#22 Drowning Street

This, by far, is the coolest meme ever! It's incredible how on point my result is. On the contrary, I can't relate to it one bit. I'm just fascinated at how representational it turned out. And it actually made sense!

Instructions:
1. Random Title
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. Random Quotation
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. Random Photo
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover
You then take the pic and add your band name and the album title to it, then post your pic.

( Result )

This morning is great. But it would be perfect if Kim Atienza's hands were bitten off by the crocodile he's messing around with on national television. That would definitely quench the start of my day. Is it too much to ask for perfection?

I hibernated the day out. Now my head hurts and I'm exhausted from all the sleeping. The Prestige is showing on HBO. I would watch it, but I've been told not to nurse my throes of needing. This movie is tremendously nostalgic of our one-week Hong Kong adventure and it will only initiate histrionics that would be hard to shake off. And we don't want that. This long-distance thing Ed and I have been going through has gotten the best of me and I have not been this unproductive in my entire life since I was an infant drinking milk from a bottle. And I wish I were exaggerating.

I'm still having a difficult time adjusting to the occasional fits of depression. Should I cover my gloom with hollow smiles and meaningless buffooneries? Or should I embrace it with indifference and lethargy? We've never been apart for this long and we've lived together for 3 and a half years. This whole thing is new to me and I still don't know how to wield my emotions fittingly. But, really, what's there to do?

Last night, my family and I had our post-Valentine's dinner at Seven Corners. It was supposed to be on the night of the 14th but my mom bailed on me the last minute. She had an intimate dinner with my dad at the Manila Hotel instead. In her text she said, "I hope you understand." And mother, for the record, I completely understand. I spent Valentine's with a bunch of friends and some uncompromising amount of alcohol anyway.

I love my family! My low spirits must be very obvious and I totally appreciate them reaching out to me. My mom constantly asks if I'm okay. She also checks up on Ed from time to time. My little brother relentlessly invites me to drink on the rooftop and it has become a consoling breather from always lying around. I feel them care so deeply. It makes it so much easier for me at a time like this.

I also have the worst case of chapped lips. I would post a picture but even I found it too offensive. The whole week I've been treating it with Vaseline but I wake up finding it worse than it was the day before. It's like my lips decided to ruin itself out of insurgency. I also have been gaining weight, it's sick.

I have to stop living like this.

The last thing these fuckers should be doing is underestimating the Filipino people. Our intellects have been insulted way too many times. It's only sane to be exhausted, but it doesn't give you the green light to abuse us. And Gloria, quit fucking telling us how we feel.

Days like this amplify my longing for you.

Today, I woke up somber and clouded. The air-conditioning was full-blast and no one was beside me. I took my laptop from under the TV and saw he wasn't online yet. He was probably out with my sister, I thought. I went downstairs to fix me some lunch-- bread with artichoke and spinach spread. No one was home. My phone rang, it was him. I went back to my room and forgot to get myself a glass of milk. The screen of my laptop showed him. The camera was a bit grainy but his face was just as bright as if he were here. I could hear his voice. But he was thousands of miles away.

If you were here, I would be waiting for you to come home from work. Because Jedi's barking gives away, I would hear you nearing from 10 meters away. I would hide beside the door and you'd sense me while you turn the keys. I'd crack a surprise and welcome you with an embrace-- a tight hug that's almost painful. You'd be worn out from spending the entire day teaching your grueling students. Your skin would be sticky from the unforgiving pollution and the unflinching Manila sun. But you would smile and give away the brightest atmosphere I've ever seen on anyone. We would kiss softly and you'd have something special to give to me. Nothing dynamite, just something that only you and I would understand. A tag with our names on it, new batteries for our razor, detergent powder for the laundry-- sweet nothings that only make sense to you and me.

I would wait for you in the bedroom while you take a shower. I'd pick out something for us to wear. You'd propose a shirt while I snub your suggestion and choose something fancy to remind you that tonight is more exceptional than any other. When you're done in the shower, we'd dress up together and review each other's outfits. You would tell me my top doesn't match my trousers then I'd slip into something more sharpened and you'd nod with approval (I've been dressing bad lately because you're not here). You would lock the apartment while I signal for a taxi. Then you'd check the locks again-- you were always more domestic than I am.

In the taxi, we would sit together as if the backseat was packed. We'd hold each other's hands and our palms would begin to sweat. We would both start singing lightly, the lights of the metro bringing something entrancing about the night.

You would order something healthful for dinner-- seafood, vegetables, and wheat, nothing too tasty. While I, the sedentary one, order something meaty and bloody. You would tell me about your day and how much of a pain-in-the-ass your students are. Then I'd tell something calming to ease your stress. I would tell you about my latest TV addictions and convince you to watch them. But you'd always be loyal to House and won't give others a chance. I would signal the waiter to bring us something fancy to drink, wine perhaps. Then we'd drink a little, enough to warm our bodies and loosen up.

After dinner, we'd argue on where to go. I would check the movie schedules on my phone. "Let's keep distance from The Hottie and the Nottie. I hear Michael Clayton's good." "Do you feel like killing zombies tonight? We could finish The House of the Dead 4 in Time Zone for the second time." "Maybe we could spend the night videoke-whoring, yes?" The options are always endless when I'm with you.

I would tidy up the bed when we go home. I would kiss my valentine senseless until it leads to another. We'd talk some more until our eyes beat us to lethargy. We would hug each other to sleep, like every night. I would think to myself, "Tomorrow, we could do this again." And, I would sleep with a smile on my face.

I can't wait for April. I think about what this distance will bring us and somehow, I feel better. I miss you. Happy Valentine's Day Ed! You're always in my heart.

