Latest magazine discovery: Rogue. Latest achievement: Completing my paper for an elective and joining a coastal cleanup. Latest potential career change: Being in front of the camera. Likelihood: Not in the near future. I want my own travel show called "What Would Lornadahl Do" Latest virtual baby: This green skin. Latest act of generosity: Treating my family to their first try of Krispy Kreme's original glazed donuts.
Dear Niwee,
We have a new maid. And it took me a while to realize it.
The morning after my Ninang Remy slept over, I found her tidying up my mother's neglected sari-sari store. Then I found her sweeping here, there and everywhere. That was weird but I kept it to myself. After all, I was too pressured to complete my paper to stop her.
The next day, I was shocked to see the clothes segregation in my closet. But nothing prepared me at the sight of her washing our clothes. Then it dawned to me the labandera whose salary come from my end-of-the-month paycheck had been no-show for the past days. The idea who replaced her crossed my mind but I nixed the thought. My youngest brother came to me and probed, out of curiosity, why is my godmother here for the past 3 days. I didn't know.
My suspicion was confirmed shortly after. She sat nearby as I was typing away in my laptop in the living room. She skillfully managed to steer the talk from my research paper to the unbelievable truth. Turns out she was recommending somebody else to be our maid. But they lost contact. Instead of looking for another maid, she volunteered her own services, much to my mother's disbelief. Of course, who would be comfortable having your own best friend perform household tasks for you?
She reasoned she'd hate to disappoint my mother with the news that the maid is no longer interested. Besides, she'd rather work for us than a bunch of strangers she hardly knew. Her family also has needs. My mother, she said, disapproved of this setup initially. But the great need for an angel pushed her to agree.
Until now, I must still be in denial. I can't even bring it up to my mother. Particularly my concern about the salary. She probably went on day off today as I haven't seen her all day. I hope she won't come back anymore. Is this another reality show? Please say yes!
Recent reasons of happiness: My new boyfriend Kidlat, Europak backpak, my bedroom re-arrangement, travel writing workshop, Smart Bro subscription, PAL plane ticket to Bohol in October. Recent life changes: Giving up on pork, moving in back to Bacoor, coming up with a gratitude journal, switching to Fern-C and being a bit more optimistic. New inspiring people on my list: Kristine, Corazon, Bop and Miki.
Dear Niwee,
How time flies. Now I'm not blogging...now I am. Now I'm not attending a parade of weddings...now I am. Now I'm not getting laid...now my youngest brother is.
I was in a hurry to leave home for work when I spotted the screaming hickeys on his neck. He was wearing a t-shirt (Speaking of, check out my own line of t-shirts here.) which is understandable as it would be highly suspicious if he were wearing turtleneck in scorching hot summer. My initial reaction was to point and ask, "Ano 'yan?" to which his peer Mark and cousin Kaye erupted into laughter. "Wala 'yan!" he said.
This incident reminded me of that Nip/Tuck episode when Dylan Walsh's Dr. McNamara found out his son John Hensley's Matt went on a three-way. A part of me wants to say, "Way to go, dude!" but the other half wants to slap with him my silkscreen. Not that I'm against intimacy between couples. It's the blatant display of such that I'm disgusted with. Worse, it's my mother's potentially violent and/or verbal outburst that I was afraid of. I'm not convinced she is already prepared to accept that her youngest kid has raging hormones. Especially that the eldest daughter and the middle child manage to appear unattached since birth. But let's not go there.
Before I closed the door behind me, I told him, "Good luck kay Mama!"
Of course, I told a couple of my friends. Some were shocked that a 17-year-old kid is already engaged in sexual acts. Some were nonchalant, saying it's normal for boys to start early. Then, there's this small percentage who judged me as being bitter for my brother.
I'd love to react further on the latter but the second reaction really ticked me off. It's the sickening double standard all over again. So what's wrong if teen girls manifest desire to appease their lust? Is it their fault that they're wired to have strong yet hard-to-please sexual urges? Is it bad to ask for multiple orgasms soon?
