Me

I absolutely love and hate Nicholas Sparks' "Nights in Rodanthe"; it's much sadder than "A Walk to Remember." I can't remember a time when I've cried that much over something I've seen or read since "Titanic" and "The Whale Rider." Funny thing about me - the upheavals in my life are not enough to trigger my tear ducts to cry me a river, but it only takes an, “I love you, mom” in Freaky Friday, or Viggo Mortensen freeing Hidalgo, to bring a lump in my throat. Go figure.

I don't dance, period. Not even when I’m alone in front of the mirror. On certain occasions, there's a prerequisite amount of alcohol that should be in my system, flowing through my veins before I get on the dance floor. Like shopping, dancing requires too much of an effort. Swaying side by side to the beat of some rap or hip-hop music (with words so undecipherable, meaning totally beyond an educated mind's comprehension, the list could go on...) is as much a chore to me as going to the mall and hopping from store to store trying to succeed on a quest to find the perfect pants (that fit so tightly you can actually guess what coin is placed on the pocket and goes so low that bending would reveal another set of cleavage).  *sighs and shudders* at the thought that the world might just come to a butt cleavage-baring epoch. 

I draw, and I love my 6B pencil and tortillion stump, but my work is not for people to see. I am tremendously grateful to God for my ability to create art, but it’s a hobby that depends on my mood and not something I want to do for the rest of my life…

I sing but not where people can hear me.

Though I can put together a string of words to make sharp and biting sentences, my cynical and sarcastic remarks and writings are not meant to permanently disable some people's toes. I may be accountable for blasting some people (one person, actually) with my pen and paper (in this case, keyboard and monitor) but they're really just my thoughts, magnified by the fact that everyone can see them.

I write a lot but majority of my writings are not meant to be read by others. If it's something about you, I will find a way to let you know.

I play the guitar only for myself.

I Am Woman

I can't be an intellectual snob when I am illiterate compared to the geniuses of our time.  But I do tend to discriminate against the stupid.  Sorry.  It's just that I'd rather read a book over and over and over again and then some more until the pages fall out than watch "Dude, Where's My Car?"  And I’d rather asphyxiate than converse with a person whose greatest achievement in life is discovering that the letter M is the letter W upside down.  An exaggeration, I know, but with the rampant misuse of your/you're, their/they're, and our/are, it's not that over the top.

I am just extremely aware that what's in between a woman's ears is so much more essential than what's in between her legs, and what can be seen outside.

• A woman's worth is not equivalent to the size of her bra, or the  price of her clothes.
• Her beauty should not be measured by what the weighing scale tells her when she steps on it.
• Her knowledge goes beyond her ability to remember the number and names of the men she slept with
• And her whole being is not reflected on how she responds to tasteless pick-up lines.

Men should remember that.


And more importantly, women should.  

I Want To Be a Supermodel...Not

I am not pencil-thin. I'm on the pudgy side, but at this point in time, I have better things to think about than how to wear a two-piece bikini without having people raise their eyebrows. One could be inventing the cure for AIDS, or the solution to world hunger with the amount of time some people worry about what shade of nail polish to wear to match the straps of their sandals.

I am cognitive to the fact that I probably need to go on the total gym that we bought so we could live a healthy and flab-free life, but lacks the self-discipline to do so. Big Macs, fries and the biggest cup of Coke I can find for dinner and a big bag of Cheetos and Hershey Nuggets for midnight snack are not what a nutritionist would suggest. Coffee is not the 4th basic food group, Coca-Cola is just not the 5th, and alcohol and cigarettes does not constitute the 6th.

But people, I just don’t care (for now, at least).

My body defies the unrealistic standards of fashion magazines and television that promotes low self-esteem, and is the root of all eating disorders.  Though I might be someday forced to do a bit of exercise to save my heart or whatever essential organ I might have damaged with all the junk, alcohol, caffeine and smoke I’ve taken in, I refuse to succumb to the superficiality in the way society is breeding its youth now.

We do not need to look like we’ve been starved since our birth. And we do not need to dress like our nation’s suffering from fabric shortage.

