BIBI GONE BYE-BYE. FOR NOW.

February 5, 2008 at 6:42 pm | Filed under breaking up the girl, mr wonderful

He hasn’t been gone a day and I’ve already consumed all the allowed sadness points a person can have for a lifetime. I know, I know. It’s lame, it’s dramatic, it makes you want to scratch my eyes out. But yeah. That’s all I have.

And there I was, watching Juno for the second time. Bad move; first time I saw this, we were in bed and he fell asleep before the ending. I was with him, when I got the DVD. I managed to topple over a microwaveable container filled with water that was sitting on the floor on my way back to my coffee, and all it got was a stupid stare from me. My 10-year old cousin texted, asking if I could make her a website. A 10-year old wanting her own website; they really start early nowadays. I automatically reached for my phone, ready to type in a message to send to lover to tell him about it. I managed to eke out a very very sad smile from myself. No one to say good morning to now, no one to bitch about my morning MWF MRT rides, no one to say “I love you” to, when I’m bored in class. Sigh.

At around 4pm, I get a message from YM on my phone, telling me it’s been activated or something like that. Someone’s in Taipei. It felt good, knowing where he is.

I’m never like this, and it’s hard to deal. I tried doing the dishes to keep my mind off of things and I ended up bawling my eyes out over the sink. Lover said that if it weren’t painful, it would’ve been comedic, like a scene out of a Nora Aunor flick. I clumsily almost dropped the water pitcher as I refilled my mug and good thing my housemate was around. A shoulder to cry on, literally. I just wish this wasn’t the reason why.

It feels worse than a break-up, because break-ups have a certain unavoidable finality to them that happen for all the right reasons. Like, we can’t be together because we’re bad for each other and it’s best we part ways, and then both parties agree; or, we can’t be together because you’re an asshole or because you’re a whore and I don’t wanna be with you anymore, so let’s just break up; or, you’re exasperating and needy and you’re driving me nuts, I don’t need this; or, I no longer love you and it’s unfair to the both of us to continue the relationship. Stuff like that. This situation is three levels of shit above (or maybe it’s below?) breaking up because it’s not even one, it’s not even the tragedy of love lost, yet it feels like it is.

It’s been a long day. A long week, actually.

I love you, dearest. Glad you loved the website and wasn’t gayed out by it. Crossing my fingers for June.

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BUT MAYBE I NEEDED IT.

February 4, 2008 at 2:09 pm | Filed under breaking up the girl

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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HELGA & ALLAH COOKING GHETTO STYLE.

January 29, 2008 at 8:34 pm | Filed under breaking up the girl, photos, totally domestic

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.

Read the rest of the entry »

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CRASH DIETS ARE MY EMOTIONAL CURE-ALL.

December 4, 2007 at 5:29 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, breaking up the girl

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.

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BYE, BABY CAT.

September 27, 2007 at 3:57 am | Filed under breaking up the girl, photos

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.

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