On riding airconditioned buses.

Title is a twist of Tin's blog title. My wit is razor-sharp.

On my way home tonight, I took the only available seat on the bus. To my disappointment, it wasn't a window seat.

I like window seats. I like looking outside and watching as I whiz by the surroundings: cars, trucks, motorcycles, the wide sea of paved cement. Looking out on the streetlights and the people and the rows of dirty, deeply uninteresting buildings soothes my spirit.

Tonight, however, I didn't get a chance to see all that.

I guess I like window seats because seeing everything fly by provides me the comforting illusion that I am going somewhere, that I am moving forward in a specific direction, instead of being trapped in a confining metal cage they call a bus.

Crappy Days are Here Again

This Tuesday started out like any other. Early morning PE, we lost the handball game as usual, had fun with fellow Green Team members. Since it was our last game day, we took lots of pictures with Babes' camera.

(L-R): Jayjay, me, Tin, Ava (Babes), Aya, Kevin

Not in picture: Carlo (who's sick with dengue) and Ann

With our handball instructor,

who specifically requested to take a picture with all the teams.

I then spent the rest of the morning with my friends, studying for the Math finals later that afternoon. We expressed a common desire to cut English class to study, but decided against it.

Fast-forward to Math class: Final examinations. Last chance to redeem ourselves and our grades. It could have gone better—in fact, I think I only just passed the exam by a fraction.

An hour and a half later, Rational Psychology came 'round. We had a quiz I didn't study for, mostly because I was so focused on the Math finals, but also partly because I was reading my new copy of Kikomachine Komix Blg. 3.

Anyhoodle, during RatPsych, as our professor was giving out our papers, he took me aside for a moment to show me my grade, and told me to compute for my preliminary grade. I already knew then that it wasn't gonna be good.

After a minute's computing by Denyang, I got my grade. 75. Seventy-fucking-five. It was all I could do not to howl. My pride was crushed. After all, I survived Dr. Co, the Venerable Master, and I couldn't get past this class? Seriously, Ela? Seriously?

I was feeling so crummy that I almost—almost—cried. (Emphasis on almost because I do not like to cry, especially in front of people.) Thank god I have amazing friends who tried to cheer me up. We had dinner at Lover's Lane, had a long talk about life, love, and school.

And when it was only Gab, Bru, and I, they picked apart my psyche until they concluded this:

"Malungkot ka kasi may gusto kang di mo makuha, at di mo maamin 'to sa sarili mo kasi ma-pride ka."

 That's some big talk for eighteen-year-olds, but they hit the nail right on the goddamn rusty head.

Posting this for posterity. Abbey & Kat are the most incredible friends a person could possibly have, and to think that they have the patience to put up with a crazy bitch like myself—they are possibly martyrs.

Honesty (I swear to god I write the worst titles ever)

Wandering 'round the blogosphere, I read an entry from one of my favorite bloggers, Fickle Cattle. Fickle Cattle anonymously blogs about life, love, being gay, and being a writer, among other things. 

He had recently written something that struck me: he said that honesty is one of the things that makes for good writing. Now, let me be honest (LOL). I don't say things straight to the point. I hedge, beat around the bush, mince my words. See, I'm doing it right now. God, what's wrong with me.

My point is (yes, I do have one), I find it hard to be completely honest in my writing. What should I be honest about? My emotionally-damaging past, the guys I like and/or have fallen for, squabbles with my family and friends? How about mean thoughts I'd prefer to keep to myself because it would hurt people's feelings?

Hell, I can't even admit my own feelings to myself. I constantly keep up a stream of denial in the hopes that my emotions would disappear.

Maybe someday, when I come completely to terms with who I was, when I'm comfortable enough to show who I am, when I'm emotionally healthy enough to be honest with myself—maybe, I could show a hundred percent honesty in my writing. 'til then, I'm hedging, beating around the bush, and mincing my words.