A few days later, I heard my brother gush about his new slip-on shoes while I was having my dinner. The presence of my father made me nervous. I followed them in his bedroom. Topless, he placed his t-shirt on his left shoulder, apparently, to conceal the marks. I silently wished him well.
Yesterday, I did not see any trace of it anymore. Perhaps he learned the trick on how to get rid of it.
Until now, I assume that my parents had no idea about it. They are still convinced that my brother attends his daily summer class until noon then hang out somewhere to have halo halo with friends until the sunset then go home. Who knows what really happens during those afternoons?
I'm not going to find out either. I am yet to let him know that doing something about lust is fine but being careless about it is not. Give me until payday so I can afford to buy a box of condoms. I hope I'm not being too trustful and, more importantly, too late. I'd be equally crushed as my folks in case this leads to unwanted pregnancy, among others. For this, I am willing to play the role of a parent. Please wish me loads of luck.
04.11.07; Sucky Samhain; 16:01
Total number of body piercings: 7. Total number of tattoes: 0 still. Post-semestral self-assessment: What a slacker I've been. I have an [deliberate] incomplete for an elective!
Dear Niwee,
Everyone's getting pierced and inked at work recently. At the risk of sounding like I'm massaging my own ego, the trend started when I had my tongue pierced. My friend Atong had hers shortly after. Then her team lead had her upper back tattooed.
Before her tongue can even get to heal, Atong had been gushing about her plans to have a tattoo. I have plans, too. But I had been decided to defer it until I get to leave the country. Heard it is difficult to go abroad if you have one. But I imagine my first as a red design on my nape and the second one as a black design on the base of my spine. No specific design yet.
I joined Atong have her inner ankle inked. [Photos here.] Even before this happened, the obsession to have my own skin art grows more intense by the day! I was once pitted between a round or Piattos-shaped figure.
Then I found a hand-painted sack bag with the image of two lizards forming a circle. My teammate Isler commented it reminded him of my friend Ina's. Of course, I want mine to be unique. As if it were not enough, Yro reacted, "69?!" Plus, there were officemates who think it's too masculine for me. Eventually, I had my own doubts since lizard is the symbol of prosperity in the Mountain Province. I consider myself more of a beach bum than a hiker. Hence, I was discouraged to pursue that design.
After Atong, another officemate's wife jumped into it and had her scar concealed by a tattoo. When we talk about tattooes, more and more people are joining the circle we form and express their desire for such. Even the unlikely ones! I can't help but feel the urge surface.
I basically want something distinctively Pinoy to display my Pinoy pride. I want something that symbolizes me as well. But I just can't decide what aspect of myself to highlight. I still refuse to browse sites since I want mine to be designed specifically for me, not tweaked from somebody else's.
Ack. I need help!
29.07.07; Uneventful & Useless; 03:32
Latest attempts for nightlife: 1.) Being stood up for the saGuijo date Friday night; 2.) Making it on time for my overtime shift last night, making me unable to watch Razorback in saGuijo instead. List of people to meet: 1.) Leeney_v for some ladies-who-lunch episode/s; 2.) Jin for business-related advice; 3.) couple Shane and Pierre for the tee samples and graphic designs; 4.) Shrink to vent out my turning-25 anxieties; 5.) Doctor for the result of my FBS. Seriously, I need more than 24 hours in a day!
Dear Niwee,
I just got promoted. Sort of.
The account is expanding. I'd be included in the new line of business. Not as a manager or quality coach, but the same old frontliner. Hence, I'd still be taking calls. More difficult ones, in fact. Before you text barrage me with greetings, allow me to explain I did not deliberately clamor for this, uhm, professional climb. I was just chosen for my tenure and stats. But my insides wanted to protest: there are more deserving agents than I am!
If there were anything I was badly aiming for, that would have to be my long overdue entry to the marketing world. The previous months witnessed me dispose my resume to every vacancy there is. Believe it or not, I had been filling up my closet with corporate attires and please-take-me-seriously pumps. Alas, no success stories so far. I am starting to feel it would take longer than it initially took me to land a job.
