BUT MAYBE I NEEDED IT.
I told you not to look, and you looked.
I told you not to fucking look, and you fucking looked.
…
Just like that, I made everything worse.
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Archive for breaking up the girl
HELGA & ALLAH COOKING GHETTO STYLE.
Lover going back home in a week. Would rather not talk about how much this devastates me. Maybe when the dreaded day comes.
Today, to keep my mind off of things, I put on some happy music (aka Hanson), broke a glass tile, and decided to make some carbonara. I whipped out the instructions my dad dictated to me while he drove me home from the grocery a couple of weeks ago and began the therapeutic process of cooking. Nevermind that everything I cook has this tendency to make my stomach stage a mutiny against the rest of my body (or maybe that was just that one time I put too much olive oil in my pesto).
Halfway through it, housemate #1 came home. So I give you: Helga and Allah, Cooking Ghetto Style. That’s what one gets with an ill-equipped kitchen.
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE PAN, PLZ. AWAY FROM THE TUMMY.
CRASH DIETS ARE MY EMOTIONAL CURE-ALL.
Let it be known to the world that I, Helga “The” Weber, a Filipino citizen of legal age residing in Loyola Heights, Quezon City, am probably having what could easily be tagged as The Worst Days of My Life.
You bet I wish I were exaggerating.
Now the last thing I want to happen is to immortalize the past few shitty days in the form of a blog entry that will magically have, well, the magical capabilities of Never Being Deleted. So I won’t write about it. Yes, I’m that traumatized. Instead, what I’ll do is go on a hunger strike!
NO! MORE! EATING!
(I KNOW I’M SWEATY. GO AWAY)
This works perfectly, in pursuit of my lifelong ambition of becoming a trophy wife. I mean, I can’t sit on my ass all day, stuffing my face with insane amounts of convenience store breaded chicken strips while smoking pack after pack of Marlboro Reds and expect that some rich, good-looking, condominium building-owning old man would sweep me off my feet and bribe me (with all the KFC bucket meals I can eat, WarBook goldses, and tabloid articles about me three times a week) into a loveless marriage, can I? I mean, have you ever heard of a fat trophy wife? Can you even fathom the idea of one???
So my point is this: Hunger strike. Tic-Tacs and vodka diet. Dulcolax. Until I start feeling better or lose 10 pounds.
Today, I bleat at the world (while checking out equestrian apparel): MEH.
BYE, BABY CAT.
I was lying in bed yesterday morning, fighting off consciousness and willing myself to sleep (because it was, what, 9 in the morning and I needed to be up by 5 pm if I wanted to get to work on time?) when I heard my phone’s message alert tone go off. Because I know my sleeping habits well enough to know that it would take the Armageddon to rouse me from my slumber, I keep my phone a few good feet away from me whenever I sleep— if only to ensure that when the alarm goes off, I will be forced awake and out of my bed to turn the damn thing off.
So my phone sounds off and the first thing I think is “Oh wow, people are up Twittering early today”. I wait for the barrage of messages to come in, but that was it. Not the least bit sleepy, I unearth myself from under my comforter, kneel on the edge of my bed, and reach for my phone which was sitting on top of my pink plastic dresser.
It was my mom, telling me that Munky was dead.
Bye, baby cat. I miss you :(
(He was really my mom’s cat and she told me he went missing last Saturday and they were thinking someone catnapped him. My dad found Munky decomposing in our car port Tuesday, after being told by their laundry lady that she smelled something funny the previous day.
I wish someone just stole him from us, really :( At least he’d still be alive. Fleh.)
Third cat of ours to die. It’s funny how I’ve gotten used to the initial shock and pain of losing a family pet. I’m handling this better than that time when MY Bunso died, January last year.
I FEEL LIKE A TEENAGER’S LJ.
I don’t feel so good about myself, and I don’t think my liver likes me much right now. You know how it is when you’re not too crazy about yourself, and in an effort to improve things, you cut off one thing from your life that you believe living without would (eventually, and sometimes instantly) make you a better person? Yeah, that’s what I’m going through right now and I’m having a crisis.
Crisis how what why huh. Put simply, I don’t know what to give up. Or something. Sure, I’ve got a pretty nice collection of bad habits and vices (cigarettes. Rum. Nailbiting. Coffee. Emotionally-unavailable men. Diets. Holding in my pee. Throwing money at people whilst saying “Kaya kita bilhin, eto o!”. Drunken drama. Sniffing rugby. Snorting through my nose with a bendable straw Valium I crushed with used-up internet cards The next useless weight loss diet. Jesus Christ), none of which I can bear to part with.
So I don’t know (what else is new). I told myself detoxing this week would do me some good, and I even momentarily contemplated on giving up coffee and maybe cutting down on my smoking. I actually want an apple right now, but I don’t know where to get one; and some white tea to calm my tummy. ANYWAY. Detox, this week, right? And then come the weekend, I’m back to boozing up, so that kinda just cancels out one week of kinda-healthy living. What to do what to do what to do. I’m thinking of not drinking this weekend, but that’s like shooting rubberbands at the stars or some equally emo shit like that. A friend said he’d keep me from drinking if we push through with meeting up on Saturday and that’s a nice thought, really, but I’m an Addict and an Alcoholic (quoting A Million Little Pieces now) and I know alcohol can’t resist me.
Srsly though, I feel ill and if keeping sober for one week will prevent me from having another Monday like yesterday’s, I’d gladly hole myself up in Antipolo and spend the weekend laughing at people at TristanCafe.
But really, I don’t think I have a drinking problem. It’s how I am when I’m drunk that is a problem. There are two three ways I can drive away people: my drama, my drunkenness, and my drunken drama. Those three never fail me.
If anything, Aa is here and that makes me happy. Too bad I can’t call in sick for work.
Copyright Helga Weber | May 2008 | Sitemap | Manila Barbie | Top
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Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 24. 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. 
