D IS FOR DRAMA

September 27, 2006 at 12:32 pm | Filed under bitchin' a ride, breaking up the girl, technicolor lover

Things between D and I are going all right…in terms of throwing accusations at each other, that is. I know it gets old, my perpetually ranting and bitching about him, but we also all know that I don’t know any better. And here’s another nugget of realization: as much as I have every reason to leave this relationship, I can’t. No matter how many times I say that I’m giving up (especially when under the influence of alcohol), I won’t. Because I’m emo like that. Fuck it, I’m back to being emo. Masochistic optimism.

AND FUCK IT, HE’S HERE ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NOW AND HE’S NOT SAYING HI. I CAN SMELL HIM, I CAN FUCKING SMELL HIM.

EDIT//

Okay, I’ve calmed down now. He dropped by my station and pecked me on the cheek to say “hi”. He also called me “Weber” :hmph: And now my hyperacidity is acting up (it does that when I’m mad/pissed off, excited, or nervous). He’s still here. I think. We’re logging out, time to go home, I don’t know what to do.

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I HAVE A NAME; IT’S HELGA.

September 15, 2006 at 12:47 pm | Filed under bitchin' a ride, the helga manual

Do I like you? No? Then here’s some piece of advice: do NOT have a term of endearment for me.

I am itching to hit kill someone in the face right now (hey, whatever happened to that tagline of mine? “Don’t mess with pretty girls because they will kill you in the face“? I was THAT angsty and arrogant before?). Like seriously, if I run into IT, I will attack with a blunt pair of scissors for maximum pain. And yes, this is what too much of Prison Break’s T-Bird can do.

I don’t even ask for much. Here are three important DO NOTs when it comes to addressing me.

• Do NOT (ever) call me HELGS (whether I like you, or not). It sounds cheap and is ONE fucking syllable away from HEL-GA. Go the extra ‘uh’, yes?
• Do NOT call me “LURVE” or “LURVES“— ESPECIALLY IF I DON’T LIKE YOU because it just fucking gets on my nerves. What the fuck is up with that? Unless you’re English, of course, because that gives you an excuse.
• Do NOT call me “Hell” or “Hel” in an attempt to give my name a nickname. Because really, how shorter can my name get?

Basically, my point is, unless I have given you some sort of a go signal to call me something else, I am Helga, Helgaaa, or Helgrrr to you. Gaby/Gabby if you’re feeling cute. Okay?

THE WEEKEND HAS LANDED! Prison Break season 1 plus Veronica Mars seasons 1 and 2 marathon in the afternoon, and then D in the evening!

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AND THE BEAT GOES ON.

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.

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AN URBAN (NOT-SO-)PRIMADONNA

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.

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TO OSCILLATE__’

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.

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