Ashes, ashes, we all fall down

1.
My grandmother was cremated yesterday. I know I’m making it sound nonchalant, like it is what is, there’s nothing more anyone can do. But.

2.
There is of course, an infinite sense of loss. I’ve never cried about her, and I don’t know why I’m starting to feel like now is the right time. My chest is tight, and from time to time I’m blinking back the tears. I’m at work, my butt feels numb because I’ve been sitting for the past seven hours, and the skin under my boob is starting to itch. But.

3.
Sigh. Lola, why can’t you live longer, like the hits of the Beatles? Why can’t you be immortal, like Eric Clapton? Why can’t you be lasting, like Rumi’s poems?

When you started turning into a child, did you know how much I hated it? That time when I saw you slowly deteriorating, whining for balloons and colored socks, did you know that I thought, fuck, I don’t want to grow old like that, 98 and yet turning 2 years old by the minute? Fuck. One time I said to myself, you were dead to me even before you were gone. When you started forgetting who we all were, when you would stare into space and clutch that doll to your chest, I thought, Lola, who are you?

When you were in the hospital, I didn’t even hold your hand.

4.
Now you’re in an urn, inside a crypt, alone, dead, turned to ashes. And I’m living and breathing and listening to fucking music while I work. I will never feel so low like I do today. Because I’m living and you’re not, and, everybody’s right, there’s nothing more I can do, nothing more I can, oh fuck, nothing more.

So I’m going to stop here. I’m going to get up, have a smoke, and when I come back I’d have pulled myself together. It is what it is.

It begins, it begins

1.
My uncle gave me a Canon PowerShot S2 IS. I can’t even contain my joy. It’s not even the model – although okay, the model fucking rocks, I was ready to settle for something less, but this, this is really good! However, the source of my wanting to jump off the Macau tower without hesitation are the possibilities, the door that has suddenly been opened, that sudden connection between my life and what I want to do. It’s a very heady feeling. I feel drunk and giddy, and it’s because of a damn camera. But.

To think of the things I could do now.

2.
Last summer, I slept two nights in a hotel. On my last night, it was midnight, and I was in front of a big window overlooking the city. The moon was low, the lights just right. I contemplated what I wanted to do with my life.

I was fucking jobless, my parents were nagging me, I haven’t even published any poetry, and I’m still fucking fat. Oh, the world is ending! I turned down a few jobs because I’m a snob, my teeth is starting to get crooked again because I’ve abandoned my dentist, and I haven’t watched Season 3 of House M.D. yet. What a fucking travesty. I stared outside and thought about suicide, and how it would be a good way to go. With my body mass I’ll probably fall flat to my face immediately after I jumped out the window, and I’ll probably wake the whole city, too, because my attempts at killing myself would result to an earthquake, hence mass killings. I toyed with the idea for awhile, happy to commit suicide if it means I won’t die alone, until I pulled myself back from all my stupid thoughts and realized, holy shit, I’m a fucking nutjob.

I took my camera, then a 35mm film camera, shot some frizzy artsy fartsy photos with the light and the moon. And then it came to me, and it was really simple: I want to write, and I want to take photos. It’s that goddamn simple.

3.
Then again, if you ask me to stress about it, writing would mean getting published, and getting published would mean a lot of things. And if you ask me about taking photos, it would mean having a kick-ass gear, and having a kick-ass gear would mean a lot of things. And all the possibilities of becoming, of what I can do once “the plan” is in place, ran through my mind in a million different languages of want and pure lust, that I sat in front of the window in my hotel room, dazed.

4.
And like a little itch, the bitch that it is, reality set in, and I was once again, the fucktard who has nothing but her dreams, her dreams in her hands.

5.
Until recently when I’ve had a run with a few good karma forces. The writing gig’s been good. Le Muse has been gone a long time now, and I haven’t been writing any acceptable poetry, but leftovers from the past year are slowly making appearances in different places. I am seemingly content upon having started this blog, and other blogs for that matter, spreading myself thin. I have accepted it now: my DNA consists of angst, cheeseburger, jazz, and the characteristics of a waif, among other chemical stuff, and so being in so many places at any given time, or keeping quiet in a corner where nobody knows, is somewhat a gift and a flaw I am now willing to embrace. Anyway, not meaning to run off in a tangent – some of my works are showing their faces here and there, and I’m glad because my writing eggs are dead for the moment. I will have to survive this drought, I guess, and hope that I’ll be fertile enough to be impregnated with words so I can FINALLY. STOP. MAKING. FUCKING. STUPID. METAPHORS.

And then I got a job. There. Nothing more to say about it. I will not say anything about my close encounters with people I really want to strangle badly, or people who make me want to slit my wrists while Beethoven’s music staggers in the background, or the obvious fact that every day I kept asking myself why why why why why why this job. I will tell you though, that I haven’t been so glad to have some order in my life ever since I tasted my very first Dairy Queen ice cream and felt peace. I’m getting tired of swirling in the vortex as of late, and getting a job stabilizes things, and I needed that. I needed to get out of bed at seven in the morning knowing exactly what to do. Meeting new people scares the hell out of me, but once I get past that, being in good company takes back the trail of whys I’ve left behind me.

And now, this camera. Its name is Jacques Cousteau.

6.
For all my meandering, yes, it will come down to this. It’s been a sappy way of saying, Fuck, I just got my new camera, and I’m naming it Jacques Cousteau! But.

My heart is full. Seeing that camera in my mind right now, that camera sitting on my bed, waiting for me to get home. It’s a representation of every thing that I couldn’t even begin to tell you right now. I am inside Captain Cousteau’s boat, feeling that something wonderful is about to unfold.

And then: I remember the big window at the hotel room, and my life, sitting on my hands, waiting to be given meaning. I am again at the beginning. It begins, it begins, this spectacular attempt at chasing my dreams.

“When one man, for whatever reason,
has the opportunity to lead an extraordinary life,
he has no right to keep it to himself. “
- Jacques Yves Cousteau

(photo taken from here)

My great grandmother died.

1.
And there is nothing more to say about it. I was on my way home Friday night when I got a call saying she passed away. She was 98. Quite a relic, actually.

2.
Then again, she has turned into a child these last few years. I was glad it was all over. For her sake, at least. Deep down I know, the only reason why my mother’s family kept on bringing her to the hospital time and again when something happens, like when her heartbeat slows down, or when some other major cause of panic occurs, is because of their own damn selfishness. I don’t know if I’m much too jaded, but I think that this is all a part of the “this-is-what-families-do” crap, and I really did think if she was lucid enough she’d have issued a Do Not Rescuscitate order a long time ago.

3.
It’s a peculiar thing, death.

4.
She looked so frail inside the casket. As opposed to the towering figure I used to remember when I was a child. When I looked at her, I thought, no, she does not look like she’s only sleeping, or what other fucktards still say to reassure themselves. She was in pain for the past week, with water filling up her lungs. And she looked like it, lying there, beneath the glass, inspite of the new silk dress, the necklace, everything that was done because of the grieving’s denial, as if to say, “I’m only sleeping, darling, no, I am not dead.”

