Forget yesterday, we'll make the great escape

Nothing annoys me more than people who question my decision to stay in the Philippines. True, the way my life is going now absolutely begs the question, but what's the deal with haranguing those who prefer to stay back with relentless appeals to jump ship abroad? I respect my friends' decision to pursue gainful employment outside our country. In turn, I expect the same kind of courtesy for those who want to stay behind.

It's only fair, don't you think? You do what you want, I do what I want.

I've never really stated outright that I don't want to go abroad. I've always maintained that I'd consider the option if the opportunity presents itself. There have been hits and misses here and there, and I have my dreams of touring Asia and the UK, but on the whole, I'm fine with staying put with where I am now.

A friend of mine, who by the way, is one of the smartest people I've met, told me that she had no plans to leave the country because she is needed here. I share her sentiment, although I've never had her courage to own up to it in front of people. A deep seated fear of regretting my words prevent me from doing so.

My stint as a volunteer nurse a year ago, however, cleared up my muddled perspective. I was of most use when I volunteered at the pediatrics ward of the Zamboanga City Medical Center. Despite the exhausting schedule, I realized that I am needed here. Nursing, wherever it is practiced, is service. I'd just prefer to give it to my kababayan first, before others.

To be fair, my staying behind is not all noble. Working abroad would need a lot of paperwork and money. Paperwork is the one thing I hate doing the most, given the bureaucratic red-tape shit we have, and money is the one thing that I do not have in mass quantity. It's been 3 years since I graduated and got my license. The nursing rat race will be the death of me and my fragile ego. Really, try beating a million other nursing graduates who are more gung-ho than you and just itching to leave the country.

My nursing background is nothing stellar. I know that I'm a damn good nurse, yes, but my so-called brilliance is a hands-on kind of thing. It's something that I can't adequately translate to in my resume.

And besides, I have plans of my own, plans to pursue my dreams of getting an MD hitched to my name. I've already done what my family wanted and it's not enough. There's just no substituting what you want with what you need.

Medical school is still hazy at this time. Preparations need to be made, plans to do, things to finish.

Here's to hoping. And dreaming.

Cry wine and sell vinegar

I had hoped that my 3-day vacation in Dumaguete City would clear my head and rejuvenate my weary 23-year-old self. I had visions of going back to work, so full of fresh air and healthy sunshine rays, that I'd dazzle everyone with my writing and my tan. As it is, I can barely write anything decent this week. One article underwent such a gruesome edit, I wept. Take away from me my writing, I lose whatever ounce of confidence I have and I turn into a cabbage. So, please, I really, really need to get it back.

I've had blocks before, sure, but nothing as serious as this. I'm stumped in nearly everything I do. My letters suck, my articles might as well be bonfire fodder and this blog post is killing me! I've got three more pending posts and I haven't the heart to finish it. Inspiration is a prima donna bitch, I tell you.

Normally, when I encounter blocks, I doodle. I've been a doodler since as far as I can remember, and doodling has always helped me squeeze out my creative juices when I need it most. It doesn't matter that I'm no Da Vinci. Doodling gets the gray mater running. It also used to annoy the heck out of my classmates. I'd doodle on their reference materials and they freak out. Strange people, eh?

And if doodling doesn't do the trick, I scribble. I'd write my name over and over again. And because my name is 26 letters long, my right hand gets quite the workout. That was before I got good with the keyboard, though, thanks to Typer Shark Deluxe.

Now, instead of scribbling, I type. Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, only to delete them and start again. I even retype my stuff if I have to. I try to tackle simpler assignments first, like letters, memos and whatnots before sinking my fingers on to the heavy hitters. I blast my eardrums out with music. I eat. I walk. I do anything but stare at my blank word document. I go at it for as long as I can, and eventually, an article would type itself out.

This is what I'm doing now. Writing, re-writing, deleting and struggling to make this one post count. I feel that if I don't get through this, my head will explode and I'd be stuck answering and transferring phone calls for the rest of my life.

I feel a whole lot better now and I just hope the feeling will tide over to my other pending articles.

If it doesn't, then this:


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Facials

I’m deathly afraid of pimples. Ever since the outbreak of 2009, I have treated every spot and blemish on my face the way a homing missile would treat its target. I have obsessed over every irritation, dousing it with soap and astringent before it could develop into a full-grown facial irk. So it’s really quite annoying that the one time I decide to take better care of my face – cleansing, moisturizing and all that shit – pimples pop out. I doled out cash to have my skin break out. Huzzah.

