Requiem

I joined the DLSU...and I LOST! But it's okay, I'd anticipated the loss days prior, anyway. And I'm glad I didn't join the Battle of the Brains too - it just proved that even what I wanted the most couldn't hinder me from self-satisfaction.

So I guess, I'm good. I've really matured.... OH and KEVS! Congratulations for winning the Battle of the Brains! I think you were the most humble person in the bunch... humility deserves awards and recognition. Not to mention, you really ARE good at your craft. (Is there prize money?)

Btw, this is my 151st post. And I guess, it'll be one of my last. A certain kind of maturity has obliged me to make a new blog. This time, though, I'm not deleting this. In fact, this'll always be here - always, always, always. I want to keep my past in tune with my present.

Of Decisions, Choices... and Hurt Part 2

When it comes right down to it, I guess there's no such thing as being the jack of all trades. It simply is farfetched. I can't be a writer and at the same time a brainy geek. I think this is God's way of telling me that I can't be two things at the same time.




For the record, peeps, I'm flipping The Coin.

Of Decisions, Choices... and Hurt

I have to make a decision tonight.

On January 31, 2009, the Battle of the Brains and the DLSU Eco-Art Competition will take place at the same time (but not at the same place). The thing is, I don't know which to choose.

I know, I know, it may seem to be easy, simple...whatever. But for me, it's different.

Case 1: Battle of the Brains

The truth is, I wanna win the Battle of the Brains because, of course, of the title. Duh. And I want to prove people wrong. They (as in my "supportive" "classmates" and "friends") kept saying: "Si Aldric naman mananalo diyan eh! Obvious naman eh!", "Magaling yan si Aldric, kayang-kaya niya yan!"

And I'm so hurt.

Kasi... mas mataas score ko sa Philippine History, Asian History, World History, General Info and Current Events kaysa sa kanya...Math lang naman kasi eh (which he downright perfected). And it's so fucking unfair. People automatically ajudge that the valedictorian would win any contest he'd join. (But, as luck would have it, no valedictorians have ever won the BoB before.)

Thank GOODNESS for Ellyn, Cha, and Mollie! The THREE people who were uber-supportive of my fetish for history... ang Cha was so rooting for me! She said I was really gonna win. Cha, I love you. I really do. You deserve a shelf of Chick-Lit books, Cha. I can't explain how supportive she was! I MEAN IT. Like, everyday, there're words of support. Really, I can't explain. And Ellyn! She may not have Cha's ways of reminding me that I could really ace it, but you can tell how SINCERE she is. Sincerity, amidst a sea of drama, is heaven.

Why do I want to win? Because I want to redeem my title. I've won Social Science/Gen Info competitions before (outside the school - back when I was still in Sakya) and I want to prove that YES, I'm GREAT. I'm GOOD. I'm BETTER. Call me insecure, but it's just my true feelings. Nakakainis kasi, left and right, iisa lang ang naririnig kong statement. It's like you KNOW you're better. But you can't prove it.

Of course, since, as you can see, I'm TOO confident about this, it would be VERY HARD for me to accept defeat.

You know why else I wanna win? Because of the rewards at stake. If I win, since I'm a FIVE-er, I'm gonna have the chance to join interschool competitions like the REAL Battle of the Brains, quiz bees, other stuff.

Case 2: DLSU Writing Competition

You know, I was so keen on joining the BoB because I thought I really was going to win... but because of the lack of support my "FRIENDS" give me, it kinda dragged me down....Parang, you're down because they're down for you.. Sabi pa nga nung isa: "Mag-DLSU ka na lang. Magaling si aldric eh so maliit chance na manalo." it's like FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. Why does everybody automatically ASSUME that he's going to win? Let me get this straight, I've NOTHING against him. He's my friend. And if he reads this, I hope he understands that I'm pissed at other people's judgment, not at him.


The whole dragging down thing kinda made me want to choose DLSU. Top that off with Julie Diane's and Mr. Delos Reyes' EFFECTIVE, EFFORTLESS CONVINCING (and nagging), I kind of want to join the DLSU now. And I know THE TOPIC VERY WELL. The theme's gonna be all about MY OP-ED (which I'd so carefully written because I wanted to win a Yuyitung). So there. Besides, if I lose the Battle, it's gonna be really hard for me.

THIS SUCKS.


Guys, PLEASE DO COMMENT ON THIS DECISION-MAKING THING before I head to rehab.



Hey, maybe I should just ditch both contests?

I Can't Think of a Title

It's 1:05 AM in my clock, as of now. And I wanna cry myself to sleep.

Sadly (no pun intended), I can't cry.


This is so tragic.


Is this what they call depression?

Reclusion, Thy Name is I

I feel like one of those old, sick, dying book characters tormented writers write about.

I got the old feel in the pockets. My environment, it seems to me, is antique. Some of my "friends" have faded into the background of an old 50's movie that will presumably be forgettable. My previous "passions" (can't believe I just used the word in plural form) have dissolved into a new (old, actually) kind of impasse...one that I can't explain thoroughly because I don't understand much either. I feel like I just lived and excruciatingly survived 9 lifetimes.

And my birthday is fast-approaching.


So yeah, I feel old.



