it's amazing how, for almost more than a year, i've managed to forego altogether the need to blog -- not that i didn't want to but because i just didn't find enough time nor patience to just sit in one corner and recollect in words the things that have happened to me thus far.

what can i say?

after college, my life has been so unpredictable i wonder sometimes if i'm the same person who wrote all these blog entries that i see before me as i scroll down this blog. i feel like such a different person already -- more calloused, more inadequate.

i never expected med school to be this way. i never expected i'd grope this much. i guess it's true what the Greek philospher Georgias said "the more you know, the less you know".

i used to think i was fairly intelligent. but i realize now that intelligence merely gets you to med school, but what makes you stay is diligence, hard work and the capacity to allow yourself to suffer the most inhumane of tortures (so that, ironically, you may one day, alleviate the suffering of others).

i am the first to admit that i am not the most diligent person i know. i really am not. proof of this would show that, while everyone else was busy studying for an exam, i was busy watching the 'desperate housewives' marathon on star world. and while everyone else was keeping the sandman at bay, i was busy snoring all my troubles away.

i realize now that the reason i got high grades in high school and college was not because i studied too much but because i studied too little, but got lucky too much.

oh, i don't know.

anyway, this blog entry is my way of saying "hello again" to this weblog and to all those unfortunate soul/s who still find the inexplicable need (yes, inexplicable! hehe!) to check this blog out every once in a while.

stay safe, guys.

and, by the way, i'm not really sure if indeed it was Georgias who said those words i just quoted above. i just included his name to give me the illusion of being well-read, since i can apparently (!) name Greek philosophers off the top of my head. hehe.

. . .

A post.

It's been such a while since i last posted my thoughts on this blog -- so many things have happened already -- all so distant from the whinings i've recorded here before, reading them now (my travails of only a few months past), I feel like I'm not even the same person anymore.

I can't sum up all the experiences I've had these past few months in a single blog entry. I won't even try. But, it just fills me with such bittersweet clarity that, indeed, things will never be the same again.

(cue: soft overly melodramatic music)

Life goes on, I guess. :-)

. . .

Change of Template.

I changed the template of this blog -- I originally wanted to do it last Friday but I decided to wait awhile.

I was not emotionally-stable last Friday (blame it on the fact that I just made a complete fool of myself, as always, in front of someone who was potentially the love of my life four years ago), thus, I feared I might do more havoc than good on this blog's template and post something that would reveal more than I would have deemed comfortable.

So, here it is. Haha.

Oh, and yes, that's my pic on the left. I could just imagine the entire rodent population being reduced in half just by the sight of it. Either that or our little friends would stage their own walk-out off the place of the planet. Or, and this is the best hypothetical outcome yet, they would allow themselves to be cooped up in their little mouse hole for sometime and then suddenly become all self-giving by committing harakiri. LoL.

Anyway, in closing, what sage-like advice should I impart upon you tonight? How about:

Keep off the grass. If I ever make it to Bb Pilipinas(cue: lightning!), and they ask me what my favorite motto is, I'll definitely use this one! LoL!

You jump, I jump. Haha. I really should not have watched 'Titanic' again.

Always remember that the only mythical creature is the honest politician. Honest politician? Now, that's already an oxymoron in itself, that can't be good.

Don't use a big word when a diminutive one will suffice. Ano daw?

The early bird may get the worm, but the early worm gets eaten, however the early bird gets shot. Moral of the story: be an amphibian. Nocturnal creatures have all the fun.

Earth is full. GO HOME. Okay, I'll save this for now. No need to make you feel homesick.

Okay, I'm out with advices. Those will have to do. Peruse each word wisely. Hehe.



. . .

In lieu of sensible posts, I checked my stats and took note of the following searches that were inadvertently directed to this blog.

Shaquille O'Neal's childhood - I guess, as a concerned member of the human race, it's my duty to tell you that this blog has never been privy to the details regarding this NBA superstar's childhood. But, just so I don't come across as a huge damper on your raging fanatical spirit, I guess I can tell you something about Shaq's childhood from what I can remember being printed on his ShaqAttack newsletters which I got when I was around 12. Even as a pre-pubescent boy, he already had really big feet! And, you know what they say about men with big feet, right?? Yes, they need big shoes! So, my Shaq trivia for you is, during his earlier days, he had a hard time looking for shoes that fit. Insightful, isn't it? Now, who said searching for Shaq's childhood and finding this blog, instead, was all in vain, huh? No need to thank me.

Sandara Park - Okay, now, can I pose a really serious question to the unfortunate soul who searched for this name on the internet and got directed to this blog instead? Yes? Are you sure? Okay, brace yourself. Do you really want to know what I think about this girl who dances like she's been in rigor mortis all her life? No? Didn't think so.

Moon Geun-young - Frankly, I don't know what to make of searches regarding this Korean actress -- simply, because I don't know her, either as a person or as a celebrity. Yes, I watch Korean movies and I'm really fond of their romantic comedies but that's it -- I don't take note of their actors or actresses. Not because I don't find them laudable thespians but simply because they come in monosyllabic three worded hard-to-pronounce names and, I'm telling you, I have little patience for things like that. I mean, why can't they just have simple easy-to-prounounce names like Mara Clara, Krystala or even Ula, ang batang gubat? Hehe. (Note: If you're Korean, and you aren't amused by this, don't worry, you're not supposed to be, it's a joke -- a joke so sublime that it unites the different ethnic and cultural factions that plague the Philippines, a joke that makes Jinggoy Estrada show up in the senate and take careful note not to wet his pants everytime he delivers a privilege speech, a joke that makes Kris Aquino's boobs stand high like faithful soldiers everytime she sees a camera, a joke that that that, okay, I'll stop now). Of course, to be fair, there is one actor, for me, whose name stands out -- and his name is (drumroll please), Kim Rae-won. Why exactly? Okay since you asked, I'll give you a perfectly articulate and profound answer by saying: secret!! Hehe.

