Remember when we were younger, back when Friday meant something? It wasn't just a day to get over with. It was a celebration of sorts.
At least that's how I remember it. It was out with the itchy white polos, uncomfortable black jeans and worn-out black leather shoes. Our PE uniform had green stripes on one sleeve, I think, but we definitely had green jogging pants, and at the worst of times it felt like, well, felt paper. It was itchy at its worst. We also got to wear rubber shoes, and at some point we were showing off our new pairs, if ever we had new pairs, back when the obsession for athlete-signed footwear was just a concept. Well, until the school asked us to wear Advan shoes because it's more economical. Less comfortable, too.
All that fuss meant we had PE class, and for us it meant playing games outside. There's this wide field in front of the school, and we all gathered there, treating the whole thing as an extension of recess rather than an academic exercise with added physical effort. If it wasn't an extended conversation pepper with pranks, it was a game. I forgot which games we played there, but it felt different from when we played dodgeball or agawan-
base inside the school. PE had a dignified feel, at least until we used the time to rehearse for our annual Family Day, and that half-flamboyant (and eternally annoyed) choreographer - whose name slips me, despite his name being specially-embroidered in his pair of jogging pants - comes by.
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"I am of the belief that once you write something down, you finally mean it."
I figured Lizette
must be right, so I figured I'll write the things that I never wrote down because I didn't want to deal with it ever again.
For better or worse, this story is over. If there are any feelings left for you, it's on the bad side. I find you frustrating. I find you annoying. I find you everything else, but you definitely don't care, so I shall stop here. Well, except for my usual complaints about me wondering why it had to be you in the first place.Read more »
Got to work, checked my email, and there's one, from Anna
. Actually, from LiveJournal
. She replied to a comment I posted on her blog, which was odd, because I haven't posted anything on her blog for quite a while. In fact, she hasn't posted anything on her blog for quite a while.
"How come I'm just seeing this now?" she wrote.
I saw the comment she was replying on, and I myself couldn't remember why I said it. It was gloopy, unusual for someone like me. In fact, it felt a bit forced. I can sense it, of course, for I wrote the words.
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I wasn't always like this. I mean, I never always despaired about my feelings for someone. No sleepless nights (which is an exaggeration, but still) spent being anxious over whether that someone knew about what I felt for her. No deep conversations with her best friends about possibilities and probabilities. I was perhaps a little crazier then: I always found a way to tell that someone my feelings, whether it's a note on tissue paper, or a random slip in a conversation. Back then I never really worried about adverse results, because there never were any.
Well, not until this girl came along. We were in the same class, and I was still relatively naïve back then, so I had scant idea of how life worked in a different setting. Okay, college. But she's nice and sprightly and bubbly and just like all the other girls I fell for, only she was in college, and I felt a little fearless, which was odd because we didn't talk as much as we should. But we talked, still.
So one day, I came up to her and, well, I didn't really plan anything. I guess it just happened, but I thought of telling her anyway, because I figured, heck, it's just a crush, and a crush wouldn't do any harm, right? Well, at least until you become borderline obsessed and you know more things about her than she does. In hindsight, it's odd that I decided to drop that line in front of her friends.
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Birds of the same feather flock together, they say. Not that I don't believe it, but I think it makes absolute sense. That one thing in common makes it so much easier. Although, sure, there are some cases when the most unlikely of things create the most extraordinary of bonds - perhaps some adhesive is in order, but that's slightly old-fashioned - for the most part, it still lies in that one thing.
So, this should've made a lot of sense.
To be honest, I'm not really expecting much. I wasn't looking for that extraordinary bond, although it's foolish of me to think that's what I'm looking for. Or maybe that just came in so much later. I just wanted to fit, slide in easily, find that one little thing and make the most out of it, discover that it leads elsewhere, the usual things we don't notice we're doing. But that's putting it cheesily.Read more »
I was at the bookstore after lunch - killing time as usual, for I only had one thing to write and four hours to go - and, while flipping through Time
, I was reminded of how far back the Harry Potter
My sister was a fan of the books, and I remember when the first film was released. Daniel Radcliffe was a strange name, and he was this slightly gawky kid who had to wear those round glasses. I think I was just eleven back then. She collected all photos of him that she could grab, in a failed attempt to create a fan site. Those photos, I think, disappeared when our hard drive finally conked out nine years later.