Call me trivial but whenever I watch movies with Owen Wilson in it, I have a really hard time seeing past his fucked-up nose. I'm sorry that at one point in his life he felt that he had to kill himself. I'll give him that. But, his nose! Man, it's fucked-up! He's a fantastic comedian, an even better actor. But when you see a nose with a life of its own swaggering in front of you like some arrogant fuck, you can't help but wonder just what the hell is wrong with it. It makes it very difficult for me to focus on anything else but those interestingly-looking schnozzola and I honestly hate myself for it. I'm more than sure he's got the gravy to fix it and I can guarantee him that that would be money well-spent. Oh, scratch that, Owen with a conventional nose just isn't the same Owen. Engagingly, his nose makes him. That he hasn't ventured on having it corrected just makes me all the more curious.

( Just what the hell is the deal with his nose? )

With that said, watch "The Darjeeling Limited". Once you've gotten his nose out of your system, you'll discover a lovely film that gives a lot.

Now. Javier Bardem, that's a different story.

I think the president's problem is not as complicated as it is thought up to be. If you ask me, all she really needs to do in the interest of mending this horrible affliction her administration has been under since who-the-fuck can remember is to break up with her husband Mike, disown her son Mikey, and terminate all her apostles.

Simple, yes?

Then, the Filipino people will start seeing her in a new and healthier light. If she's lucky, maybe the people won't find it very difficult to acknowledge her labor. We might just leave her alone, you know.

The first gentleman isn't even half-good-looking. His tummy is fairly the size of someone in their third term of pregnancy. He's undergone open heart surgery and frankly, I don't have to be an expert to know that that doesn't do much for your sex life. Gloria Macapagal Arroyo isn't ugly. Sure, she's no Loren Legarda but she's considerably cute for someone in her 60's. Her fashion sense outdoes most of our country's high school principals. And baby, that mole is sexy! FG Mike was once rumored to have an affair with his accountant and Gloria would get pissed every time she would see a picture of the accountant in the papers, Time Magazine reported. As a response to the issue, Gloria addressed the public and said she was "married to her country". The Spice Girls would be proud! As long as Miguel Arroyo's idea of spouse-love involves multiple and entangled scandals that hurt the administration like ice-pick-stabs from a Recto hold-upper, it's about time Gloria shows him the door. In the words of an intelligible and philosophical woman named Beyonce Knowles, "To the left, to the left. Everything you own in the box to the left."

Now let's move on to the loud-mouthed son, Mikee Arroyo. Before anything else, I cannot complete this post without commenting. Mike and Mikey?! Seriously, Gloria? Seriously. Anyhoo, the president's actor-politician son, who's more popularly known to the underprivileged as the star of movies such as "Masamang Ugat" and "Sablay Ka Na, Pasaway Ka Pa" (I'm not even going to expound on the irony these movie titles imply), has effortlessly put her in a bad light. What with the recent ousting of Jose de Venecia due to "loss of confidence", Mikey has definitely outdone himself. To quote his 2001 movie, "Di Kita Ma-Reach". The Filipino people know JDV's impeachment is nothing but a mere juvenile retaliation rooting from Mikey's very obvious hatred of Jose de Venecia's son, Jose "Joey" de Venecia III (Are politicians even the slightest capable of being creative in giving names? Senior, junior, the second, the third, Mike, Mikey, Joe, Joey-- Geez, what overblown egos!). If you do not have the capacity to buy 134 congressmen to sign a bullshit manifesto, I suggest you sit on your ass, get some popcorn, and watch the poor speaker's downfall. Trust me, there is nothing more to do. Sure, Mikey, out of personal vendetta and nothing that relates to the interest of the public, has succeeded in wounding JDV and his family. But what he will realize in the coming days; the opposition just got stronger, many thanks to him. So Gloria, for your sake, disown Mikey. He's done nothing but damage. He's a man. I'm sure he can take care of himself. I think we've already established that. And besides, you still have Luli and Iggy-- they're the lesser evil plus their names are way cooler. Way way cooler.

In the heat of the ZTE Broadband Deal Scandal, I think Gloria should know better in choosing who to rub elbows with. If we are to compare the track record of Former Comelec Chairman Benjamin Abalos to Rodolfo Lozada (key witness to the NBN Shenanigan), it doesn't take much brilliance to know who to give credit to. Although they've both got everything to lose, Lozada is in it heedless of the risks involved. And although it's absurd how Lozada appears to be moderately greedy, he is the lesser evil among the two. It's comical that it has gotten to this point, but if we are to get to the bottom of things, I see no choice but to use Lozada to our advantage. Abalos has been tainted already. His assertions are futile, if you ask me. But here we have Lozada, a man who's incontestably tired and always visibly teary-eyed, getting himself in the middle of this mess for something bigger than anyone of us can imagine. Give him props. He's up against giants.

You know, you can always believe Lozada's testimonies or not. We can always assume the opposition we elected just hates our country so much that they would rather destroy the peace and unity for personal ascendancies. You can always conclude that those in capacity just cannot wait for Gloria to finish her term and would prefer the first gentleman destroyed in her behalf just because. You can always stand by what you want to.

Just to destroy the comedic undertone of this post, this is what I think: I find it hard to believe that people like Joey de Venecia and Rodolfo Lozada would voluntarily sacrifice so much for personal gain. I cannot even imagine what good gain they can get out of this, if there's any. These whistleblowers have so much at stake, if you really think about it. We've got the son of a prominent ally of the president. Look, his family just got dissolved. We've got Rodolfo Lozada, a man whose family is horribly suffering in this ordeal. With the administration's history, it's highly possible there's truth to what these guys are telling us.