5.
I wonder how she felt, what she was thinking, lying in the hospital, waiting for all her damn relatives to unplug the tube and just let her be in peace already. It irked me, that week, last week. It made me mad, how my mother’s family continued to prolong her life so her other relatives from all over the world can come home and see her before she dies. This conscious decision of having her in the ICU for days and days on end, while people come and go and look at her like she’s a damn creature on display – it made me really, really mad. What is this hypocrisy for? People left, went on with their lives, forgot about her. And now, now when she is making her way towards death, reaching out her arms to embrace the thing that happens after this life, now people are clamoring to come back. What for, what for?

6.
I tried to understand it. I tried to think about it as I stand and look at her for what I believed would be the last time, a week ago. She was conscious, breathing, looking at something only she can see. She cannot hear me, cannot even remember me now, and I can’t even touch her, no. She no longer is the woman I once knew. I don’t know the person in bed before me, and that kind of dissonance, knowing that logically she is my great grandmother, burrows a hole inside my chest.

7.
And now she is gone.

8.
At the wake, people trickle in, and I was constantly annoyed and amazed at how many relatives she has. These relatives, where were day in the last few years while she was succumbing to the cruel way of nature, sliding back into childhood, erasing recognition, any trace of memory? And how they had the gall to smile, to greet their condolences like someone’s having a birthday party. And what of her own daughters, who continue to fight over who’s going to get the rest of her property, who’s going to stay the night to be with her corpse, who has the biggest flower arrangement of them all. It enrages me so much I wanted to scream.

9.
I’ve only been at the wake for a day. I think it was enough. Everything that’s there, everything was a joke.

10.
And I wanted to protect you, Lola, I wanted to keep you away from all of them. I know we’re all holding tight to our grief, and I know we all have a right to deal with it the only way we knew how, and I’ve never been that person who can hold her heart in her hands without breaking down, and so here is a poem, here is a poem, Lola, here is a poem – because it’s the only thing I can give without having to fight back the tears:

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

I Dream of Cheesecake

1.
Ah, MY FUCKING HEAD! My head is pounding. I know I haven’t had much to drink last night, still, my brain feels like it’s being pounded on by a meat tenderizer. When I met up with my friends for dinner, catching-up and more conversation, we didn’t even had an alcoholic drink in sight. All we had is that fancy schmancy mocktail. Of course, I might have had one too many cigarettes in one sitting, surpassing my limit of four sticks a day. Seeing my friends again, I had a combination of happiness and an unbearable sadness swirling in my chest, that when I came home I plopped on my bed, took out my hidden stash of beer, dranked in the dark, watched porn Amelie, because I’m such a sad fuck.

There I was, raising my beer to an imaginary friend, flat on my back on the floor, listening to Yann Tiersen spin his magic, the music coaxing goosebumps to appear on my arms, when I suddenly thought of cheesecake.

(photo mooched from Lancewood)

It was the last thing on my mind before I fell asleep.

2.
And then I had this dream. I was in this episode of FRIENDS, and I was hogging all the damn cheesecake. Fucking cheesecake is driving me nuts. MUST HAVE CHEESECAKE!, my brain screamed at the oblivion.

(photo filched without permission from Crystal Farms)

When I woke up I have drool all over my shoulder.

3.
When I got to work today I was feeling pretty fucked up, not only because I’ve got a major hangover the size of a sumo wrestler; I can’t stop thinking about cheesecake. I can almost taste it in my mouth: that creaminess, that seemingly succulent dollop of cream, on the tip of your tongue, filling your whole mouth, wanting to be consumed, devoured.

Look at this, I mean, LOOK AT THIS:

(photo shamelessly taken from The Scent of Green Bananas: Food From a Guambat)

Tell me you don’t want to eat that. Tell me. Just tell me.

4.

(photo sheepishly stolen from BBC Good Food)

And now for the recipe (taken from the link above):

New York Cheesecake

FOR THE CRUST
85ml butter melted, plus extra for tin
140g digestive biscuits, made into fine crumbs
1 tbsp sugar, granulated or golden caster

FOR THE CHEESECAKE FILLING
3 x 300g pack full fat soft cheese (Philadelphia is good)
250g golden caster sugar
3 tbsp plain flour
1½tsp vanilla extract
finely grated zest of 1 lemon (about 2 tsp)
1½tsp lemon juice
3 large eggs, plus 1 yolk
284ml carton soured cream

FOR THE SOURED CREAM TOPPING
142ml carton soured cream
1 tbsp golden caster sugar
2 tsp lemon juice

5.
So far, the best cheesecake I’ve tasted so far is the Raspberry Cheesecake from Burgoo.

And because I am on this frenzy, I think I might have to go there in the weekend just to quell this dire need to eat cheesecake! Other places I am looking at right now:

(photo borrowed from Kurma)

Raspberry Cheesecake Brownies
Raspberry Cheesecake Shakes
Peanut Butter and Chocolate Cheesecake
Black Sesame Cottony Cheesecake
Tiramisu Cheesecake

6.
I am on the verge of bawling hysterically. Because I can’t concentrate on work (not that there’s a lot to do anyway), I busied myself with watching an episode of Will and Grace, and holy shit, Debra Messing is EATING A WHOLE CHEESECAKE ON HER OWN. With a big, solid, valid spoon smack dab in the middle of the whole thing.

And now I want my whole goddamn cheesecake too. I want to buy a whole cheesecake with my name on it. I want to be hysterical, warding off people going near my cheesecake, getting all territorial and hot shit.

(photo grabbed from Big Oven)

Oh god oh god oh god I’m coming.

Slinkies #2: Bam Bam Booze

(this photo is not mine)

Because it’s a Wednesday, and I need a drink.

• Extra Tasty – Absolutely fantastic drink recipes. One nifty thing about this site is that it can also show you what you can make out of the stuff you’ve got at home, so list them all down and get drunk!
• The Beer Hunter, on a quest for the best beer in the whole world. Also here: why beer is the most misunderstood drink in the planet.
• The Drink-o-Meter Test – How much alcohol have you consumed in your life?
• Name That Beer Bottle – Can you match all the beer bottles with the correct labels?
• The Drinking Map – See if your age qualifies you to buy beer in different countries. If not, better prepare that fake ID. I personally think this is one of the most useful maps ever created.
• Your Next Drink – all possible drinks indexed, as well as The Bartender’s Guide. A must-read.
• The 86 Rules of Boozing – Learn learn learn etiquette. Getting drunk is not an excuse for being an asshole.

The Runner-Up List

This is the sequel to my previous post, The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed to Ride the Train. I had a bit of bad luck today at the station, and I think this is how the karma forces are punishing me for my observation.