I am a human disease stick. My life energy is currently getting sucked up by random whirlpools that come in the forms of "friends", enemies and ... internal factors (like too much anxiety, paranoia and hypochondria). Literally, I AM a human disease stick. Today's just 4 days since my high fever bid adieu to my body...and I've already relapsed. Right now, I'm coughing. My throat feels as if a meter stick of a rose with bloody thorns had stuck to it. And there's an overall feeling of dizziness. Alas, my vertigo attacks!

And I feel like...puking which is as rare as Mowgli's syndrome. (Mowgli's syndrome is rare, right?)


So yeah, I feel sick.



I define life as an equilibrium of...things. Now that my social life has gone off the hook, I'm dead. Or at least, part of me is dead. Or maybe dying. Truth is, I don't really know. I've got heaps of problems again. I vow to anticipate the first few weeks of January from now on. Something tragic always happens weeks before my birthday. The weighing scales of my life have either burst because of obesity or anorexia. I know, I know. I could get sued for my choice of words. But getting sued is actually better than facing drama that my "friends" have bequeathed me (let's just substitute the word "bequeathed" with the word "BETRAYED" - all caps) with. How big of a fool am I, anyway? I've had let these "friends" betray me before and I've done so AGAIN. I should be awarded for this!

And this is the part where I hate them all for being so defensive for something wrong they did. They should be condemned for doing this to me. I should be hanged for being the most used person in the planet.


So yeah, I feel like I'm dying.



I always tell people: "I have a life!" ...which translates to: My life is near bliss because it's packed with a social life, a family life, a spiritual life, a career (life), a whatever life... you name it, I'm too old, sick, and dying to type.


...but I guess, sometimes, it's actually a plus to not have a life.


Still...


I HAVE A LIFE!

Revenge is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)

Mark their words: Nemo me impune lacessit "No one harms me with impunity." Yes, that's The Cask of Amontillado to you.

Never have I ever found myself thinking about vengeance...vendetta... revenge...I'd always thought that anyone's (given that he did wrong) conscience would avenge the victim.

But sometimes, revenge gets to you in the weirdest way possible.

Are there two kinds of revenge: good and bad revenge?

Is doing the right thing revenge?

Is it revenge when it's justifiable (logically and rationally speaking)?

Is it still revenge when you're doing "it" to protect someone, say, future successors?

I don't know.

But, seriously, who knows?

These things are beyond dictionary's definition. Moreover, these things are beyond juvenile experiences.

But, readers, if you hear something in the near future that relates to ME, the thought of revenge, the thought of righteousness and morality (like a scandal), refer back to this little post.

The scandal's gonna explode like a tiny bomb. Let's just wait and see.






Only time will tell.

Sinequanone

I added another link to the "Simply Irresistible" Add-On on my sidebar.

Retail therapy will forever be my therapy.


Anyway, here's the new fashion brand I'm obsessing about. It's kind of like Zara, but I think they only differ when it comes to the fabric. Zara's fabric comes from France and Spain. Sinequanone's? I don't know yet. Truth is, I haven't bought anything from this store (yet)...and maybe I will on my birthday (that's January 28, people!)


Where was I? Oh, yeah, I haven't bought anything from this store yet BUT it's all over magazines and haute couture websites so I'm UP for it.


In case you're wondering, sinequanone is actually a Latin word (well, they modified it a bit.) Sine Qua Non is the real deal. It means "(a condition) without which it could not be".

I've no idea how THAT could relate to fashion!


Disclaimer: To my male readers, fret not! I will not continue to barrage your eyes with female power-infused blog posts (not soon, anyway).


HAVE A GREAT DAY!

I'm Corny

Ich liebe Dich




Ik hou van jou




Jag alskar dig




Je t'aime




Te amo




Ti amo



















I love you.

RESPECT ISN'T A FUCKING 4-LETTER WORD THAT IS OTHERWISE KNOWN AS "FEAR".

Fuck You and Your Pride

I suggest you read these three posts first before proceeding to read THIS: click here, here and here.

All three of 'em are directed to someone I called: "Miss Emo". And I bet 90% of my readers out there know who she is if I would say her name here out loud - she's a Shekian.

The three posts were written in (obvious) anger months and months and months ago (seems like years to me, actually) but things haven't changed. It's not that I don't do a single kilogram of effort ever, it's just that Miss Emo and I just don't "click".

So now, we're in an impasse.

In the meantime, Miss Emo the 2nd is sprouting. And I won't call her "Miss Emo". She's a lot older, kasi eh. I dub "Miss Emo the 2nd" to be: "Queen of All Emos". Iyan. She deserves it.

What she doesn't deserve at all is what she has right now: credit, "honor", "nobility".

Why doesn't she deserve that?

She's a fucking hater.

Ode to the Queen:

Is that what people call "responsibility" nowadays? Presiding by means of power and executing the tyranny of false virtues? Responsible na ba ngayon ang pag-iiwan ng tasks and duty lying on the fucking floor, waiting for the dustbunnies to fucking eat 'em to death?

"Thoughtful" na ba ang paggawa ng isang bagay na MUKHANG bukal sa puso...but deep inside kumukulo ang dugo mo sa paggawa non?

