Archive for September, 2006
September 14, 2006 at 9:37 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, urban primadonna
On my way home yesterday, I told an old lady to hurry the fuck up, or move to the goddamn side.
But I was prepared and faking a phone call. She turned around, I gave her a big toothy smile, pointed at my phone, and said (in my most annoying voice) sorry. “Saaaahraaaaaaay!!!”
Unfortunately, only the words ‘fuck’ and ‘goddamn’ seemed to register in her brain. :hmph:
I ain’t made for this country, yo.
(Karma got me in the ass when I got home, though. Stupid tricycle driver didn’t have enough change, so I was charged an extra 4 bucks for my fare. Four bucks is nothing, but it’s still four bucks.)
PS: I <3 Prison Break.
PPS: Why am I so pissed at the world. Oh. Right. D.
September 8, 2006 at 11:47 am | Filed under joyful girl, urban primadonna
Eleven hours and fifty-five minutes later, I finally leave the office. Forty-four minutes, I am paying for a tube of toothpaste and two new bottles of nailpolish (Joy— peachy-pink, and Diamond Gay— bluish-gray).
Okay, so this whole noting-the-minutes isn’t going to work. I just wanted to point out that I spent 11 hours and 55 minutes of my day AT THE FREAKING OFFICE yesterday.
I took the train home, and saw a cutie a few feet away from me on the platform. “Cutie” doesn’t seem to fit; “beautiful” would be more appropriate. Fair-skinned, curly hair, facial fuzz, glasses; a backpack, jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved white polo with the cuffs folded up to his elbows. Late twenties, early thirties? He catches my attention, I look. He looks back, I look away.
We get on the same train car, and I hold on to a pole while he is still a few feet away from me, holding on to a handle dangling from the ceiling. I notice his baller band on his right wrist: Instituto Cervantes, it says. Dios mio, if this guy smokes Marlboro Reds, he’s perfect!
Because we seem to be soulmates (:P), we both get off at the Katipunan station. Everyone rushes towards the escalator, me included. FUCK MAN, I’m tired and my feet ache— I usually take the stairs, but not today, buddy. He heads towards the nearly empty stairs and throws a look my way.
He was way ahead of me by the time I made it out of the escalator. I didn’t quicken my pace; after all, I walk fast enough as it is. I slip my ticket back into the ticket thing and push the bar— pushed it too soon, it was still jammed, and I hurt my hand. I let out a loud “OUCH! FUCK!” and ignore the several looks I got.
I catch up to him at the second escalator— the one that would lead us back out into the world and into our own separate ways. He is on the step before me.
I suck in my tummy (which causes my pants to slide a little down my hips and my shirt to ride up my belly a bit), fluff my hair, move to my left, step up to his step, and step up to the step in front of him. I turn sideways, lean my elbow on the rubber railing, blow at a strand of hair, and tilt my head to look at him.
Our eyes meet and because I am a C-O-W-A-R-D, I look away after one and a half seconds and proceed to walk up the remaining steps.
Lalalalala :spin:
September 7, 2006 at 9:56 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, made in the Philippines, urban primadonna
I have nothing against walking, the sun, and walking under the sun. It’s something I actually enjoy doing provided the right circumstances, the right setting, the right people and provided that I won’t have to do it on a regular basis (and with my lifestyle— I don’t). But walking under the sun IN THE CITY, IN STILETTO HEELS AN INCH AND A HALF HIGH after a nine-hour shift at work just irritates the shittles out of me— especially when it could’ve been easily avoided if only the people around me weren’t such idiots.
(On my way home yesterday, a woman got on the bus somewhere in the Ortigas area and sat next to me— no, squeezed her sticky self next to me, even though we were occupying a three-seater. We were to get off at the same place: Farmers, and it was CRUCIAL for us to get off right there there there because the bus was taking the fast lane and the next stop would offset me by [I'm guessing] more than a hundred meters.
We were seated near the back of the bus and she took her time to get up and move when the bus was ALREADY AT OUR STOP. I had already stood up and was nudging her slightly [she was in my way]— a signal that she should hurry her ass down the exit because unlike her, I have to be somewhere. She didn’t. And so we I miss my stop and am inconvenienced. Unnecessary anger.)
Walking through Cubao isn’t my number one most hated thing in the world (that honor belongs to gaining weight) but it comes in pretty close. It’s a scorching Wednesday afternoon and the diseased masses of Cubao move as if they were going for a Sunday stroll in the park, seemingly unbothered by the vehicular fumes. Sometimes, they’re also unmindful of other people and act as if they own the fucking city and block the way. Oh look, stairs, perfect!; let me stop RIGHTHERE and send someone a message on my phone. Who the hell cares if I’m a goddamn obstruction— I don’t.
(You know what else I hate? Groups of people who stand around by the entrance or the exit and discuss where to go next or whatever. MOVE TO THE GODDAMN SIDE AND LET PEOPLE THROUGH.)
Stressed, sleepy, hungry, and angry, I comforted myself with a 16-ounce brownie tempation blizzard from Dairy Queen.
September 5, 2006 at 1:12 pm | Filed under bitchin' a ride, technicolor lover
I have the worst luck with (men and) cab drivers.
Last night, D wrestled my phone away from me, and I almost scratched his eyes out.
Some days, I absolutely adore him; some days, I want to stick a pair of stilettos up his ass and shrug my shoulders in resignation.
Some days, I just don’t care.
You peer inside yourself / You take the things you like / And try to love the things you took / And then you take that love you made and stick it into some / Someone else’s heart / Pumping someone else’s blood / And walking arm in arm / You hope it don’t get harmed / But even if it does / You’ll just do it all again
-On The Radio, Regina Spektor
PS: I am SOFUCKINGSICK of that Rihanna song.
September 4, 2006 at 12:44 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, joyful girl, technicolor lover
My Saturday nights consist of Japanese food and a movie with Roel. Contrary to what it may seem, it’s actually quite fun. :lolol:
D and I never seem to spend our Saturday nights together. At first, I bitterly owed it to the fact that Saturday nights belong to the official girlfriend, and I have to make do with Fridays, Sundays, and some weekdays. DO YOU SEE HOW GREEDY I AM? Then again, maybe not. I mean, I get this evil sense of satisfaction knowing that he spends more time with me than her, but knowing that it’s her whom he brings to family dinners just cancels out that little victory. Helga 0; Girlfriend 1.
Oh. He didn’t see her the whole weekend, though. Or maybe he did, but he’s learned his lesson by now, and opted not to let me know :hmph:. Also, I realize that Saturday nights don’t necessarily translate to Girlfriend Nights; rather, they’re D Has A Life Outside Work And Helga Nights. :)
So anyway, my bed’s still broken. And I had to flip the mattress because D and I have done some damage to its springs, too.
He’ll be moving his things to Alabang this week. He’ll be an hour and a half away from me now, instead of just fifteen minutes :(.
FUUUUCK, I just closed a 10-liner! :woohoo: I’ve been working on that sale for FIVE fucking hours— TOES and it’s system issues.
Happy D thought for the day:
<3 I love his arms (typical macho man arms, haha--- muscled and strong, the size of half my thigh? :P). They make for good hugging, good carrying, good biting, and good sleeping. Yes, the man hogs my pillows and I have to get by by snuggling into his armpit, my head and a hand resting on his bicep.
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. My first socio-political scandal will happen at the age of 35 and will include men, sushi, an African country, and lots of money. My lover is the greatest. 