I was better off with my old facial regime, the one where I did nothing. No creams, no soap, no cleansers. In high school, I never got the pimples. Everybody else around me was indulging in papaya soaps and facials. The worse I got from the adolescent hormonal onslaught were a bad set of growth hormones that only got me as high as 5 feet.

On hindsight, I should have stuck with what I was born with. Never fix something that isn’t broken, they say. I’m bashing myself with a mental hammer for messing around with skin care catalogues and listening to kikay ladies talk about investing in your face for the future.

But the body has its own way of taking care of itself. I don’t think we should mess around with something that has a way of getting things done. Faces are meant to sag and become crinkly. We are meant to be old, yes?

For now, I’m done with facial care. I’m going to stick with what my mama gave me. Once my pimples clear up, I’m letting my face (and body) be. I don’t have one kikay bone in my body, so really, why force it?

Dear face, forgive me. I just wanted to be pretty, too.

And I'll tell myself I'm special till the end

I only have one ninang, and when I was younger, it pissed me off to no end. In a culture where godparents are Santa Clauses all year round, not having at least a pair is a serious handicap come gift-haul seasons. Now, you'd think that with only one godparent, I'd be particularly close and clingy to my ninang. But as it turns out, I am unable to find a common ground with my godmother.

Which is really kind of disappointing. Ever since I watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Pheonix, I sort of fell in love with the idea of having a godparent, granted that they were as cool as Sirius Black. Who wouldn't want to have Gary Oldman as your alternative old man?

Aside from the occasional hi and hello on FB, I basically don't have a relationship with my ninang. The last time she came to visit, I was struck with the realization that we're just like oil and water. We can't/won't/shouldn't/don't mix. Our personalities our polar opposites - I'm droll and melancholic, she's a wee bit bossy and extroverted. She drinks beer, I don't. She gives me blouses, towels and bible verses when I'm a blatant bookworm to the core.

She doesn't know these things because we barely talk anyways. We run out of conversation fodder to sustain our talks. This is how our latest conversation went, the last time she was here:

Her: How are you?

Me: I'm fine.

Her: Are you working?

Me: Yes. I work at so-and-so as a so-and-so.

Her: Mmmm.

Me: Mmmm.

...

And that's basically it.

To be honest? Since she's supposed to be my second mother, I wish my ninang would take the time to know me. Understand my passion for books, writing and anime. To not see everything I do as a mistake, to not see my career choice as something that can always be improved on with suggestions to work at a call center.

Realizing this, I now understand that just because my family knows someone or someone knows my family, it does not mean that I'm obligated to believe everything they say or do. I can disagree with their thoughts and ideas. I can measure them against my own standard, quirky as they may seem, and that it's alright to do so. That I am entitled to have an opinion of them. Most important of all, (and I cannot stress how important this is), I don't have to like them. I am not required to like them. Respect is, after all, still earned and not given.

That it is OK to find one's family less than perfect - aunts can be snobbish and self-righteous, cousins can be pests, mothers can be stifling. That you won't get struck by lighting for thinking about these things.

It's quite liberating, really.

Would that eternity become everyday?

Not that I'm prolific with blogging and stuff, but recently I've faced an insurmountable writing slump.

Shortage of ideas? Check. General walang-gana feeling? Check. Regular power interruptions that suck like hell? Check.

Yes, pin the blame on power interruptions, you lazy bum. But this time, I must admit, I am seriously not passing the buck to some innocent bystander. No emotional displacement here. It really is the truth. This power crisis is going to be the death of me - or at least the death of this blog, with all my dreams of being a superscribe dying with it.

Imagine having only 4 hours of work per day. Sounds good, if you've got electricity to power hard drives and the intarnetz, hell if you have stifling heat and boredom to deal with. Then you get these phone calls from bank agents from Manila who scoff at the idea of power interruptions. Talaga? Wala kayong ilaw? Yes, wala kameng ilaw. Power crisis po kame. Don't you read the news? Generators? No, we have wiring problems. We can't have a generator without frying everything in the office.