Is doing THAT to your grandmother "respect"? You told me once that you had a menacingly strong aversion towards your grandmother. You told me once that this grandmother did wrong things. You told me once that this grandmother has made a lot of mistakes. Ask yourself this before I put your brain into the oven: To whom did she do the wrong things to? To whom were the mistakes attributed to? Sa iyo ba? Ganyan na ba ang respect ngayon? Binabastos mo siya eh. Sure, she has made a lot of mistakes. Sure, she's done a lot of wrong things. But she did those "things" as a PERSON not as a GRANDMOTHER. Right now, you're treating her as a PERSON, not as YOUR GRANDMOTHER. Your grandmother needs to be respected - like it or not.

People make mistakes. And just because those mistakes don't make the path to YOUR journey CLEARER doesn't mean you should curse them to hell.

I see you're jealous of me. Lantad na. Hindi na kailangang itago. It's forever etched in my memory - but that doesn't mean I won't forgive you. Even though I saw the intense emotions you channeled that day - the day when material possessions grabbed a GOOD hold of you. Sabi mo pa nga (this I will never forget): "IKAW! HA! Kahit nagrerebelde ka nakukuha mo lahat ng gusto mo!"

That was so random. That was so sudden. Hindi mo machachannel ang isang bagay na ganoon ka-intense kung wala kang pinagkuhanan niyan. Hindi ka makagagawa ng intense emotion like that within just a blink of your fugly eyes. Kaya. You know what that means? That means despite ALL the trust I'd given you, you'd been boiling wrath, irate bubbles inside your arterial chambers.

Ang trust kapag nawala, mahirap nang ibalik.

Bakit ayaw mo akong pabayaan? Bakit laging pinakekelaman mo yaong downfall ko? You're like one of those media-mongers. Like a paparazzo. Waiting for people to fall flat on their faces to get a good snapshot which in turn will wind up all around the globe. But no, yours isn't the globe. Yours is your heart. In short, bawat pagkakamali ng tao, sinu-scrutinize mo sa puso mo. Masama yan. Hindi yan healthy. Sino ka? Si Poodle? Papatayin ka ng insecurities mo sooner or later.

You can't find well-being from a person's mistakes. That, my friends, is why the world is at par with hell.

Nahulog mo gamit ko. I said: "FUCK!" Obvious namang pinaghirapan ko yung ginagawa kong cut-outs di ba?

Wala ka man lang sorry?

Ah, "sorry". I remember, you've never said a sincere "sorry" to anyone else in this universe.

Remember your best friend? Didn't he say sorry? What did you say in return?

Wala.

Pride.

Pride mo.

Fuck you and your pride.

Why are you so fucking mad at the world anyway? You're JUST like Miss Emo but on a slighlty different angle. When I told you about Miss Emo, you were all: "Ang irrational nya." So are you.

When your mom said (in a reprimanding, serious, mad voice): "May topak ka ata ah!"

Queen: "May topak talaga ako!"

So why aren't you changing it?

You see your fault right THERE. Do you change it? No. You sit on your arse and wait for the world to turn its axis. You're hoping... for the world to COVER and BURY your mistakes, flaws and faults.

That's not gonna happen. Never. Ever.

You are the most irrational person I've ever met. You think you're otherwise. You think you're perfect.


Masyadong mataas yang pride mo. Hindi ko ma-reach.

Why do you hate the world so much? If you give me a GREAT answer to that, I will never bug you again.

Definitely, it's not because you grew up in a dysfunctional family. I grew up in a dysfunctional family my own but I don't hate the world.

Hindi rin ako KJ.

Hindi ko rin binabastos ang sister ko. I don't treat her like shit the way you do.

I never talk crap about her behind my back. I'm no nark. But you?

Puro na lang side comments!

Is that the rational way to behave?

I hate the ones like you. Yaong mga pakealamera. Before you go bitching on someone else's life, world, physical looks, intellectual capactiy, emotional status, soul, spirit, personality, attitude,characteristics and VALUES, look at yourself in the mirror.

You might even see a reflection that isn't as wretched as the Devil's face... You might see something a tad bit more revolting. Your pride.

Fashion

Gone are the days when I'd be sitting in the library - the good ole bookish girl/Math geek/typical nerd. I've changed. Maybe I should say that I've evolved. Into a lady. No, scratch that. I am not a lady. I've evolved into... a... (not a woman) ....but a ... a what?

A mature teenager. Let's just put it that way.

On the prospect of evolution - I feel like I'm some kind of a Pokemon (yes, yes, mature teenagers don't talk about Pokemon - BUT STILL). I feel like I'm Eevee. When I reached 15 years of age, someone or something rubbed the Fire Stone on my skin. Or maybe 15 years of age IS the Fire Stone of my life.

Now I breathe fire into my own existence.

One major thing that has evolved in me is my love for things girly. When I was 7, I was too busy doing Math for geekiness' sake while other girls were daydreaming about unicorns and ponies and all those rainbow things I don't know how to react to. When I was 12, I was too busy writing my own death wish while other girls were swooning about skirts, skincare and sexiness.

I was thinking (when I was 12): "Hey, I'm young. I'll think about fashion and physical looks when I'm 20 and a career woman."

See all that's changed.

Now, I'm obsessed with fashion, skincare, hair and all that girly jazz - but NOT in a swooning, squealing girly girl way. I'm obsessed with the haute couture in Gossip Girl. And I'm not 20. Not a career woman, either.