I really hope this gets somewhere. Because with issues like this, it's amazing how the administration can tire us and make us forget a thing like this ever happened. Case in point, the breakfast meeting in Malacañang were some 190 congressmen were given envelopes containing P200,000 to P500,000 in cash as send-off gifts. How about that? And you know what's silly? With the biggest people in our country funding their terrible indulgence with our money, it's not difficult to imagine the supreme court giving up their plausibility for greener offers.

You just don't know who to trust anymore and it's disgusting. I am tempted not to give a shit but sometimes it's in front of your face and it's almost wrong not to take an interest. But I'm sure, our time will come. Soon, hopefully.

I had a great time with my family yesterday. Too bad our bunso was sick. I went with them to hear mass at Christ the King Parish. These past few months, my mom has been having a hard time going anywhere without air-conditioning. She's been having hot flashes and is always readily excited or annoyingly complaining. Three weeks ago, my dad gave her a rousingly beautiful watch and my mother half-pretended she didn't like it. It was cute. Hahahaha! Women in midlife are hard to understand.

Anyway, before the mass started we were asked to stand up for the Angelus and I had what the painfully funny Kathy Griffin would call The Church Giggles. My whole faking-it was going fine, until one of the readers opened her mouth and started reciting "Haily" Mary. I couldn't control my laughter! And nobody else was laughing with me. It was embarrassing! Then I quickly realized how un-Christianly it is to laugh at other people's moronic pronunciation and I didn't want my cover blown so I tried, with all my power, to hold it in. Then the reader would say "Haily" Mary again and I'd start laughing like a lunatic every time. And my trying to hold it in just makes it a whole lot worse! Hahahaha! I'm laughing so hard just bringing it to mind. But for what it's worth, I knelt, sang gospels, ate the body of Christ, and the whole shebang. I almost convinced myself.

This was nothing compared to the last time I got one of these uncontrollable fits. Last year, when my dad was in the hospital for something that was never diagnosed, their old friends from The Lord's Flock came to visit. Mayor Moises Villaseñor brought with him Fr. Joey Faller (more popularly known as the Healing Priest) a week prior to that. But if I am to recall, my dad's condition worsened. The people from The Lord's Flock asked everyone in the room, including me, to form a circle and hold hands. Being polite (dishonest, unprincipled-- but polite), I joined in. They had a prayer leader. Their eyes were closed and their foreheads were wrinkled. The leader started praying casually as if talking to a friend, she talked fast. It was going pretty well. At times, someone from the group would effortlessly butt in to yell something like "Amen!" or "Yes lord, yes!" or "Jesus, help us, Jesus." or "By your power, by your power!" I was starting to feel uncomfortable. The leader then proceeded to recite familiar prayers so we could all declaim with her. Of course, like the polite, dishonest and unprincipled person that I am, I started praying loudly with them. 1 Our Father, 1 Hail Mary, 1 Glory Be.

Then all of a sudden, without warning, the leader and her apostles started talking gibberish-- very fast, freaking creepy gibberish! It sounded like they were all possessed! Bralalalamalalalalala! Kururulayalala! Yayayalalalamamamama! I broke into a loud and violent laughter. I couldn't fucking stop, I swear! I was laughing the entire time they were doing what I would later learn as Speaking in Tongues. I had to tuck my face under my shirt but was still obviously laughing.

( If you're curious, this is what it sounds like. )

I swear, I fucking died!

I just thought I'd mention; on our way to dinner, my mom thought it was Michael Jackson singing Mariah Carey's "I'll Be There". What the hell.

After dinner I went with Jobo to this car and audio show. I don't get cars. I don't get them at all! I don't have a grasp of what makes a car a good one. I gave up driving regularly after my accident and I lost the touch I never had. My idea of a good car is one that's easy on the eyes. That's all I know. Seriously, those stickered cars with gigantic amplifiers? I don't get them.

( A meme, for old time's sake. )

I fiddled with my overrides and created a better header and background than what I had this afternoon. At least I won't have to use video placeholders for my friends page anymore. I feel so accomplished! Funny though, I created a layout that would suit better for a monitor with a screen resolution of 1024 × 768, and mine works best with 1280 x 800. But, whatever. I kind of like the old rose on the right, it grew on me quick.

Crap, I want to sleep. I need to sleep.

The entire day I was mumbling "ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa", non-stop. While eating, in the shower, while playing with Chiquita-- it even got to the point where I annoyed my own self. And I don't even like the song, to be honest. I don't even know what that gibberish means. Ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa. Ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa. Ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa. I can't help it, seriously. My tongue feels good saying it.

Pfffft, good night.

I just finished watching The Witches on HBO from start to end. It brought back so much childhood memories! This movie scared the shit out of me during the 90's. The Witches is one that's very familiar, very memorable, and very restoring. The Grand High Witch, the meeting, the green fumes, the mice kids. I loved every minute of it. (Note to self-- must get the DVD!)

It reminded me of when mom used to bring home Betamax tapes together with Chocomallows. I'd watch the tapes after school and play a little Super Mario Nintendo on the side. I remember how much fun it was! And when I was misbehaving, my mom would make me and my brothers believe the Grand High Witch would come and get us. It terrified me to my bones. Somehow I was convinced I would turn into a mouse whenever I did something not "acceptable". I wonder where that once scaredy cat went.

I was reminded of how simple things were when I was younger. You see something horrid and it scares you. You hear something whimsical and it gives you a sense of peace and excitement (if that even makes any sense). Your mom leaves you and you cry, she comes back and you're pleased so conveniently. A toy to distract, candies to elate you-- everything was mostly black and white. I almost forgot how easy it was.

