Archive for December, 2007
December 21, 2007 at 2:25 am | Filed under the helga manual
HEY THERE BOYS AND GIRLS! IT’S FOUR DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS! FOUR DAYS BEFORE SANTA SHOWS HIS FACE IN TOWN!!! WHO’S EXCITED???
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!
HO HO HO HO! I WANT ME SOME HO HO HO HOES!
I didn’t come up with a Christmas wishlist this year (I don’t think I came up with one last year, either) and I’m not about to. Instead, I bring you:
HELGA’S LIST OF THINGS NOT TO GIVE HER IF YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT GIVING HER THINGS BUT ARE OUT OF IDEAS SO LISTEN HERE’S A LIST OF THINGS NOT TO GIVE HELGA THIS CHRISTMAS (OR ON HER BIRTHDAY OR ON VALENTINE’S DAY OR ON ANY DAY):
#1: Useless Figurines
One of the things I will never understand is why people give out figurines as gifts. I admit, though, that when I was ten, I gave my mom an angel magnet resin for Christmas (my dad threw it away because figurines have little demons behind them, just like the statues of Mother Mary and Santo Nino you have on your altars at home have little satans and demons crouched behind them, too. And when you pray to them during Angelus or before bedtime, you’re actually praying to the demons. Oh yes. I had nightmares about a Mother Mary figurine killing me in my sleep. But he broke it— the angel magnet— into a million little pieces first. In front of me) and that was during her Imma-collect-all-the-angels-in-heaven-and-put-them-on-this-shelf-beside-the-living-room-TV phase. They’re despicable cutesy things that do nothing but gather dust, and the only purpose they hold (that I can think of) is as paperweight. And quite honestly, I use random objects like my foot to pin paper to the surfaces I choose to put them on. Or a mug. And speaking of mugs…
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December 20, 2007 at 5:41 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, bitchin' a ride
It is unfortunate that I— a person who pees a lot— works for a company called Slave-Driving Bastards, Inc.; unfortunate, not only because they are slave-driving bastards who don’t give you the holidays off, but they also only allot their employees ten personal break minutes throughout a 9-hour shift. And don’t get me started on personal minutes being bad minutes because I have too much anger coursing through my veins right now. Blood drive, what? HOW ABOUT I FUCKING DONATE 20CC OF RED HOT ANGER YOUR WAY, ASSHOLE?
It is also unfortunate that there are only four washrooms per floor of our building, one for each sex on each wing. There are about 200-300 agents per wing. I’m sure that about half of that 200-300 are made up of humans with vaginas. So that’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Four. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls.
Until last Monday, when they hung an Out of Order sign on one of the doors.
That’s maybe 100-150 vagina-bearing humans sharing Three. Fucking. Bathroom. Stalls. Since Monday.
It doesn’t really bother me. What bothers me is when I need to, like, REALLYFUCKINGGO (like OMG, can you see the crotch of my jeans darkening? YEAH, I NEED TO GO, LET ME IN RIGHT NOW) and I hit Aux-1 on this godforsaken Avaya phone and then dash to the washroom and—
Is there a party or a prayer meeting going on in the ladies’ washroom? Or did everybody decide to have their lunch here? What’s with all the people?
So I stand there with my butt resting on the sink, my feet going tap-tap-tap and my arms crossed while I wait for a free stall. Usually, there’s a line of about 3-4 vagina-bearing humans waiting for their turn. And because we’re human beings and we’re all supposed to be nice, common courtesy dictates that if you were the first person in the washroom to wait for a free stall, YOU GO FIRST. If you’re the second person, YOU GO SECOND. And so on. I don’t care if you’re the eighteenth person in there and you’re literally pissing your pants and crying, YOU GO EIGHTEENTH.
Unless someone takes pity on you, of course, and let’s you go ahead of them.
So I could really shank a bitch when someone messes the order of things and is rude enough to take my place in line. Like, I could shank that certain bitch. The one who messed up the order of things. Because you just don’t do that!
A few minutes ago, someone attempted to do exactly just that to me. Did she think I was, I don’t know, just hanging out in the washroom, staring at the putrid orange doors and NOT waiting in line to pee? The second I heard the door’s metal lock slide to (surprise!) unlock and the second I saw her make a step towards the stall, I fucking RAN. I tell ya. I RAN. I cut her off, RAN inside the stall, and slammed it shut.
More common courtesy that should be exhibited in the washroom: do not hog the sink. Especially when there are only two.
December 19, 2007 at 5:28 am | Filed under camwhorage, ditz drivel, screen queen
Me and my propensity to obsess over drama-filled “reality” tv shows, particularly those of the California-set variety (I guess those Upper East Siders are too classy to air out their dirt to the whole world via MTV). Tuesday morning, I saw myself shoving half a chocolate mousse cake (not half a slice of cake but HALF A FUCKING CAKE) down my throat while bitching about Spencer Pratt’s teeth. I’ve never been so far away from Hollywood.