I'm so obsessed with fashion.

With just one trip to the mall, I can splurge my bank account until it goes gaga with dustbunnies.

With just one glance at a beautiful coat, I could die.

And just these past 2 weeks, I'd lavished boutiques with 10K (clothes, clothes, clothes).

How could those material things be so tempting?

How could I have let objects (worse, FABRICS) ruin my concentration?

How could I have let money run away from my fingers...and my bank account?

HOW?

(For starters, Gossip Girl has a humongous influence on this.)

Now all I can ever think about is:

Terra Nova, Calliope, Juicy Couture (MY GOODNESS. 'Tis amazingly expensive), Keds, Zara (SHOOT ME I LOVE ZARA), Gwen Stefani's Harajuku Lovers, Maldita, David and Goliath, Mango, Bayo, Kamiseta, Levi's, United Colors of Benetton, Giordano, VNC, Converse, Aerosoles, Gap, XOXO, Marks and Spencer...

Whew...

*pants*


Retail therapy...

Retail therapy...

Retail therapy...

I've turned into some kind of fashion freak!

I need to go to fashion rehab.

Oh, the Pain!

I'm suffering from a freaking migraine.

It started in Math period. Ma'am Del Valle came in, I had to take a seatwork (special seatwork to make up for my days absent). Sine Law. Ambiguous Case. Piece of cake. Especially now that I'm going good at Math again. Started recalling formulas.

Something punched me in the head (specifically, left temple). After that, started feeling as if someone's drilling my noggins. Finished seatwork. Tech Lab. Practical Test. Finished it last week but Ma'am said it had errors. Rechecked. Four times. Realized my only mistake was this: i wrote "lb3.caption". Freaking typo. Sheeesh. "lbl3.caption" dapat. Crap.

Head pounding pounding pounding pounding

4:05PM - Still had errands to do. Head is exploding.

5:15 PM - Went home. Ate. Head-pounding appeased.

6:00 PM - Watched TV. Turned it off immediately. Freaking head is getting drilled by mini-elves.

7:00 PM - Slept (with iPod on) in hopes of ridding the headache.

8:00 PM- Woke up. Head-pounding stronger than ever.

Now, I'm here. I'm supposed to pull a no-sleeper tonight - to finish things that need to be finished. This is going to result to mental stress so I think I'm going to die tonight. Wish me luck!

I wanna get rid of my head right now.

I mean it.

*BOOM*

The Shadow of the Wind

Despite the mounting To-Do lists on my desk here at home, I procrastinate.

Procrastination, thy name is me!

Part of the whole procrastination process was reading "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Yes, just judging from his name, he's Spanish. I've been trying to avoid Spanish authors since forever for this purpose: Fear. You ask: "Fear of what? Fear FOR what?"

Fear that I might get disappointed.

... of the Spanish culture, the Spanish people, and Spain. I expect a lot from European countries, after all. And if you know my middle name, you'd know that I really AM Spanish... that part (a quarter, actually) of my identity is the lingering European blood.

My maternal grandfather, the wisest person I've ever met/seen/heard about, was actually what we've studied in Philippine history books. He was brought up to society by Americans and he learned a lot of languages thanks to what remained to be the Thomasites. He even had pictures of those Americans with him!

My maternal grandfather's grandfather was once a Gov-General. Yes, yes, that kind.

So now. Back to the present. When I was in elem, in my previous school, I thought my family was the weirdest family in the universe. My mother talked differently. My mother acted differently. And obviously, my mother thought differently. I was a kid then. I guess my resolute thought for this was because my family, unlike my classmates' families, is intelligent. Heck, I was top in my class. I took this for granted. I accepted that we were different. But I didn't want to be different. I wanted to BE smart and at the same time BE normal. (Now, aged 15, I realize that being smart and being normal are two points that'd never be on the same plain.)

When I transferred to CKSC (where I met y'all: Kevs, Daniel, Fleur, etc etc), I got to know a few people. Elaine. Mollie. Cha. And when I say "I got to know", I really mean: I dived into their family lives. When I resurfaced, I realized: Hey, I'm in a new school, I'm surrounded by smart people and yet I am STILL different. What the heck?

I learned that their families never fought and reprimanded kids the way my family did. I learned that they didn't speak certain words. I learned that their parents didn't come from families that were as broken as the families my parents came from.

Come my junior year, still the same thing. As of now, I've had made bonds with Eunice, Paul, Jake, Kenny, Beni, Aldric, Elaine, Mollie, Cha, Fleur, Arianne, Nuevo, Camille, Jasmine, Aibee, Roy, Bea... the list goes on, seriously... and so far, none of their families are as different as mine. It's like my family's the weirdest or something!

Then... I read the book by the Spanish author (btw, it's translated to English by Lucia Graves, daughter of poet Robert Graves). It was set in post-war Barcelona.

(I'm not gonna expound on the plot. In fact, I'm not gonna mention the plot!)

I got hooked.

The details...the wordings...the events...the dialogue... they reflected my family.

It was so different from the American novels I had read before... the American novels whose characters' lives I thought were "normal". Yes, I am in blood, Spanish. No Filipino novel, no American novel could ever reflect that!

I AM SPANISH! It's a part of me I've never come to suffice with my everyday doings! It's a part of me that I've never uncovered.