It's sick how time changes you. Sure, I'm tougher now. I'm wiser, alright. But, I'm less appreciative, I'm less satisfied. I won't recognize what I've become from 10 years ago. I also probably won't like myself.

I've had this ongoing theory that human beings aren't supposed to live long, that life was meant to be short-- short short. Most old people I know are miserable. It's like they've sucked out and exhausted every possible experience the world has to offer and all they have left in them is wisdom. Also, most old people I know lived a spic and span life. Never smoked, never drank, and never tried this and that. And, all there is to look forward to is death. When you're old, there's nothing more to excite you. Maybe we're supposed to be gluttonous. Maybe no one should ever be offended when we say what we think because it would come out natural and "acceptable". Maybe we're all supposed to kill ourselves slowly and we would all die young, happy but satisfied.

It's sad that human beings live their lives trying to suppress the things that instinctively make us happy for one that's proper and socially-befitting. Maybe we are not supposed to have rules of conduct. Maybe it is okay to live a life that's driven purely by tendencies. We are animals, after all. Maybe we are naturally going to figure out what's necessary for human beings to interact harmoniously without conventionalities breathing down our necks.

I have always wondered why everything begins to lose its meaning as I grow older. The things I usually look forward to all of a sudden became hollow and insignificant. I wonder why Christmas isn't as fun as it was before and why I don't feel it anymore. I can recognize the ingredients that make Christmas Christmas-- the heavy traffic, the crowded malls, shopping, gifts, and family affairs. But, there's something, something I can't pinpoint, that makes it no longer what it was.

I suppose growing up is numbing. Following social standards will take its toll on you and one day you will wake up wondering where your old self went. If only maturity can be undone without trying, I'd love to be a kid again. Now that I've gotten a taste of both, I'd much rather be a kid. I don't want to be tough. I don't want to be wise. I want to be happy. I want to be carefree. I want to say I don't care and mean it. But, I've lived in this world long enough to be swayed into its twisted sense of decorum. I've lived here long enough and it has made me a coward. I guess in some way I am still that scaredy cat, afraid to do "wrong" for fear of being turned into a mouse. And, I don't want to be a mouse.

And I got this all from watching The Witches? Sometimes I wish I didn't think too much.

I woke up unusually early today. I turned on the TV and could not find anything worth watching. I was surfing the channels on 3-second intervals for a good 5 minutes. Animal Planet, the only channel I was counting on, was showing re-runs.

I went downstairs to grab something to eat and I found nothing decent. My family, unfortunately for me, observes Ash Wednesday and was abstaining. I would heat up the pasta I cooked yesterday if I wasn't too weak to do so. The groceries are depleted.

Things are already starting to look dismal.

I went to my bathroom to enjoy a stick but I couldn't find my lighter. I would go downstairs to get a box of matches but again, I was too weak. I swallowed my medicine and realized that today is the last day for my antibiotics. Finally, something to be happy about.

I went to my bed and curled myself, thinking of anything to break my gloom. I doubled my comforter, I was still shivering. I intended to catch up on my Dexter but the headphones of the iPod were missing. All my ideas maxed out, I surfed the sick sick world of the internet.

Like I couldn't get any more annoyed than I already am, I stumbled upon this.


( What the fuck! )

Beverly Hills 6750 Medical Director Abe Marinduque, my little sister's godfather and the man who gave birth to me (who now repairs vaginas for a living), was interviewed by Boy Abunda on The Buzz last Sunday to clear issues regarding the infamy their company is going through.

I am so embarrassed for David Bunevacz and Jessica Rodriguez!

David, Jessica, really? Why would they think no one's ever gonna find out they're spending millions from company funds?

It would be better for everyone involved if David and Jessica would just fly home and explain themselves instead of hiding in the States, although I would understand their reluctance. I am really interested as to how this story is going to iron itself out. How are David and Jessica going to carry forward their very public lavish lifestyle? How are they going to explain this to their kids? Oh man, they just lost their faces! And, even though I don't know these two personally, it's very easy to tell how greatly they care about what other people think. They started an Aesthetic clinic, how about that? This is just so humiliating and I'm so excited to see its turn-out. Hahahaha! I'm sure they'll have to give up the BMW X5, too. What a shame.

Anyhoo. What the hell did I just write about?

I log in, hit post, and I stare at this blinking I cursor that seems to be telling me something I can't figure out. This is the beginning of what resembles a surge of bratty brain diarrhea. I'm not even gonna attempt to clot my thoughts suitably, so excuse me.

It feels kind of inadequate and absurd that after being absent from LiveJournal for quite a while I decided to write about Kris Aquino and Wheel of Fortune on top of everything that has happened these past few weeks. Allow me to tune things up a little.

I hated 2007! I hope 2008 will be more clement. 2007 was a year of endings for me. I've had to undergo some serious adjusting for a lot of severe changes that went my way. It's been very harsh and I can barely keep up.

Ed left for the States just recently. There was a job offer like no other waiting for him. I am ironing out everything I need to deal with here and I should be with him in 3 months time. Actually, I'm going there in 2 months but I won't be seeing him until early May. I am not taking this lightly. This has been the longest we've been apart from each other and I'm having the hardest time adjusting. I wake up and I just don't know what to do! There's no one to wake up next to, no one to look forward to when I get home, no one to hug, no one to kiss. I miss him so much it literally hurts! I find myself crying in intervals. For the first few days I couldn't get my ass off of the bed. I couldn't concentrate on anything even if I tried. I feel like my brain downgraded its attention span to that of puppies. I am stuck.