Scrubs

For the past few weeks, these people have been on my TV:

I have been running a Scrubs marathon from the first season to the eighth. I have a copy of the ninth, but since Zach Braff's only in the first few episodes, I ain't watching it (John Dorian is my life, okay).

Speaking of JD, I feel myself acting more and more like him. Since I started watching, I daydream more, and I even tilt my head ever-so-slightly to the left. Worse, when I narrate stuff to myself in my head, it actually sounds like JD. 

Maybe I could relate to him because I am such a dork.

However, my favorite character in this series is Dr. Perry Cox. Call me a sucker for cynical, angry, narcissistic jackasses, but I do love me some Cox (pun intended. It was so easy, I couldn't help myself.) 

His long-winded speeches take at least a minute to digest and he has this weird hatred of Hugh Jackman, but when he teaches a lesson to Newbie, Gandhi, or Barbie, damn, he teaches it well. I guess I love him because he is one of the most quotable TV characters I've seen. Proof?

Relationships don’t work the way they do on television and in the movies. Will they? Won’t they? And then they finally do, and they’re happy forever. Gimme a break.

and one of my personal favorites:

Oh my god, I care so little, I almost passed out.

Unsurprisingly, JD and Elliot ended up together. Okay, so they didn't get married and all that, but they were together, after eight seasons of the on-again, off-again routine and several references to Ross and Rachel of Friends.

Watching the last episode was bittersweet. On one hand, I was glad I had watched Scrubs, a show from which I had picked up countless quotes and life lessons. On the other hand, I didn't want to stop watching such an entertaining series.

I can't do this all on my own. I know I'm no Superman.

Photo sources:

Here, here, here, here, and here.

Me, Mom, and Food

When my mom and I get into a fight, she usually makes up for it by giving me money to buy food. I take advantage and ask to buy food that I can't normally afford, so I usually end up buying at Taco Bell (yes, my allowance can't afford Taco Bell huhu) or Wendy's, with a Dairy Queen Blizzard on the side.

And when my mom and I fight in a mall, she knows that the only way to get the sulky scowl off my face is to feed me. When that happens, we usually go to a somewhat expensive restaurant, like Pancake House, Conti's, Five Cows, or Burgoo. The two of us have this unspoken understanding: that when I'm down, food can cheer me right up.

Last night, I got home at around 1:30AM (don't ask), and my mom was predictably pissed about it. Which is why I was surprised that when she got home, she brought with her a box of Meiji Macadamia chocolates. She then said, "Yan ah, kahit bad girl ka na, binibilhan pa rin kita."

Photo taken here.

Thank god chocolate has endorphin-producing capabilities, assuaging the guilt I felt for causing my mom so much trouble lately.

Granny's Got Pneumonia, 2.0

So, today, I didn't go to class. I went with my mom to the hospital to visit Lola.

When we got there, Lola was already with Mommy, Tita Malou, Kuya Sean, and, to my surprise, Nanay Leth, with whom my family had a somewhat serious falling-out months ago. 

As they were helping Lola get into bed, I felt a shock go through me. My grandma always was strong for her age (73, I think); she could even lift those heavy plastic water gallons you put in dispensers. It was very unsettling for me to see her that weak.

Later, when Lolo arrived and only Mommy, Mama, and I were left, he asked, "Nung nasa Surigao ka pa ba nanghihina?" to which my granny sheepishly replied, "Oo."

Lolo then asked, "Eh bakit di mo sinabi?"

The next words showed that I got my stubborn streak from Lola: "Ayokong ipakitang mahina ako, eh."

Granny's Got Pneumonia :(

One of my aunts texted my mom this morning, saying my grandma has a fever. Tita Ninang suggested that Lola go to the hospital for a check-up. 

Later, we found out my grandma was confined because she had pneumonia. I then Googled pneumonia, which was a big mistake. Instead of alleviating my anxiety, I got even more worried. Check out what I got from Wikipedia:

Pneumonia is common, occurring in all age groups, and is a leading cause of death among the young, the old, and the chronically ill.