I see two problems here. When I apply online, I always encounter reminders that I "might" not be qualified for the post. With no managerial experience, I am short of a junior executive. Sadly, inspite of my four-year experience in the industrial melting pot and supposedly impressive MA units, I am being categorized as an entry level. But we all know I'm not. A not-so-fresh graduate is more like it.
The second one is the assumption employers have about my enjoyment of cashflow. I can't blame them. Call centers offer the best monetary rewards in the metro today. Enduring 4 years appear to them as unwillingness to earn lower than what I am accustomed to. Sure, the transition can be difficult. But do they think I enjoy wasting my time for interviews and exams? I do realize they can't surpass my salary. Isn't genuine need for career shift enough to prove I am prepared for the worst?
I am 4 months shy from turning 25, for God's sake! My body is starting to manifest deterioration and my enthusiasm for this culture is about to run dry. I need to execute a graceful exit before I finally begin to hate what I love the most about this industry. I need to feel alive again.
Please hire me.
Latest heartbreak: Witnessing Oscar De La Hoya lose to Floyd Mayweather, Jr. Latest laughingstock: The Buzz's new format of presenting 'headlines' (imagine glass enclosures to protect the pieces of evidence, photos of celebs with black lines on the eyes). Longest-running frustration: A solid day of swimming, snorkeling, sunbathing and slurping smoothies.
Dear Niwee,
My mother is starting to be a jetsetter. On her 25th wedding anniversary last February, she celebrated it with her amigas in Singapore. Then, a couple of weeks back, she had a last-minute double date trip to Boracay.
I am happy for her. Though the circumstances surrounding the latter trip was unpleasant, I was happy to hear her said she had no regrets. When she defended me against my dad's bitter comment that I had been traveling way too often, I was happy to feel signs that she finally understood how appeasing one's wanderlust can be uplifting and, at times, necessary. Gone were the old days of disapproval which prompted me to come up with press releases about my getaways.
It was frustrating that this understanding came a bit late. With my financial state and new priorities, I had to slow down and place travel plans in the back seat. Though I am fully convinced one traipse to the beach is all I needed to bounce back from my worst depression to date during the first quarter, I can not afford it. I had to save up every penny I have and pick up available coins in the street to see my dreams come into fruition.
Aside from the usual tuition fee, insurance premiums and housekeeper's wage, I am now shelling out cash for my oral surgeries, skin treatments and business venture. Yes, I am embarking on a business that I hope to provide me income and, sooner or later, the balls to resign from graveyard work and spine to apply for marketing posts. The tasks of coming up with creative ideas and contacting people can be taxing but they are truly rewarding. I can't wait to launch my baby!
Please do not cock your eyebrows for the other expenses. The extraction of my impacted teeth (yes, plural) had long been overdue and, with my fluctuating blood sugar, it had never been this urgent. Besides, I can't have it done within the school year as it would affect my attendance and performance.
And yes, my skin badly needs professional help. My warts and pimples are something my self-confidence can no longer ignore. In fact, my pimples just celebrated its one-year tenure on my territory. Maybe longer than that. Plus the dryness all over that made me envy the snakes for their ability to shed and leave it behind for good. I had to take action before its remaining quality would only be salvaged by diamond peel on a fortnight basis. You may argue I'm experiencing blur between need and want, but I now consider healthy skin the armor for my well-being and the edge I need for my desired career in the future.
But then again, I resent the fact that I had to canopy myself from the sun. I love tanlines and beaches! I can only hope this restriction is temporary. When this business takes off and my post-graduate studies come to an end, I still have the picture of me clad in a seductive piece, lounging my way to be a bronzed beauty and rushing to the shore for a cool dip after. That's the life!