No wonder I'm so inclined to Spanish songs (see profile).

No wonder I'm so inclined to learning Spanish.

No wonder I speak the word "tonta" while the rest of the world would say "tanga!"

No wonder I'd hear my mother talk FRANKLY about things.

I guess, if you really know me and my family troubles which I've mentioned in previous posts, you'd realize that my dysfunctional-family-conflict lies in a cultural barrier. My father is Chinese-Filipino. My mother is Spanish-Filipino. Chinese peeps are conservative. Spanish peeps are more liberal. Chinese peeps are discreet. Spanish peeps are open. Chinese peeps censore a few things. Spanish peeps lay them out in the wild.

And so the inner conflicts of Catherine Tan will forever rage...

It's a bittersweet thing.

I'm not proud to be a Filipino. I'm not proud to be a Chinese. I'm not proud of being Spanish. I'm proud of being all three, all at the same time.

"The Shadow of the Wind" didn't disappoint. It did the opposite. It opened my eyes.

Hello, Blog

Aside from the fact that I'm being eaten by these stupid bugs, everything's going pretty fine.

So right now...

It's basically 1 in the morning. (Don't believe what the "posted on" thingy at the bottom of this post says).

Mouth sore.

Throat hurts.

Bug-bitten.

Not panic-stricken anymore! I'm on to my 1045 words (word count's 1500)! So far, I like what I have. I'm on my third point, and nearing the conclusion. When this whole agony ends, I'd be the happiest person in the universe (...not...)

Shit. A bug just swooped down.

*inspects bug*

I don't even know what kind of bug it is! It's small and WHITE and it FLIES. Eewww. I am so spraying Baygon in this room (the Computer Room) the moment I finish my essay.

Darn. Bugs. Hate 'em all so much.

GAH. Now I'm itching.

My mouth is sore. My throat hurts. My skin is bug-bitten. What else? Death? The Bubonic Plague? Worse, an allergy?!?!?!

NO. Seriously. I've had one too much already. I'm ITCHING!

Great. Now my beloved dogs are chewing my purple Havaianas to death. Well, it's okay actually. I don't like Havaianas anyway. They're the most overrated creatures in this universe. That's exactly why I don't use them outside the house. Yes, peeps. They're JUST SLIPPERS. I don't care how much they cost. They're STILL slippers. Call it flip-flops or not. They're JUST SLIPPERS. (The world officially hates me now).

Seriously, get real shoes.

They're JUST SLIPPERS!

Why I'm Busier than Half of the World (A Quasi-Irrational List)

I dedicate this to Fleur, although I don't know why.

1. Because I only get at most 4 hours of sleep at night.
2. Because while the world sleeps/plays/rests, I toil.
3. Because I am a neurotic, overachieving perfectionist.
4. Because I bitch a lot.
5. Because I nourish my social life on a regular basis.
6. Because for the past 6 months, I've developed an obsession with fashion (Sunday is the sanctified Mall Day - spent nearly P10,000 on coats, hats, tops and pants - yep, we're getting ready for Winter Korea - believe it or not, shopping is tiring)
7. Because I love my job as the editor-in-chief of a nonprofit magazine.
8. Because I love myself as an overachiever (see num 3)
9. Because I can't balance love life, social life, academic life, personal life and career life VERY WELL. In the end, all that I sacrifice is my sleep.
10. Because, accdg to Fleur, I'm a Class A woman, strong and outspoken (and I love her for this)
11. Because I stress too much on worthless stuff.
12. Because I obsess too much on worthless stuff (last week's obsession was ballpoint pens, this week's obsession is multi-colored typewriting paper rims)
13. Because I am blessed with competitions (which makes me very happy to the point of ... ecstasy)
14. Because I spend too much time with my (not short, not fat) iPod Nano (Baby, I love you!)
15. Because I organize too much activities in school.
16. Because I am too preoccupied thinking about boys.
17. Because I hate Twilight.
18. Because I care for my dogs
19. Because I love food a lot
20. Because I buy a lot of gummy stuff (Favorite? Trolli Lips and Teeth)

-end of list-

Screw the World

Sudden fit of rage.

Why do people automatically "recognize ""Math and Science Geniuses"?

No, no. Don't answer that. That's a rhetorical question, stupid. Sheesh. Does the world not know how to differentiate rhetoric from non-rhetoric?

Why is it that when you're a math and science person, you get to be automatically deemed as "smart", good in analyzing, logic and critical thinking? Is the world's current basis for "intellect" NUMBERS? STATISTICS? DATA?

No. No. No. A BIG FAT NO.

People don't recognize those that excel in the field of English and Filipino. You see, even when there are awarding ceremonies, people award those that win in Math competitions. Science competitions. Math. Science. Math. What about ... us? The writers? The speakers? The English erudites? The lit lovers? The linguistic quiz bee champions?

See there's this BIG FAT discrimination here in Chiang Kai Shek. Not just CKSC. Even the world. I have proof for this but I'm too enraged to actually type DATA right now. Sure, you need DATA to prove things. But are mathematical and scientific data the only KINDS o' proofs you can garner?

Don't people get it?