Yeah, thanks a lot.

Mom then told me to pray for Lola. Which made me go, How about no? inside my head. Aaah, Mom, I don't know how I can tell you that I'm not big on the God thing.

Anyway, tomorrow, I'll probably drop by the hospital to see how Lola's doing. If you're religious, then maybe you can take my place and pray to God/Shiva/Allah/[insert name of other religious god] for my granny's quick recovery.

Coordinating conjunctions go hand in hand with me.

For you, at the very least, I would walk to the ends of this earth

And neither hell

Nor high water can deter me.

But you're either incredibly ignorant of the suffering I'm enduring for you,

Or you willingly turn a blind eye to my sacrifice. I want to cry out in agony,

Yet my lips are sealed, overcome by soft-spokenness and fear

So I write, the conjunctions a metaphor for hidden emotions.

Inspired by the lecture in English class last Thursday.

I went shopping with a guy without him once complaining. How odd.

Last Friday, Babs and I went to Trinoma to shop for birthday gifts for Tita Carmen (his mom) and Paula.

For Paula, we bought this shirt:

Photo taken here.

That is a shirt that reeks of (drunken) inside jokes with me, Gab, Japhet, and Babs.

For Tita Carmen, we spent a lot of time roaming the mall looking for that one perfect gift. Finally, in EGG, I spotted a beautiful pendant which opens up to reveal a watch. Now, I wish to god I have a picture of it because I find it really nice: silver chain, silver metalwork, and a glossy pink/white floral design set on black.

Turns out that I'm great at picking our gifts. Paula found the shirt funny, and when I greeted Tita Carmen a happy birthday yesterday, she told me that she liked the necklace, that I had great taste, and that she hoped to meet me soon.

Babs and I also watched Resident Evil: Afterlife that day. It cost P180, and it was so not worth it.

Sure, Milla Jovovich and Ali Larter were hot,

Photo taken here.

and Wentworth Miller was sizzling-delicious-mm-mm-good,

Okay, so this ain't a picture from Resident Evil.
Don't bust my chops, I just love this picture of him. Hawwwt, dude.
Photo taken here.

but for P180, we should have watched Despicable Me instead.

Spinning senseless stories

Sweet as a song, you and I collide in a mesh of metaphors and double entendres.
We define the car-crash hearts of this generation. Dysfunctional, yet somehow, somewhat perfect in every aspect.
It was trivial and fun and light and happy and incredible.
Your words, your touch—I don't know what else I could need.

Optimism Challenge: Day 2-3

This was supposed to be last Tuesday, but after I tell you what happened that day, you'll realize why I wasn't able to blog that day.

Three good things about that day:

1. We only had one subject (Math) though I didn't tell mom so I would be able to stay out until 7PM
2. The YC Buddies got together to eat. This is a good thing because it's hard to get all seven of us to go out together, even though we're classmates.
3. Had a sleepover with Babs and Zen.

Lemme elaborate on the third point. 

I suggested that we all go home to my place. During the tricycle ride home, it stopped dead in the middle of the road, where tall grass grew and the lone streetlight was a couple minutes' walk away. Of course I was freaked out, and Zen was, too. It was actually quite funny, the way we were arguing whether or not we should just walk, until a tricycle appeared and we hitched a ride.

Both tricycle drivers insisted that there was a manananggal in the neighborhood. Thanks for telling me that. I only go home late, like, every day, so no reason for me to be scared, right? #sarcasm

After getting home, we watched Vacancy. Well, I watched it; the two of them took turns watching while the other was asleep.

We spent the following morning just bumming around our house. We ate a lot of take-out, watched a lot of movies (Zen kept complaining so we changed the movies five fucking times before we found one he liked), had a chess tournament wherein Babs lost match after match (it was the only chess game I had ever watched where the players trash-talked—hilarious!), attempted to study, wasted about half an hour looking through my clothes for something that would fit Babs, and wasted an hour looking for Zen's cellphone battery, which was in the pillowcase all along.