Frog porn - Now this I don't get. Maybe this search was really originally meant only for people with highly incredible IQ or maybe this is a government code of some sort (you know, the kind where members of the Triad are busted down or where big time drug dealers are caught and sent to the seminary or some other communal place where they could ponder upon their misdeeds, in much the same way as Joseph Estrada is sent to his luxurious villas in anticipation for the kind of punishment he would get should he be tried (the key word is, should) for his kahindikhindik (I just had to use a Tagalog word, I just had to, it makes my point all the more, err, poignant. Hehe) crime that is plunder -- okay, before I once again succumb to my penchant for nonsensical rambling, here's what I really think of this search: it is so incredulous...that I had to sit back and wonder if Paris Hilton, partying somewhere in anorexia-infested Hollywood, would be offended that some perverted soul out there would rather prefer knowing about the coital activities of amphibians than of hers. I mean, seriously, do you really want to know how frogs reach their coital climax? Well, they don't, or at least I don't think they do or maybe they do reach it but only in terms of their biological level or...anyway, before I run out of arguments, just look at it this way, they reproduce by means of external fertilization, for crying out loud, how bereft of sexual consummation can a species get?

That's it for now.

. . .

My NMAT Examinee Report has already arrived.

I got the grade I wanted. I'm not really sure I deserved it, what with my affinity for sloth and all and the fact that I hardly ever studied for the exam (not because I thought I was good enough, but because I just didn't have the time or the patience for it) -- geez, I didn't even finish answering the sample test questions on the NMAT manual which the CEM handed out a million lightyears before the actual examination date was set.

Admittedly, though, the results that I got were a bit lower than my NSAT results in high school. But, I'm happy nonetheless.

God is good.

. . .

In class.

Professor: Why is it that higher pH values equal an increase in RBC diameters?

Classmate: It is because the blood has an increased level of bicarbonate in it.

Professor: Ah, so are you suggesting that your frog is suffering from alkalosis?

Hehe.

Man, that remark cracked me up big time. Pagbintangan ba daw 'yung frog!

*~*

Okay so maybe it isn't that funny a remark to some but, still, you gotta love the ingenuity of my professor in trying to bring humor to such a dreary subject as Animal Physiology.

And, I believe he was the same professor who asked me how to translate "Is this your car?" in Japanese and I answered, "Automobato?"

Hehe.

So we're very corny people, shoot us!

*~*

I haven't updated this blog for a long time, because I feel blogging, at least for me, has become more and more mundane (see: above story), plus, I have nothing to talk about (other than my usual fare of trivialities) -- still, I can't resist neglecting this blog for long, this, after all, provides me with the only avenue where I can write about things that don't reek with methodologies for experimental protocols, mutagenic literature, and the like. ^_^

*~*

I know it's been said and done many times over, but still, let's all continue to do what we can to help the Tsunami victims.

And, as what snuff has said, prayers help too.



. . .

Big Baby.

I was talking to my mother on the phone early this morning and I could hear my brother's voice reverberating from the background (he was nagging one of the household help because his clothes haven't been prepared yet, his room not cleaned, and his briefs not ironed right).

Yes, as with many neanderthals, err, men from his generation, my brother is a twenty-three-year-old toddler still -- with a huge stack of porn and an honorary membership to the "men are born polygamous" society (of morons).

Hehe.

Man, I wish my brother never gets to read this blog.

. . .

The NMAT (National Medical Admission Test) is on Sunday.

And, I am, as usual, ill-prepared.

**

On Saturday, from 4 am till sundown, I have to go on an Ecology Field Trip to Mt. Makiling, Los Banos, Laguna.

The idea of immersing myself in studying the different behavioral activities of various organisms inhabiting the different mangrove forests in the region does not pique my excitement one bit.

**

For weeks now, I've been feeling rather numb.

I was with my friend yesterday, we just got back to my unit after a very tiring day braving the throng of mad shoppers in Divisoria) -- and decided to just laze out, watch tv and wait for her very erratic bowel movements to calm down.

Then, she said one thing that stuck out, that I had a flaw.

I retreat from people -- even if they reach out to me, I hold back, I limit my emotions -- which is very perplexing, she added, because when I tell jokes or, and this she stressed, when I make fun of them, I'm very gregarious.

Of course, I just listened.

I want to explain.

But, I'm tired, not just physically, but simply, tired, in its truest sense -- my emotions are my own, I guess, my thoughts my only comfort.

. . .

Life is weird.

Back then, I wanted to strangle myself because of my cowardice.

Now, I'm contemplating on the possibility of taking a year off from all these.

And, breathe.

Of course, I know I can't.


. . .

I still feel a little blithe after watching "My Little Bride" (Eorin shinbu) starring Kim Rae-won and Moon Geun-young.

This movie is so good, for me at least, that I actually clapped at the end -- by myself, in my room, with the lights off and the volume on its maximum best (yes, never mind if I was just reading the subtitles on the bottom of the screen -- I still wanted to hear the dialogue).

The plot, in a nutshell, goes something like this: Years ago, two best friends, while serving in the military together, made a promise to have their future offsprings marry each other. However, they both had sons. Thus, the promise could not be fulfilled. Enter Bo-eun (Moon Geun-young) and Sang-min (Kim Rae-won) -- their grandchildren. These two were forced to marry each other to fulfill the promise made by their grandfathers and to honor Boeun's grandfather's supposedly last wish before he succumbs to death. Now what's wrong with that, right? Their marriage is arranged -- this "arranged-marriage" plot has been so formulaic in many other movies before that it hardly rates as a big deal anymore. However, it is a big deal, since Bo-eun is still just a 15-year-old high school student while Sang-min is already a twentysomething college senior. If anyone from Bo-eun's high school finds out about the marriage, she'll be ostracized and gossiped against. Add this to the fact that, Bo-eun is crazy over another boy (one nearer her age bracket), Sang-min is a playboy and, according to Bo-eun, a first-class pervert and Bo-eun's grandfather is only feigning his illness.

So, how do these two handle the situation?

