Fox Mulder is back!

Or at least, I hope he is. According to my daily dose of lulz entertainment, Mulder and Scully are finally doing a sequel to the first X-Files film, which was shown what, ten years ago?

FUCK! I FUCKING LOVE FOX MULDER!

There. At least I got that out of the way.

But really, Fox Mulder was the first love of my life. He was the first walking penis to grace a geek television show EVER, in my opinion. And before the hotshots of CSIs (shows I totally love, by the way) came along, Scully was the reason why I was tempted to be a forensic scientist when I was in grade school. YES.

So. I don’t care if I sound too insipid or too ditzy or what-have-you. You wouldn’t understand anyway, such giddiness, if you have never watched X-Files in your life ever. I can’t tell you how many books I’ve read and harbored and read and read again over the course of my pre-adolescent years, or how many photos and calendars and posters I’ve plastered all over my bedroom wall when I became a full-fledged horny teenager. My enthusiasm about the show was so great that:

1) I have (positively) influenced my father into science fiction and have cemented a relationship with him over the years through various interest of conspiracy theories, shadow government manipulations, extraterrestrial life what-ifs, and the like. Years later when X-Files would be proclaimed dead, over, and lost to us forever, my father and I moved on to new shows, new films, new music, new interests, things that keep our minds thinking and thinking, a bond lost on other people who know us but keep us happy and continuously searching for new things to devour;

2) I have also (negatively) influenced a friend into a Fox Mulder obsession, until her interest in him grew so great she was able to channel it to other people as well, thereby creating a cult when we were in the sixth grade. HAHA! We love Fox Mulder so much we thought we love David Duchovny as well, the actor, and blindly appreciated all the films he’s been in post-X-Files, even if, years later, we admit that everything was crap. HAHA!

Isn’t it funny, it was only a few days ago when that friend and I reconnected, and how it was all we can ever talk about: X-Files this, X-Files that, how we remember each other in random moments of our separate lives because of this fucking show. And now, this news! Haha! I would say it’s just a stroke of luck, but if you’re an X-Files prodigy you would say otherwise.

But if you are, if you are an X-Files fan indeed, won’t you stay awhile and reminisce with me?

Do you remember:
a) Quantico, Virginia, and Mulder’s quaint little office, that cramped space, with this poster?

b) Mulder’s little nickname, Spooky?
c) Agent Walter Skinner, that dirty little bastard?
d) The Cigarette Smoking Man and his minion, that son of a bitch, Krycek?
e) Samantha?
f) Scully’s cancer?
g) The tension between Scully and Mulder and how, each time, everybody just prays for them to have sex already and get it over with?
h) THE KISS! on Season 8?

and so much more.

Woohoooo fuck, am I excited. You may not know it, but various behind-the-scenes people (cinematographers, directors, producers, etc) from various shows popular now like Lost, 24, Alias — shows that I’ve enjoyed watching, too, have come from X-Files. Yup! I say this with absolute glee, because isn’t it fantastic? Only goes to show that X-Files was one of the best TV shows of its time, and the genius has spawned into several new shows that we all enjoy today!

And I just don’t know how to end this post now, because the giddiness is not dwindling down! And I am starting to end my sentences with exclamation points!

So here, let me end by saying that all in all, I have just confirmed to myself that I am still a certified geek, will always be, and everyone will just have to live with it!

No wait, here’s another:

FOX MULDER, I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES!

There.

_________
photos taken from here and here

Is it easier this way?

my chucks and an old jacket, really, I don’t know why I bother

~

To be from the outside looking in, I mean. Being the proverbial voyeur, I mean. Kinda fucking lonely, maybe, but is it any easier? To be part of, but not really?

Went to my high school last weekend, where I spent maybe the four most confused years of my life. Had to watch my sister perform in a dance production, one of the ‘rites of passage’ of my school, meaning, it’s something you don’t want to do but have to do anyway.

While I was seated at the audience I noticed how much things have changed and not changed, something I always say when I look at the relics from my past. More importantly, I looked at everything with a tinge of irritation, because I now know how much I detest such kinds of rituals, and amazement, too, because I have come to realise how much smaller my world really is back then, how my world fucking revolved among trivial things.

For all the pain and drama high school life has wrecked, I wonder how much it has to do with character building. My own character building, if you think about it. Vittorio bases his judgment of some people we meet upon the high school where they came from. I somehow see the sense in this because you actually grow up during the high school years. University life is just something to fill the in-betweens; it’s what you do after eventually finding out what you want and don’t want, it’s how you find similar people like you, how you continually steer clear of people you don’t like, how you totally feel like you’re living in the ‘real world’ when the real world fucks you up immediately after you finish your degree. University life is what you do to bridge your way to get to the other side, the more ‘adult’ life, where everything is as fucked up as high school, but with less drama. In high school, yes, we were all so fucking young, but it’s how we got old, too, don’t you think?

