MINI-PLAN.

November 8, 2007 at 1:38 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, mr wonderful

Helga: So Allah and I were talking about you this morning and we both agreed that you’re *mahinhin.
Lover: WHAT?!
Helga: -nods- Yup.
Lover: I’m mahinhin?! I got you in bed the first night!

(Posted here to publicly announce that lover is a stud and not a *girly boy)

SO ANYWAY. In a random yet blazing moment of clarity that hit me at a little before 9pm, Monday night— while shoveling some korean chicken barbecue and rice into my mouth and thinking about the bibingka I was going to have for dessert, mind you. It’s awesome how my brain multi-tasks— I realized: it’s about time I seriously leave this job and this industry. And when I say ‘seriously’, it means with genuine, earnest intent.

But first: rack up some qualifications and take formal courses on whatever it is I wanna do. And then I can start being a normal person. But first, I shall look at these loose diamonds.

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NORMALCY: I WILL HAS IT.

November 6, 2007 at 2:36 am | Filed under mr wonderful, the helga manual

Last Saturday was horrendous: not only did lover drag me to Jaipur, he also forced me to wear a bra. What a cruel, I know. That, however, is not the point. Early into the night, as we were seated at Jack’s, lover asked why I was being “so quiet”. Not wanting to confess that I had been thinking about WarBook and cephalopod footprint fossils and counting bases and eggshells ON A SATURDAY NIGHT OUT WITH HIM, I merely gave him a shrug and said that I was getting impatient waiting for my drink. After more minutes of silence from me, he asked if I could see myself interacting with the other girls who were at the table with us.

I looked at the girls (still thinking about WarBook and cephalopod footprint fossils and counting bases and eggshells), looked at lover, looked down at my hands, and then looked back at lover. I sheepishly shook my head ‘no’.

He laughs, quite condescendingly, then proceeds to tell me that I’ve been corrupted by my flatmates. And that I’m no longer normal.

ME, WITHOUT MY WIG & MAKE-UP, HANGING OUT IN THE BATHROOM.

Now the thing is, I am very aware that my friends and I are one dysfunctional bunch and that we tend to influence each other’s behaviors and personalities more than we care to admit. But I see myself to be the normalest and most reserved among us because unlike them, I still have my inhibitions. Thus, I am actually normal…when compared to them.

This doesn’t really pose as a problem because save for lover, they’re the only people I hang out with anyway. I’ve long given up on trying to make friends out of my co-workers (those people who give me blank stares and surreptitiously shuffle away whenever I say hi to them) and all my college friends seem to be pretty determined not to invite me to their little collegy reunions for fear that I might do something not normal and embarrass them. I mean Christ!— four years have passed since I humiliated Clem at her 18th birthday party by chasing her around barefoot and shrieking “Titi! Titi!”. Get over it and forgive me?

Moving forward, I like to lead myself into thinking that I’ve hit the jackpot with my current friends. Not only are they totally cool and amazingly intelligent people, they also fill the two qualifications I need in friends: one, they have to be borderline alcoholics; two, they have to live in my area. Yup, I’m happy with my pals. But being told by the person you love (and who supposedly loves you) that you’re NOT normal? It kinda makes you stop, think, and re-assess.

So when I woke up on Sunday, it was with great resolve that I shall be normal. Or attempt to be normal. After failing to bug the lover to a state of consciousness (because I was bored on a Sunday morning and needed someone to talk to), I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and started making a mental list of steps to take towards normalcy. I named the list “STEPS TO TAKE TOWARDS NORMALCY”.

Twelve seconds later, it hit me that normal people don’t do what I was doing.

Feeling guilty for failing so quickly, I went back to bed and prayed. I figured that that’s what normal people do on Sundays. And then I carried on with my list:

STEPS TO TAKE TOWARDS NORMALCY (rough draft)

1. I will stop speaking LOLkittynese. There is nothing more not normal than bad grammar and misspelling such basic words like ‘why’ (whai), ‘like’ (liek), ‘there’ (thurr), and ‘liar’ (lier).

2. I will not be pre-occupied by WarBook 95% of the time. Not only is it unhealthy, it’s just so…geeky, and in a bad way. The other day, I impulsively gave lover a hug and instead of telling him how sexy he is, I said: “WARBOOK!!!!”

3. Find a new less-shitty and worth-the-stress-and-exhaustion job.

(Huh, where’d that come from? Look, emergency evacuation!)

4. No more cracking jokes that only cause people to stare at me in horror. I will normalify my sense of humor and never again shall I think that randomly inserting Sheryl Cruz into a conversation is funny.

And that’s my super short list. I know it’s not much, but I’m kinda not sure if having a list with more than four items in it is normal?