Not that great, actually -- at first. We see Sang-min being stood up by Bo-eun in their honeymoon. Sang-min and Bo-eun fighting a lot. Sang-min sleeping on the couch. Bo-eun flirting with the star player from her school's baseball team. Sang-min peeing on the kitchen sink because Bo-eun wouldn't let him pee in the bathroom while she was brushing her teeth. Sang-min watching porn movies, in frustration, perhaps, because he couldn't, you know, get some lovin' -- well, basically, we are treated to a lot of scenes were the two acted more as bickering siblings than as husband and wife.

But, and this is my favorite part, along with all the fighting and the food-throwing, we are also treated to a lot of scenes where Bo-eun and Sang-min show a genuine fondness for each other – they, after all, grew up together, sharing the same extended family (since the death of Sang-min’s grandfather, it was Bo-eun’s grandfather who acted as patriarch for both households, raising Sang-min as his own grandson) -- although, it is Sang-min's romantic feelings for Bo-eun (which we later learn, have been there since childhood) that were elucidated earlier in the movie.

Ah, what can I say? Simply writing about the plot of this movie here won’t do justice to the fascination I felt while watching this truly gem of a romantic comedy – it is genuinely funny and heartfelt. Of course, it's not to say that this movie was great all throughout, there were some scenes that could have been done better or not at all, particularly those in the theme park/field trip scene (this is analogous to me saying that the "run-away-soldier/hostage-taker" episode in "My Sassy Girl", another wacky Korean romantic movie, shouldn't have been included at all) but, in its entirety, I think this is one of only a few movies which I would deem as thoroughly enjoyable and which I think a sequel should be made if only to eavesdrop more on Bo-eun and Sang-min's life together.

And, the scenes where Sang-min spoke in front of Bo-eun’s high school’s student body when the truth about their marriage was finally revealed and the way he reacted when Bo-eun told him the things he needed to hear – nice, really nice.

This movie goes way up there in my list of this generation's best romantic comedies -- along with "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", "My Sassy Girl", "Love Actually" and "When Harry Met Sally" (well, this movie's not actually from my generation, since I was just 5 years old when it was first shown, and I think, at that time, I was more concerned with not running into every glass door I would come across with than watching Harry utter the words "when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible").

. . .

I have just finished watching Il Mare on DVD, a Korean romantic drama about two people separated from each other by time (the guy's still living in 1998 while the girl's already in 2000) and connected with each other, only through a magic mailbox -- yes, you read it right, a magic mailbox!

It's ludicrous, I know, but it's one of those time-travel thingamajigs in the tradition of Somewhere in Time (Christopher Reeve, Jane Seymour) mixed with the we've-never-met-but-we-have-this-awesome-chemistry found in Sleepless in Seattle (Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan) and, of course, the penpals/chatmates-falling-in love plot found in The Shop Around the Corner (Jimmy Stewart, Margaret Sullavan) and You've Got Mail (Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan).

Anyway, while this movie is mushy, impossibly feasible and, sometimes, too caught up in creating a pensive aura (that, at some parts, it has already become a bit 'dragging', of course, during the scenes where it's Lee Jung-jae's face that's being meticulously framed and angled, then, without a doubt, I renounce my earlier stand) -- it does provide relatively decent 'quotable' moments, among which, my favorites are:

1. There are three things a person can't hide...coughing, poverty and love. The harder one tries to hide them, the more they rise to the surface
2. We're tormented because love goes on...not because it goes away
3. Are you ready to trust me?

All in all, it was a good movie.

The camera work was enjoyable, I liked the subtle interjections of metaphors in the angling of scenes, the extensive landscaping of the sea shores, the calm and the very deliberate perusal of the waves of the ocean -- and the acting was good, really good.

. . .

I received yet another forwarded text message, containing these words.

Follow your dreams.

Now, if I were to take that literally, it would mean that I should be a monster/cult slayer by now – not only that, but I should also be able to rescue my brother (or some other guy, I’m not really sure, the vision wasn’t clear) from pre-andropausal impotence due to castration (some initiation policy imposed by the cult, I’m not really sure) and recite Sandara Park’s ‘In or Out’ song by heart with matching dance moves that looked like I just got hit by the dance-like-you’re-in-rigor-mortis craze.

Yes, in case you were wondering, that’s what I dreamed about last night.

We are living in a strange world, I tell you.

. . .

I cried yesterday.

My friend and I were on the topmost floor of the science building, we were sitting on one of those lounge chairs that occupied the balcony there, allowing the wind to caress our faces and the smell from the freshly baked donuts and hamburgers in the canteen nearby to waft thorugh our nostrils -- then, I cried.

Our topic of discussion was our families, and the problems that plague us.

I have to say, though, that among all my friends no one knows my family's problem as much as she does -- I've never opened up with anyone least of all shed tears in front of anyone.

But, yesterday, I just couldn't help myself, the tears just kept falling, of course I tried to suppress them, because some part of me loathe the very feel of them -- they are a symbol of my weakness, of my inability for action, my tears make me the person I am today, and I do not like that.

I was brought up a Catholic, so I believe in prayers.

But, sometimes, I wish I could just send God a text message. And, then within a few seconds He'll reply back. Of course, they say you can always pray -- prayers are after all free, unlike text messages which cost you a peso per message, but when I pray, I'm the only one who's talking, God doesn't reply back -- I just want Him to reply back, to talk to me at least, tell me what I should do, where I should go, whom I should talk to.

I am not asking for much, I'm just asking for my family to be happy, for my mother to be happy.

******

Two nights ago, while driving on a dark alley, my brother got hit by a drunk driver -- after reading the text message my mother sent me, I paused for a moment, then got on my bed, turned off the lights, muted the tv so that the only lights that engulfed my room were the ones emanating from the tv, and fell asleep.

It was a conscious decision. I did not want another heartache. I did not want another problem. I love my brother so much, but at that moment, I just decided not to care.

Thankfully, when reality decided to harass me again in the morning, it gave me good news, I learned that the only injury my brother got were sore muscles and shaken-up nerves.

However, no matter my gratitude, I have learned to recognize the fact that reality is a deceitful companion -- because it stays the same, it changes, yes, but just so it could add more burden to the present.

