SICKYWICKY!!!

November 24, 2006 at 11:40 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, technicolor lover

I’ve been in and out two hospitals this week alone. My diagnosis? AIDS and VD. Deadly combination. Folks, it’s terminal.

All right, so that isn’t funny at all. Truth be told, I have a bacterial blood infection, a bad case of UTI (which caused the blood infection and causes my on-and-off fever and chills), and lumbar strain. Now I’m stuck in the hills of Antipolo for the time being, under the not-so-watchful eyes of my parents (who insist on a rice bran and fruit diet), and DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DAYS OF WORK I’VE SKIPPED??? I’m bound to get, what, ten bucks on my next paycheck. No kidding.

And mehn, I’m all What-The-Fuck-ed Out. The first time I remember (cos mom says I used to come down with it all the time when I was a kid) getting UTI was at the nubile age of nineteen because I was banging this band’s drummer. No fever, laid off the alcohol for a week, got better. The second time, my chud of an ex gave it to me. Again: No fever, could NOT lay off the alcohol so chugged down coconut juice and doubled my water intake, got better.

This third time? NO pissing razors. Fever. Chills. An actual, no, TWO actual trips to two different hospitals. IS IT BECAUSE I’M 21 AND NO LONGER ALLOWED TO BE YOUNG AND STUPID?

Rawr. Seriously, yesterday, I looked like some kid her mom literally dragged to the hospital. Board shorts, an old vintage tee (with little ipis holes!), flipflops, no make-up, and a messy ponytail. Ten minutes before leaving the house, I was curled up in bed going “Don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wannaaaaaaaa! You can’t make meeeeee!” until mom got mad. LAWLZ.

Armed with my natural good looks and my good english skillz, I managed to face the bustling city looking like that. Over lunch, wearing that plastic patient bracelet and a cotton ball stuck to my inner elbow fold with hospital tape, I asked my mom: Wouldn’t it be awesome if I started coughing on people’s food?

Mom just laughed, yay, we’re friends again. We, like, totally bonded over Max’s chicken and kare-kare, and both agreed that my idiot of a cousin, Kiko, deserves death by horse-bukkake.

My meds set me back by a grand, and I feel guilty referring to the new boytoy as…well, ‘new boytoy’. So from now on, he is Chuchubells on here, okay?

Chuchubells was the one who convinced and brought me to the hospital four days ago. Ain’t that sweet. It don’t matter if he ain’t cute like D is, yo, he’s super nice, filthy rich, hooks me up with my needed social drugs, and drinks more than I do.

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LET’S FUCK UP OUR HIRING PROCESS!

October 22, 2006 at 9:10 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, bitchin' a ride

Here’s a story.

A girl, let’s call her Helga, decided some weeks ago to leave the company in which she is currently employed at, in search of a better bigger paycheck. Her friend, let’s call him Drew, referred her and anoher friend (let’s call her Allah) to the company he works for. Let’s call this company Company S.U.WTF. (S for suxxorz, U for Unprofessional, and WTF for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot).

Now Company S.U.WTF. first called Allah, and to make a sad story short, she was not hired.

Company S.U.WTF. called in Helga for an initial interview with Recruiting, and was set up with a FINAL interview with one of the department heads. And then Company S.U.WTF. called up Helga while she was at the beach last weekend, scheduling ANOTHER FINAL interview with the same dude who interviewed her.

She shows up at Company S.U.WTF., was met by a confused man: Didn’t I interview you already?

Helga: Yes, but S—y called me up last Monday and set me up with a final interview?

Helga was told to sit in some teeny-weeny office (a cubicle, more like it) and waited for a lifetime (okay, so it was about 10 minutes, but when you’re doing nothing— just staring at photos and certificates, it does seem like a fucking lifetime. I was half expecting for my grandkids to call me up for a visit), and then was told he (Department Head Man) would see her in 10-15 minutes, and she could go down for a smoke if she wanted to. She does. She comes back, runs into Department Head Man as she steps out of the elevator.

Department Head Man apologizes, says the HR department will be contacting her to finalize her employment.

Helga: So I’m hired?

DHM: Yes.

So Helga was hired right outside the elevator lobby. Whoop-de-do! She goes home, and at 8am, the HR department of Company S.U.WTF. calls her up to schedule a 2pm contract signing.

Helga goes back to Company S.U.WTF., signs the contract, drafts her resignation letter, and celebrates by watching House on DVD while eating cracker crumbs and pancit canton. She would start working for Company S.U.WTF. on November 20.

Saturday night, she wakes up, checks her phone for messages and finds that someone with a Sun Cellular number texted her. So management decided to cancel hiring for the November 20 date and would resume hiring NEXT year, January. NEVERFUCKINGMIND that contracts have been signed, resignations announced, resignations drafted, moms and bosses and co-workers informed— Helga was fired even before she has started her training for Company S.U.WTF. Oh, and they’d call her next year.

Helga’s mom is asking for her copy of the contract, so Helga and Helga’s mom could consult a lawyer.

This song is so cool.

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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.

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 temptation blizzard from Dairy Queen.

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