With nearly all my work tied to the computer and the intarnetz, it's impossible not to feel bored. Or tired. Or dejected. Or just so freakin' pissed at the world for taking global warming lightly. When the lights do come back on, I feel as if I've done a week's worth of work, like someone who has just experienced a dozen of health insurance leads gone wrong. By then, I'm too beat to do anything but abuse the intarnetz for the deprivation.

As a countermeasure, I've tried catching up with world events by reading the paper - present and past issues included - only to end up folding them into a paper fan. I've brought some books over, but the heat and humidity is not exactly a pleasurable ambiance to soak up literature. Anyway, power interruptions are supposedly going to end on June. Bully for that day.

This piece is 1/4 angst and 3/4 pure therapy for repressed emotions.

We were the kings and queens of promise

Yesterday, I received a piece of glass with my name on it. It has rendered me quite speechless.

Most promising employee. Thank you Lord.

Congratulations, Jas. For someone whose only ambition in life was to finish college, you're doing pretty good. Let's continue to kick ass, shall we?

I think I'll try defying gravity

Normally, I don't mind politics. It does not mind me and I it. The whole political mechanisms are most Machiavellian, and being machiavellian is something that God never deemed necessary when He created me.

In the hype before the May 10 elections though, it's something that can hardly be avoided. Everything is saturated with politics - news, events, text messages, social networking site.

As for me, I'm still kind of mum as to who my president would be. How I wish we have a candidate like Obama in our presidential elections. Someone exceptional. Someone who is remarkably different from the rest of the pack.

If I were to vote for somebody into the highest office of my country, I'd want someone who inspires me, someone who'll convince me to walk through hot coals. Yus, I'd walk on hot coals if someone can inspire me enough. In this presidential race, nobody is astounding enough to rise above the dough. Everyone is so, I don't know, so-so.

I feel for presidential candidate Gilbert Teodoro, though. At first glance, he is more than qualified to be president. But one look at who endorses him and people change their mind, me included. If that's not enough, look at where he is now. Left standing on thin ice, like someone whose health insurance leads went up in smokes. Too bad, too bad.



This election is going to be monumental. And I will be a part of it.

Not arrogance, just simple fact

People say it’s wrong to resent. To be honest, I’ve never been a resentful person, not if you count when incident in elementary where I wrote “I hate D and V very much” over and over again in my diary. You don’t become resentful overnight. It draws from a series of slides and snapshots from life, builds up steam like a locomotiove, and eventually explodes in your face. The funny thing about is that it can start from the most mundane of reasons.

Groceries, for example. I’ve always done the groceries for my family ever since I started working. It just happened. One day I had my paycheck, decided I wanted to have hotdogs for breakfast and from then on, it was so. Admittedly, I wasn’t doing it wholly out of the selflessness of my heart. It was also partly vanity and partly self-validation.

The hardest part about groceries is seeing it all disappear before the next paycheck arrives. Yes, groceries are meant to be consumed, better gone than left over, blah, blah, blah. But seriously, can’t we all practice a little self-control and go easy on the consumption?

Ok, so I wouldn’t feel so bad if I could see my groceries being a part of the great circle of household economy. Groceries feed person, person gets healthy, healthy person does housework, I come home with groceries. See the beauty of it?

In health insurance, you give some and you take some. It’s not all peaches and roses. You invest time looking for genuine health insurance leads; you invest your hard earned money in it and wait for the returns. It’s a sacrifice but one voluntary makes it, knowing that something is worth it at the end of it all.

Anyhow, I’d really rather not be a miser, twisted and shriveled up with resentment. But it’s harder and harder to be all generous and nice when you come home and see dirty dishes all over the kitchen sink.

Sturm und drang

I've always believed in my ability to stare into the eyes of the deadline monster, make it back off and crap itself. Unfortunately, the head honcho of all deadline monsters decided that enough was enough. The ickle beasties came back with a vengeance and totally obliterated my pride into pixie dust. I'm waging a losing battle, my report already settling on its 2nd day as an overdue and pending failure.

I've always been particular with meeting deadlines. My English teacher in high school ingrained in me my future work habit with her philosophy: I don't care how you do it or when you do it. Just as long as you have it when I ask for it. Campus journalism at its coolest.

At work, I carried this philosophy to heart. My bosses know better than to bother me with futile requests for updates. I'd lounge all week before getting into frenzied action, but I always manage to deliver so, no harm done.