But I’m digressing. For all the pain and drama high school life has wrecked, I wonder if it was all worth it. So much can happen emotionally in four years, especially if your world is so damn small. And coming back to that small world, years later, I wonder how I am, really. I wonder how we all are.

From my seat I saw random faces, some familiar to me, some I have a gut feeling that I am friends with before but I can hardly remember their names. I wonder why they are all here again, I wonder if they have a sister like me, forced to endure such frivolous display of nothingness.

This is the only thing I can think of: one thing about high school, more so, an exclusive school for girls, or, even more sinister, an exclusive, Catholic school for girls, is that search for a stamp of approval. Years later, girls from my high school come back, some wearing university jackets, some bringing along their boyfriends, some wearing business suits, some carrying designer bags, some dangling car keys from their fingers, some holding a cigarette, some speaking in a foreign language, all waving an imaginary flag: here I am, do you approve? Look at me, see how I’ve changed, don’t you think it’s wonderful?

A lot of girls, they do that. Even when I was still studying, I’d see former students walking in hallways, displaying their new selves, their new lives, for all to see. It’s as if to say: hey, I’m successful now, hey, I can do this now, hey, I am this now. It just mystifies me if this is to mock the alma mater or if this is to ask for that approval that eluded us back when we were still young girls wearing uniforms. The Catholic nuns were not keen on enigmatic and charming women, they’ve always wanted cunt-less personas loitering the halls. And the guilt, oh the fucking guilt that they’ve all made sure we carry for the rest of our lives. We can’t escape the fucking guilt.

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even know where I’m headed with this observation. I just noticed that I picked my best clothes before I went to school, made sure that I looked, well, ’successful’. I also realised why I felt so icky the whole time I was at school.

Because everything was a joke. There was, of course, that strange pull to look for old teachers, mingle with old classmates, see how everyone is doing, update them on what is going on with my life. But I resisted that. If I could have run away from everything, I would have. Because everything is a joke.

I learned a lot but I never wanted to come back. Do you know that feeling? Of never wanting to come back, I mean? Of settling for being on the outside, looking in?

It’s a sad, sad day

The TV Links guy got arrested.

From Ray Corrigan:

The guy that runs the TV links website has been arrested after FACT (Federation Against Copyright Theft) encouraged the Gloucestershire police to get involved.

“Sites such as TV Links contribute to and profit from copyright infringement by identifying, posting, organising, and indexing links to infringing content found on the internet that users can then view on demand by visiting these illegal sites,” said a spokesman for Fact.

A lot of people are saddened horrified outraged by this news. I know I am.

Mostly the anger stems from the question, What did he do wrong?, and more importantly, Why him?

It’s always like that, yes? The Big Fish gets away with everything. And those geniuses who were smart enough to stand up next to the Men always, always get their balls cut off. The Men just can’t accept being royally fucked.

And since the lot of us, those who were educated by such site who brought the Unavailable to the masses, can say it a lot better than me:

From Jack Schofield:

And if linking is illegal, how many of us are guilty?

…

It’s a pity the Gloucestershire Police started with such small fry. There are a couple of multibillionaires called Larry Page and Sergey Brin — the founders of Google — who provide vast numbers of links to content that is being illegally distributed. Indeed, as everyone knows, they actually host plenty of illegal content on their own video site, YouTube, which has a UK operation.

Is the message that it’s less criminal to host illegal content on YouTube than it is to to link to it from a site such as TV Links? Or is it just that FACT (Federation Against Copyright Theft) and the police won’t tackle anybody with enough high-powered lawyers to fight back? Is The New Freedom blog correct in saying: “They just have so much money that they have become above the law.”

…

In future, do I risk being thrown in the slammer for linking directly to a YouTube video? What if I just say “go to Google and search for ” or whatever?

(More discussion after the jump, plus the view from the other side, for a sense of Equality, which, most of the time, these bastard sharks are completely unknown for.)

Carry on, carry on

a small statue at Sonya’s, a heavenly restaurant at Tagaytay

~

1.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore how fast the world can pull the rug from under me. One minute I was having fun, the next I was pulling my hair in frustration.

After a fun weekend at Tagaytay, in which I have probably fed myself enough garbage to last the lives of the children of my children, I have subsequently been ravaged by a strange stomach illness, and then the flu, and then, just last night, I lost my mobile phone, after having prided myself for years for being an excellent keeper of things.

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

2.
People leave me all the time, but I was always careful of things I own. I have kept the same phone number for four years now, and have kept messages from people who left and came back, people whom I will never meet again in this life, people who didn’t mean to stay – I’ve kept messages from them in a span of the last four years, and I just feel horribly bereft now.