Nevertheless, because I had to wait for the train for a long time this morning (take note: this is supposedly an express train, Manila’s rapid transit system) – chalk it up to Filipino Time – I was able to observe more, and this time I have another list, not because they’re less annoying (some of them really take the cake), but because they’re few and far between:

Other People Who Make My Train Rides Interesting:

1. The Announcer – He/She talks loudly on his/her mobile phone. The call may have started even before he/she boarded the train, or during the ride itself. The audience will then be witnesses to his/her business transaction. Conversations are always like this:
   a) A call comes in from a demanding boss asking where he/she is. He/she will consequently reply that “I’m still here in Cubao and the traffic is horrible and there has been an accident on the road and it is raining very hard right now” as the train zips to Ayala.
   b) A call is made to a driver to “Come-pick-me-up-at-so-and-so-and-would-you-please-hurry-up-dammit”. When the driver asks where he/she is already, he/she will say “I’m already here in Ayala” even if the train has just stopped at Cubao.

   For those who don’t know, the stops of the MRT are as follows (in order):

   - North Edsa
   - Quezon Avenue
   - GMA-Kamuning
   - Araneta Center-Cubao
   - Santolan-Annapolis
   - Ortigas
   - Shaw Boulevard
   - Boni Avenue
   - Guadalupe
   - Buendia
   - Ayala
   - Magallanes
   - Taft Avenue

2. The GIANT BUTT That Could – Usually a woman, she will try and insert her own ass among those who are seated, believing that she can still get a seat and be comfortable. Even if the space constraints are OBVIOUS, and that it’s very evident that not even half a butt cheek of Nicole Richie can fit into that space anymore, she will plop down nonchalantly, wiggle her butt, and trust that what she’s doing is not criminal. At all.
3. Your Neighbors From Hell – What neighbors are infamously known for: loud everything. These are groups of people, or maybe even just two of them, who talk and gab away in the manner that will give Oprah a run for her money. Sometimes the conversations are interesting enough to listen to, like how to remove the black spot at the bottom of cooking pans using a trusted brand of dishwashing liquid and a certain amount of scrubbing. Other times you wish you could just shut them off, because no, I did not just hear you say that your husband has an acne growing under his balls.
4. Sadako – Women who have obviously long long long loooooooooooooooooooooong hair. And they don’t tie it. They let it tangle along with other people. Personally it scares me. I don’t have an ambition of dying by strangulation.
5. Steve Jobs’ Illegitimate Children – Cool kids who look bored, stare out the window listening to whatever it is playing in their iPod. I’ve nothing against them. I just realize that they’re multiplying. Personally I’d rather leave the iPod in my bag, as I need all my senses alert to the outside world: commuting is a very dangerous activity, and I’ve had my fair share of knives being held to my throat to know that it’s better to hear the traffic than listen to some damn Gwen Stefani song. Really.
6. The Saleslady – I like looking at them. They gave me some sort of inner peace. I would like to have a chance to tell them, or her: Lady, I’m glad you have a job. I’m glad that you are going to work and have a source of income. I would like to tell you to not mind crabby customers and keep on doing what you do – you may have runs all over your stockings but you really, really, really have good legs. Have a nice day.
7. The Bookworm – Classic! I really really like observing people read in trains. I like observing people who read period. They give this whole technology thing a sense of normalcy.
8. The Gentleman – Yes! Chivalry still exists.
9. The Photo Session – People who take pictures of themselves in every position and angle possible. Hmm. I never knew the MRT is a tourist attraction now. Or maybe the blurred background is what they are aiming for. But have you ever thought of taking pictures with strangers caught in the background? I think that’s kinda interesting. I’d like to be the stranger in your picture, of course, just so I can fuck with that moment.
10. That Fat Lady Who Won’t Stop Staring – Probably me. Yeah.

I Will Buy A Camera, Even If It Kills Me

I pledge allegiance
to the SLR flag
of the whole Republic of Photographers
for which it stands,
one legion
under the beauty of the world,
indivisible,
with mad skillz and good film
for all.

I will buy a camera. Even if it kills me. Even if it means saving my salary and not blowing it all off on books and DVDs. I will buy a camera.

I have been growing crazy these past few nights because it has dawned on me that I’ve been part of the throng who now have a dispensable income. And this means that I have the fucking money to buy a camera. I must buy a camera, goddamit! I’ve been tortured for too long by people who own one.

I’ve asked the advice of several people whom I trust regarding these things: What’s a good brand and model of a camera? What camera is perfect for someone who thinks she has a good eye for photographs and yet is totally clueless on the SLRs of the world? What’s a good beginner’s camera? And more importantly, what’s a camera that I can afford?

I’ve been given some very good suggestions and answers, and some of my picks are listed below. Because a digital SLR would simply kill the pockets, for my first camera I thought of going for the “prosumer” cameras. It’s good enough, and I think I can seriously begin studying photography using one of these. By the by, I plan to really save up for a DSLR, but not anytime soon.

Here are the cameras in my order of preference. Please note that I am not an expert in anything, and I’m merely going by my own sense of “aesthetics” (urrrgggh I hate that word) of what I want in a camera. Any comments or suggestions are welcome (Photos are taken from Amazon.com and Digital Photography Review):

1) Canon PowerShot S3 IS

Specifications:

- 6 megapixels
- 12x optical zoom / 4x digital zoom (conversion lenses optional)
- auto and manual focus
- auto and manual exposure
- JPEG file format
- ISO 80-800 (High ISO auto)
- movie mode w/sound
- 4 AA batteries
- 2.0 inch LCD
- SD card storage (16MB included)

I like cameras with a gun-metal gray color. I also think that the features are great. 6 megapixels is certain to wow me since I’ve been relying on a 1.3 megapixel camera phone these past few months to get me by. Based on the reviews, this is a serious amateur’s camera, and I think I quite fit that bill.

2) Canon PowerShot S5 IS

Specifications:

- 8 megapixels
- DIGIC III Image Processor
- Movie mode with sound
- JPEG file format
- 12x optical zoom / 4x digital zoom
- Lens shift Image Stabilization
- Auto and manual focus
- ISO 80-1600
- Auto and manual exposure
- 2.5 inch swivel/vari-angle LCD
- Secure Digital storage memory (32MB card included)
- 4 AA batteries

This also packs quite a lot, but more or less has the same features like the first one. Why it became my second choice instead of the first is that for the price, I’m convinced the S3 would be really worth it.

3) Pentax K100D

Specifications:

- 6 megapixels
- Pentax KAF bayonet lens mount
- auto and manual focus
- image stabilization
- auto and manual exposure
- ISO 200-3200
- JPEG and RAW file formats
- 4 AA batteries or 2 CR-V3 lithium batteries
- 2.5 inch LCD
- SD card storage

Actually, my friend says that the Pentax K100D is a DLSR already, and is a good introduction for those just getting into photography. It’s really frustrating for me how expensive it is. I grew up in a household who worships the Pentax brand, and until today I have yet to own one.

