Let me tell you something about me that may take you by surprise and I would really appreciate it if you, interested reader, stifled your giggles and tried not to laugh or go “Helga, you lie.” Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal, nothing that’ll make you go “Uh, TMI”; just a little FYI, just a little something to let you get to know me better.
I’m not really a talkative person. I’m serious. When out with friends, I’d rather everyone just shut up. Yes, I am exaggerating but you get my point: I’d take awkward silence over having the air filled with drivel and stupid banter. I hate it when people open their mouths for the sake of hearing their own voice and I hate unnecessary talking. Of course, “stupid” and “drivel” are relative and my favorite people and dearest friends are always brilliant and compelling conversationalists. They also provide a lot of lulz and advice on adult acne treatments (okay, maybe not).
When I was in high school, a boy peer once remarked that my future husband would probably be the unluckiest dude in the world because I was bound to be a nag of a wife. He then proceeded to mimic me: he raised his arm, jabbed his finger in the air and went “wah! wah! wah!” in a shrill, un-Helga voice. It was pretty silly and I (will admit) kinda hurtful. Whatever; I could see how Teenage Helga was obnoxious. I also didn’t really learn how to modulate my voice ’til I was in college.
I like quiet. Some days, I can go without uttering a single word out loud. On most days, the only conversation I have is when I have to buy something: “Isang pack ng Marlboro Reds” or “Stored value” or “Dalawang orders ng siomai, take out, no chili.” It’s a little sad but I’ve gotten used to it the same way I’ve gotten used to absence, to waiting.
It’s worse when it’s a Monday and I have to shuffle my feet out of bed and through my morning coffee and put on clothes that are too hot to wear. I’d rather spend the day on the xbox 360 or on my couch marathon-ing Lipstick Jungle and Cougar Town.
I sound bratty, I know. Some people don’t have jobs etc etc.
On a lighter note: four days ’til the weekend.
A poem:
The Quiet World (Jeffrey McDaniel)
In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
And a photo:
Special chicken chelo kebab half-swimming in garlic/white sauce. If this grosses you out, you’re not eating your special chicken chelo kebab right.
I think that, as far as normal and proper go, my single, childless self will never have a conventionally happy Christmas. And quite frankly, I’m a little tired of it. You know it’s bad when you look back on blog entries from three years ago, hoping that circumstances have changed majorly, hoping for something unrecognizable (now that you’re older, now that you are capable of making changes, now that you finally have your life in your hands and under your control— things like that) and you find yourself…disappointed at how familiar everything still is.
LJ entry, December 17, 2005 (oh, how I remember this month of that year, and how badly in need I was of holiday cheer and how I didn’t get it):
New Year’s is the only thing I’m looking forward to. Christmas is going to be spent with my parents at the house in Antipolo, which is devoid of sparkly lights, gifts, tinsel and anything else related to Christmas. I’m probably going to spend the 24th and 25th sleeping or in front of the computer or watching DVDs while stuffing my face with non-Christmas food.
This does not make me happy because I will remember those years when my family used to celebrate Christmas and there were gifts to open and a tree to decorate and an inflated snowman to hug and Christmas carols to sing along to.
[...]
I swear, when I have my own family, Christmas will be celebrated every year. I’m going to do all those annoying Filipino traditions, like start decorating the house as soon as the -BER months hit and won’t take them down until February. I will search high and low for an inflatable snowman, just like the one we used to have in our house in Los Banos, so my children would have something plastic and poofy to hug. I will also let them put whatever they want to put on top of the tree, just like how my brother and I would take turns putting our favorite toys on top of ours.
And I will not be boring and uncreative and just hand them money because I will give them real gifts wrapped in Christmassy paper with gold ribbons on top. The gifts will be unexpected and surprises, because I remember how happy I was this one Christmas when my mom and I went shopping and she wouldn’t buy me this toy gun I wanted, and then come Christmas morning, I open one of the gifts and there it was.
Okay, I’m making myself sad again. Last year’s Christmas was fun, but it can never compare to my childhood Christmasses when it was just the four of us in a little town, snapping photos of two happy kids opening presents and two happy parents opening badly-wrapped packages with scraggly “Merry Christmas Mommy and Daddy”s written all over them.
Last year’s Christmas was fun…? Luckily, that LJ account held my blog entries to as early as April 2004. A few clicks and I found this:
LJ entry, December 25, 2004:
I fell on my left arm and my cousin pushed me towards a wall and so I am now drubk, paralyzed (my left-side, that is), with a massive bukol on my head. I am also v v v v hoarse, thanks to the videoke machine.
I was crying like anything half an hour ago. And then I decided to just eat the pain away (with my right hand side). Until my moomy came along and said:
Anak, don’t over-eat again. Pag nalaglag ka na naman, naku.
I’m, crying again. Headache.
I can’t find my cam and my phone. Which is kinda irowneec, since my phone is glow in the darkey.
Love grows in me like a tumor,
parasites bent on devouring its host.
I’m developing my sense of humor,
till I can laugh at my heart between your teeth,
till I can laugh at my face beneath your feet.
Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,
maybe I’ll be the lucky one that doesn’t get burned.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Love plows through me like a ‘dozer,
I’ve got more give than a bale of hay,
and there’s always a big mess left over.
What did you do? What did you say?
Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,
maybe I’ll be the special one that doesn’t get burned.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Love tears me up like a demon
Opens the wounds and fills them with lead,
and I’m having some trouble just breathing.
If we weren’t such good friends I think that I’d hate you.
If we weren’t such good friends I’d wish you were dead
Oh it’s so embarrassing
I’m this awkward and uncomprable thing,
and I’m running out of places to hide.
Now excuse me while I disappear and search for the meaning of life, love, and the best natural skin care products…or until the next PayU2Blog deadline.
Two days into the week and I’ve already had enough heart attacks (caused by my stupidity) to last me until I finally and glamorously keel over and die of a drug overdose on the eve of my 25th birthday. You could say I haven’t been having a good week and I can only hope that the sucktitude has reached its peak when I accidentally deleted Adobe Photoshop on my office-issued Mac machine this morning, five minutes into my shift.
When I finally got home from work, there was a merry group of beady red ants convening on my bed. MY BED! I swallowed my fear of the evil creepy-crawlies and— one by one— squished them between my index finger and thumb, gleefully exclaiming DEAD! with every kill. Nuking them with insect spray would’ve been easier but that would require asking my dad where he keeps the spray can which would trigger a slew of questions which would eventually lead him and my mom into banning me from snacking while in bed. Living with the parentals is an everyday challenge, I tells ya.
Enough thinking out loud. It’s an hour into Wednesday aka Hump Day and everything’s going smoothly. The internets is not acting up (or conking out like it did on me, Monday early morning) and the weather is perfect for sleeping in (yes, it’s 1 in the morning and I’m thinking about sleeping in). But I can’t. I hope everyone’s been having a better last-two-weeks than I am.
Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 25. I live in leggings and love oversized cardigans. My lover is the greatest. 