I wish I could expound more, but I cannot -- this is also one of the reasons why I refuse to tell the people around me what my problems are -- because what good will that do? Will the problem go away? Will my every word allow for the pain to subside? Will my confession allow for salvation to seep in? For happiness to come forth?

I guess not.

. . .

The template of this blog has to change!

I am so tired of seeing that kid (see: left side of screen) looking so serene and, well, basically, looking the very picture of contentment.

Although, come to think of it, when you look closely, the kid does look like she's thinking of something, doesn't she? The way she rests her cheek on her hand gives off a very pensive mood -- like she's reflecting on something big, something beyond her -- who knows, maybe she's reflecting on the subtle degradation of the human condition, or worse maybe she's scared of the uncertainty of circumstance!

Geez, why do I come up with these theories?

Come on, she's a kid! I tell you, she has not known real fear unless she has stared upon the pages of a Genetics Exam with nary a clue of what Codominace is or what separates a point mutation from a frameshift mutation or even why the proband from the second generation varies greatly in genotypic traits from its ancestors in the first parental generation!

This kid with the flowers on her head has not known real unhappiness unless she has seen how seemingly devoid of hope my family situation is. She has not known real humiliation unless she has witnessed how my...well, enough already, the point is --- uhhm, what was my point again?? LOL -- ok, the point is, I want enough of this template! Enough, I tell you, enoughhhhh!

Enough with my incessant need to romanticize the good, to look back on the ignorance of childhood, just to keep the bad, the menace of reality, from overwhelming me.

Sure, it's great to be a kid. I look at kids today, and smile. Darn, those rascals have it good. But, that's it! I've had enough of this. It's time to rid out the past! I have to erase the allure of childhood from my system!

I. HAVE. TO.

Okay, enough with my inadequate rant of words.

And, enough with this template, too -- if only I can remember how to change it, exactly, though...I've been out of blogging for so long, I forgot how to work my way around even the most basic of html codes. LOL.

Geez, oh well.

. . .

Getting Lost.

I got lost today. I boarded the wrong jeepney (for the uninitiated, a jeepney is a mode of transportation that it is reminiscent of a military jeep albeit a rather elongated one which can seat up to thirty people, I think, at the most) and got off to this place that was totally totally unknown to me.

The worst part was when I got off that jeepney, it had already gotten dark. At first, I didn't panic. I didn't try to blame myself for my usual disregard of some of my mother's 'not-to-do' list, one item on which, specifically forbade me to ride jeepneys under any circumstance.

So, I got off, meandered through a maze of streets, asking people where I am, how to get to the next stop, how to get out of there, oh, you know, the usual questions one could expect from another commuter whose head is whirling and is about to go nuts. But, bear in mind, that I have yet to panic, at this point.

After all, I reasoned I could just easily hail a cab, and all these would be over with.

Then, it hit me. Hail a cab? In Manila? At night? Alone? Yeah, right.

Needless to say, I panicked.

I went back to the people whom I first asked directions with, told them of my predicament again and while I was doing this, a woman suddenly approached me and told me she and her husband were willing to drive me to the jeepney stop themselves since its on their way home, anyway.

Uh, so just for clarity's sake, when were kids what were the top two cardinal rules taught by our parents again?

1. never talk to strangers
2. never get into cars with them

So, it was clear from the start that I've already broken the first rule, the question was, was I brave enough to break the second one?

I had no choice. I was already desperate. Anyway, I was telling myself that if I get kidnapped, well, they couldn't profit much anyway because my family's not rich.

But, I tried not to venture to any negative thoughts, I tried to just be grateful that I found this great couple, willing to extend a helping hand, to a stranger like me, plus, also I figured that the rules about strangers go both ways -- I'm as much a stranger to them as they were to me -- so, I just kept tight, prayed that they really were good people and hoped for the best.

And, guess what? They really were.

. . .

Earthquakes and aftershocks

I think at around 11 pm last night, the ground I stood on rocked my world spitless -- and, it lasted for more than three minutes, with aftershocks lasting for about a couple minutes more.

So, was I scared?

Not really, I mean, at first I thought it was just me, that I just had too much wine to drink, but I only had three glasses and, I mean, come on, I was telling myself I couldn't be drunk, I come from a long line of hard-drinkers, the men and some women in my family drink liquor like it was water (splashed only with a dab of color for aesthetic effects) -- so, even if I only drink sparingly, there was certainly no way that I could get intoxicated that easily.

Then, after the people I was with started yelling and hooting out all these nervous jokes and laughter -- the thought, settled within me -- yes, an earthquake (with a magnitude of 6.2 on the Richter scale) indeed was teasing the fear in all of us, taunting us to run and hide for cover, or better yet, simply just jump through the window, and hope that someone would catch us thirty-five floors below.

So, again, was I scared?

More of amused really -- I think the moment that earthquake hit the three-minute mark, everyone around me started getting all their cellphones from their handbags and pockets and...well, go figure...

So, again, and this is already pushing it, was I scared?

This is the second earthquake that's rocked this city in two weeks, although the first lasted longer, much looonger, this one certainly had its moments too...so.....of course I was scared!!

*oh, and by the way, missed this blog. *smiles*

. . .

Do you know how it is when everything is barely above a whisper -- when you cannot even dare utter your thoughts out loud lest they shatter in their own frailty or in the unchanging instability of circumstance?

And, why is it that people always tend to romanticize the good in order to keep the bad from overwhelming them?

. . .

I created a quiz about me (yes, could I be more self-centered??) for my friends on a certain website and I just thought I'd post it here too to, you know, fill this blog and the internet, in general, with more junk.

**

1. What was my rank in the Preparatory Military Training in high school?

a. Major

b. 1st Lieutenant

c. Captain

d. I can’t believe I’m still even talking to you, after the way you bathed me every PMT formation with your saliva when you were barking out orders and the way you made me roll-like-a-log all over the field in front of the entire battalion because of the horrible misdeed of not making my belt buckle shiny enough to fit your tight-assed-sadistic-pseudo-military standards!