Modesty aside, I have not missed a single deadline prior to this failure. Nuh-uh. Never mind that I sometimes submit my report at 11:59 in the evening. The point is, it got there a minute earlier and not a minute later.

It's official. Deadline is here to bite my ass.

I don't know what happened to me this time, though. I guess one can blame the amount of stress I had last month as the reason for the gaping hole in my brain. I can blame the rotating power interruptions for breaking my work momentum. All valid reasons, but in the end, I blame myself for lacking the discipline to see my assignments through the day. I rely too much on procrastination-induced adrenaline to come up with thinly disguised bullshit to pad out my assignments.

No more of this. Beginning today, here's the new world order, so brain, shut up and pay attention:

• Lessen internet hours. Surfing, games and movies will be limited to at least two hours of your 8-hour working day
• Once you have an assignment, start on it. RIGHT AWAY. No more tomorrow bullshit from you.
  
• Articles for editing can only sit with you for a maximum of two days. Chop them fast and quick, then it's off to delivery
• Go to work earlier. Take advantage of the morning peace to work on your stuff
• Run maintenance on your computer. You can't keep blaming it for being slothful all the time without you doing something about it
• Avoid bring home tasks. You're suppose to do work at the work place, not at home.
• Try beating you past performance. Dazzle the bosses even more
• WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL BLOGGING? FINISH THE DAMN REPORT ALREADY!!
  

The picture of perfection is only in your mind

It wasn't until a college friend sent me a text message asking for a favor that I realized that I had become a citizen of the world(wide web). Her favor, which had me digging through my email's archive, began with this text: "Na computer tu ara? ("Are you in front of a computer now?")

Not "How are you?", or "Are you at work?". Just "Are you in front of a computer now?". The question just dared me to answer otherwise.

I don't think my friends ever expected me to be the resident computer junkie. Neither did I. I was one of those people who failed to grasp the significance of Ctrl + S in high school. I never got History of Computing right, messing up COBOL with FORTRAN and vice versa. Nearly all my projects were handwritten. I don't have a computer unit at home, ever since my brother thought it was a good idea to bring our hard drive to school.

It was only when I got my first job out of college that I started getting it. Networks, manga and Crunchyroll. I got my first office-issued laptop, a bulky Compaq, and from then on it was Photoshop, torrents and zip files (cough, porn!, cough). I miss the Compaq badly. Last I heard, they had him back in storage, never having figured out how to sweet-talk him to work. *sniff*

Oookay, so it's not that impressive. Any 15-year-old can do all those stuff better than I could ever hope to. But there are times when I feel that I ought to have an award for being able to do wonders with a computer. Take last week for example. The Outlook was being a pest, I had a deadline, and I only had YM-ed instructions from a colleague on how to configure the damn thing. Besides, I'm a nurse for Pete's sake. Nurses aren't suppose to know these things.

After a few snags, Google here and Google there, this:

Nirvana. Thank God for Google.

So yeah, now I'm a great believer in Google. I use it as a verb everyday. I get pissed off when people come to me for information when they can easily Google it online.

I expect to have more of these moments with my current work. I'm practically an IT professional by association. In a few months, I'll be marking my first year at work and will be logging my 8640th hour in in the internet. Yes, I actually did the math for that.

Despite my hours, I still have yet to become a full-fledged netizen - online shopping, internet banking, health insurance leads, freelance jobs, the works. You know, stuff that will turn me into a total hermit.

And health insurance leads? Everybody needs health insurance. And everybody ought to have genuine leads on the internet.

Contrary to popular belief, I don't have split identities when I'm online. I'm just as awkward as I am in person, still socially inept and retarded.

There are just some things Google can't do for you.

Don't you know you might find a better place to play?

When all the world was a post-it and everything had a deadline, this kept me sane.

It’s one, two, three, and suddenly, I see it at a glance

During our trip back to Zamboanga from Dakak last year, my boss casually asked me if I cooked. A tricky question, that. If cooking means pancit canton, noodles and fried fish, then yes, I can cook. But if you mean cooking like mix, seasoning, flavors and spices, then that’s another story.

My boss, upon learning my specialty of fried fish, insisted that I learn how to cook.