But back then they looked so young. Daniel was a kid suddenly thrust into the spotlight partly because he looks like the kids in front of all those books. I haven't read the series, so I can only connect Rupert Grint and Emma Watson
so far. Tom Felton
just looked annoying, like he was supposed to. I guess my innocent head didn't grasp the idea that we'd see them grow up, much like the way I didn't notice our own young actors grow up right before us. For some reason, they had to remain the way they are when we first saw them. Stuck in our heads, that.
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Horse blinders, as Sars put it. Something about being so focused with what you came to do, that you failed to notice all the things that happen in the fringes. In her case - and, inevitably, in my case, too - we came to college to study, not to make friends. At least not primarily.
And I told her I regret the decision. Everything has socialization attached, of course, and for some reason I failed to recognize it. Then again, there's nothing we could do about it. As much as we tried, even when it still wasn't too late, we weren't picked for anything. We didn't have that something special to be considerably close to someone, in those tired barkada
standards that anybody ordinary thinks everybody should have. And you know how badly I wanted that.
Well, at least that's what I could gather from that long conversation Sars and I had. It was over Facebook
, rather than on YM
, and thus I couldn't grab an important quote when I need it. And archiving over there isn't working wonders, too; when I tried grabbing a quote, the whole conversation has disappeared. But that chat was funny in an ironic way. We began talking about her and her current work (and how she sometimes sees Piyar
and Anna) and gravitated towards college in general, specifically our first year, especially that fail during our recollection
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By my own admission, this story is shallow. Waiting for a new battery for our then-useless car, and all the fatigue the twenty-second hour brings, meant the story I wanted to tell slipped through the cracks. Shame, for it was a much convincing story, although you can say it's more of a thought bubble that's built to make me look good.
It probably is. But so is this one, perhaps, because the shallow story involves me, and I'll most definitely be writing the next few paragraphs in a self-indulgent way.
But all I really wanted to do is to congratulate Zet
. I mean, I'm probably caring a bit too much about her thesis, but being someone who's given her some advice as she tried to even get the chance to do her thesis, well, it's something I think I have to do, even if I think I don't have to. I may be too crazy when my thoughts go to that direction and I end up wondering whether it's been too much. But, yeah, it's really small in comparison.
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Like in most days, I've been idle for the past three hours or so. I've been seated here jumping from website to website, answering emails and snubbing people. Maybe dragging and dropping a few things on the computer, or taking quick peeks at the window outside to see if it's raining. Which is pretty moot, because obviously it is raining.
There've been a few odd things going on today. Not with the change of assignments or my predictable amazement at myself, but with the number of toilet visits I've done today. It's been so long but I still don't feel comfortable with leaving my desk and having to pass all those people, but today, it's more of a what-the-heck attitude. I think I've been drinking too much water, too, which explains the many trips to the toilet and
to the water dispenser.
And there's this email going around the company - the usual reminders about taking care of your belongings, since apparently there's been a spate of thefts in the office. Guessing it's the night shift. I remembered that when I left for another one of those toilet breaks, because I left my iPod
charging on my desk.
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I know Kat
had a figurative nose bleed when we first encountered this term during cultural studies class, but I'll launch it again, partly because it's slightly amusing to see Kat have a figurative nose bleed. Oh, please, don't make it a literal one.
Reification, according to Sir Bayot, began during the Industrial Revolution. Before that, we were something special. We had our own little abilities, and it's something we developed over time. With those abilities, we learned a lot of things, discovered a lot of others, and invented even a lot more. Thus, we found coal, we created the assembly line, and our productivity increased tenfold, maybe more. Well, there's something ironic with that statement, really: we produced more stuff, but we felt less productive, because we lost our jobs. As processes were streamlined, less people were needed to do certain things, and it became a cat fight of sorts. We became commodities.