**

2. Am I ‘girly’?

a. Yes, you should run your own beauty salon.

b. Let’s just say you’d rather waste your money on DVDs and books than on those pigmented ground substances, uh, what do you call them again?? Make-up is it??

c. Are you kidding me? With that mustache on, how can you possibly be ‘girly’?

**

3. Did I enjoy high school?

a. Yes, you had a blast.

b. No, it sucked.

c. The good outweighed the bad.

d. You mean, you went to high school? I thought you went to juvenile hall!

**

4. How tall am I?

a. 5’2”

b. 5’1”

c. 5’3’

d. Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t hear the question, can you speak up?? Hold on a sec, where are you anyway?? Hello? Oh, is that you down there?? I didn’t notice you without your, uh, ladder…

**

5. As of the moment, what sort of features do I find appealing in a guy?

a. Oriental

b. The Filipino hybrid look (half-Filipino,half-American; half-Filipino, half-European, half-Filipino, half-err, Martian??)

c. You’re attracted to guys who have the “most likely afflicted with Halitosis” look (a.k.a. the guy who has the “I-bet-you-I-can-fart-the-deadliest” look)

**

6. Am I weird?

a. No, you’re not weird.

b. Yes, but who cares everyone’s weird anyway.

c. Honey, weird doesn’t even begin to describe what you are.

**

7. Do I like cleaning my room?

a. No, but you clean it anyway.

b. Yes, your room’s spotless.

c. You mean that was actually once a room??????

**

8. What’s my favorite sport?

a. Water polo (yes, you’re royalty, you can play any of those snotty, upscale sports, if you want to, and maybe after that you can have tea and, oh, I don’t know, sms Queen Elizabeth and see what’s she’s up to)

b. The George Bush-inspired sport of raiding Iraq without regard for evidence and of pressuring poor countries to side with you or else you'll triple their IMF debt and discontinue your so-called big brotherly humanitarian efforts for government and armed forces rehabilitation (this sport can also be upgraded into the Bill Clinton-inspired sport of "let's-go-commit-adultery-and-shag-the-intern-so-that-four-years-later-we-can-laugh-all-the-way-to-the-bank-with-a-10-million-dollar-down-payment-by-selling-our-unporngettable-experiences-of-the-white-house-to-the-world")

c. Basketball

**

9. Whose picture do I have on the background image of my cellphone?

a. A picture of you and Romy.

b. A picture of Brad Pitt’s naked butt.

c. A picture of your frog’s embryo.

**

10. What’s my middle name?

a. Anne

b. Beyonce

c. Raymond


**

Okay, okay, I felt guilty: Mr. Clinton, if you ever happen to know that my blog existed (or *raises my eyebrows* don't you already??? C'mon...don't be shy, admit it!!), I'm sorry for thrash-talking your teeny-weeny, err, dignity just for the sake of my half-baked attempt at humor. You too, Mr. Bush. And, with that said, gentlemen, continue making the world an, err, interesting place.

And, one more thing, don't worry Queen Elizabeth, I won't sms you, although I immensely enjoyed the last email you sent me and do tell Tony not to fret too much about the findings in Iraq (<-- Haha, now that's weird!!).

. . .

Two of my high school best friends have already started medical school -- and I can't help but think I would too had I made a different decision more than three years ago.

Hay, the woulda, coulda, shouldas in my life are too many, I wonder why I'm not psychotic yet.

Had I taken up that accelerated program offered by my university when I qualified for it, like what my friends did when they qualified in their own university, I would have graduated premed a year early, and, started this school year with my best friends in medical school.

Frankly, in retrospect, I wonder why I didn't bite at that offer -- maybe it was because I simply chickened out, but, I question myself now, Why the heck did you chicken out, Anne???, you've gone through far greater academic challenges than that one before, and, miraculously survived, with your name in the honor roll.

It is such a tragedy, though, that over the years, my confidence in myself has fluctuated considerably -- I don't know when it started, maybe it's not so much as a loss of confidence in myself but more of an affinity for sloth, whatever the case, I don't know what to do.

Perhaps, too, it's not so much as I regret not graduating a year early from premed but more because my best friends are already in medical school -- in the long run, they will always be a year ahead of me (for internship, residency, etc.), hopefully just a year ahead (see my lack of confidence?) -- and, as of the moment, I cannot find any comfort in that thought, call me a bad friend, even an envious one but that's how I feel.

Of course, on some surreal level of illusion and delusion, I'm happy for my friends, not only were they from the same circle of friends which gave me a very touching surprise birthday party last May, but because they have more guts than me and I applaud their strength -- they had more strength to welcome the demands of a very regimented course and mind-boggling pressure than I could ever aspire for -- and, at same time, loathe it, as well.

I am reminded of a saying I read from Jessica Zafra's Twisted, it goes, "It's not that I have it bad, but that other people have it good".

Of course, to digress, another of Ms. Zafra's sayings, which she clarifies are not hers, goes "Men are like parking spaces, all the good ones are taken and the available ones are handicapped" -- I can't say I agree with this a hundred percent, but the lady has a point, don't you think?

. . .

Laker loss.

The Lakers lost the NBA championship to the Pistons.

I am, for a lack of a better emotion, so bummed out.

And, in lieu of better emotions, I am giving my fifty centavos worth of basketball analysis (a.k.a. crap talk) about the NBA finals.

*brace yourself*

The greatest criticism hurled against the Lakers has always been their incapacity to play team basketball -- and, who can blame them, with superstars like Shaq and Kobe in their roster of players, it really is quite a very strong impossibility to expect solid team dynamics among its players.

Going into the finals, I have always believed that, in order for the Lakers to beat the younger and faster Pistons team, they have to accomplish three things:

1. They have to play as a team: but, with Shaq's impassioned announcement that the Laker offense should be centered only on him, it seems inevitable that this goal is going to bite the dust sooner or later -- at, which case, it already did, yesterday.