So, now I’ve got my aunt teaching me simple recipes for desserts. On my boss’ suggestion, I’m learning how to prepare the fairly simple mango float. According to my aunt, I still need to perfect my pouring skills (I poured more cream on the table rather than on the bowl I was aiming for). But she’s promised to teach me more desserts next week. We’ll be starting with the easy stuff, nothing hard. It’ll have lots of cream, sugar and overnight freezing.

I think it’s about time that I learned to cook. And let posterity note that it’s got nothing to do with that bull that the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. This one is for me.

I’ve always depended on others to prepare my meals. I’m dependent on fast food chains, instant noodles and junk foods for sustenance. To finally be able to prepare a dish would mean that I am learning the art of decisions. In cooking, it’s the conscious decision of waking up, looking at the fridge, getting the ingredients, mixing it up and serving it with a flourish. It’s really a quite selfless act, to cook for the family for a change instead of waiting for the food to be served.

And isn’t being able to make decisions, no matter how small, the mark of an adult? I’m growing up and getting ready to become an independent individual, no matter how late I already am on that department.

Despite being a total noodlehead in the culinary arts, I do make a mean sinigang. It’s my mom’s favorite dish, and I learned how to cook it when she came down with vertigo when I was in high school. My cousin finished 3 platefuls of my sinigang today, and there's not a single dollop left for tomorrow.

The secret to a great sinigang? Tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. As in life, give and take generous helpings of anything and everything, and you've got it in the bag.

So I’m learning to cook. Who would have thunk it?

In search of glory and honor, we walk in the garden of his turbulence

Being a pessimist has its benefits – it keeps you on your toes, gives you that extra eye for details. Tomorrow at work, all hell breaks lose, with all the bosses present, and with barely a week left for preparations, before we leave for Manila for a major event.

Truth to tell, I’m catatonic with fright. I’m already steeling myself for a bloody week, where my nose will be rubbed raw from all the grinding I’m expecting to take. My apprehension is more on the fact that I can’t seem to pull myself together for work, no matter how much I try to psych myself out, no matter how many post-its I leave on my desk, no matter how long I stay on my workstation, compulsively opening and saving files.

It’s as if my system has gone into hibernation, to prepare myself from the physical backlash that awaits me in the coming days. While I wallow in the calm that is before the storm, I list, rune and muse the things that need to be done, things that I should be doing instead of wiling my time away on movies, online frivolity and general fluff. I’m trying to change, but I’m big on procrastination and cramming.

And I can’t relax unless I’m on the same wavelength of hectic-ness as everyone else. I’ve got a list of things to do, and unless I can scratch some of them out, I’m a ticking timer on a countdown to hysteria. I can’t relax if everyone is busy and I’m not. I’m a dog with a serious case of flea infestation if I finish a job earlier than everyone else because I tend to believe in the adage that if you found something easy to do, you probably did it wrong.

I wish I can just sleep and wake up to find my deadlines and tasks done and over with. I want to do without this pressure, the feeling of air being sucked out of a room, leaving you in a vacuum void of anything but woe and bleak horizons. But if that were the case, how am I supposed to splurge in Manila next week? Every cloud has a silver lining. Mine is National Bookstore and Comic Alley. Hurhur.

I’m trying not to think of what will happen tomorrow, the day after that, the week after February. After all, I can’t change anything. And as what I’ve learned in OT last Saturday, there’s nothing you can do unless people learn the courtesy of replying to emails prompt and early.

Tonight, I pray for the Lord to take this nagging feeling from me, and as the prayer goes, to give me the serenity to accept the things that I cannot change. I ask for Him to ease my worries, to find joy and satisfaction in a thorough job done. I’ll ask for a good night sleep, for a sound mind and a fit body tomorrow.

I’ll run through the forest to bury the acorn and forget.

Where do you expect us to go when the bombs fall?

A month ago, a bomb exploded, followed by another, early in the morning in the city. Thankfully, there were no casualties and no injuries, except for a couple of park bouganvillas gone to flower heaven. The incident hardly caused a fuss among Zamboanguenos. It hardly made the evening news, too. Some didn’t even know what happened.

Which goes to show how used we Zamboanguenos are to this kind of life. The worst bombing incident in this city happened when I was in high school. Bombs exploded in the middle of the commercial district, killing dozens and injuring millions. When you live in such a volatile area, you get used to walking around with eyes in your back. As time goes by, you develop a kind of bravura exclusive only to those who live in no-man’s land – a polished, sort of nonchalance, a frightening normalcy in the midst of chaos.