This January, Ed and I left our apartment and I moved back to my mom's. We've lived there for more than 3 years and we've managed to make a home out of our 1-bedroom apartment. It was our little love nest and I miss everything about it. I miss the kitchen. I miss cooking for him. I miss the bathroom. I miss the free wi-fi. I miss the smell of the cabinets. I miss falling asleep on the couch. I miss my cigarette breaks beside Jedi the Dalmatian. It was very backward a move but I couldn't keep the apartment, I would die of depression. At least I could share a beer or two with my little brothers here at mom's.

I hate this long distance thing that Ed and I have. Webcam, phone calls, it could be better. It's nowhere near the real thing but there's nothing anyone can really do. I feel helpless and stuck. There, drama.

I think I finally figured out what this blinking I cursor is telling me. It's telling me to wait. It's telling me our time will come. It's asking me for patience. I really want to be mature about this but I can't help these childish pangs I've been having.

I can't wait for my life to start, again.

Kris Aquino is very disappointing as host of Wheel of Fortune. I normally adore her. But being a Wheel of Fortune "expert”, it's just awfully painful to watch her in it. I don't know if she's lost common sense but it is not okay to manipulate the strategies of the contestants. She's only supposed to ask them their prospectus in a general manner. I'm sure all the contestants are acquainted with how the game works prior to them playing. I see no reason why Kris should lead them into buying a vowel, spinning, or solving based solely on what she thinks. It's contriving and stupid!

The other day Precious Lara (what a fucking name?!) Quigaman picked up a free spin. She unfortunately landed on a lose-a-turn and Kris hastily proceeded to Jodi Sta. Maria without even asking Precious Lara if she wanted to use her free spin! Kris had to do the last spin because they were short of time and Precious Lara never got to use her free spin which resulted to Jodi winning that puzzle, and the game eventually. It's just so annoying! I'm trying not to mind her inappropriate comments and all, but her stupid hosting I can't let pass.

Kris is doing it again as I write.

I've been getting myself doped and drunk these past few months. I have kind of forgotten what complete sobriety feels like. I can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. All I know is that this familiar modus operandi has pulled me out of the plaguey unhappiness that lingered me for quite an unfortunate while. As "luck" would have it, I have a fairly decent support team (that comes in the form of family armed with alcohol+, friends armed with alcohol++, and Ed armed with hugs and kisses+++) to back me whenever the blues hit. But enough of my pathetic coping, I'm not here to talk about that.

Sheila and I were on another drinking bout at Mogwai the other night. Everything is going like usual. We were doing one beer after another, having pensive discussions on Jesse and Celine, working up on silly and completely pointless conversations, the works. You know, when you've been friends with someone for a long time, the things you do together can sometimes become too flat. Not boring or uninteresting, just flat.

Sheila and I had a couple of crazy ideas to spice things up. One idea was too crazy, broadcasting it over the internet wouldn't seem right. Ours is a friendship of spontaneity and this isn't the first time we were faced with indecisions like this. We once went to Baguio out of drunken instincts, on a school night, with nothing but alcohol on our stomachs (that Sheila quickly got rid off by puking inside the provincial bus). Our tandem has always been careless and impulsive. I was with her when I had my first tattoo done almost 5 years ago, purely by instinct. Now that I think about it, this is exactly the kind of thing that makes our friendship. We don't plan things, they just happen when were together. We are carefree pantyliners!

A little later, and a few more beers, we found ourselves driving to nowhere, searching for a beach to wild out in-- the absolute highlight of my week. It felt really good. Life was good and the world was small again. Our only worry was deciding whether to go north or south of the Philippines-- not even worth the worry if you think about it. It just felt nice to act like kids again, to be happily irresponsible, and to escape from all things negative.

Loaded with nothing but instincts (and a little inspiration from Eraserhead's Overdrive), we decided Batangas was the way to go. South, it is then. Along the progression of all things exciting, we realized how far Batangas is. Plus we have a middling amount of alcohol in us and we weren't too sure our physiology would be suitable for a very long drive. It just wasn't realistic. We're not yet ready to die, not in a car accident; we just want to have fun! While fueling up at Coastal, we asked for suggestions from gas boys. Cavite seemed the perfect pick-- far, rural, but possible, given our situation. In my 22 years, I have never known there were beaches in Cavite! I was feeling our little adventure was starting to pick up.

There we were, 2 drunken kids on their 20's, yelling Christmas songs, playing loud music and feeling the wind blow their afflictions away, unaware of the catastrophe ahead of them.

Since we practically had no idea where we were heading, the locals mostly provided us with the lefts and rights. Sheila and I didn't really feel like being in a picky position, we just wanted sand, the sun, the sky, and the sea. It's fucking Cavite, there's really not much to expect. Roughly 2 hours later, the sun slightly rising, we were led to this place called Aroma Beach Resort:

( Where Nice People Meet )

We got off the car and settled in, checking the resort out. Ugly. Black sand and strange-colored waters. Clearly, I've seen better. The bad definitely outweighed the good, aesthetic wise. But, the staff was so welcoming. I felt as though we were their only visitors to come along since the summer shebang faded. And, aside from the staff and a few locals, we literally were the only people there! An entire stretch of sand all for us! Sheila and I got all excited. We went back to the car to strip down to our underwear and jump into the strange-colored waters when Sheila realized... she left the car keys inside the locked vehicle!

Crap! For a good 10 minutes we were frantic. We didn't know anyone! We were 3 hours away from Manila! Most of our money was inside the car! Our cell phones were inside! We could break the windows but there are other things to consider and it physically wouldn't be easy. It was a fucking nightmare!