2. They must not let the Pistons control the rebound: the Pistons is, undeniably, a younger team, most of their players are still in their mid-twenties, late-twenties, and early-thirties as opposed to the Lakers older players (Malone - 40 years old, Shaq - mid-thirties, Fisher - midthirties, etc.), thus, they play with more spunk, more hunger and more athlecism -- they like to run around the court, tiring and thrash-talking their opponents in every turn (Rasheed Wallace's reputation preceeds himself in this arena while Ric Hamilton can play up to 48 minutes straight as opposed to Shaq's playing average which hardly measures up to 20 minutes a game).

3. They must let the bench (a.k.a. supporting cast) play a pivotal role: the problem with the Lakers, and Phil Jackson too, is that they are so superstar-oriented. At the beginning of the season when Malone and Gary Payton (both NBA superstars and "old timers") were traded to the Lakers many thought, the Laker team was going to be THE team to beat, what many missed to notice was that, sometimes, winning in basketball really isn't about which team has the more stellar constellation of basketball stars, it is about which team harnesses most the talents in each player.

I guess in the end, what really made the Lakers lose was not in the egotism of its stars but also in the lack of drive from its coach -- no offense to him but sometimes, you really wonder, what Phil Jackson is made of, back in 2000, when the Lakers won its first championship under him as head coach, I have always been part of the small minority which doubted its win, for me, what Phil Jackson did, was to simply rehash the old Bulls Championship team (with Harper and his assistant coaches joining the squad) so that the Lakers could pull off a half-baked win (of course, then, I didn't voice out this doubt -- I was just so happy that the Lakers, after more than a decade of obscurity, have finally won) -- Phil Jackson does not mentor his players, he simply feeds their egos with all these superstar brouhaha (and, I'm telling you, it's not a great idea to let a man think he's a superstar! Ooooops, I guess I'm not just talking about basketball now, am I?), that is why, even with six NBA championships under his name, he still hasn't been inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame -- unlike Larry Brown (Pistons coach) who, even without a single NBA championship to boast of, until now, was already included in the Hall of Fame two years ago!

Of course, I could just be feeling this way, blaming Phil Jackson as well as Shaq and Kobe's over-sized egos, because the Lakers lost -- had the situation been reversed, I would probably be blogging about how great the Lakers were!

Hehehe.

It really was sad to see them lose, though.

Even with egos the size of Jupiter, I have never doubted, the spirit of Shaq and Kobe -- and oh alright, because I'm feeling guilty about blaming him, let's include Phil Jackson too -- to win.

. . .

Timberwolves vs Lakers

The Timberwolves won against the Kings, they'll meet up with the Lakers for the Western Conference Finals in the NBA.

Kevin Garnett was just amazing -- seeing him play made me wish I had agile, muscular prosthetic legs (hehe, guess what they're for??). Okay, so maybe getting prosthetic legs, so I can have more height (you can stop guessing now), bordered on desperation already, maybe I should just have the epiphyseal plates between my vertebrae surgically re-disked!

Uh, that was a joke.

Anyway, I feel sorry for Chris Webber, though, I mean, he almost nailed the basket to force the game into overtime but, well, I guess the game just wasn't meant for them --I'm telling you, whenever I talk basketball, especially when I'm recounting all the achievements, the determination and the physical prowess possessed by the players, I get all mushy, it's embarrassing!

Now, I'm gearing up my excitement for the Lakers-Timberwolves match -- I've been a Laker convert since I was eleven years old -- fyi, it was also around this time when my brother convinced, no, forced me to market his NBA cards to my male classmates in grade school, for which, he had assured me, I will be rewarded handsomely -- and then Peso signs flashed before my eyes! Bwahahaha!

When I think about it, though, I often wonder why he made me do it, I mean, why didn't he just market those cards himself?? There are two possible explanations for that: (1) he didn't want to look foolish -- yes, it was better for his younger sister to look foolish chasing after her classmates who refuse to pay up on the said deadline, and, (2) he just didn't want to look foolish -- again, it was better for his younger sister to earn the money for him while he sat around his lazy butt watching, of all things, basketball!

I'm telling you, in remembrance of those years I allowed myself to be my brother's entrepeneurial slave, the Lakers better win this season!

. . .

Of Dragons and Happily-Ever-Afters.

I need for my mother to be happy -- if only I could, I'd whisk her away from all these, build a fortress around her, guard her with a fleet of Armadas, and keep her safe from the clutches of the dragon -- so that she could no longer feel any pain nor remorse and so that no tear could ever fall from her eyes again.

The dragon is a metaphor for something or someone -- whichever way, the interpretation is the same, the dragon is hurting her and although she consoles me that the abuse is not physical, it is only emotional -- I still could not find any refuge in the thought -- because to be emotionally battered, to have one's spirit slowly being devoured by the treachery of a forgone vow to love and to hold, is the worst kind of abuse one could ever be subjected to -- and I, as of the moment, am cursed with the futility of inaction -- I can not do anything but bear the trauma of an unhappy home and curse the existence of a mediocre reality.

Of course, to be fair, the dragon does not hurt me nor my brother. In fact, the dragon dotes on me. The dragon's love for me, like my mother's, is unquestioned -- but is that enough? How can the dragon love me and yet, still persecute, the woman I love most?

The dragon should have been the man I love most, and for a time, he was -- but, things change, there is no fairy tale, there is no happily ever after, and our house, no matter how admirable my mother's efforts of beautifying it, is not a home.

And, although, I have allowed myself to be consumed by indifference, because to do otherwise would not only be detrimental for me, who suffers indirectly, but also for them, who are trapped in a facade of futility -- I still pray for the day when my mother's dragon could finally metamorphose into the prince she once loved and to the man she once thought of building a home with.

And, I pray that day comes soon.

. . .

Fastbreak.

1. The Lakers won over the Spurs (4-2) -- this playoff development would have made me jubilant since the Lakers could now advance to the Western Conference Finals playing against either the Timberwolves or the Kings and because the Lakers could now recover from their own horrific demise against the Spurs in last year's playoff quarterfinal -- but, i can't, because the sight of Robert Horry guarding Shaq was just too much (haha, i sound so melodramatic!) -- Robert Horry, when he was still wearing the Laker jersey, was instrumental for the Lakers first championship in this decade, and the dumbass Laker crowd just gave him the "treatment"! Just goes to show the fans "value the jersey more than the player" -- so sad!