Amount of pressure to make this year a productive one: Great. Plans to launch this year: 1.) My own business; 2.) My long overdue exodus; 3.) Purchase of laptop; 4.) My entry to the circle of curators. How ambitious! Plans I sadly need to drop this year: 1.) The lighthouse project; 2.) The comeback of the Turistang Hilaw™; 3.) Consistent attendance in therapeutic spots like saGuijo.
Dear Niwee,
Have you seen the documentary entitled "The Vanishing Lotus"? It was one of the films we viewed in my Anthropology class. It was about the final generation of Chinese women who had their feet bound in spite of the government's ban around 1912. Before the Americans reached China and openly dismissed the mentioned paractice as barbaric, Chinese kids as young as 4 were eager to have their feet bound. In their culture, a small pair of feet pronounces beauty and ensures a woman of marriage marketability. In my eyes, tainted by the modern times, it is an act of surrendering one's mobility to be fully dependent on one's husband. It's like, forget rotting flesh, ligament tears and fractured bones! All we need is love blah blah blah. Stupidity, it is!
After watching this, I suddenly gained pride for my 10" flat feet. I text barraged everyone about this realization, the description of how lotus feet look like and raised the question, "How come women had to undergo excruciating pain to be considered beautiful? How come men do not experience the same amount of pressure?".
Let's think of the women with coiled necks. At an early age, they'd place a spring of metal around their necks to comply with their culture's concept of beauty and to be considered wife material. When they commit concubinage, this coil would be removed and would render them bedridden for life. Do they have the same punishment for unfaithful husbands?
How about the women with big mounths? They insert a wooden (I guess) plate in one's mouth and -voila!- instant beauty! Let's not forget African women who faced female genital mutilation without any pain killers. Imagine that pain then the deprivation of sexual satisfaction through the clitoris for the rest of their lives. Honestly, I can't even begin to imagine.
Going back, a sex historian (sounds like a cool job) explained bound feet make the vagina tighter. In short, heaven for men, hell for women. That should explain the Chinese population, eh?
Things haven't changed that much. Women are still expected to look beautiful at these times. Otherwise, you'd be shunned or ridiculed (remember Betty La Fea?) or panned for dating and/or marriage. Aren't we guilty of worshipping stilettos even if it spells discomfort? Aren't we panic buyers of whitening creams and tablets? Aren't we slaves to underwire bras? Aren't we happy until our mane is silky straight? Aren't we obsessed about losing unwanted bulges?
- - -
For the longest time, I have been comfortable with my own body size. Real women have curves, as one movie title went. I consider it my edge that I'm huggable and the type of friend anyone can drag to buffets or feasts without displaying violent reaction. Missing my waist was never a major concern.
Until I finally reached the acceptance stage that I am obese. For the past years, I saw myself only as a chubby. That I can still carry sexy outfits and don't look like an eye pollution. I never cared about the number, never measured my waistline or weighed in. Each time I wrapped my fingers around my wrist and witness that my thumb and index finger stopped touching the other, I blindly decided it's just OK. I was wrong.
Late last year, I was devastated to realize that my urge for retail therapy was becoming harder to appease. It became virtually impossible to find my size. I resorted to buying men's t-shirts which I subsequently had to alter since I have neckline issues. Mind you, the amount I spend for altering each is like buying another top! I was mortified to realize that I have stopped raiding my Mom's closet and begun raiding my brothers'. I felt like I'm wearing the same stuff over and over which was true since I can't don the same things I used to with enough self-respect. In fact, my self-gifting adventures upon receiving my 13th month pay all ended up to shoe shopping. This accidental imeldific purchased 9 pairs of shoes in just a matter of 6 weeks. After all, my shoe size does not fluctuate as often as the stock market.
And when I remember this fact, I conclude my shopping with an unhealthy amount of emotional eating. I can't afford to sob in public. I'm too drained too type my thoughts away. I only have food as my outlet. The vicious cycle continues.
Now that I have learned my glucose is on the polar end of normal range, I imagine my history of overindulgence is on its way to be an ancient practice. I am doing this for my great anticipation for the exciting future that awaits me. I am doing this for self-love. I am doing this.