4) Canon PowerShot G7

Specifications:

- 10 megapixels
- 6x optical zoom / 4x digital zoom
- Auto focus, auto and manual exposure
- “Shift-type” image stabilization
- Movie mode with sound
- JPEG file format
- ISO 80-1600
- 2.5-inch LCD
- Secure Digitial Card storage (32MB card included)
- Lithium-ion battery

This really looks good. Based on its specifications, it seems to be a very good camera. However I still get put off by the price.

5) Nikon Coolpix P5000

Specifications:

- 10 megapixels
- 3.5x optical zoom / 4x digital zoom
- Auto and manual focus
- Auto and manual exposure
- ISO 64-3200
- Movie mode with sound
- JPEG file format
- Lens-shift vibration reduction
- 2.5-inch LCD display
- Secure Digital storage (26MB internal)
- Lithium-ion battery

And then we arrive to this model, which also features 10 megapixels but only has a 26MB internal memory. I am really clueless when it comes to these things, but isn’t it better to have a bigger memory, especially when your photo packs a lot of pixels? However, I don’t really know how they engineer the structure of said cameras, so I’ll shut up now. On the other hand it’s very similar to the Canon A640, and is dubbed to be the “perfect everyday camera”.

6) Canon PowerShot A640

Specifications:

- 10 megapixels
- Movie mode with sound
- JPEG file format
- 4x optical zoom / 4x digital zoom
- Auto focus, auto and manual exposure
- 2.5-inch LCD display
- Secure Digital Card Storage (32MB Internal)
- ISO 80-800
- 4 AA batteries

And here is the Canon PowerShot A640. They say it’s “perfect for casual users”.

7) Samsung NV11

Specifications:

- Image Sensor: 1/1.8″ CCD, 10.1 MP
- Lens: Schneider 7.8-39mm, F2.8 – F4.4
- 5X Optical Zoom, 11.4X Digital Zoom
- LCD: 2.7″ TFT LCD
- Shutter: Auto: 1 – 1/2000, Manual, S Mode: 15 – 1/2000 , Night: 15 – 1/2000
- High Sensitivity up to ISO 1600
- 10 megapixels
- USB cable charging

This camera boasts of a Face Recognition technology, which is quite something. I also like the solid look of the camera, like it wants to be taken seriously. The Schneider lens are a good touch, too.

So there. Those are pretty much what I’m looking at as choices. I know my comments sound inane, but really, I did not just spend a whole afternoon browsing websites and looking at what’s pretty. I’m really really really serious at this thing – I want a camera. I’m going to get one.

And god knows, if my salary is not enough, I will rob a bank. Who’s got a gun I can borrow?

The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed To Ride the Train

I ride the train to work every day. It’s a never-ending circus. I used to love it, the train rides, because I love observing people, and riding the tube, cascading past the main streets of Manila, I feel the height of progress of this country. On a good day, a ride from the north to the financial capital of the metro takes only about twenty minutes. On a bad, bad, bad day, it is better to take a cab and be stuck in traffic. Trust me.

Lately I’ve realised that these trains bring out the worst in people. Try taking the train at seven in the morning, or around six in the evening, I tell you, if it’s your first time, YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE. If it has taken your fancy to ride the train during these hours, abandon those plans now. YOU WILL DIE. Yes.

Because during these hours, the whole population of the Philippines is on the platform, waiting to get on the train. They will push and jostle and shove and worm their way in that damn train, and unless you’ve got the chops to fight back, it’s a losing battle, man. Better take the bus and risk being held up, rather than die a horrible death through a bone-crushing slosh at the train station.

And it doesn’t even help that the management has now separated the men from the women, children and the elderly. The only thing that changed was that I won’t get off the train smelling like an armpit anymore. And I won’t have to stare at a hairy armpit all the way to Makati. I won’t have an arm jostle my boobs and worry if that man enjoyed what happened. I won’t have to think whether I should face the man sitting in front of me while I’m standing and hanging onto the banister, or turn around (It’s always a hard choice, whether to give them my cunt or my ass – technically). I can tie my hair without being conscious of someone breathing down my nape.

But I can deal with all those gross moments, compared to what the women are capable of, when it’s all just us. Oh, how vicious are the women! Vicious, I tell you. They have no mercy. They will elbow their way into the train even if it costs somebody else’s life. Once the door opens, everybody will rush in like flies on shit. If you are unfortunate enough to be in the position of going out of the train, good luck. You will also have to fight your way out, ninja style. I’m not kidding.

Sometimes I think, if only it wasn’t illegal to throw people off the platform, women will have done it. 7 o’clock in the morning is the perfect example for “Every man for himself”, except that these are not men, but women, vile women who will not stop until they get on that fucking train. If you look at the men’s side of the train cars, they are perfectly civil and humane. No stampedes whatsoever. And yeah of course they all can stand their own smell.

Which is why before I can get on the train, I usually let one or two rides pass before I fall in line. By that time most of the women will have suffocated themselves in those obviously full-to-the-brim cars. Some may have suffered already from a mild concussion (happened to me once), or may have been involved in their first fight of the day.

Nevertheless, even if my commute has been crazy women-free for the past few weeks after I’ve devised said strategy, there are some whom I would call the Regulars – the same irritating people over and over, riding the trains, and I happen to be in the same shithole with them.

And so here is a list I’ve mulled over in my head on way to the office:

The Top 10 People Who Should Not Be Allowed To Ride the Train:

1. The Dirty Old Man - He pretends to be handicapped so he can sit and stare at women’s asses the whole ride long.
2. The Baby, no, scratch that – THE CRYING BABY, who is carried in the arms of a stupid mother who thought riding on a train with a little monster is some sort of statement of motherhood.
3. The Stupid Mother – She boards the train with a crying baby, and just when everybody is looking, suddenly opens her blouse to breastfeed. And out comes that blouse a seriously big boob, with a seriously lactating nipple. Disturbing.
4. The Evangelist – He/She may be old and insane, or old and high on drugs. He/She will be holding some sort of a tattered holy book, clutching it with one hand while holding onto a rail with the other hand, and preaches to everyone who bothers to listen (read: no one) about the fucking end of the world. It must be noted that the people have been very good at ignoring these disciples of God.
5. The Brokenhearted – She tells a friend about her heartbreaking story, from the illicit affair to the death of the much older, foreigner boyfriend to the phone calls of the obssessed wife. The whole time, the volume of her voice is at 70 decibels – the sound level of a vacuum cleaner.
6. The Cast of Friends – A bunch of highschool girls and boys who might be riding the train for the very first time. Can be very noisy and giggly.
7. The Centerfold Shrimps – Skanky people who wear skanky outfits. They can have a good body, but oh my goodness, such hideous, hideous faces. If we can take off their heads and have that body alone, the world would be a better place (hence the term, shrimp). Oh, hello, is that your vagina up my nose? You look like you forgot to wear your pants. Would you like a paper bag over your head? I’d rather look at the veins running down your legs.
8. The Lecher – A man who has escaped from the evil eyes of the security, and has freeballed his way into the car full of women. See #1 for a more apt description.
9. The Tonguesuckers – Couples who suck face in public places. Even if it’s crowded. With all of us looking.
10. The Imitation – A yuppie who wears faux-branded everything, and adjusts his/her clothes so as not to cover the tags. Get off the fucking train, asshole.