Okay, Kat, here's your tissue if you need it.
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Believe it or not, I'm never comfortable with spending money.
I never really learned budgeting, but for some reason it's an innate skill. Or maybe not. Maybe it's more of a painful feeling when I spend too much money than my gut says I should spend. Maybe it's because it happens all in one blow - say, me spending P400 for that lunch at Pepper Lunch
, which is a hundred bucks over my ideal budget for the entire day - or maybe it's because I just want to feel that comfort I have in seeing I have some leverage when I check my ATM.
Well, it must be a good thing, right? The one lesson everybody's told me the moment I took this job a year ago is simple: save, save, save. My aunt, who works for an insurance company, once gave me an impromptu lecture on keeping money in multiple bank accounts, apart from the one in my ATM and the one I have in hand. Perhaps exaggerated, but I think I got the whole idea down pat.Read more »
In my usual fits of office boredom, my mind wandered towards one of those nights on my way home.
Traffic at SLEX back then was still bad. I was leaning against the window, looking out at the gas station outside. It was dark, but I can see a girl come out of the shop and chase after a dog, Silhouettes, of course.
I remembered connecting that with what Katia
told me a few months back. Since she left her job as a flight attendant
, she said, she began working at a gas station. Since she was busy working then, I never got to ask what exactly she was doing there, although I presume it's a fairly significant position.
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Is it bad to feel that urge? I mean, that urge?
I don't mean to be dirty, but you all know the classic story of society's pressures on a 20-year-old man like me. Perhaps it's precisely because I'm that age. I was reading through old blog entries yesterday, since I was finished early again, when I chanced upon something that Issa
said two years ago
: "date a nice girl na kasi.
I've been complaining about this for the longest time - the past year, the same subject - but I never really addressed the feeling. And, as time passes by, it gets more and more confusing. Consider that people consider physical contact as something unnecessary, and consider that it's something I actually need. It's a tug of war, literally.
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The idea is, you're screwed.
To elaborate further, you're screwed despite doing everything to get yourself out of that situation. Whatever you do, you'll always do something wrong, and someone will always tell you that you fucked up the situation.
It all revolves around chances, anyway. We do things to get chances, or opportunities, or windows, whatever euphemism you have for it. There's a reason why we dress sharply, spray the right amount of perfume, say just the right words, read about the same things, laugh politely at every occasion, you get the drill. It's all supposed to improve your life, or at least make you happy. Get along with your bosses. Get that promotion. Get that toned abdomen. Get that car you've always hoped for. Get the girl, or get very satisfying sex without the strings. Or, at least, that's what those magazines want you to know.
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For a lack of something intelligent to say, I'll say that I've been very angry this week.
Or despising. Is there such a word as despising? Firefox
isn't showing a red underline on that word, so there must be a word called despising. And there it goes again. No underline.
Or maybe it's vulnerable. Sensitive. Easily annoyed. Easily angered. It's not good if you're sick, they say, for it'll complicate your already complicated condition. I was sick for a couple of days, and I grappled with not having to go to work and
feeling sick. Not that I enjoy work, although I'm aware that it completely contradicts what I just told Seattle the other day, which explains why I worked on one thing yesterday, which was a holiday.
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It was perhaps one of the worst assumptions he's made in his entire life.
The extreme view: he thought he had it made. There he was, hoping to get it right for once, perhaps going around it too quickly, but he knew this was the one, and after not following through for so many times before, he thought he knew enough to make the attempt, at the very least.
The not-so-extreme view: he's got someone to start anew with, and someone who seemed nice enough, someone who took things in stride, didn't take herself too seriously, quite open, that sort. And true enough, it was, and as all the similarities piled up, everything pointed to the extreme view. Well, maybe until he realized he can't hold that view, for it will come back to hit him hard. Or so he was told.
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