When we the linguistic people write our essays, we THINK. We DON'T just put our opinions down. (Well, opinions do root from a brain, you know.) We extract "facts". We digest "facts". We analyze "facts". We avoid logical fallacies that can be extracted from "facts". We apply these "facts". We use our style to encompass these "facts".

So yes. We think critically, logically and analytically.

The moment those Math and Science people write a Pulitzer prize-winning editorial, and get up the stage to speak an award-winning speech, will be the only time that I could consider them "geniuses."

Disturbia (A Story Not for the Faintest of Hearts) - the Continuation

A text message lights up the odd screen of my mobile phone. Odd, I say. For a modern man, I don’t ever seem to get used with the technology. I am thankful that my experiment needs not the aid of too much that beast – technology.

It’s Rebecca. She asks where I am. Should I answer? What’s the term they use again? Reply – is that it?

For the sake of chivalry, her query: “Why aren’t you at work today?”, I reply with a white lie: “I feel sick, my friend.”

There. Now, time to get back to work.

I carefully examine the ingredients. Surely, this will take a lot of time, effort and brains. I grab the scalpel I stole from my father’s house – he’s a surgeon. It took me exactly an hour to get the theft done. With more careful observation, I realize that I need three kinds of knives: a big one – the one the butler uses to chop big meat, a medium-sized one – perhaps the one chefs use to cut vegetables, and a small one – the one thieves use to cut open some loot – the Swiss knife. Oh, and I need scissors too.

Maybe it’s time for a quick lesson from what’s that TV show… Grey’s Anatomy is it?

Bah. Who cares?

Suddenly obsessed with my new ideas, I paw over the pots and the pans, looking for the three knives. I already have the big one and the medium one. Now, for the Swiss knife.

The doorbell rings and echoes through my house here in the suburbs. Do my neighbors hear the doorbell ring?

Who could this be? Perhaps Daimler? Nah. He’s probably too scrunched up in work. Work… what time is it? Time… 12 noon. Has it been 6 hours of ruminating already? What is the malfunction in me? Have I been sitting and ruminating for the past 6 hours? As my mind recollects the events that have happened for the past 6 hours, I dash back to the dining table to see what the progress is.

Progress, indeed! It seems that I have carefully put together the ingredients in such a manner that…

The doorbell rings again.

Oh no.

Good thing I’ve hidden the plastic body bags!

I grab without hesitation the sheets of my bed and drape it over the dining table. It will be less conspicuous that way. Besides, who’s to suspect?

“Hey, I’ve been worried. I brought you lunch,” says a charming Rebecca – the one whom I opened the door for. “You have a fever?”

I can’t help but nod.

“Your house smells a little… different,” she observes.

“Must be me. I haven’t had a shower all day. I’m so sorry to disappoint you like this,” I say in my most charming way.

“You don’t have to say sorry. Tsk tsk tsk. Such a handsome man with such a malodorous house. This is what you get when you concentrate too much on work,” she teases me.

And I like it.

“It’s my lack of social life. And love life. And family life. I’m a solitary man confined in this solitary prison, waiting for someone to set me free,” I do this using my drama skills. And I know it entices her.

“I know who that someone is,” says she.

“Daimler!”

She eyes me seductively. Or so I think. Her green eyes, inherited from her Irish mother, are forever seductive, anyway.

“Christine. You know, the girl who basically worships you. You should go out with her. She’d die of happiness.”

I chuckle.

“I don’t like Christine at all.” She won’t set me free. But I know you will. But I can’t have Rebecca. I’ve repeated in my mind that I cannot be with her as a boyfriend, a lover or a husband. I just can’t.

Changing topics, she asks me if I want to eat my lunch. I want to say yes, but then again I remember my dining table draped with my sheets. She simply cannot see the mess under that. All the liquid and the scraps of…

She lets down her long brown hair, inherited from her father’s Chinese-Czech descent. I cannot help but feel a sensation… a manly sensation. I want to touch her skin that is hued with olive from her grandmother’s Greek descent, and ivory from her grandfather’s …

I want to. Caress her. Feel her. Free her.

But I can’t. Her skin is forbidden. Her hair is torture. Her face is unchartered territory.

I simply can’t.

“Hey! Do you want to eat lunch or not?”

“I will but not now. My … throat hurts. My mouth is sore,” again, another white lie.

“Do you want some meds? Because I’m not leaving this place until you’re fine.”

“So that means you’re staying for 24 hours?” I tease.

“I’m serious.”

“Fine,” I give up.

After a few more of those teasing and provoking, Rebecca waves goodbye.

It’s then that I realize that I have a Swiss knife on the pocket of my pants.

Oh, opportunity.

~0~

It is now 1 in the morning – 108 hours after I collected my ingredients that night. There is news going on that a crazed man goes to the hospital at night, steals body parts and puts them in a plastic body bag. So far, they have no suspect yet. But this man, so far has stolen eyes, a tongue, a heart, a woman’s genitals and… a brain.

What they fail to know is that this man doesn’t just go to the hospital to steal body parts. He goes to the cemetery too – that’s where this lunatic went to 108 hours ago, anyway. That’s where he got the bones, the nose, skin and some rotten flesh and the complete set of body parts. He has the abdomen, the liver and the kidneys too.

Oh yes, and it’s also been 108 hours that I’ve skipped my work. I told them I’d be on vacation in my parents’ house.