For the record, I have once been one of the people represented in this list, and have repented my ways since.

I stopped on Page 11

She did not light her cigar. She would wait until the train started. Deferrred gratification is good for you, she told herself. All the little games you learn to play as you grow older, things designed to make life more pleasant, to stretch the little pleasures out like a thin swatch of flowered fabric stretched out to cover an open wound. Smoking is bad for you, so you smoke less and look forward to it more. Obscene, somehow, life measured out in coffee spoons. But what else could you do?…Her students, sitting cross-legged on her living-room floor drinking wine, smoking grass, listening to her jazz records as if the music were an ancient foreign mode. Leaning back and scratching a taut belly, or twisting a strand of long straight hair, and asking, asking, “Dolores, tell me. Tell us.” The question was always phrased differently, but it was always the same question. Tell me, tell me, how can I live without pain?…Impossible to tell them much truth. Didn’t want to. Why poison life for them before they’d barely begun? Weary, she’d send them home feeling full although not full enough (never full enough), and sigh her way to bed alone and lie there feeling it, the pain that was with her always, so familiar and accustomed a guest that it could be ignored for long stretches. It shuffled around her house in bedroom slippers, and made its own tea.

…

God knows there was never a dearth of things to cry about. And she, she was like one of Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at every gong. Hard to say which was worse – the fact that the horrors of the world aroused in her nothing more forceful than a tear, or that every one of its horrors aroused that same tear. Something indescriminate about her. Weeping, of course, really for herself, as Homer knew.

- excerpt from The Bleeding Heart by Marilyn French

Homeless, Day 4

~

1.
Dear psychotic, deranged and intolerable excuse for a parent:

I don’t know how else to deal with you.

You forget, you always forget: I am the only one who has it together in this family. I’ve pulled it together ever since I was nine years old watching you hold her neck in your hands. I have drawn myself up and took to the task of bringing balance to the table, as I’m the only one who can see from the outside. Everyone is just too involved.

2.
I used to think that I am a robot, because I can detach myself easily from what is happening, long enough to pride myself into thinking that I was a clinical observer of the moronic ways in which we deal with one another’s lives in this family. However, I realize now that this is a curse, being a fucking middle child that is, because frankly, nobody really cares for the one who has it together, because that is exactly it: I have it together. You are all too busy freaking out with all the predicaments that you yourselves have gotten into, because of plain stupidity.

I am not saying that I’m not swimming in my own shit. Most of the time I do, but I try my fucking best not to drown. Most of the time I do it for you, for all of you, because if I am not there to juggle all of your arguments together, we would all have died of massacre a long time ago. We would have murdered one another to oblivion, and not only would we behead each other, I believe we would also drink one another’s blood, because that’s how thirsty we are for retaliation. And yes we are that cruel and inhumane.

3.
Which brings me to my next point: I am getting tired. I do not know where to place myself anymore. I do not know where to fucking put my words, because every time I open my mouth to say something, there will always be a nasty comeback from you, even if I am not even talking to you in the first place.

So let me give it to you straight, in the eternal words of Kahlil Gibran, although I’ve long away chucked his book because of disappointment in attaining peace in this shithole this family is in right now:

“Your children are not your children,
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but are not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

4.
So there. Shove this up your ass. I am not yours. And I am perfectly capable of thinking on my own, too. And just so we are still on the topic of keeping it together: I will like to remind you that year after year, starting from the day you gave me a good education, I have never once dilly-dallied with the money that you spent on me. I have far more exceeded your expectations, even the expectations that you have from your all your other daughters put together. I haven’t gotten myself kicked out of school. I didn’t demand that you let me study what I want to study. Never, not once, have I devastated you so badly. And although studying in the university was a bitch for you to pay, I made it worth your while. I really did. I gave you what you wanted. All of it. The only thing I ever wanted was my dream, and I threw it out the window for you.

Now that I am starting a life on my own, I am still giving you what you want: obedience. I don’t know what else you fucking want from me.

And until now, I still think you haven’t really understood the meaning of that word, obedience. It doesn’t mean a bond that cannot be severed. It means a choice.

Forever and ever, it is a choice.

From someone who resents you,
Your daughter

I can’t do this anymore

How can one group of people be so endlessly disappointing?

Homeless, Day 3

1.
There are other names for homelessness, which I find pretty interesting:

Other names for homelessness

The term used to describe homeless people in academic articles and government reports is “homeless people”. Popular slang terms, some of which are considered derogatory, include: vagrant, tramp, hobo (U.S.), transient, bum (U.S.), bagman/bagwoman, or the wandering poor. The term ‘(of) No Fixed Abode’ (NFA) is used in legal circumstances. Sometimes the term “houseless” is used to reflect a more accurate condition in some cases.

In different languages, the term for homelessness reveals the cultural and societal perception and classification of a homeless person:

• Britain: “rough sleeper” (person who sleeps “in the rough” i.e. outdoors)
• Spanish: “persona sin hogar”, (person without a home) , “sin techo” o “sintecho” (person without roof above)
• French: “sans domicile fixe” (SDF, without a fixed domicile)
• German: “obdachlos” (without a shelter)
• Italian: “senzatetto” (without a roof)
• Portuguese: “sem-abrigo” (without a shelter) or “sem-teto” (without a roof)
• Polish, Russian, Slovene: “bezdomny”, “бездомный”, or in more frequent use, “бомж”, standing for without fixed place of living (без опрделенного место жительства), “brezdomec” respectively (without a house)

taken from Wikipedia

2.
Sound so much better than “kicked out”. And then, some seek out to better explain it, which intensifies my feeling of being ostracised:

“People who don’t have shelter are houseless – not homeless! Homelessness has nothing to do with a lack of shelter. Define Homeless: ‘An inadequate experience of connectedness with family and or community.’ “

taken from Beyond the Homeless Myth

3.
Then again, Episode 7: Night of the Living Homeless (South Park, Season 11) makes me feel a little less bitter.

Homeless, Day 2

1.
There was one little forgotten fact when I was kicked out: I have my own copy of the keys of the house. So, of all their rotten luck, I am indestructible in ways that they cannot imagine.

I snuck in last night to take a little nap, and then woke up before dawn so I can sneak out again. From there, I walked random streets until I collapsed, exhausted, in a McDonald’s chain, drowning my miseries in a cup of bad coffee.

