. Cuyegkeng, the chemist-poet. But, apparently, they changed teachers during reg. But did they tell us? Did they? Did they?!

FA102. I love Fr. Javellana. Haha. And Yasmin Almonte-Lantz's paintings, most especially Ripe. Haha, am I a sick hormonal seventeener or what? ...When I'm rich, Ima buy all three. Hehe.

FR1. At first, I was aposabalutely terrified of French. But since I've always wanted to learn the language -- always wanted to go to Paris and order a croissant and not butcher the language -- I stayed. And got my first tres biens in result. Yey!

FA106. Also known as Fiction. With Krip Yuson. Oh god. The only consolation out of having been bashed in this class is that at least, he's the one who'd tell me I'm a no-good writer. It's like God himself coming down his floaty throne to tell me to go to hell.

PE101. Ouf, piece of cake. I've challenged and pushed at my comfort zone more and more with PE: weights, arnis, then swimming. Computing for my BMI ain't gonna be that hard. (Oh, I just love my confidence.)

PSY101. Damn the dude who walked in in the middle of my hypnosis. Gah. But anyway, I like Psych, since I'm always interested on how people's minds work, that is, how I can make a believable disturbed character. And my teacher works out. Cool.

ECO102. My teacher's so quirky: aviator glasses, bowler hat, walrus moustache. And that's only his head. All hail Wally Belen, who may or may not be a relative. Anyway, I despise Economics, since it has numbers and really serious technical business terms like supply and demand but I'm gonna be a trooper.

Oh and I have breaks galore -- three hours everyday, between classes, but five hours all-in-all during Mondays. I am ready to kill, I tell you. Moreso because some douchebags (word of the week) have class there. Argh.

Oh and this is a warning, not unlike an alarm for a new virus outbreak: Drew is back. Yes, Drew. The only bright side I can see here is that someone else can talk to Yaps. They shall make each other happy.

riGhT iNsidE yOur vEry eYes

I can practically read my French class seatmate's mind -- you know, the one from Brazil, the one who might be going to France this summer. He wants me to stop talking to him. And to stop butchering the language he's working so hard to learn.

Haha, I know I can be super-annoying and I truly pity the guy for having to sit next to me. Oh gah.

I'm sorry, everyone, for my antics today. I'm PMS-ing. And worrying senselessly.

I'm not in a very narrative flashback-y mood, so details of my first days sa second sem would have to be put off for... well, I really don't know. Maybe I'd do it in one of my numerous fifty-hour breaks between classes.

noThiNg rhYmEs wiTh ciRcus

When I have children, I'm going to send them to military school and/or convents, then shuffle them off to tutor with mad scientists/musicians/artists/writers. Then I'm going to toss them into every Olympic event imaginable, from swimming to darts, after all of which they'll be shuttled off to every gala event in every fashion/power capital of the world.

I am being dreadfully sarcastic, of course.

What Moses should have done was kill off all the spoiled children in the world, not to mention all those stuffy overachievers who grate on their expensive musical instruments that they'll grow out of in a couple of months, the exclusive schools that just stuffs them with modules and the ridiculous painting classes (paint on the walls, dummy; that's what kids do!) because really, we first-borns are what the future depends on.

Oh, gah. This is one avenue where I need need need a distraction. In college, there's no widdle children. Ah.

And the little kid that I do want to see is not here since her mother, whom I love terribly, is on bedrest. I miss you, Ashley, dear. Happy (10 months) Birthday!

<<-->>

Watched Spanglish last night on HBO and I now have girl-crush on Paz Vega. Woohoo!

bRiNg tHe beAt baCk

(I wanted to do this again because I'm bored but I want to update; and because I'm not in the mood to be grammatically correct, with all the shiznit on unity and transition, chuchu. I'm not even trying to be writer-y. Hm.)

I.
I was buried in my lola's comforter, bemoaning the state of my money-less existence (I want to retail-shop-therapy, if you can recall) when a thought worthy of a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl popped into my head: There is a high probability that I will be classmates with that crush of mine who likes to part his hair in such a highschool-pretty boy manner. So, yes, rejoice, for said crush is undoubtedly a guy. Hm. I overheard him telling someone na he was gonna take this class that I'm in, next sem, which is this sem. So, ignoring the stalker-vibe of the previous statement, I actually have something to look forward to this sem that's not remotely academic. Wee!

II.
I am fearing for the state of my literary existence. This is more than the shallowness of my blog entries. I mean, my fiction. Meaning, nothing's looking like it'll get me anywhere, at least (for now) to a respectable critique from one of my fang-baring friends. Sure, I'm still in my primordial soup stages so there's really no tangible existence as of yet. So far, my fiction's all holes and gaps, all having a dire need for voice. Everything's too commercial, too oh trash-y. My pieces are basically examples found in those basic "You Can Be A Writer!" books and it's just sooo sad, especially since classes are a weekend away. Ach. It's just that the creative juices are dry and whatever does come out is pure crap. Good luck to me.

III.
Some odd four years ago, I picked up a slim blue UP publication: Eight Stories. Some odd four years later, now, the book, a bit yellow, has been reinstated on my bedside desk. The book contains eight god-damned fantastic pieces of literature, most of them dark and gritty; some even have that sliver of goth. I am a fan. A rabid one... Three days from now, I am going to meet the author face to face and spend some odd months under his tutelage. (Oh, fuck, I am going to be Alfred Yuson's student.) Hala.