Or maybe I’m just such a lazy kid who’d rather watch what’s on our free Pay-Per-View programs than do a series of sit-ups.

Just Shoot Me

I am on the verge of desperately needing a catharsis that would deliver me from feeling like the world's greatest failure. Gone are the days when not having a 3-digit figure in your bank account would not leave you feeling like a piece of spat-out gum in the gutter stuck at the bottom of a shoe. Gone are the days when the biggest of your problems was what to wear with that blouse on a Friday night out with the girls.

I remember when I needed only my mommy's or my daddy's hand to cross the streets. Now there's no one to hold my hand and take me across. I am left to fend for myself. I have to rely on just me to look left and right or I might get run over by a truck...or much worse, the cruel twist of fate.

I can get by with a broken clavicle and cracked spinal cord with the aide of wheelchairs or crutches. Sure, i can't play pool as comfortable as I can now but that's okay compared to the psychological damage of having fate play tricks on you. Emotional suffering is something that insurance companies failed to include in their clauses.  


I pride myself for being a strong person whose thoughts about life is not dependent on how well other have done with theirs. Where other people are in their lives has never been a yardstick for me to measure mine with.

But feeling a tinge of inadequacy, I think, is inevitable. Especially now that I'm old enough for people to expect me to pull all sorts of tricks out of my sleeves to have my life actually go somewhere - forward. I've been feeling that my life is standing still. I believe it has been for quite sometime now , and the fact that i can't seem to do anything to nudge it even just a bit forward makes me want to pull out all the hair in my head until I go completely bald.

It's like my life is a glass of water waiting to be filled. And i know that this isn't a fine restaurant where a waiter who expects a large tip would come quickly as soon as he sees my glass half-empty - I'm a pessimist at the moment, so forgive me for the negativity.

It's as if the writer of my life's story has either taken a vacation or is suffering from mental block and can't quite get to the next chapter. I'm therefore stuck in this page, and there are millions of thoughts swimming in my head, like the souls in the Styx River, if you know your Greek mythology. Thinking of my life and what do with it but lacks the muse to actually go on.

I can arouse the eternal optimist in me who's been in somewhat of a hibernation lately, taking a much-needed vacation from being annoyingly chipper all the time saying crap like, "every dark cloud has a silver lining," or "there's always a rainbow after each and every storm," despite the huge fact that my life is painfully stagnant.

That one facet of my life is long overdue for a rude awakening from reality check. She should be saying, "if you can't beat them, join them". Then maybe, just maybe, my cynical and sarcastic self would invite her for a round of drinks while they laugh about how achingly pathetic my supposed to be great life has become.

I can hide beneath beautifully jumbled words and say that, at least, i'm free of those 9 to 5 chains that bind almost everyone in this planet --- a magnificent arrangement of words for the ugly word unemployed. But when i think about how i don't even have the luxury to be a narcissist even in the smallest way possible, my sarcasm beats the crap out of my sun-shiny side, and  I wish that i was also bound by those balls and chains with the rest of the world who recognizes the essence of earning money and the weight of holding down a job. 

I am beginning to feel like i've stepped into a quicksand of negativity and if i don't give myself a kick in the head, i'd get swallowed.

As much as it hurts my stupid pride to go out there again and parade my resume in front of people, who after a gruelling interview, would just say they need someone older with more Canadian experience, i know i should. Never mind the self-humiliation of having people i know i'm so much smarter than reject me. I'm not going to be such a loser and whine about the difference between here and back home.

Sigh.

I long for the days when everything was so much simpler. When wanting something requires only the effortless task of asking the parents for money. When sitting on an easy chair, writing about your ruminations is deemed productive and not just waste of precious time that can be used for something that pays by the hour.

Excuse me. I gotta go give myself a good bitch-slapping. I have to wake up and get out of this dream that writing feeds me, and get a job. My ability to construct coherent sentences devoid of grammatical errors wouldn't pay my American Express and Visa.

World of the creatures who are economically-mature and are not reality-challenged, here i come.