I am glad I have survived Day 2 of being homeless, although I kept looking over my shoulder once in a while, certain that I’m part of the cast in a bad movie somewhere.

2.
Anyway, I realise that surviving is not merely dependent on strong will and state of mind. And since I will never be MacGuyver no matter how hard I try, I devised this list of important stuff that you should definitely have in your personal belongings, just in case you turn out to be homeless right at the last minute.

The Top 10 Things You Should Always Have With You

1. Money – bills and change (to pay for a decent meal and for stuff that you can’t get for free)
2. A pen and a notebook (if all communication fails, draw – or make signs)
3. Some identification (just in case you’ll end up dead somewhere)
4. A good pair of shoes (for running away from rapists)
5. A pack of cigarettes (okay, maybe more) and a lighter (of course)
6. An umbrella (rain or shine, it has its uses)
7. Swiss knife (the closest you’ll get to MacGuyver)
8. Tissues (trust me, you’ll need it)
9. Toothbrush and toothpaste (you want the help of strangers, you don’t want to kill them)
10. Water (keep yourself hydrated!)

Some runner-ups but I figured it’s hard to fit them all in a bag anyway:

1. Clean underwear – because you can’t afford for your underwear to stand on its own and walk away, that’d be pretty fucking frustrating
2. A crucifix or garlic – to ward off vampires
3. A gun – for killing zombies, but you really, really have to take perfect aim
4. Mobile phones – I don’t trust the fucktards because these things die on you just when you need them
5. Thick socks – to save you from hyphothermia
6. Desmond – to help predict the future
7. Haley Joel Osment – to see dead people and maybe smoke some pot
8. Condoms – for protection, what else?
9. Beer – when all else fails, there’s always beer
10. Some gum and a pair of shades – to look nonchalant while attempting to do something stupid

Remember: never, ever trust strangers, because you’ll never know when you’re in The Joe Schmo Show.

Homeless, Day 1

1.
This is why I hate Mondays. All the crap some of my friends say about Mondays being for abandon is not entirely true.

My friends used to have their whole Mondays dedicated to drinking out and staying drunk until Tuesday and the rest of the week, until the weekend rolls around the corner. The days pass okay, because Monday has been over and done with through bottles of beer and packs of cigarettes and conversations to last through the night.

But not for me. This is Day One of Being Thrown Out of the House for the Nth Time. I can remember the same thing happening to me a few years ago, and that almost killed me. While I was in the middle of my own shit I also have a job to do then, but since some people don’t understand the concept of “being thrown out of your own home”, and that professionalism aside, it’s really hard to deal with stuff at work when you’re worrying about where to go spend the night come evening, I resigned from my position. And then succumbed to numbness.

Well, hello, hello, history has gone and repeat itself.

If I am going to talk again about my family and all the dastardly lives we all have, I am going to have to write a book or a screenplay, and I won’t stop until it becomes a full-length film, until it becomes a major blockbuster hit, until it has made everyone laugh and cry so hard they shit themselves, until I have raked enough money out of my sordid childhood that I’m content to have exploited myself that way to millions of people who sit through a two-, no, two-and-a-half-hour film – I need the extra hour for a killing – wanting to be entertained.

Let’s just say that I’m glad I have the intuition to save a few bucks from my first paycheck. It’s more than enough to last me for two more days until my next salary comes. It’s more than enough to get me through another night of wondering where the hell I’m going to stay before I come to work the next morning.

So fuck Monday mornings. The worst shit always happens to me after the weekend has come and gone.

2.
And all the stuff I said in my last post about the night shift fucking things up – well fuck midshifts, too. The rug has been subsequently pulled from under me last Friday night, and I’ve been told that I would have to fuck my body clock once again to make way for a midday shift. So here I am, Manila afternoon time, waiting for some work to come, which is hilarious since people from New York are still sleeping at this hour.

I don’t know, really, why I have taken this job. No, wait, I think I know – it’s because of the fucking money. Yeah. The fucking money, which will hopefully pay for the bills, and will help my siblings get through school. The fucking money, which I have handed over to my parents, who have just kicked me out of the house again this morning.

Well you know what, fuck my family, too. I’m sick and tired of everything. I am living the classic dysfunctional life. We have all the crazy members:

• One who doesn’t know how to express emotions properly, and is losing money in the business
• One who has adulterous escapades and is currently delusional
• One who is a closet homesexual and has been in college for about a million centuries now
• One who has issues about religion, is antisocial, almost got married secretly but got jilted for an ex-lover
• One who is supposed to be gearing towards medical school but is consumed with vices and boys at an early age, would probably get pregnant sometime soon, and has current ambitions of being anorexic
• One who is a product of someone’s promiscuities but doesn’t know it yet, is currently harboring a self-identity crisis and currently failing school, too, and is probably also a homosexual

3.
But as I’ve said. I will not talk about my family. So there.

4.
And I will not say anything about this to my friends. Because I will not make other people feel sorry for me like the last time. This is my shit, always have been. Today is just a different day, is all. I just don’t have a home. But so does everybody else in the whole fucking world.

5.
Not to worry. I am a strong and resilient woman. I will repeat this to myself until I no longer feel as fucked.

Under the Armpits of Strangers

1.
So it was raining very hard the other night, raining so hard it was like a million drunken men out on a pissing contest: everything stinks, and you feel like it can’t get any pisser than this. For the most part of the day, it was okay. I like rain in general. I like the feeling of being washed clean. Just don’t add to the equation the frequent problems of a third world country when it comes to rain – the lack of it means the agricultural sector is down in the pits again, with rice being a commodity; the surge of it means flooded streets everywhere, and I mean fucking everywhere.

It was nasty going to work, and then barely making it on time: when it comes to the streets of Manila, never expect to get ahead in traffic when you’re dealing with an afternoon onslaught of rain. A single drop falls from the sky, and every vehicle simply stops in the middle of the highway. I don’t know why this happens. But it does happen every time.

Anyway, night shift seriously fucks everything up, and my lack of hello sunshine fuels my brooding almost every night. I am just really really thankful that my officemates are fun to be with. I was really prepared in hamming it all up and pretending that I’m having fun, at first. Every time I go out of the house, I bend down to tie my shoelaces and pray (don’t ask me why is this, I just do it because I’m crazy that way) that I’ll have fun at work because I seriously can’t fucking stand sitting on a chair, chained to my desk for nine hours, waiting for something to do.

But, as luck would have it, I’ve met people who are real people. An observation very different from when I was still doing my one-week training in the south, where it’s all I could do not to slug my immediate supervisor’s face with my hands, and I do mean slug her for all I’m worth (because she’s worth very little, apparently — meeeh, how nasty!). But we will save that story for another day. For now, just this.

