WEEKENDS MADE OF WIN.

September 18, 2007 at 4:44 am | Filed under camwhorage, joyful girl, mr wonderful

Just to be cute (and for kicks. And while dicking around Wikipedia), I answered the CAGE questionnaire. Simply put, the CAGE questionnaire is a method to screen for alcoholism, and I have nothing funny to add to that. Because my “alcoholism” and the nature of my drinking (I drink like I have a goal and that goal is the total obliteration of this body organ we call the liver), I realize, is not something to laugh about.

The questions:

1. Have you ever felt you needed to Cut down on your drinking?

Yes.

2. Have people Annoyed you by criticizing your drinking?

Yes.

3. Have you ever felt Guilty about drinking?

Yes.

4. Have you ever felt you needed a drink first thing in the morning (Eye-opener) to steady your nerves or to get rid of a hangover?

Chyea-ah.

Phew. That was easy.

Two “yes” responses indicate that the respondent should be investigated further [...] A score of 2/4 or more is considered “alcoholism.”

NO WEI!!!

So anyways, this weekend— like any other weekend— was spent ingesting absurd amounts of alcohol. From chugging down can after can of beer at Top Gear’s 3rd year anniversary party/car show at Tiendesitas to chugging down bottle after bottle of beer at JayJ’s last Saturday night (surprisingly enough, I wasn’t that blitzed: I came home before my housemates did, my heels were intact, and there were no beer or food stains on my white dress), to the standard Sunday Night Rum-cola Supreme with the Barbies. Again, I found myself not plastered plastered after about eight of us consumed several bottles of Tanduay. Either we didn’t drink enough or my alcohol tolerance is improving. I’m leaning towards the former.

I know it’s cropped and stuff and my neck and chin look weird (I was awesomely drunk and my face in the uncropped photo is a total oddity), but I super love this shot from two Saturdays ago. I must admit, though, that I don’t remember posing for a photo and that I can’t remember if we were at Pier 1 or JayJ’s when Drew took this:

MMMM.

I seriously need to take it easy on the alcohol and spend more time in bed.

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AGAIN, I HATE MY JOB.

September 10, 2007 at 11:56 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, bitchin' a ride, mr wonderful

I’m getting more and more aggravated with my job, and I’m seriously thinking about resigning. This is how I usually feel on Mondays, the most stressful day of the week, but this has been my disposition the whole week last week. In the beginning (aka these past six months), I was somehow able to contain my annoyance; now, the novelty has worn off, I’m quickly losing my patience with the account, and I constantly find myself in a bad mood.

The only thing holding me back from tendering my resgination is that I don’t have time to look for (yet) another (call center) job. I need to get out of this industry, and I swear I will. Eventually.

Moving on to happier un-stressful things, I once again had a calorie-laden sexy-mancandied weekend involving the sinful combinations of cupcakes and ice cream, rum and cola, and (a lot of) fried chicken and rice. Life in binaries, how fun.

Diet. This week. Waking up on a Sunday morning chanting “Cupcakes cupcakes cupcakes!” speaks volumes about how out of control we are.

Something the mancandy sent me that got me giggling at 730pm:

“You really don’t see it?”

I really don’t. :cute:

(He’s been insisting the whole weekend that I have Vanessa Hudgens angles. I’m amused, but I think it’s simply old age affecting his eyesight. Also, I’m going easy on the blush.)

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ON (THE POSSIBILITY OF NEVER FALLING IN) LOVE (AGAIN).

September 8, 2007 at 3:26 am | Filed under mr wonderful, technicolor lover, the helga manual

I may be a sucker for romance (and I know I totally don’t look like it because I [act like] I’m badass and tough and seem to be the kind of person who knows jujitsu and aikido and can beat the shit out of your Navy Seal brother with a pair of glowsticks) …

… but I’m actually quite The Stupette when it comes to talking about matters of the heart. Perhaps it’s because being a sucker for romance does not necessarily translate into being a sucker for love. Or maybe it’s really because I’d really rather talk about double-sided tape, ring-necked pheasants that go ‘RRRRR!’, and Sheryl Cruz than theorize about love and analyze relationships. Also, because my EQ hasn’t gone up a bit since I first discovered the joys of sleeping with boyfriends inhaling toluene six years ago, I still stand by— and am quite content with— the belief that relationships are all about legalizing libog.

I’ve come to learn how to take things at face value and I try my best to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground (and more importantly, my head completely out of the clouds), but since I’m an emotionally-easy emotional wuss, I do have my moments. Like when I’m watching Only You or The Holiday or Breakfast At Tiffany’s or listening to Total Eclipse of the Heart. All these emotions, though, can be swatted away with a bottle of rum (or sobriety. Sometimes), so I still win.

It’s been years since I was last in love, though Aa aka the best friend has contradicted this statement, claiming and insisting that I loved a certain DBS person I carried on a thing with for a year and eight months a couple of years back. Umm, HOW ABOUT NO? Too, I know that if one checks out the annals of this blog, there exists an entry where I wrote about my admitting to someone that I loved him.