2. How does a woman deal with the fact that she didn't marry Prince Charming? It's a rhetorical question, of course, but, really, how does a woman deal with this hard core truth?

3. Admitting one's imperfection is the perfect excuse for screwing up -- oddly, enough, I thought about this while I was at Church today, you see, for the past few days, I've been an emotional wreck, too many things going on at home that I'd rather not mention, and, well, I don't know, I was just thinking about how blatantly and perversely imperfect man is, and how he uses his imperfection as the perfect scapegoat for his own misdeeds -- I loathe this kind of reasoning; man should know that, he is not imperfect because he is incapable of perfection (in his own way), he is imperfect because he is not God.

. . .

Second Chances.

I have always wondered why life doesn't allow for second chances -- is it because second chances are best kept under the veil of regret or is it because life, simply, does not believe in the serenity with which second chances bring?

I came across a question once, it asked, which is better, to live forever or to never be born at all?

I chose, and still choose, the latter -- because through it I could at least be exempted from the pain with which living entails.

I whine a lot, I know. Sometimes I feel guilty for doing so, I seem too self-centered, so many people are wallowing in destitution and here I am, whining about the triviality of my daily life, and, although, I know my suffering can not compare with theirs, at the end of the day, this is still my life, this is still my suffering, this is still my burden to bear -- call me selfish, call me a brat, even, but, that does not erase the fact that I, like the millions of people displaced of their homes, of their livelihood and of their lives because of circumstances beyond their reach (e.g. poverty, war, conflict, etc.) too, am lost.

Of course, I know I'm just spewing crap, that I should at least be grateful that I could at least be at liberty to complain about life and -- at the end of the day, when I go home or when I see the faces and smiles of people who welcome me with the most genuine of smiles -- still be relatively compensated for it.

I think many of us have a concept of life owing us something, at least, I know, I do, sometimes -- but what if, beyond all the inequalities of social status, of intelligence, of aesthetics, and, generally, of life, everything really is fair game, matira ang matibay, kung baga, can I have the courage to join the fight or will I forever be in the stands watching life as it passes me by?

. . .

Old Crush.

He said, I looked all grown up and I looked good.

I was on cloud nine.

I have had a crush on him since I was seven years old. He was still a medical resident at that time, and my mother was his training officer, so I saw him almost everyday whenever I would visit my mother at the hospital -- he was the most handsome guy I had ever laid eyes on (he's tall, fair-skinned, immaculately fastidious; has a disarming smile and a child-like nonchalance for things -- ok, stop me before I hyperventilate!), every female (whether by gender or by orientation) medical and non-medical staff at the hospital had a crush on him.

Now, thirteeen years later (and him being away for almost six years), my childhood crush is now an established physician, married with two kids -- and, still as handsome as ever.

Again, I reiterate, he said, I looked all grown up and I looked good.

Wait 'til he sees me after I purchase that halter top (the one that shows the scarcity of fabric today's clothing manufacturers face) I saw at the mall and that skirt that has a slit that ends where one's panty (or lack thereof) begins -- then, he'll know how grown up I am!

Haha.

Of course, I'm kidding.

But, he said, I looked all grown up and -- okay, I'll stop now.

. . .

Nice.

My friends are nice people, they really are -- sure, they have their shortcomings too, but don't we all?

Today, they outdid themselves -- and, for that, I love them.

. . .

Dollar to Peso.

I watched Willie Nepomuceno's show last Saturday entitled "Willie Nep for President, Miting de Avance".

And, even if I wasn't particularly thrilled with the crowd I was with (doctors and their families -- yes, you guessed it, the sosyal crowd), I still enjoyed the show, immensely.

Willie Nep is one of the country's most famous political impersonators -- he is, simply, a genius.

One joke which I particularly liked was when he said that if he (impersonating FPJ, an actor turned presidential aspirant) ever became president he would improve the economy so dramatically that the exchange rate between the Philippine peso and the American dollar would only be 1:1 -- 1 dollar is to 1 kilo of 100 peso bills!!! Bwahaha!

When you to think about it, though, if such a scenario should happen, it would no longer be a laughing matter now, would it?

. . .

Images.

I received an email addressed to one of my yahoogroups concerning the latest brouhaha in which my old high school newspaper was embroiled in.

It seems all the former members of the school newspaper are, to put in mildly, grotesquely dissatisfied with the outcome of the Images.

The Images is a compilation of literary works, mostly poems and short stories, handed in by the student body, which usually sees print at the end of the school year.

The task of sorting out the jungle of literary works, which range from near mediocrity to utter sublimity, is handed out to the Literary Editor -- of course, all the other members of the editorial staff, gets to put in their two cents worth, as well, but, needless to say, the bulk of the work, mostly goes to the Literary Editor, whom many have preconceived notions of as being a "merciless slasher" because of his/her alleged lofty standards for literary excellence and minimum tolerance for obscurity.

Anyway, the email that I received was from someone who served as the Literary Editor of the newspaper two volumes ago. He expressed his discontent over the current issue of the Images, partly blaming the seeming incompetence of the current editorial staff to rummage through the pile of literary efforts submitted by the student body over the past year.

Although, I must admit, his critique over the current situation leaned towards objectivity and fairness, I was, nevertheless, bowled over -- more so, because it was startlingly evident that his critical maneuverings had nothing to do with making the current batch feel stupid or insipid, rather, he was, himself, driving a point of sincere concern for the betterment of the paper and for the development of the Images as a true literary manuscript worthy of the abstract notions of excellence and grandeur implied by its name.

He was, simply put, just being helpful.

A virtue, I must admit, I lack -- or have lacked ever since I left the portals of my old high school.

You see, I too, served as the Literary Editor of my school newspaper for two consecutive years.

But, I fear that I have become so consumed over the triviality of college life that I find it too irrelevant to busy myself with the concerns of my previous affiliations -- the school paper, included.

Because, to be brutally frank, I don't care anymore.