IV.
Do these glasses make me look smarter? A random friend, upon seeing them on me, said, "Those are probably the most erotic glasses I've ever seen." O-kaaay. And, no, I wasn't doing anything remotely sexual. (To those who need a more visual clarification: No, I wasn't blowing him at the time, with eye contact.) I think the boy needs a girlfriend. Hai. Maybe I look like a tramp secretary. Ooh, kinky.

V.
My grandparents have better cellphones than me. Maybe because they have a considerably larger bank account than moi. Anyway, Daddy Poop (my lolo) got a Nokia 6630 last year and kanina lang -- as in kanina lang -- Mommy Lily (my lola) got the cutest widdle phone, a Nokia 6111. I have so much envy right now. Hahaha, tas ako wala pang cellphone. Pathetic. Agh. I need a sugar daddy.

VI.
I want to lose weight. I look dreadful without any clothes on. Not that anyone will see me naked anytime soon. I just like to feel good, knowing I look like a million dollars (plus abs) underneath my tiangge-bought clothes. Ach, but losign weight means physical exertion. Aaargh.

VII.
The Christmas decor is up in my lola's house! Ooh, it smells like Christmas already! :p Magtipid na kayo! Maghihintay ako ng regalo! :p

See you!

tHat woRks fEr mE

Hello, ladies and gents. Here I am again, set to bore and annoy with clueless ramblings and whiny rants in this pop culture addiction, ze blog. Oh, I so love my life.

Okay. Will scratch the perkiness.


<<-->>


Pics of Charz's bday bash (stolen from Charz's Mutliply) on October something. Event is also known as Debauchery of Charz, Sasha and Sam Q. Sayang, Yaps, Gab, umuwi agad kayo. I was really drunk. You could've done wonderful things to me. Hahaha. Ew.








<<-->>


Here I am in my lola's house, having the time of my life on her gigantic comforter-covered bed, eating vanilla ice cream and watching Dr. McDreamy on cable. I call this charging, in manner of cellphone batteries, as I will go back to the chaos that is school come Monday morning at 8:30. I can't say I'm excited. I'm actually a bit apprehensive, since school is nothing but stress. And, er... friends. :'p Haha, tamad talaga. But I'll get my school groove soon. Hopefully.


I need energy and happiness. Thus, I need retail therapy. However, I would need money. Man. I don't need new clothes. Sheesh, give me a pair of jeans, two shirts, some odd underwear and I'm ready to rough it. (Yaaaakeee.) I don't need new stuff, actually. I can live without new Chucks, an MP3 player, a new laptop, a new cellphone. Nope. So what's wrong with me?


Sige na nga. Pera na lang. Hehe.


<<-->>


See you. And I hope Britney gets full custody of her babies. :')

tHanks a Lot, rEgcOm

Site for the class schedules won't load. This is so helpful.

I am so lost. I have to register Nikita Launcher tomorrow at 730 in the morning and I have no idea what the scheds are. Sana may trial period. Hehe. Ambot ba kung anong pipiliin ko. Arrrgh.

I'm taking French, btw, because I am suicidal that way. Wee.

Ano yung SCI10 niyo? Help. At bakit blanko yung FA subject? Help, help, *whimper* help.

hI, foAm bEd

I am throbbing and stiff all over (no, I haven't turned into a penis), which is extremely weird as I have fulfilled my wish to do absolutely nothing this sem. Dad tells me the muscle pain's due to the fact that I haven't hauled my assaway from my bed (aka the living room couch). Mom says, "Uh, what? Yeah."

Wee. My back's bothering me like a skewered piggy and my right knee feels like it's been carved out and used as a tuba. My calves feel like their squeezed longganisa and my freaking left boob (what scarce entity there is of it) has got tiny pointy toothpicks digging into my innards. Yep, I enjoyed my sem break.

Oh, I hibernated like a mama bear. Woke up at three in the afternoon, stayed in bed, then read trash til the four am the next day, which can also be called the wee hours of the morning or if you're my dad, putangina, para kang uod na ginapangan ng lupa! (Don't ask me what that means. I tried; he made me wash the dishes.)

But life went on around me. Gemma Ward turned 19 (nine-freaking-teen ka lang?!) and Reese and Ryan split. Damn. I didn't see that one coming. Not to mention the fact that all the alumni batchessss of my dear old high school got together for a teambuilding shiznit. Read: my exessss were there. And the entirety of the Sluts of Society. Woo-fucking-hoo. My friends know I love them so there's no need to submit myself to GD's galore. Ugh.

Okay, so I overslept. But, hello, assembly was at 5AM. I slept at 3.

Anyways, I went on an outing thingie with the people who actually matter. Hm. Hm.

Oh, and I went with the family (yeah, I'm in the mob) to Playa, Calatagan, which is just absolutely beautiful. Who cares if I spelled it wrong? :'p People are turning Calatagan into a first-class, elitist country club island and I freaking hate it. Sure, it's beautiful and all that shit but I can't stand those snobs on my sand. Fine, fine. The place was so freaking breathtaking it was orgasmic and I just stood there in the middle of everything, gaping and near tears because I knew I still had half a lifetime to go before I even come close.

But since we've got land (in a manner of speaking) on a hill overlooking the purdy ocean that's always low-tide anyway, the entrance fee is for free and all that crap. Oh, ang ganda ganda ganda nung resort. Gandaaaaah.

Okay, so I was seething green with longing and envy for the anorexic kolehiyala who traipsed by with two minute triangles on her bony chest. Fine. Go over the infinity pool, demmit.

Fine. Ahem. To the real world: I moved out of my old room into a new room on the same building. I hope life's smoother this time but if it ain't, god damn it, I am truly an evil and unlikeable person. Hm.

I miss Pepsi.