When the latest bombing happened, everyone went to work as usual. No holiday was declared. Just another day in Zamboanga. Doesn’t mean we weren’t scared. When things like these happen, you get scared and you think of the future. You think of things – the what-ifs, that car you wanted to buy, the book you haven’t read, the health insurance leads you were thinking of following up, your dream job. A couple of my friends have even thought of moving to another city with a more secure peace and order situation.

Whatever happens, though, we go on. The things that happen in this city do not define the people who live in it. Sure, we get scared. But we do the best we can with what we have.

And we hope for a better day tomorrow, where bombs don't fall anymore.

Just because I can

I'm used to posting lengthy entries. So on the occasions that I can only post, say, a sentence, it makes me dang uncomfortable.

...

The effort in being human

This is why I’m not that into the whole household help concept. I’m a Chavacano and I’ve got pride inherited from the Spaniards, my cultural godfathers. This and a bunch of other factors, exaggerates the whole master-servant system to epic, soap opera-ish proportions. Centuries of tradition, acquired beliefs and prejudices are hard to break.

True, it’s nice have a cleaner and tidier home, have your meals cooked for you, have the dishes washed, the dogs fed…but if having a hired help in my house would bring out the worse of my attitudes and biases, then I’d rather live with the mess.

When nerds go out (or the I am out of practice post)

If I had a phone that would’ve allowed me to blog on the go, I would have done so. But since all I got is my trusty 1202, my 5th phone after losing my 7610 to thieves and my n70 to hardware complications, I had to make do with making hastily typed messages and saving them in the drafts folder. Needless to say, I’m reconstructing my experience from messages that have little coherence and lots of typos.

During one of our karaoke sessions, me and my friends came to the conclusion that we had absolutely no social lives whatsoever. With the exception of a few, none of my friends are really that into parties or socializing. Personally, I am a nerd, through and through. Parties make me feel weird. People make me insecure. I never learned to drink or to smoke because I never saw the logic behind it.

But thankfully, things and perspectives change, ours included. So, me and my fellow high school nerds decided to eventually become full-fledged party animals, beginning with monthly get together and dinners. This, we concluded, was a highly plausible plan: we were employed, we were bored, we had nothing better to do and we all wanted a social life. Badly.

Last Friday, we went out to eat, only this time, I was a wee bit too early and in the case of my friends, being early is never good. I should have known that something was wrong when my numerous texts of “Asan na kayo?” went unanswered.

I almost ended up proclaiming my pathetic-ness to the whole city of Zamboanga that night when I spent an hour alone at a particularly well-lighted table that only served too well to highlight the fact that I was alone and friendless.

It didn’t help that the restaurant messed up my orders. I got my dessert (a knickerbocker glory), my iced tea and my glass of water before I got my tuna sandwich. Heartless restaurant, making me go on a premature liquid diet. I slurped and slugged through my orders with the enthusiasm of a snail.

Finally, Sherillyn arrived and I did a little jig. She’s always good company. Barely a few minutes in, I have completely forgotten that I was supposed to give her the woe-is-me guilt trip.

Me: We should try our luck in England.
She: I don’t like Inland. We’d be better off in Woodland. (Inland and Woodland are local resorts in Zamboanga City)

DJ came a little later. He claims to have stopped by his house to freshen up a bit, but the overly fresh persona, plus the fact he looked and smelled better than me and She made me think otherwise.

Despite the fact that Sherillyn came only because she’s as desperate as me to get out of the house and DJ was only there because he felt really sorry that I got stood up by the people who said they would come but never came, I had fun. We could have ordered a feast if everyone came, but the Mongolian rice and buttered chicken wasn’t so bad either.

The experience, though, made us re-evaluate our invitation priorities. We would hereby limit our invitations to social gatherings to people who are the most desperate for companionship thus ensuring a decent turn-out rate.

Basically those people would be me, Sherillyn and DJ.

IDK is such an inadequate expression

I just really needed to get this off my chest. I can't think right now. I can't make a decision. Why is making a decision so hard? Or rather, why am I making this so hard for myself.

Dammit, woman. Wake up early, get yer ass to where it has to go, pay the effing fees and just get it over with.

Because deep inside you know, that someday, you'll regret not taking that risk.

So, here I go.

I dunno.