3.
I’ve no attachment to the mobile phone, whose name, by the way, is Michelle Pfeifer, because that little darn thing was my Catwoman. And I guess tonight is when I must declare that her nine lives have run their course. Or maybe, to console myself, I’ll say that it was meant to be, as all the things in my life have been; the loss, you know, was meant to be: that cab ride home, just when I was feverish, about to vomit, wanting the ride to be over, just when I was in the moment when all I was concerned about was myself – some things were meant to get lost that way, I guess.

4.
But I can’t say that I didn’t try. When I got home I turned my bag inside out, I called the cab company, Nine Stars, how unnerving, to report the missing thing, of that little darn cat thing phone maybe wedged between the seats, which kept on ringing whenever I called it, but sadly no one can hear, because it was in silent mode, out of all the days, how fucking unbelievable, how fucking exasperating Fate can be.

And I kept on calling it, oh Michelle, ma belle, my poor, poor little thing. And it kept on ringing and ringing and ringing.

5.
Last weekend my friends and I, we gathered beside the pale light coming from the lamp, and we whispered and talked about old loves while playing cards.

We talked about the pain, and the unexplicable frustration, the non-meaning of what-could-have-been, the ability to move on. We talked about the things we kept from Those Who Left Us, why we still hold on to them.

I thought about your messages, you know, I talked about them. I told my friends how you still sit snugly inside my mind (sometimes), how your messages are archived inside my phone, like you were sitting at the backseat all this time, as I go places. Like I was moving forward, but not really.

6.
My friend said, we really have to move on now, with a determination spurned from a battered heart, a tired heart, I think, too old and too exhausted to try to understand and pry into the meaning of Why We Were Left Behind. He was looking at an old’s love face, too, just as I was thinking about your words, when he suddenly got up and said, I will erase everything.

And then it became that: a night for putting things away, of erasing you from the mind.

I was by the window while I held my phone in my hands, looked at your messages for the last time. Should this be a ceremony, I thought? How utterly laughable.

7.
But I did light a cigarette. I did smoke while doing what I had to do.

8.
This morning when I realised how changed this aspect of my life will be, how a mode of communication was abruptly taken away from me, like reflex, I thought of you.

And then I remembered That Weekend, and what relief, to know that I don’t have to pine for that anymore, because there was a choice before the inevitable happened.

9.
So the chance to rebuild something commences. I’m constantly being fucked by Fate but I don’t really give a shit now, do I. Just carry on, carry on, world. It’ll always be a fuck-you gesture from me now, or haven’t you learned anything so far?

The One with The Wet Panties

watching people walk while pretending I’m not taking pictures of their feet

~

There is a certain sadness when you show up to work wet all over – down to your undies.

I have never envisioned myself growing up to be half-woman half-manatee. It might have been acceptable if I was born with whiskers and a somewhat leathery skin, and if I weigh around nine hundred pounds and make strange gurgling noises. However I will always look like I’m in the middle of a constipated spasm, and that means nothing really, except that I am somewhere between shit and epileptic in the looks department. I still have legs, so that qualifies me as a person, in the least. And a vagina. (Meaning, not qualify as a vagina, but add it to the additional qualifications of being a person, female. But what do I know. Vaginas are as common as an iPod these days, even men have one.) Anyway, the fact remains that this half-woman half-manatee has managed to arrive to work with a dripping butt.

But. That’s not all there is in today’s weather report: apart from being sentenced to Brave Floods Until I Die of Random Electrocution or Rat Piss, I was also fortunate enough to be picked as The World’s Luckiest Loser on a Tuesday Night.

Allow me to indulge the rare presence of my dignity –

Ladies and Gentlemen, and the People of the Universe Who Are Not Suffering:

I accept this award, dubbed “Uglier than A Barrel Full of Smashed Assholes”, at a moment when 22 million other assholes in this fucking planet are engaged in other recreational activities like a nice, quiet dinner, a long drive home, a good night’s sleep, or an awful lot of sex. Their leisurely acts of humanity to people like me who are stuck at the reality of Working Long Nights While The Typhoon Rages makes me want to douse myself on gasoline and set myself on fire. However, since I am half-woman half-manatee, I think I would only fail with such endeavor, once I breathe through my big nostrils.

I accept this award on behalf of the three women who rode the train today, and, oddly enough, smelled of curry, fart, hamburgers, and just a teeny weensy suggestion of mint. I don’t know what kind of conconction this is, or how they have managed to emit so strong a smell, but after surviving that horrendous, horrendous ride I think I am prepared to accept this award, any award given to me for that matter, if only I can get a moment’s validation that I have just been spared a bolgia in hell, where, possibly, such women reside. I imagine them all naked, standing in a circle, mixing curry powder and ground beef burgers in a big, brick well. They were all farting, of course, and talking in strange tongues. And to add some Rachael URRRRRGGGGHHHBLERRRGGH Ray allure, a dash of mint across the shoulder for garnish.