I mean, the Images is but a remnant of high school. A phase in my life that's over. I've moved on, albeit, gradually -- ok, I admit that high school, for me, was fun, I had the opportunity to explore different avenues, excelled in some, as well as, failed in others, and that leaving it was bittersweet, but the important thing is that, now, I've moved on.

We all did.

Sure, I may sound nonchalant over the whole thing, considering, this is a serious matter (well, for them anyway), because the paper's reputation over its alleged literary acuity in English could be put into question.

I realize my position (or non-position) could be misconstrued by the other editors who served the paper with me, but, jeez, for crying out loud, let me reiterate, high school's over. Move on. Give the current batch (and succeeding batches) a breather, don't rub the mistake into their faces, and, please for the love of your underdeveloped gonads, just move on!!!

Now, if only I could have the courage to mail these thoughts to them. Hehe.

P.S. -- Don't get me wrong, though, I love the Images. I considered it one of the few things in high school worth remembering, well that, and the fact that I was totally enamored with the charms of my Editor-in-chief, but that's for a different blog entry (Yeah, right, like I'd ever confess to the world that I used to call him my 'PC', which stands for, Prince Charming -- hehe, I just did!)

P.P.S. -- Am I not the corniest person or what?

Don't you dare answer that -- if you know what's good for you!

*takes out whip*

. . .

Blues.

I think I’m coming down to something – my brother had fever last week, my mother was achooing her kisses to me last night and my father’s downing one cough syrup after another to help relieve his throat problems – so it wouldn’t be any wonder, if I, the youngest, caught some of those nasty critters that’s pestering them now.

But, I think it’s a different kind of critter that’s pestering me – I don’t know what, but, all day I’ve been sighing to myself and I kind of have this wistful I-think-I’ll-just-stare-into-space expression.

I mean, I was pretty upbeat when I woke up at 12 pm this morning, err, make that this afternoon. But, then, I don’t know what happened – I just snapped.

Even my friends are of no help, some aren’t even here to keep me company. One’s playing millionaire-playboy (let me stress on the playing part, because he hardly exudes that all too dashing Antonio-Sabato, Jr.-like playboy persona, he’s more of an Elton-John-but-don’t-tell-anyone-especially-his-father kind of person) in Phuket right now, the other’s parading her skimpy bikinis in Boracay, while the others are either stuck on Summer Classes or on grand summer vacations I haven't heard about – heck, even my grade school best friend, whom I thought would always be there for me, is hibernating somewhere else where the alleged innovations of Smart or Globe Telecoms can barely cover.

I checked myself, though – maybe I’m envious of my friend’s summer adventures. Then, I scolded myself (yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am borderline schizophrenic, I scold myself, I talk to myself, I laugh at myself, heck, I even scare myself, most of the time – those are symptoms of schizophrenia, right? I mean, yes, I still don’t manifest the hallucinations-part, but, they will come, eventually), of course, I’m not envious of them. I was brought up better than that. I was brought up to appreciate what I have and what I’ve been given, and to be happy of others who have more. I was also brought up to admire the beauty of mankind, to fight for justice and freedom, to want harsher punishments for parole violators and – to aspire for world peace (bwahaha, Miss Congeniality here I come!).

Seriously, I really am not envious of them. I just want to shake off the blues, right now. I think I got this from reading other depressing blogs earlier today (hehe, sure, Anne, blame it on someone else) – but, I have to admit, those blogs are way more contagious than any of the viruses hovering around the air at my house.

. . .

F4 - remember them?

I was channel-surfing yesterday morning, bored out of my mind, and came across a rerun of the show Meteor Rain on Cinema One.

After a moment's hesitation, I decided to watch it for a while since nothing else decent was on tv (yes, with all the channels cable tv has to offer, some of which I've already deleted, you'd think there was at least one palatable show which could satisfy my boredom).

The story, as best I could make of it (what will all the dubious dubbing and the equally irritating Tagalized screeches coming out from the actress who was playing Xi Men's love interest), revolved around Xi Men (who was the actor who played Xi Men, again?) and on his 'playboy-ness'. I guess the writers of this episode were trying to establish the background behind his playboy image and on his 'women-have-an-expiration-date' philosophy -- a decent enough endeavor, on their part, don't you think?

But, heck, after a half hour of watching this show, I was already yearning to go make an appointment with my dentist -- having a root canal, was better than having to endure this show for yet another episode.

The guy playing Xi Men, no offense to him, was such an awkward actor -- I think he was an alumni of the I-hope-I-could-pull-off-this-scene-just-by-looking-so-darn-cute school of acting.

I knew there was a good reason why I didn't allow myself to be dragged in to the whole F4 mania before -- I just didn't know, until yesterday, how good a reason that was.

. . .

Lengthy Post.

I just typed a rather lengthy post and in one swell move, I got disconnected while I was clicking on the 'Post & Publish' button -- haha, now it's all gone, I haven't saved a thing, the time I spent on composing that post was wasted, and I'm now facing a blank screen with nary any trace of the words nor the thoughts I so patiently labored for.

Surprisingly, I'm in a jovial mood, still.

Now, I think I'll go now before my jubilation consumes me.

. . .

Millionaires.

I was chatting with my mother's secretary and she was recounting the story of her friend who is currently experiencing severe financial distress, she expressed her desire to help him but is restrained from doing so because she's low financial resources herself.

I then mused, "If only we were millionaires..."

Then, she replied, "If we were millionaires then our financial debts would also be in millions. It's better this way".

I pondered on that -- yes, it's another way of angling things, nevertheless, what she said was point well said, don't you think?

. . .

Code red.

I was hanging around my mother's clinic, located at the hospital ground floor, the other night, waiting for her to finish up in the delivery room, when the machine beside me suddenly announced, with a tinge of urgency, "Code red at the Holy Child ward."

Code red means the patient is experiencing severe internal bleeding coupled with the near expiration of his respiratory system.

I sat still for a few seconds -- the weight of realization slowly sinking in.

Yes, while I was lazily sitting here, just a few minutes ago, boring myself to oblivion by staring at the huge posters showcasing the different angles of the female reproductive system – another person, just a few floors above me, was fighting for his life.

. . .