I do not wish to sneer at legions of women who fall prey to the pressures of the society. I could only hope that we all aim for the best with our own welfare on mind.
25.12.06; Scrooge Sentiments; 17:49
New near-death experience: Brisk walking my way to Talaba in sheer hope to make it on time when a 5-star exploded few meters away from my leg foot. New year's resolution: 1.) Give up my old fantasy guy. 2.) Cease using colognes/perfumes for men. "You can appreciate men's perfume. But you don't have to use them!" - Ina. 3.) Be more vain, fer gawd's sake!
Dear Niwee,
What's with Christmas that we all have to gather and celebrate? That offices have to temporarily close operations in observance of it? That the entire planet continues to rejoice about it over the years in spite of the fact that suicide rates increase during the holidays and recent years witnessed people being too financially challenged to keep up? Christmas, I dare say, is just for kids and marketing moguls.
I am neither of the two but I have an archive of experiences I painfully revisited to put my message across. I can't recall when I officially hated this overrated season but, as a kid, I remember being led to believe in a.) Santa Claus which was downright silly since we have no chimneys here in the Philippines; b.) that Jesus Christ comes down to earth to join us which I found unrealistic for a birthday celebrant NOT to reveal oneself to the ovejoyed masses; and c.) we, kids, have the liberty to ask godparents and random elders from neighboring baranggays for some bills we can eventually use to buy our desired items which, to my deduction, is an euphenism for begging and milder version of Trick or Treat.
I remember waking up one Christmas morning, sighing over the limited variety of songs on the radio, being nagged at to snap out of my trance, bathe and commence the annual trudge to generate funds. Considering I belong to a gypsy family and I found smiling and greeting a difficult task, I was the least popular and charming in our group. As a result, I consistently got the least amount. Unlike my childhood buddies, I didn't get that excited to count how much I earned and to splurge it immediately in the nearest mall. Maybe because I had no clear set of wants or my money gets stashed in a piggy bank or my mom uses it for something else. I found this role reversal with my mom tiring and fruitless.
Imagine my relief when I turned 14. I argued with mom I'm too old and tall to ask for pamasko and reminded her of the disapproving looks I received when I showed up in my pediatrician's clinic. But as the eldest, I was forced to escort my brothers. This time, I still get cash, less than what my brothers acquire of course, but I became an open target for stupid questions like suitors and stuff. Little did I know that it gets worse every year.
Staying at home was not merry either; it equates to interacting with relatives who all claim they took care of me when I was little and giving up Nintendo time for our less priviledged cousins. Or someone who grew up next to our relatives who happens to have his/her own child and nephews and whatever. I was quick to question their concept of togetherness since I never saw them hang around when we get hospitalized or cheer us on when we compete or get recognition in school. I resented spending time with them since we had nothing to talk about and every year was an incessant guessing game of names and faces.
Truth be told, I hated these family gatherings since my poor memory can only offer images of parasitism, stupidity, molestation and alienation. Now you know why I feel I was born to a lesser family. It truly is sad that we all get the freedom to choose everything -what course to take in college, who to marry, who to vote- after we get stripped of the opportunity to choose our family.
If my childhood were full of angst, how could you expect my grown up self to enjoy Christmas? I am still in consternation what the big fuss is all about. Is it the opportunity to experience comestible treats on the table? Forgive me but I am too indulgent to wait for Christmas. Or the anticipated moment to be surrounded by own family? Sorry, but I'd been passing up every chance there is whole year round. Is it the exchanging of gifts, the practice of sharing? Not for me, either. As far as I am concerned, I can't afford to give out gifts since I feel too "deprived". I only buy presents for myself, my 2 godchildren since it is customary "not to break the children's spirit" or to "preserve their innocence" and my brothers, which, to my estimation, is an indirect way of educating my folks what today's generation really needs/wants. Include the people I agree to kris kringle with. I can imagine your raised eyebrows - now what the hell is this Scrooge thinking, observing Christmas traditions like kris kringle? Maybe it's my way of upholding my cheerful exterior or my way of not letting outsiders know what I truly feel about Christmas. It's not about the sharing. It's about the humor, the impossible task of keeping things under my hat and the superficial rush we feel when we open the final gift - that expectation that it should be what we indicated in our wishlist. Which explains my refusal to learn the useless art of wrapping gifts.