After they left, I took a shower and went to the living room window, when suddenly I heard a whisper, "Ela!" Holy shit, I thought it was a ghost! Turned out that the two idiots got lost on their way to the guardhouse. I ended up calling a tricycle for them.

It was a pretty fun bonding experience. I just hope my mom doesn't think the worst of me for letting two guys sleep over. Haha.

Lest we forget

It was the warmth: of your shirt, of your arm resting on mine, of your lips kissing me ever so lightly, of the sheets underneath our twisting bodies.

Temporariness shrouded the moment, but I didn't care. I still don't. The fleeting nature of it was perhaps what made it even more special.

You may bury it deep in your head, substituting it with triviality, yet we will always have this memory of you, and me, and that one night when everything made sense.

Optimism Challenge: Day 1

Talking to Vivien about our constant depression made me realize that it was up to me to make things better, so the two of us agreed to find at the very least three things for which to be grateful in every day. Day 1 was yesterday.

1. I had bacon—my favorite—for breakfast.
2. The bus ride to UST was comfy.
3. I spent Psych class laughing my ass off with Gab.
4. Rizal Course was fun, as always, because of Sir Albela and his wacky ways. (I love that guy.)
5. I ate chicken, Coke Float and fries. Spent time with Bru, Gab, Babes, Ressa, and Paula at Lover's Lane.
6. An empty bus pulled up at España, which meant a seat for me.
7. I got home at a reasonable hour. Okay, so getting home at 6:30PM when dismissal was 3:00PM doesn't seem reasonable, but trust me, I once got home at 2AM, so this is an achievement for me (and a bit of a shock for my mom, who usually expects me home at 9PM).

These are somewhat sucky bright sides, but if you know how miserable I usually am each day, then you'll know that this is the most optimism I can muster.

On band shirts and monochrome

I have been lusting for band shirts ever since I saw a Fall Out Boy shirt on a Jejemon months ago. 

Thank god that band shirts come mostly in black or white, since I usually refuse to wear clothes with colors that don't resemble grayscale.

This shirt's design is relevant.
Fall Out Boy will never be not good.

There's a small stall in SM Fairview that sells band shirts, so I'm going over there sometime to blow cash on shirts that advertise my taste in music.

You know, because I'm dorky like that.

Anyone know where I can buy The Cure shirts?

Un-birthday gift 2.0

So I wrote about Peter Angelo's belated birthday gift to me, and here it is:

Once again, I have an amazingly talented guy for a best friend.

It's not a simple drawing, though. If you know me (which few people can say), then you'll see the meaning in those pencil strokes.

At the upper right corner is, literally, the sunflower, my favorite.

My private blog's title is The Raincloud Over Your Head.

The Cure is one of my favorite bands. The iPod is placed above me similar to an IV drip, which symbolizes how my need for music.

Peter named it Dummy Bear because, "parang gummy bear pero dumb." I don't know if he's trying to insult me here, haha. A screw is loose in Dummy Bear's head, symbolizing my insanity, and the stitches on her neck are because of the expressions I often use, namely: /wrist, /neck, and /clitoris.

Dummy Bear will soon drown in a sea of liquor. Her knife-wielding shadow has a sad expression on her face, which represents my tendency towards misery. In the boxes are written: Dark and twisty bear with a horrible past!

The cake's candles are cigarettes and on the cake is written The Cigar Blues, the title of Peter's blog.

I don't really know why there's a bomb, but off the top of my head, I guess it's because of my rage issues.

I love anything Super Mario, which explains the pipe, the question mark block, and the 1up mushroom.

The buildings are the only part that don't make much personal sense to me. When I pointed this out to Peter, he hastily replied that it's because I love architecture.

Another picture, just because.
I want to share its sheer awesomeness with everyone who has Internet access.

Allow me to gush yet again how much I love that my best friend knows me so well.