Seriously. First, Laguna Beach; now, The Hills.
Can I just say that my heart swells every time I see The Hills’ opening sequence and hear the opening theme (Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten, which is my #1 Feel Good song). Especially that bit when it’s ending and the title scene glitters and sparkles on to the screen? This one?
Oh, the giddies.
o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o
Last Sunday, I dragged lover to Linden Suites for my college block’s yearly Christmas party. Technically, because I shifted out of Development Studies my senior year, they’re not my blockmates and they all really secretly hate me and probably a bunch of them made bets amongst each other that I’d end up pregnant or with an STD or stricken with cirrhosis or dead two point three months after leaving the hallways of Miriam College, but Clem begged me to show my fat face. And who am I to turn down an invitation to get hammered on a Sunday (or ANY day, for that matter)?
Unfortunately, I was sick for the most part of last week (upper respiratory tract infection, acute tonsilitis, fever, chills, a cough that wouldn’t quit, a dot that came five days late) and there were no boys to seduce (save for lover and well, he needs no seducing) so I pretty much behaved myself the whole night.
I AM HOLDING A MUG OF COFFEE WHILE LOOKING RETARDED!!!
(STFU ABOUT MY AZN BOOBS. LOVER CALLING ME EXPOSURE QUEEN IS ENOUGH)
Three things I learned that night:
1. Most of my batchmates are in Law school and they’re all losing weight. They suck.
2. One of us got knocked up.
3. My favorite professor gave one of the students from the batch before us syphillis.
o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o
I hate my job and my antibiotics. Still not in a blogging mood.
December 18, 2007 at 4:33 am | Filed under 1000 questions
My whole body’s been taken hostage by evil antibiotics (the kind that makes you not sleep and makes you do crazy things like go to Gateway at noon on a Sunday eight days before Christmas to look for tampons and painkillers while loaded up on cough syrup and well, antibiotics).
BRB, like, tomorrow. Sims 2, Weeds, The Hills, and my college block’s Christmas party last Sunday. Someone obviously didn’t do a good job of taking care of herself whilst she was sickywicky.
December 7, 2007 at 5:09 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, camwhorage, ditz drivel
The universe must be wonky this time of the year— it’s almost the weekend and I have yet to lust for alcohol. Most of you would probably see this as a good thing, but I’m telling you now: IT. IS. NOT.
You see, children, there was a time in my life when I was actually sober for roughly six months. By “sober”, I mean one beer a week (usually on a Saturday night after dinner and a movie). I also remember that for about two months during my senior year in college when my bloodstream and whatever biological pathways that alcohol courses through in my bodeh were completely— and I mean COMPLETELY— devoid of alcohol.
It all sounds preposterous, I know, and you might think that I’m bullshitting you or perhaps writing about a girl named Melba who lives with her grandmother Zenaida (because her parents are OFWs in Dubai) in some rundown apartment unit in Novaliches. Melba whose hobbies include cross-stitching the face of Jesus and macrame. Melba whose biggest secret is that she has a crush on her next-door neighbor, Jojo, and that she collects his discarded candy wrappers and keeps them in a box under her bed. Melba who drinks Cali Shandy and whose ideal night out would be trolling her village’s streets at 10 in the evening dressed in a Lee Pipes or a Jag Thug shirt and Dr Lee denim shorts, both two sizes too small. With her cellphone in hand.
No, kids, I was writing about myself. I don’t always fail at taking a shot at sobriety.
My weekend is less than an hour away (I’m on leeeeave! I’m on leeeeeeave!) and it’s a bit puzzling that getting hammered isn’t part of the plan. I don’t even have a plan. I’ve texted half the people in my phonebook asking if anyone wanted to watch The Golden Compass with me and not one of them had the clemency to reply to poor li’l DESPERATE-FOR-A-FUCKING-FRIDAY-NIGHT-OUT me.
Is it because they’re scared I’ll end up dragging them to the nearest watering hole as soon as the movie ends? Is it because I disgusted them when, a few days ago, I texted them asking if they could hook me up with Valium or Stilnox or a hosto from Tondo or all three? Or is it because I only have two people in my phone book and instead of texting lover (who is impotent and would rather fap off to motobikes than spend time with me), I sent the message to my mom (who, as we speak, is probably disowning me and packing all my Antipolo belongings in a cardboard box to store in our carport. Or in the vacant lot beside our house. For the cats and dogs to mangle and defecate on)? Or is it because I’m black?
Yeah. It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?
Here’s a picture from last Saturday night, taken at Cubao X during Lomomanila’s Christmas party. With me is— no, not Melba— Mina, whom I went to college with. Now let’s play a game of Spot The Difference.
Is it our hair? No.
Our eyes (she’s winking, I’m not)? No.
Our shirts? No.
She has more things dangling from her neck? No.
WHAT THEN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE???
She has a degree in International Studies. I don’t.
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. 