As I get older, I always felt compelled to achieve sexual gratification around this time of the year. Must be the climate, must be the idle moments, must be the loneliness, must be the hormones or the combination of all these. I have nothing scientific to offer here. But the desire to feel equally burning skin, hungry toungue/s and/or a hard, throbbing appendage against my body has been consistently intense and incurable. Obviously, I'm not getting any in spite of the fact that I personify a pregnant dinosaur and sound like an overzealous porn star.
In a nutshell, I hate the fact that my strength expires by the time this shitty season rolls around. It frustrates me that I effortlessly try to be a reliable friend all year yet I can't expect for their company when I need them the most by Christmas. I can't demand since family always comes first and poor saps like me have to cease being a prodigal daughter to become a Hallmark kid. (peram, Alistair). I hate it that I cater to everyone's needs all year then realize by Christmas time I haven't thought of myself, haven't met goals I set for myself or haven't enjoyed my own company enough. This is something that no amount of cramming can repair. Also, the conviction that I am meant for greater things but a happy relationship and it's OK wears off. I would despair upon spotting saccharine couples and wonder what to give up to be waltzed under the mistletoe. During the season of hope, as they call it, I all the more hope to be loved for who I am and who I aim to be. I hate it that no matter what I do to infect everyone with my misery and bitterness, Christmas will never become obsolete. No matter how broke we are, most people would still insist to stop and celebrate it.
This year, I was glad to achieve long hours of snooze and a good bawl. It was sad to have nobody around for a reassuring hug but that only reinforces the truth that we only have ourselves in the end. No point for togetherness crap or post-coital vows and caresses since we are all alone. At 24, I must be doing great. I look forward to that Christmas day I'll be too numb to repeat this scenario and be too occupied to entertain these sentiments again.
10.12.2006; Sunday Somewhere; 16:21
Dear Niwee,
Now that 2006 is about to end, I deem it timely to assess our current lovelives and relate it to what the funny guy had said. According to Fris, Ces has miraculously developed an attraction to her female room mate. Catch this, this feeling is reciprocated! Suggesting marriage would be getting ahead of them but we can say, based on the recent update, that he might just get there.
There's nothing flabbergasting about mine. In fact, there is nothing to report. Everything has been same old, same old. I'm still the same love pariah Cupid never had the energy to take care of. Heck, I'm not even seeing anyone! The last time I checked, I have no girl friend blackmailing me to date her boyfriend's half brother's room mate's coach. Or girl friend begging me to do a participatory research on speed dating. But it might qualify that almost everyone in my squared circle has suddenly started showing up with post-coital blushes or bed acrobatics tales to share. This hasn't happened ever.
While watching Prime the previous night at Atong's place, I remembered the '4-year itch that takes 7 years to scratch' concept introduced during the film viewing of Kim Catrall's "Sexual Intelligence" in Anthropology class. A romantic relationship, it says, has a lifespan of 4 years. Beyond that, the spark would have expired. Watching the movie reminded me of that mad rush we get when we're in love. So alive. So beautiful. Hopefully, everlasting. [SPOILER/MINI-REVIEW: I am particularly drawn to that final scene in which Uma Thurman's Rafi declined to have the baby and would rather take Bryan Greenberg's Dave's willingness to give it to her. How mature and selfless of her! How many people are capable of that?]
My professor kiddingly interpreted that couples should have kids every 4 years to sustain the spark. Bad news for someone who, as of writing, has no intent of using her cervix. Learning about this pretty made me more jaded about relationships. We all want pleasant things to last, don't we? So how will I manage to to keep a relationship, assuming that I can get past the perpetual hurdle of finding/getting found? meeting the one/being the one?