I. REALLY. DON'T. KNOW.

On being a 3rd and twenty years

Today, I turn 23 and it is such an ordinary day. In the passing seconds, I realize, I’m no longer part of the “younger generation”. I am becoming the “old” that I once wasn’t 24 hours ago.

While turning 18 is considered a milestone (at least, to girls), nobody ever told me that getting past your second decade in life was an even bigger deal, though in less epic proportions than the said overrated debut year.

It’s a bigger deal, because it is at this point in your young adult life that you realize that it’s not easy finding your place in society. It’s not easy, finding yourself in the middle of the road, with no way to go back and with no way to go forward. See, nobody left behind a map.

It is at this point that you realize that the people who told you said that you will be a successful somebody in the future played a cruel joke on you. When I was young, my mom told me that I would become a Ms. Universe one day, and that I would win all those great stuff and get to travel with my crown, sash and scepter. And with each passing Ms. Universe year, I waited for the time when I would turn into this tall, leggy and flawless blond with the bouncy walk and great smile. Adolescence came and I remained short, ordinary and as un-glamorous as I could possibly be. I got my pearly whites in college, when I got my braces, and I’ve been told that I walk like a dinosaur.

In my elementary school yearbook, I wrote that I was going to be a neurosurgeon when I grew up. If truth be told, I just wanted to impress everyone with my vocabulary. And as it is, I am not a neurosurgeon. I am not even in med school.

Instead, I am 3 and twenty years, single, a disappointment to some, gainfully employed and getting wider rather than taller. I have ceased to dream dreams because I realized that it hurts when they won’t come true.

On my 3rd and twentieth year, I realize a lot of things. I realize that my life ended after college. I realize that anybody can learn new maths. I realize that I could learn new maths. I realize that I wasted a lot of opportunities and friendships. I realize that I should have been a great many things.

But, it’s my birthday, and in my country, it’s a default reason for me to be happy. (Crosses out an entire paragraph of negative stuff).

Revised realizations:

So, I also realize that I am blessed to have a job that pays reasonably well. I am blessed because I have my weekends unlike my friends who are nurses and call center agents. I am happy because I get to work with a person who once taught me how to write.

I am happy because I finally got the Watchmen comic that I have been wanting for years. I am happy because despite my insecurities and failings as a person, I still have my family, my friends and my dog, and I am learning new maths.

I am happy because college taught me that I could pass my exams without cheating. I am happy because I am learning that it is not too late to do what I want to do in life (though at this time, I am not entirely sure what it is I want to do in life).

I am being too melodramatic. I just wanted to greet myself a happy birthday.

It tends to happen a lot when you grow older.

Crossy, greeny-eyed meanie

It's Monday, and I'm not having a really great day :(

First, my cellphone had to go all haywire on me and deleted ALL my pictures, music and applications. Before it can do another virtual purge of what remains of itself, I'm having it fixed and for that, I have to dig, really deep, into my limited allowance. In fact, I am so broke, I had to sell my other phone to my cousin for a measly Php 800 just to get by for the week T__T;

Second, my cousin has a bloody PSP and she won't sell it to me on the grounds that: 1. It's an overrated gadget; 2. It's boring and 3. I am not capable of paying her back within a year. Blargh, it's not fair!!! I mean, my cousin is not even out of high school and she has more money than me! IT. IS. SERIOUSLY. NOT. FAIR.

I'd sneak this PSP home, but unfortunately, she's holding my phone hostage 0_o

Third, my OTHER cousin had to go egotistic on me and show me his new Ipod video. When I told him to beat it because I'm still swooning over his sister's PSP, he said:

"That's the purpose. To make you JEALOUS.....*crazy. witchery laughter*"

Meanie, ickle beasties. And to think I bought them gifts last Christmas :O Boo!!

Drats, it's not fun, this penniless status at the age of 22. As my cousins constatntly remind me, I am no good with money. And they might have a point. I wasn't able to save nothing last year, when I still had a paying job. What I earn through the few "rakets" that I have go to food and.....Well, I don't rightly know where it goes, but it just disappears :B And I hardly even splurge on food anymores.

Anyhow, I'm all woe and begone right now. For what its worth, I'll play the batteries out of this PSP until it's DAID!! ~~

To top it all, I've still got to go to duty tonight.

Not a good week... Dumdumdumdooooooooooooooooooom T________T