Ladies and gentlemen, I also accept this award on behalf of all the people waiting at the taxi queue, because in one of my brilliant moments (meaning: stupidest, idiotic, et al) I have managed to score a ride in a cab with a foreign woman, who must have thought she was being kidnapped by a half-woman, half-manatee and a skeleton version of Vincent Van Gogh (hint: missing an ear) who laughed an evil laugh upon learning that the foreign woman does not speak nor understand our native language, and thus, would have to rely on fucking English, the world’s weakness.

I sit here tonight, in front of my lousy computer inside my lousy office, glad to have my life spared by the cab driver, who gave me mischievous winks at the mirror while twisting his mouth to point at the foreigner in front of me. He must have thought I’m also happy to be part of a would-be gang bang, but as I am a half-woman half manatee I don’t think I have the dick to participate in such activity.

Also, I would just like to thank George Harrison, who continues to be my source of sanity (he was able to stand Lennon and McCartney, yeah?) as I lived through the worst ten minutes of my life, when Third-World Van Gogh started making very, very lewd remarks like “Ang laki-laki ng dyoga niya, di ba?” (“Her boobs look massive, no?”) and “Lukaret pala tong babaeng to e!” (“This bitch is hella crazy!”) all the while speaking in a very comic C-3PO voice.

I jumped out of the cab as soon as I saw just a hint of my building, and ran for my life towards the entrance, not really caring if my half-woman half-manatee dripping butt is spraying rainwater all over the bystanders. I arrived at my desk at 7:30 pm, exactly three hours after I Went Out of The House Even When St. Peter and His Drunk Bastard Friends are Pissing in Heaven Because I wanted to Arrived at Work Earlier.

And here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is where my story ends and my evening begins.

Good night and good fuck luck. Er, good bye?

THINGS I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS!

getting creeped out by these things while watching a kid cry

~

This is like walking in on your parents while having sex, or watching someone you know have snot dangling at the tip of their nose. I’ll keep as normal as possible, and try to go back to my old life, where I’m breathing ordinary air and crapping ordinary shit. A week is a week is a week; and I’ve had the best and the worst and the busiest and the craziest days in a span of one week, and there is nothing more to say about it but fuck yeah: World, I am still living.

So, to bring interestingness to my life starting today, as am sure with all the jizz I got last week I’m destined to have a very boring, boring, boring life ahead of me from now on, I am making lists because they’re fun to do. And I’m obsessed with lists. And they keep my thoughts in line, and it’s a good thing so I won’t have to think of anything else. Right?

Things I Would Like to Buy for Myself This Christmas Even if I Really Don’t Have the Money

1. BOOKS
A. Books I Really Want to Buy
- Fourth Comings, Megan McCafferty
- At Swim – Two Birds, Flann O’Brien
- Silk, Alessandro Baricco
- Ocean Sea, Alessandro Baricco
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
- Comfort of Strangers, Ian McEwan
- The Confessions of Max Tivoli, Andrew Sean Greer
- Notebooks 1935-1951, Albert Camus

B. Books I Want to Have a Copy of
- Snow Country, Yasunari Kawabata
- A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess
- Guess How Much I Love You, Sam McBratney
- Perfume, Patrick Suskind
- The Path of Minor Planets, Andrew Sean Greer
- If on a winter’s night a traveler, Italo Calvino
- The Country of Last Things, Paul Auster
- Shel Silverstein books
- Georgia Nicolson books, Louise Rennison
- Kate Clanchy books

C. Books in My ‘Canon’, meaning buy all the books of these authors because I LOVE THEM
- Haruki Murakami
- Milan Kundera
- Gabriel Garcia Marquez

D. Books I Want to Have But Do Not Necessarily Have an Impact on My Future
- TinTin comics
- Goosebumps Choose Your Own Adventure
- Dance Me to the End of Love, Leonard Cohen

E. Books I’m Interested in But Not in a Hurry to Buy
- On Writing by Stephen King
- Saturday, Ian McEwan
- In Between the Sheets, Ian McEwan
- The Child in Time, Ian McEwan
- Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
- Collected Poems 1912-1944, H.D.
- Beautiful Losers, Leonard Cohen
- The Lovely Bones, Alice Sebold
- This Lullaby, Sarah Dessen
- How It was for Me, Andrew Sean Greer
- The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
- A Very Long Engagement, Sebastian Japrisot
- No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July

(more goodies after the jump!)