We asked help from the Aroma man in charge of lodging. He suggested we get help from the city and bring a locksmith with us. Apparently, he should know what to do. But, it was too early in the morning and shops were still closed for sure. So we waited, we waited until the clock turned 8. We tried to look at the bright side of things. At least, we had a plan, we weren't hopeless, there's a beach in front of us and we weren't just going to give up. We were determined to do what we got there for, escape. Stripped to our undies, we saw a fisherman and asked for help. The kind fisherman then went to the locals and sought for a disposed man to do the job.

A few minutes later, a stunt bald man with a groovy mustache and the aura of Ronnie Ricketts emerged from one of the huts. He had with him a metal wire, a pair of pliers, and a testosterone-y disposition. Our savior, I said to myself. After about an hour of criminal work, 2 bottles of Coke, and cigarettes, the car doors went open. We gave him a fairly generous tip, for a bum. Jesus Christ (as I now shall refer to the bald testosterone-y man), saved the day!

From there on, we got all worked up and excited, even going as far as making an itinerary to make sure we max out our stay. Since our spontaneity appears to have gotten the better of us, we deemed it necessary to be extra careful this time. Thus, an itinerary: drinking by the sea, swimming, stuffing our faces with freshly cooked lechong kawali, sinigang na baboy, Welch's sparkling grape juice (pathetically non-alcoholic, by the way), more swimming, more drinking. Structure, in short.

I asked Sheila to keep the car keys in her pocket so as to avoid another needless mayhem. It was a lucid decision. If we're going to be jumping and swimming or whatever, holding the keys seemed risky. I would keep it myself, only I was wearing my white boxers and it had no pockets, naturally. If you're sad and you look closely, my penis is visible over the wet material of my underwear, but that really was the least of my worries. Before noon, we were already lost in merriment, bathing in the questionable sea and camwhoring. I almost forgot about the nightmare that we had went though a few hours back. On the spur of the moment I asked her how the keys were doing. They. Were. Gone.

The key to the car was gone, lost in the ocean! The key, the key Jesus Christ had to painstakingly rescue from the car, our ride back to Manila, was gone, in the fucking ocean! The fucking ocean! The fucking biggest body of water my elementary teacher taught me! Gone! We've got another impossibly locked car, our alarmed selves, and what could be the biggest catastrophe we've ever had to face! I could keep repeating it and I still would have a hard time making sense out of what had just happened! The fucking key is lost in the fucking ocean! Now that's a sentence I never would have imagined saying.

We instantly found ourselves using our feet to feel the keys on the seabed. Sheila had the backbone to submerge her face and open her eyes under the strange-colored waters but we both knew it was hopeless-- it was too cloudy plus salt water stings the eyes, you know. We found a boat with 6 fishermen drifting nearby. I signaled for them to come, and luckily they did. I told them of our situation and we later found the 8 of us feeling the seabed with our feet. It was evidently hopeless. I offered the fishermen money for the trouble and they politely refused. I insisted, but they can't be bought-- what good-hearted human beings!

Hope quickly turned into distress, distress quickly turned into panic. We turned to the locals for help. In an instant, the entire spread of huts along the seashore knew about our fiasco. And, immediately, we were surrounded by fishermen and bums all trying to help us out. Some were there just to snoop and watch two ditzy people in their moment of despair for entertainment. Two men (one who likes to refer to himself as "Rakista") offered their help by using their mesh to filter out the water. One factor that makes this already difficult situation more difficult is the extent of sea vicinity we swam in. We swam pretty wide, actually. So goodluck to Rakista and the other guy. We watched them net the key out of the ocean to no avail. We had to think of our options.

Option 1: We sought help from the caretaker of Aroma, a pudgy guy whom we shall call "Master of Aroma". He had an authority thing going on. He told us he can send somebody out to the city to fetch a locksmith and see what he can do, no guarantees. We can't expect much. After all, we would be asking the locksmith to make a car key out of thin air. Option 2: One of us can go back to Manila to get a duplicate, one would be left to watch the car. It would take around 6 hours back and forth. The hassle of it all! We didn't really feel like going on separate ways in a situation like this. Sheila and I can go back together and risk getting the car stolen. After seeing Jesus Christ do his noble (but reasonably criminal) work, there's no telling these locals can be completely trusted. So, we try option number one.

Master of Aroma sends a man with a fancy tricycle out to the city to fetch the locksmith. It was the longest wait. Sheila was starting to lose it. I, on the other hand, felt I handled the situation very well. What with all my profanity, swearing and blasphemy, yeah, I handled it well.

After an hour or so, Fancy Tricycle Man and the locksmith returned to save our ass. It took him a fraction of the time Jesus Christ spent trying to open the car, making him positively reliable. He tore down the back of the car, doing what appears to be a complicated act only a man of his expertise can pull off. Yank here, tug there, twitch, file file file, twiddle, tweak, and in less than an hour, we've got ourselves a brand new car key, ladies and gentlemen! It didn't matter how surprisingly high-priced The Locksmith costed. Nothing else mattered, really. We've got ourselves a key!

I took the cord of my camera, secured the key and wore it around like a bracelet. It didn't matter if I lose the camera, fuck, we've got a key! Protecting the key was our number 1 priority. You can just imagine how paranoid we were about keeping it safe. But shortly after, we were back to our happy selves again. We spent the remaining time we had doing the things we went there for. We drank, pigged out like mad, and swam like the strange-colored waters did not bother us. We escaped. For a place with the dumbest catch phrase ever, Aroma wasn't too bad. Aroma Man, the fishermen, Master of Aroma, Rakista, the snoopy locals, The Locksmith, we couldn't have done it without them. What nice people we've met! Our luck may have been tested but our spirit is untouched. There's your cheese. And, we lived happily ever after.