The truth is, I was being an idiot and used the term ‘love’ to justify my idiocy, because everyone (translation: a lot of people and a much younger Helga) has this idea that love or being in love causes one to commit a variety of stupid things and/or think stupidly when really, love should be a case of for you I want to sing a happier song / for you I’m gonna try to right all my wrongs / for you I’m gonna break my bad habits, yes? At least initially.

So I conclude that since I have a penchant for forever making excuses (as shown in the first line of the previous paragraph) for all strong emotions (other than that of wanting to get shitfaced drunk on a Saturday night) that courses through this cold-blooded body of mine, and because I have this too ideal idea of love that exists only in select lines out of movies (an example: “But I am mad about Jose. I honestly think I’d give up smoking if he asked me” from Breakfast at Tiffany’s) … I conclude that there is a huge possibility that I’m going to live life emotionally frigid.

Because everything about me needs validation from other people:

Helga, texting the mancandy: *giddy giggling*
Chatty: In love!
Helga: Huhwhat?
Drew: Hindi noh, ganyan talaga yan.

Mancandy: If I weren’t so secure about myself, I’d be worried that you still haven’t told me you love me.

(or something like that)

…
What the fuck was this all about?

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LOVERS, RUM, AND BAD HABITS. AND VODKA. LOTS OF IT.

August 21, 2007 at 1:51 am | Filed under camwhorage, mr wonderful

So I was drunk the whole weekend. I haven’t had that much alcohol in a while and to prove just how plastered I was: I’ve got a ginormous bruise on my ass (and several smaller bruises on other various body parts) from apparently falling off a sidewalk into the street before crashing into a car. And then I broke my heel. AGAIN. My poor lovely red fuck-me pumps, I was going to rule the world with you.

Quick rundown of the weekend that was: nutty weather, “Green dress! Green dress! Green dress!”, Eric Kupper @ Embassy (!!!), “Pok-pok! Pok-pok! Pok-pok!”, pure Absolut (Jesus Christ), Grey Goose, eating two McDonald’s meals, sneaking in Aa, waking up (still drunk) in an empty bed with Aa going through my cabinet, and itching to drink again. Except I fell asleep.

Route 196, Session Road, PH 9.0 (my Saturday night accessory), Sol de Espana, an overpriced bottle of Tanduay (450 bucks? Are you fucking kidding me?), Lomos, chicken, nachos, lots and lots of pizza, waking up at the Meatshop, wondering what the hell Allah was doing at the Meatshop and why wasn’t she at work (that took a few moments to register), 7-11 morning alcohol run, beer, making Drew proud by not falling asleep and entertaining the guests, drunk texting the mancandy, and waking up just as the mancandy walked in.

“You’re so ta-LEN-ted”, Meatshop, more rum, friends, friends of friends, Sienna College girls, a bangus tattoo, Una Sikat, corporate phone messages, Helga Bear, and streetside camwhoring at 6am.

And now I feel like crap. Alcohol overload. I’d like a carton of Nativa, some fruit, and about 14 hours of sleep, please.

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TUESDAY MORNING RAMBLING.

May 8, 2007 at 9:36 am | Filed under Y!M conversations, mr wonderful, technicolor lover, the helga manual

Mr Supervisor (rather, Mr Former Supervisor But Still A Supervisor) came up to me (of his own volition, not because I needed help) towards the end of my shift and described me as “volatile” and asked if I’ve been good. That means I flip and flop between irate and calm. Intermittently bitchy agent? More like irascible because someone’s being an idiot. Of course, volatile can also mean I’m explosive (which is a sexy way of putting it). On the other hand, it can mean I’m unstable (I think we already know that).

It’s generally not a good idea for me to have crushes on people who are physically within my reach and whom I come into contact with on a daily basis, if only because I’m a ding-a-ling who has the scandalous habit of acting upon my crushes. My theory is that it comes with my age and that when I eventually mature, I’ll (finally) develop a sense of inhibition. At least I’m crossing my fingers that I will. Maybe when I’m 22.

Which reminds me: why is there nothing monumental or defining about turning 22? It’s just like turning 8 or 14 and very much unlike turning, say, 1 (because it means I managed to not annoy my parents for 12 months, so they decided not to smother me in my sleep or to leave me in a basket outside some rich spinster’s doorstep who actually hates children and will probably do something horrible to me. Like feed me to mice or give me to the manong mambobote); or 18 (when my folks were more than happy to serve my debutante-ness upon a fluffy pink and silver platter, begging not-necessarily-eligible bachelors to whisk me off to a life of domesticity. There were no takers, though, and I blamed it on the fact that I knew jackshit about doing the laundry, making sammiches or shining black leather shoes back then. So I proceeded to skill myself in those areas of housewifery, and also, to give good head).

So I don’t know, maybe I’ll make something out of turning 22. Something that isn’t asinine or sarcastic, like most of my goals are (my 2007 Game Plan is one exception— I’m dead serious about that). One thing’s for sure: I’d like to have more Me Time this coming year. Or no, not Me Time, since I get enough of that during my daily commute to and from work; just more Quiet Time. I’d like to not find myself in a tizzy come the weekend.

Or maybe what I need is More Time. Okay, so that brings my wishlist to include two things: A Tan and More Time. Also, the complete Nancy Sinatra collection, please. There, three.

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