So here I am, sitting at the dining table, haven’t eaten food in days. Haven’t slept in days, too. But it doesn’t matter. I’m a dedicated man. I will finish this experiment as soon as I can.

I grab the piece of rotten flesh – this comes from a corpse that’s only been dead for a day. It’s rotten but not quite. It still is soft, and has that subtle effect on my fingers. I piece it together with the carpal bones. For 3 days, I have found out a special technique that will piece them together in a perfect fit. This is it. This is the last flesh I have to piece with the bones. I have completed piecing up the past three days! It’s been a puzzle. How to fit the brain perfectly with the skull – this is hard to do with bare hands. I fear I might damage the cortex of such. And the eyes! The smell of it! So…invigorating. The green eyes I stole smell.

Even though I have carefully pieced the flesh, the brain and the bones, there is still much to do. Hey, but give me credit. I am no doctor but I know how this works. This is the true work of a genius! I am a genius!

Now is time for the skin.

This skin comes from a recently deceased supermodel. Her skin is lovely. When I feel it with my fingers…I feel a sense of relief. It’s the same familiar feeling. She must have been beautiful. Her skin, a color with the combination of olive and ivory, I piece with the flesh.

It doesn’t seem right.

Perhaps this skin is intended for other places?

Oh, I know where.

And I’ll be there soon.

No.

Again, it doesn’t seem right. Before I know it, I grab a sewing kit – the one I bought just 3 days ago. I planned on using the needle to merge the scalp and the hair but I guess the needles needs to merge skin and skin now.

It is a wonder. The skin, what they call the protective shield, tears easily. I have to be careful. This is perhaps the hardest job in life.

It still doesn’t seem right.

After what seems to be 2 hours, I take a shower. And as I take my shower, I can feel my skin tearing itself apart. And then, because of some weird thing, I feel like piecing it back together. Again and again, the shower leaves me that impression. And then I think about Rebecca. I am a man, after all. I can take advantage of this shower time to succumb to my lust for her.

But no. I am a patient man. I will wait for my plans to take shape.

As the soap touches my skin, I feel a masochistic urge. And then it happens.

I scream in pain as my instincts command me to tear off my own skin. I pinch it, peel as if doing so on a banana. I see my flesh, steaming with the water, throbbing as if it’s a heart. It pains. Oh, but I love it! The skin, I now hold in my hand, is just a small portion of my left palm. I quickly go out of the shower, and assess my nude self. I have the abs, the toned muscles and the well-endowed member. Everything is perfect. I look perfect. But the skin of my palm is missing. I try to outline the flesh with the fingers on my right hand. Perhaps because of something, the pain is gone. The flesh, so soft and so subtle, can be used in my experiment.

Either that or…

I should practice using my body! That is it! I will piece my own skin with my own flesh. Perhaps with the use of the needle?

Out of curiosity, I lick my flesh. It tastes normal. Like red meat, actually. Now I’m beginning to wonder why human beings normally don’t resort to cannibalism. Must I take a bite?

I chortle to myself and then the neighbors hear a blood-curdling scream.

~0~


(to be continued)

Not So Fruitful Day

Mouth sore.

Throat hurts.

Panic-stricken.


Shit. I have to revise the whole "Towards a Low Carbon Economy" essay TONIGHT. Thing is, I'm aiming for major revision because, heck, I wanna win. Because winning will levitate my dwindling self-esteem (as of now, my self-esteem is only 45% of my "ideal" esteem - this is uber low when compared to two months ago's 85%). And because winning will prove that I'm no two-hit wonder. Okay, okay, so maybe I am NOT a two-hit wonder. But seriously? Perfectionists like me are obsessed with winning. And also because winning will not dissappoint the English Department that I have grown to love with passion as intense as Disurbia's lead character's passion. (Disturbia disclaimers, references and allusions end here.)

The crappiest part is, well, sigh, I don't know the topic that much.

Unlike moral degeneration.

Unlike teachers.

Unlike racism.

Unlike philosophy.

Unlike humanity.

Unlike English Literature.

Unlike history.

Unlike academical intellect.

Those above are my fortes. But if you ask me about Chem, Physics, and whatever the hell, I stall. That's because I don't have THAT kind of mind - the kind that memorizes what Ternary Compounds are. The kind that memorizes the list of ions with their corresponding charges.

I'm the kind who reads the news, analyzes the news, digests the news and applies what I read, analyzed and digested into daily life. Yes, I'm a Rennaissance woman. I write, think, speak and sometimes, I even act.

I promote Democratic regulation, not hybrid cars.

I promote the $700 Billion bailout plan, not ethanol whatsoever

Okay, so maybe I promote hybrid cars ethanol. But still. Still. Still. Still. You get the point.

Worse, I can't bring myself to write something that I don't know much of. So do you know what that means? That means I have to thoroughly research about these carbon compounds whatsoever before I could totally revise the essay. And knowing myself to be addicted and obsessed with details, the research will definitely cost me a lot of time. 24 hours, even!

Another bad thing...

I have to do it all tonight.

Why?

Because tomorrow is MALL day. Srsly, I can't sacrifice mall day. It's too sacred.

Besides,


MY THROAT HURTS LIKE HELL!