Oh, and on the way back to Manila, we got pulled over for violating the color coding.

After a little less than three weeks of hospitalization, my stepdad's finally been discharged. The strange thing about all this bummery? The supposedly best doctors of this country were not able to figure out what's wrong with him.

( Final Diagnosis )

I could've told us that. That's completely square one!

Anyhoo, I hate my mother. Right now, I do. I hate her. I hate her so much I could kill myself just to spite her. Arrrgh! I hate being put in this position! I hate her! I really wish I could say more, but my undiluted hatred for her makes it impossible for me to translate it into words. I hate you mother, I hate you!

Another Friday night gone while I'm stuck here in the hospital, devoting my damndest to my stepfather. Not that I'm complaining. I'm all up for it actually. I just miss alcohol and the works.

In other frivolous news, my mom got into an awkward argument with her in-laws the other day. It was one my prouder moments.

My stepdad's illness has not been diagnosed to this day. From my intelligible understanding of their explanations, the doctors are still darting blindfolded, simply put. And for reasons beyond me (and everything beyond that encompasses sobriety), one of my mom's in-laws thought it was cute to invite a quack doctor slash faith healer to my stepdad's room. It was then clear to me how they've lost all common sense. Good nature, no sense.

Now my mom and my stepdad are both Catholics offhandedly, even going an extra mile and joining The Lord's Flock way back when my stepdad's hair was still naturally black, but they stopped attending weekly meetings years ago. He would certainly disapprove of this had he known about the dilemma my mom was facing and had he the strength to decidedly talk his brother out of his primitive ways. I distinctly remember one New Year's Eve when, as a kid, we stopped enjoying the pleasure of sleeping under heaps of money because my stepdad deemed it unnecessary and it went against his Catholic beliefs of rejecting meaningless traditions other religions seem to be so fond of. But, to avoid any possible debate, my mom agreed to her in-laws, mostly because she didn't want things to turn ugly (and she respected their small brains). On with the ritual, she says, but only under her conditions, of course. They can recite their creepy crazy prayers. They can summon Jujaswatikaboo. They were practically free to do all that pleases them except one.

No touching.

I don't know about you but the mere gesture of her allowing this stupid fuckery is already fairly generous. And I don't know if they realize it but skin contact makes a stupendous difference! I am put off just imagining the massage, the sacrosanct oils, leaves and metals (hello, possibly radioactive elements!) that come with the rituals. And god knows (no pun intended) how unhygienic and jeopardous those things can bring about to her husband's condition. Plus, it hardly helps that nobody knows what his illness is! Not to mention how insulting this will be once the doctors find out. So yeah, they can do whatever the hell they want; whisper to stepdad their diabolic spells, sing to him the national anthem of Dodo Land, jump up and down 'til they lose consciousness. Anything, except touch him.

Later that night, in comes an expectedly eerie-looking woman and parks herself in front of the hospital room. My mom together with her in-laws go out to see her. Mom greets her a low five. The spookish woman then proceeds to explain what she's about to do. Yadda yadda yadda, fast track to the part where she explains how she'll put a metal belt of some type to my stepdad's waist. Upon hearing it, my mom was immediately taken aback. It clearly goes against what they've discussed about earlier that day. My mom then explains how inconceivable this "procedure" can be for all of them granting that they will have to twist him from one side and back because her husband cannot get out of bed, nor can he lift his back to accommodate the super magic metal belt (are you imagining it?). Plus the fact that she incontestably expressed her disapproval for anything remotely like the "procedure" they are sort of forcing her to affirm to.

Now why did I mention 'sort of' and 'forcing'? After my mom gave them her two cents, the witch (yes, I will now stop referring to her as the something-synonymous-to-frightening woman) tells the in-laws, "Kayo na bahala dyan kung ayaw niyo kong tumulong! Hindi gagaling yan dahil kinukulam yan! Hindi gagaling yan dahil may sagabal!" Translation: "I'm leaving it up to you, if you don't want me to help! He's never going to get better because someone's put a spell on him! He's never going to get better because someone's a hindrance!" The in-laws then went ahead and annoyingly convinced mom to let them to do their motherfuckingly pointless, barbaric, not to mention possibly risky agenda (yes, I will now stop referring to it as the "procedure"). The insensitive in-laws thought it was cute to continuously mock my mom's judgment and push her to the edge.

So, in the corner of the long and quiet hospital hallway, my mom shouts at them, "Jesus Christ! Who doesn't want my husband to get better?! If there's anyone in this circle who wants him to get better as bad as hell, it's none of you but me!" then she leaves all of them, stunned. I thought it would have been so much cooler if she injected random "fucking's" in her short speech. I could only imagine how stupid the in-laws must've felt after. Realizing how moronic they were as it slowly sinks in; mom wasn't scared of them. They shut their mouths, hopefully for forever. The witch leaves, with all that she stands for shunned. My mom enters the room, victorious.

Presently, my stepfather's made a positively huge improvement. He is no longer wearing diapers, first off. He can now go to the toilet with one assistant. He is eating better (although he vomits what he eats at times). He is regaining his strength. He even exchanges witty one-liners to members of the family. His fever's gone and doctors say he can go home really soon. They still haven't figured out what's wrong with him, though. My family just wants to dwell on the positive for now. But all's good.

( And now I understand why they say Bawal Magkasakit. )

2 Saturdays ago, at my little brother's birthday party, my stepdad asked me to massage his back with menthol. He said he was feeling sick, so I did. That Sunday morning, he had a fever, he did not hear mass, nor was he present at supper. Mom called the family doctor and was told to administer antipyretics to cool my stepdad's temperature down. The medicine did nothing. A day later, we sent him to St. Lukes for a check-up.