But I am not entirely placing the blame on Cupid's slow and seemingly nonexistent efforts for my low market value. After all, I never had the balls to go after my desired men. Much to my closest friends' annoyance, I'm currently recycling an old dream guy back to my life. But what if I'd get another chance, you ask? I'd definitely waste it again. I'd rather fantasize of our potential as an item than find out the possibly disheartening truth. I doubt I have the strength to survive another heartache.
You may argue with me on this but it's best to expect the worst. It's best to prepare oneself for an eternity of solitary moment than yearn for the overrated The One to remain loyal and loving. It's best to be this way and just be surprised when something promising and eventually fleeting comes along.
03.07.06; Jumping, Jumping; 00:37
Latest heartbreak: Being unable to do astral walk last Friday so I can report to work, attend this year's Fete de la Musique and attend firefloss's birthday bash all at the same time. Latest music to my ears: Grey's Anatomy OST and Ben Harper.
Dear Niwee,
It sucks to realize that the pattern only a pundit like me can make sense of was nothing but another case of coincidence misinterpreted as a sign. The past two semesters convinced me that the first day of class is an overrated requirement that subjects poor saps like me into fruitless snorefest or unnecessary que horror. Yet highly rewarding for the absentees. So why bother show up?
Last, last Tuesday, I did. Either I had another masochistic urge or possessed by the need to flaunt my Talipanan tan, I braved the heavy rains to attend my class. Unfortunately, our professor was somewhere in New York. With balled fists, I counted the amount of money I wasted and the number of hours I should have spent dreaming away at a friend's igloo. My fellow classmates and I agreed to call the office on Friday before going the distance for nothing.
Friday noon witnessed me scour countless shops for some much-deserved retail therapy. By the time my classmates informed me there will be a class, I had already downed bottles of vodka and fallen captive to the lure of immobility. My final words? "Cheers to Statistics!"
Statistics, damn it, is the sole subject I have long anticipated to be my waterloo. Considering I lack the mental acuity and I have 2 more planned absences throughout the semester, I might as well come up with underhanded methods to survive it.
Written in long hand: 19.06.06; Lazy Ladee; 11:28
21.04.06; Black Coffee/Black Saturday; 07:21
Latest makeover: Hair and sole. No, nothing in between. Latest kaboobahan antic: Falling kneefirst then, uhm, facesecond while climbing up the stairs! Latest near-death experience: Choking. "<Company name>, *loooooong pause* this is Lorna *looooooong pause* How may I help you?" Latest music to my ears: Jack Johnson.
Dear Niwee,
While the rest of the Catholic world reflected on Jesus Christ's death, our tiny gang celebrated bashing other races. First on our list was Koreans whose fashion sense we all hated with passion. Aside from my first-hand experiences with them violating my personal space, I shared how disgusted I am with how they redefined swimwear. I have witnessed how long sleeved tops and below-the-knee dresses and umbrellas became accepted attire and accessories under the sea.
Eems had more to share. He had the unfortunate experience of sharing the shore with Koreans geared up in:
1. One-piece fuschia bathing suit + sweat guard + badly set hair + black stiletto heels.
2. Leather pekpek shorts + blue-and-red blouse converted into bolero.
3. High-cut Chuck Taylor's + ultra large hat.
Those who don't find these images hilarious be the first to cast this bigot brat a stone.
Being phone monkeys we all are, it was inevitable to gab about speaking with far-from-intelligent Americans. Joey chanced upon an article prophesizing that there would come a time when the whole world speaks a single accent: American. Who wants that to happen? Nobody in our circle does. If such thing would take place, we hoped we would all speak in sexy British accent instead. It's now up to the Indians for this to materialize!
Atong has bad news. Most kids from India now attend international schools to acquire the much-coveted and less-prejudiced American accent and, once achieved, transfer to local ones. Speaking the way Americans do has its benefits.
Time for Pinoy Mojo Jojos to do something about this.