Disturbia (A Story Not for the Faintest of Hearts)

If you'd look at my Shelfari profile, you'd automatically grasp the idea that I'm semi-anti-Chick-Lit now. Semi, my friends, semi (thanks to Twilight, of course). And if you want me to expound on that semi-anti-ism, well I wrote the whole deal on this vignette-esque thing entitled: "The Override of Chick-Lit" (may be published on the 2nd Issue of The Quest which is to be released on Feb '08).

That is not the point, though.

The point is, since I'm all semi-anti-chick-lit, I don't limit myself to Chick-Lit anymore. Yes, that's liberation! So now I'm back to my old self - the one who writes all kinds of stuff.

Here's a semi-gothic work (I use the word "semi" a lot these days, don't I?):

WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINTEST OF HEARTS. PLOT MAY DISTURB YOU. (well, if you're a chick-lit girl, then the plot will definitely disturb you. I THINK.)

Disturbia

If you know me, you'd call me passionate, driven and determined - even to the extent of obsession-compulsion. But in spite of those three virtues, I had never known what my true calling in life is. That is, until tonight.

It's raining and I've just gotten home from my friend Rebecca's house. There's nothing between us really. Just friends. . . if you're thinking we're something more than that. Although I must admit. Sometimes I succumb my manliness to her beauty. Fine features. Fine, pure and striking. She is a mixture of all races, colors and nationalities. Though I know there are instances when I yearn for the pleasures of the flesh, I know I'd never get to have her as a girlfriend, a lover or a wife.

I'm a tired, sleepy and paranoid man. I say to the bearded face on my mirror. I'm growing old, too. Going 30 but still loveless. I inspect my face. No wrinkles, no lines, no traces of old age. So why do I think I'm growing old? Is it because even though I am a handsome man, no girl comes into my life? What is the basis of handsomeness, anyway?

Something tuggs at my insides. Yes, yes, yes. It's one of those things. Those unpredictable, unexpected things that happen in stories and movies. That tug-tug thing. Suddenly, I remember my fetish for books - Gothic books, to be exact.

And as the clock ticks 11 PM, I rummage through my small, library. Pretty rare to have a library at home in the 21st Century, now, right?

As the clock ticks half past 11, I read.

And as the clock ticks 12, something in my head disturbs me.

Oh, this is going to be a long night.


~0~


It's 1 in the morning and I have gathered nearly all of the ingredients and materials for my experiment. I see a silhouette in the dark. A man approaches. It's my friend Daimler.

"What brings you here at the the dead of the night?"

"The tug of the soul, my friend."

"What are you talking about?" He asks, painstakingly scrutinizing the plastic body bags on my hand.

I wave at him with the hand free of the mysterious body bags. "I'm doing an experiment that requires me to be passionate, driven and determined."

"Do you want a smoke?" He asks and brings out a pack of cigarettes.

"Tempting offer. But I've quit smoking already. Remember?" I regain composure and stand straight, like a poised male model, if I may say so. "How about you? What brings you here - such a daunting place at night?"

"Ha ha see, I'm just passing by. The workers at the firm... we, uhhh... decided to have a great night out. You know. Have it with the ladies."

Yes, typically you. Typically modern. You all just hit women like that. Chivalry is dead. You don't know how to treat them right.

"I bet you should be off now, my friend!" I say in such a manner that made the small hairs on his arms, nape and back ... tingle.

And with a nod and a smile, he's off!

Time to get back to my lovely business.

As my pocket clock ticks 6 AM, my ingredients are all complete.

~0~

Like pieces on a puzzle, my ingredients for the experiment, I lay on the table. I begin to question why I started doing this experiment. But then again, this will only prove my three virtues. And as soon as I complete this, oh, I'm sure my life will change.

One tiny bit of problem.

The body bags. Where must I hide them?

A place that will not ignite sparks of curiosity...

The loft? The chimney? The garage? No. No. No. Too simple. Too easily noticeable. Too... boring.

So... for the thrill of it all...

I'm hiding the bags under my bed.

-to be continued-

Those Ain't for Sale Anymore?

Never in a million years would I call myself a pessimist. I ain't one. And I don't wanna be one. And I guess, if you permit me to say, I will never be one.


...but I can't help but think this pessimistic thought: are friends - my friends, in particular - worth it? Are they actually worth fighting for? Are they real friends? When I said "my friends", I specifically meant the ones in my class - the new set of friends. The ones I see and talk to everyday. The ones I help and laugh with.

So yeah, they're there for the good times - the laughs, the smiles, the like.


But they're not there for the bad times. This is how they are when I talk to them: Friend A, he plays his online game, ignoring what I say in YM. Friend B, he laughs a lot (to every word I say, actually) so this isn't actually something that's healthy. Friend C, she judges my character. Friend D, she misinterprets what I say. Friend E, he doesn't know how to use his tongue to utter a word. Friend F isn't there at all. And the list goes on and on and on...

I don't have a great set of friends.

Now I can only rely on the remaining ones (the ones from Tsong San Chia Tsu, some seniors, some sophomores, 3-1 and the Writers' Guild). Particularly Camille. She's been such a nice friend. Listens every time you talk, gives great comments too.

I'm wondering. Good friends aren't for sale anymore? What does "for sale" even mean?

Sheesh.


Friends.


"If you don't have an enemy, make one."
- Some self-help book