The staff did routine procedures on him. The results, all of which were normal. Except his fever was ruling, so the doctors decided he should be admitted for further observation and evaluation.

The plausibly best doctors of this country tested him for dengue and typhoid fever, malaria, leptospirosis, this and that. They considered everything and made an outline of my stepdad's lifestyle. The last thing he ate, where he flew last, his itinerary for the week, so and so. He tested negative for every single test the doctors did on him.

The fever did not go down for days, days, and days. Aside from oral, he was injected with high doses of paracetamol. Nothing could bring his temperature to a descend, it only interspersed from a point higher then lower, then higher, but the fever was always there. During which time the doctors examined his heart, his lungs, his liver, and his brain. He was pricked ceaseless, blood cultures, ultrasounds, urinalysis, ct scans, profiles, x-rays, punctures. Doctors were alternating specialized antibiotics for possible infections but there appears to be none. For a week and counting, the doctors have been maxing out possibilities. But none of the results explained the fever. "Fever with unknown cause" as they would put it.

This illness of abstruseness has kept doctors clueless and puzzled. Every time the teams of different specialists do their rounds, none would give an exact diagnosis. Doctors would only admit to half-baked "focus" and unlikely laboratory results, none that could explain his present condition. And this intensifies everyone's frustration because the sooner we know his illness, the sooner we can start treatment.

Because I do nothing but bask in time, I was the obvious choice to be my stepdad's looker-on. So I've been sleeping here in the hospital for more than a week now. Ed and my brothers join me on arrested days but mostly it's just monotony and me. The sad view, the unpleasant aircon, take-outs, YouTube, Vanessa Hudgen's nipples, and that distinct and unmistakable smell of hospitals. And with much of nothing to sidetrack my attention to my stepdad, you can say I've been an explicit witness to his terrible deterioration.

Because he hardly eats, all his strength has been drained from his chunky frame and he now finds it difficult to walk. His familiar assertive voice faded and now he speaks so soft, you'd have to draw your face near him so you can make out what he says. He now drinks from a straw, urinates through a catheter, and sleeps round the clock. The most awfully painful bit to this whole thing; he now wears adult diapers. But he smiles all the time and makes a buffoonery out of the whole situation, and it breaks my heart all the more.

My mother is worried sick. My sister, his favorite daughter, had to cut her vacation in the States a month short and go back here to commiserate. My life of ennui has yet again encountered an unheralded pit stop. And instead of basking in time, I now wallow in all things unwanted.

My stepdad is everyone's figure of dominion and it's heart-rending and also weird to see that image dry up. My mother loves him more than anything. I love him more than I will ever feel for my biological father. And until this thing fixes itself out, until the doctors find out what's doubtfully wrong with him, my family's hanging by a thread.

Today, one lifelong dream of mine will be fulfilled. (It feels so good to say it!)

I am not hard to read. I don't pretend to be profound. People who know me find it easy to associate me with things. Ivn equals alcoholic, Ivn equals excessive spender, Ivn equals addict, so and so. But there is one distinct impression that never fails to thrill me no matter how many times I hear people say it. For people I've just met, it only takes about an hour into a conversation for them to inescapably learn that;

Ivn equals Christina Aguilera FREAKAZOID.

I was 13 when I first heard Christina Aguilera's Genie in a Bottle. Since then on, I have been an absolute fan. During those years she was incessantly compared to Britney Spears, it became automatic how I would fight for her. And fight spanking at that! In special moments, or when it's really worth my time, I can end up converting those pesky apostles of Britney to Christina's side. It's actually easier than you would think. You just have to make them realize that being purposely mental to get attention will never be a basis for an artist's greatness. And retarded characters will go down in history as just that. Then we can all stop comparing the two and love Britney for the caricature she's made of herself and love Christina for other things remarkable. But loving her is not at all simple.

Christina Aguilera is someone very difficult to like, to love even. She makes it very hard for people to like her. She's offensive. She's raunchy. Her sense of style has been the subject of negative discussions. Her taste has always been questionable. But for some reason, loving her became an effortless deal for me.

( And spending for her became guiltless. )

Christina's musical genius never tires me. I could listen to her for days and days and I would never mind. The artists she looks up to is also one list that impresses. From Otis Redding to Ray Charles to Madonna to Billie Holiday to Nina Simone to Etta James to Aretha Franklin, how can anyone go possibly wrong? And let me tell you something about Christina Aguilera; she never lip-syncs.

Her teenybopper persona was one I immensely cherished. Without breaking a sweat, I learned all the words to her first album and immediately understood what she was all about. Her virgin/whore complex was one I respected and found pleasure in. And when Christina released her gussied up and carnal second album, Stripped, I made an effort to be one of the first Filipinos to get a copy. I was all-out in supporting her obsessions with tweaking taboos and the sorts-- a true fan understands. Although her music during that phase was driven entirely by slinky club grooves and explicit lasciviousness, impugning people can never seem to find a way to attack her talent. Her empowering statement of self-love always stood out. Before the release of her latest album Back to Basics, I rabidly anticipated and was delirious until I got myself a copy. And I was very pleased to find the album highlighting her overblown diva tendencies and her powerful voice.

And today, she's here! The stuff of my childhood and prepubescent longings. One of my favorite persons. My personal god! She's here, and I'm finally getting an almost impossible chance of seeing her in fucking person! I can almost taste it! Gaaaah! I've never been this excited since Pope John Paul II! I do not kid.

Oh Christina Aguilera, how you rock my world!