2.
Anyway, I was ecstatic to learn that I’ll be seeing two of my friends at work because I haven’t seen them in a long time. After my disappearing extravaganza from college friends I never really saw any one of them because, well, that’s the point of disappearing. After my one week of hell from the south, I happily skipped my way to work one Monday morning because because because I’m going to see my friends! If that’s not enough motivation I don’t know what is.

And then surprisingly, aside from old friends I was able to meet new ones, people whom my guts tell me I will really like, thank fuck. First day at work (or first night – because I was immediately put on the fucking night shift) went well enough. Better than expected. And then fast forward to today, which is to say that I’ve adjusted at the place much more nicely because, well, the people were nice.

And oh, we’re carpooling now, and I swear, it’s one of the things I’ve enjoyed in a long time. It’s nice to be able to sit in the car and talk and listen to good music and smoke! And smoke! Oh, the beauty of it.

3.
But the other night was really the fucking pits. It started raining in Manila again, and that meant I had to get ready for the freaking floods. On our way home I was felt this coat of dread, well, coat me, and I knew, I freaking knew I will have to brave the floods or suffer dire consequences.

The streets of the metro were slick, the ride fast. We flew down the highway, and if only we had a top-down whateveryoucallit car, I would have sat on my knees, raised my arms and do the frigging \m/ fingeration just because I think that is the only cool moment to do it evarrr. But thank fuck we had our windows closed, and were just jamming to some random music, because this big-ass truck just suddenly cruised past us and splashed road/flood/muck water all over the car. Thrice. And I flinched every time that happened (loser!).

When it was time to drop me off my officemate offered to let me stay in her house til the rain stops, but since I have the blood of Stupid, I graciously declined and hopped out. What happened next was just terrible, terrible, terrible.

4.
I waited outside the convenience store, standing between a sleeping ragman and (I think) a secret assassin (with all the big burly and hairy arms), waiting for the rain to stop. I bargained with God: if you make the rain stop now, I will stop cursing for five minutes. But. But but but but but. I think God was in the pissing contest party to care, and for all I know, it’s his piss running down the wall of 7-Eleven, because the said convenience store can’t afford to fix one of their fucking spouts.

So. There I was standing, watching buses pass by, hoping to catch a cab when I had this nifty idea of eating congee at the restaurant beside 7-Eleven. I sauntered over there, ordered a bowl of hot yummy congee, and crossed my fingers. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. By the time I finished my food the rain will stop. Say it with me.

5.
By the time I finished my food the rain didn’t stop. In fact, it only rained harder.

6.
I went to 7-Eleven, hoping I can make a quick call on their service telephone, because my mobile phone decided that it was time to play dead. OH, THE MOTHER OF ALL FRUSTRATIONS! I was hoping I can call home and ask somebody to fetch me, anywhere close, because nobody wanted to give me a ride, not the jeepney drivers, not the cab drivers, no one. BECAUSE THE PLACE WHERE I LIVE IS FLOODED. Hello, misery.

But. As luck would have it, the 7-Eleven does not allow strangers to use their phones, even if said stranger is willing to pay fifty bucks (no really just five, but they wouldn’t know anyway now, would they?). The guard directed me outside to a payphone, where five burly men stand, seeking for shade. As I walk towards them, I was debating whether they came from the nearby wet market or maybe from the buslines I’ve seen farther down the road. The closer I get, the more I realize that three of them were bare-chested. Now this is the moment where I should have walked the other direction and just prayed for divine intervention. But. Because my spine is also made of little bones named Dumb 1, 2, 3,…33, I continued walking towards them. I reached the payphone and was barely able to lift the phone from the receiver when a lady-like voice told me, “Darling, it’s broken.”

This information came from one bare-chested burly man with lipstick. Yes.

I put the phone down and stared at all five men dumbly. And because I know I looked exactly how I felt, they didn’t take much interest in me. Instead, they raised their arms, all of them, until I was brought back to reality by the sight of five pairs of armpits above my face. Apparently they were trying to catch the attention of one jeepney driver. The jeepney stopped. They all moved towards it, and one burly man motioned for me to follow them. And I did.

7.
But only because the destination is headed towards a place closer to home. So yeah. One step forward to the moon, one huge leap for mankind.

One thing led to another, and soon, the burly men were forgotten, and I was faced now with knee-deep flood. It was all I needed to cross in order to get home. Crappola to the nth power. There was nothing I could do. I looked at a dead rat floating past me, at a garbage bag puking garbage, at the flickering stoplight, and I hiked up my pants and walked sloshed home.

Good morning starshine, the earth this woman says fucking hello.

Slinkies #1: Badassery

(this photo is not mine)

Tonight is about kicking ass. Punch solid, kick balls, but go easy on the beer, kids.

• National Geographic’s Fight Science
• Ninjas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Sun Tzu’s The Art of War
• The Bad-Ass Test
• God vs. Satan
• Fight Club Videos
• Chuck Norris Facts

This Bird Has Flown

1.

2.

“Do you think you weren’t loved enough?”

She tilted her head and looked at me. Then she gave a sharp, little nod. “Somewhere between ‘not enough’ and ‘not at all’. I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it – to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any mroe. Just once. But they never gave that to me. Never, not once. If I tried to cuddle up and beg for somethings, they’d ust shove me away and yell at me. ‘No! That costs too much!’ It’s all I ever heard. So I made up my mind I was going to find someone who would love me unconditionally 365 days a year. I was still in primary school at the time, but I made up my mind once and for all.”

“Wow,” I said. “And did your search pay off?”

“That’s the hard part,” said Midori. She watched the rising smoke for a while, thinking. “I guess I’ve been waiting so long I’m looking for perfection. That makes it tough.”

“Waiting for the perfect love?”

“No, even I know better than that. I’m looking for selfishness. Perfect selfishness. Like, say I tell you I want to eat strawberry shortbread. And you stop everything you’re doing and run out and buy it for me. And you come back out of breath and get down on your knees and hold this strawberry shortbread out to me. And I say I don’t want it any more and throw it out of the window. That’s what I’m looking for.”

- excerpt from Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

3.

I once had a girl,
Or should I say
She once had me.
She showed me her room,
Isn’t it good?
Norwegian wood.

- Norwegian Wood by The Beatles

4.

5.

The lyrics of the song sketch an encounter between the singer and an unnamed girl (or “bird” in British slang). They drink wine in her room and talk into the night. Their flirtation is apparently unconsummated, as the singer “crawl[s] off to sleep in the bath”. When he wakes up the following morning, the singer is alone and lights a fire.

The exact meaning of the title “Norwegian Wood” remains a mystery. The name of the song is mentioned in the first verse (“She showed me her room / Isn’t it good? / Norwegian wood?”) and again in its last line (“So, I lit a fire / Isn’t it good? / Norwegian wood?”). Some say that “Norwegian Wood” may be a pun with a nickname of a strong variety of marijuana. Others claim the final line of the song implies that the singer burned the home of the girl (the apparent official version, according to McCartney) using the furniture as fuel, or burned the girl’s furniture in the fireplace, others claim the word “wood” is a metaphor for an erect penis.

- Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown) from Wikipedia

6.

How About Some Zombie Rape

I take no credit for this. The following images were merely borne out of sheer genius from the guys over at I-Mockery.com. I was always fascinated by zombie films for reasons I can’t fathom, so when I saw this recently I was really really really excited. I think this is the root of all my horrific fascinations when I was a child, the one source that bred all the little wingdings of evil residing in my mind.

I remember Thriller very well. Wacko Jacko’s album was the greatest selling album of all time, or so says the Guinness World Records, and I remember my father having a vintage LP of this record, and he would play it all afternoon to make me and my sisters sleep. Talk about being lulled to neverland. Hah!

I was born three years after the song and the album has long been popular, but never mind the years, man. Never mind that Jacko fucks little children up by holding them upside down out the window, or touching their mini-me’s in their shorts. I still think the world wouldn’t be complete without his penis-cupping dance moves or his appearances in other films like The Planet of the Apes.

The music video itself was very long, fourteen minutes full of zombified greatness, and I quote:

I don’t care if you disagree with me about Thriller being the best, because if you do, you’re wrong. But one thing that we can certainly all agree on is that Thriller was amazing, especially for its time, and it really changed the way music videos were seen from that point onward. It set the new standard and any big/popular music video that was made afterwards was inevitably compared to it in one way or another. And even despite all of Jackson’s bizarre career fuckups over the past decade, no music video has even come close to creating the fan frenzy that Thriller generated.As a kid, it was like being allowed to see a horror movie that the parents wouldn’t normally let you watch. There was so much excitement surrounded by it and everybody was fairly convinced that Michael Jackson would soon be elected President of the World. And while I guess it’s good that never happened, it’s sad to see what’s become of music videos today. You see, Thriller came out back in 1983, when MTV was actually good. It was a real music television network that actually showed music videos instead of shitty sitcoms about spoiled teens and their struggles to overcome further pampering.

This brought a question in my mind: since MTV has gone to hell, how many kids haven’t actually seen or will never see Thriller? That thought is probably scarier than the music video itself. But damnit, I’m at least gonna do my part by paying tribute to it because everybody should see Thriller in its entirety at least once. So here it is; my recap of the video for Michael Jackson’s Thriller!

And so, without further ado, here’s some of my favorite scenes from Thriller:

Thunder! Lightning! Some weird eery music and a man masturbating beside you!

ZOMG I forgot to take the baby out of the dryer!

I have seen ze baby and he has a nice little winkie! *drool*

ZOMG that’s my baby PUPPY you’re talking about!!

Har Har Har! I know! Ze pee-wee of ze puppy feels nice to touch! Har Har! *drool*

ZOMG I THOUGHT YOU ONLY LIKE LITTLE BOYS!!! ZOMG!!!

Lonelily

~

1.
And then maybe, it’s just the rain. Maybe it’s one of those days where you think you feel lonely, and after a few minutes, your heart follows suit.

I’ve always thought of it as a weakness, you know. The heart following the mind. I’ve told myself that if I wanted to be strong, if I want to go through life with a spirit that can best all odds, my heart has to be the one leading the throng of wills inside my body. My heart should be the one who will have the courage to make a choice. I know my heart, I know how it feels. It will always be correct, no matter what my brain says. When my heart goes, everything will follow. And nothing else will need to matter after that.

2.
When I was young I actually thought that the more heartaches you have, the better. I moved through my life relishing all the bitter endings of my childhood, all the while thinking, yes, yes. This feels right. Even when I was on my knees, keeling from the pain of my memory which only serves to make actual situations seem more painful than they actually are, a part of me wants to break open my chest, hold that throbbing heart in my hands and tell everybody, look at my scars, look at my fucking scars: I’m in pain, isn’t it the most wonderful thing in the world?

Always when I am at that edge, I swear everything else blurs, and there is nothing else but me and that long, long blackness ahead. I can’t even pinpoint whether my pain is pulling me towards it or holding me back; the agony of what I’m going to do from there is excruciating. And addicting. Maybe it’s partly why I have never really learned how to run away from my problems and forget – because I reveled in it, in a way, the doubt, the tears. It’s something I knew early on. It’s the only thing I knew.

And it really sucks becoming like that while growing up. Because a part of me is uncomfortable whenever I’m happy, like I don’t deserve it. And I know that’s fucking bad.

3.
So I’ve never really been the one for all the happy-joy-joy’s of the world. I’m more of the wallflower kind, I guess. Always observing in a corner.

Today while I was waiting for my friend, along the street of Kamuning Road, I was standing under a shed, waiting for the rain to stop. To my left was something I’d call a drinking shanty. Seedy, with all the smoke, greasy countertops and bad karaoke. A man was there, all alone, drinking. Probably have been there all afternoon. He was singing to Enrique Iglesias’ Hero.

And maybe it’s just me, and the rain perhaps, or the way lonely people seem even lonelier whenever it rains: I felt sad, sad in a way that I’ve never been in a long time. I felt like crying, and suddenly the street before me seems so long. And I felt out of place, like I needed to be somewhere, within someone’s arms perhaps, but then I think it’s been about three years now today that I’ve had someone, and yes I am alone, I am fucking alone again. And that man singing is alone, too, he’s singing his heart out because he’s fucking alone. He’s wailing, I can be your hero, baby, but there is no one looking for someone like him today, everybody’s got somebody witnessing their lives, and we are two people, out here in the streets, losing our minds, feeling our hearts flood heavily with rain.

4.
But not to be too poetic. It’s just been a few months but I’m working hard on trying to stop with all this crap. The bleeding heart and all that. I’ve told myself, man, you have got to grow up, and crying about everything else is not at all something I’ve envisioned myself to do in the many, many years to come.

But I am also coming to the realization that this fucking slump might take a while, like when I tried to teach myself how to ride a bike, or tie my shoelaces, or peel oranges, or, my goodness, write fucking poetry. It takes some fucking time, and I’ll always emerge victorious but bruised. And when I finally learn how to do some things like that, I’m no better off from before, I’m still the same me, and I’ve managed to learn these things in the only way I’ll be able to do it, no matter how much I’ve told myself to try something new: in a way with my sadness clinging, hanging on to my sleeve.

So there. I’ll always be a little bit lonely, no matter how much I’ve wanted to change. There’s always something to be lonely for, in this world, that I think I’ll never run out.

5.
So yes, there will always be brooding. I cannot escape it. There will always be things like that, things that will make my heart tell my whole body, this is what it takes to be sad – knees shaking, lungs contracting, eyes feeling strangely hot – this is what it takes to be me. There will always be things to notice, things to grieve for, and I am still that little girl who wants to break her chest open, show everyone her scars and say, over and over, Isn’t it lovely, isn’t it lovely, isn’t it lovely?