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SO I KNOW.

October 11, 2007 at 10:53 pm | Filed under joyful girl, mr wonderful, the helga manual

So I don’t know, I guess this is me dealing quickly and getting over the initial giddiness of it all. No, it’s not me treating it as if it were some sort of novelty, because it’s not. It’s actually very “rock and roll!!!” as what Mr Supervisor would say, and did say. To put it in my own words, it’s all…lovely yet puzzling (because I’m not as consumed by it as I was in the past, maybe). And I’m actually quite surprised that I didn’t start nitpicking the whole thing and tearing it apart, like, three seconds after. All right, I admit: I did. But I did myself a favor and told myself to save it for another day.

So I don’t know, this is me typing fast and typing fast whatever comes to mind. When I was 17, I had an I-could-love-you-comma-the-whole-of-you (his words to me) kind of thing with this guy who told me to write in red and edit in white. Red anger, white anger. It made a lot of sense back then, until things turned sour between us and I realized that there was nothing to be angry (or sad. Just regretful) about. And now I’m typing fast and not editing and it’s not out of anger. I actually think it’s the sugar or the caffeine or this insane sense of urgency of wanting everything to happen all at once. And maybe or definitely something more.

So I don’t know, I’m trying to unlearn certain habits and certain character flaws that are totally manageable and ditchable if only I weren’t such a pussy or if only I weren’t so overprotective of myself. It’s not something that I can help, especially when this past year or so, people (who know and barely know me) have been telling me to “guard your heart”, “leave something for yourself”, “don’t settle”, “steel bars to the chest!” and other variations of the same thought. Not like I really needed to be told those things, as I’m the sort of person who can easily dismiss things and emotions and people…and that’s, like, really bad. I’ve been meaning to get rid of the self-absorbed brat in me, but it’s kinda difficult when being emotionally distant is one’s defense mechanism.

So I don’t know, it’s an amalgam of a bunch of emotions that I don’t know where the hell they came from and that I’m not used to and I feel like I’m thisclose to throwing in the proverbial towel because I can’t deal or I’m not sure that I want to deal with it. It’s rrrreally scary because the last thing I want is to hurtle through this and not be in control of…things.

So I don’t know, it’s funny— at the same time, I find myself not caring if I lose control and I don’t mind that it’s something bigger than I am. Nope, not at all. I feel like a schoolgirl, giggly and giddy. And then I feel bad for being such a ditz. And then I feel bad because it feels like I’m playing a game. And then I feel worse because I tell myself that I should be playing a game. To protect myself. But what’s there to protect myself from? It’s love! It’s my red hot beating heart, skipping a beat and beating faster! But my heart is an idiot, I remind myself. But it’s love! And the thought of him loving me, too— even if I don’t feel it (because I’m taking things at face value), even if I don’t feel it as much as I want to feel it (because I’m taking things at face value), even if I refuse to feel it— makes me feel tingly and lightheaded and happy and candy sprinkles-y.

So I don’t know, sometimes I feel bad because I don’t know what this is or what I’m getting into and for feeling like it’s not enough. Years ago, I cried through most of Wong Kar Wai’s 2046 because the movie hit too close to home. There’s this line from the movie: Love is a matter of timing. It’s no good meeting the right person too soon or too late. I just realized yesterday what Phil realized two years ago: it’s not love that’s a matter of timing, but relationships. It works perfectly for me.

So I don’t know, I’m also a bit sad and paranoid and I’m chalking that up to eventual saudade and something else I can’t quite put my finger on and maybe I’m just being silly (silly, not stupid), feeling the need to be like Sylvia: 1 — I will not overwhelm him by breathless over-enthusiasm. 2 — I will not throw myself at him physically. 3 — I will be moderate, yet intense and interested. In a way, this is me pre-empting myself because the whole situation is suspiciously like this Gavin DeGraw song which kinda sucks, so I’ll just shrug it off and quote a line from my favorite DeGraw song, instead: You’re so hypnotic on my heart.

So I don’t know, this is kinda nice. Loved (not just fucked!) incoherent. Loving incoherently.

I guess I was wrong when I thought: hey, this is weird, I’m not so consumed.

EDIT.
STEEL: It’s nice to know you’re starting to better understand and get a hold of your feelings. You’re not a heartless wench like I used to think you are after all.
STEEL: Ditz translation: GHEIZ00R

Which got me thinking: what is this GHEIZ00R that Satan Steel speaks of? So I checked the dictionary and found this visual definition:

Cool.

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TOP OF THE WORLD-ISH.

October 10, 2007 at 12:52 am | Filed under joyful girl, mr wonderful

Photo courtesy of BatDesignz.

It’s a bit foreign and scary and loads perplexing, but I’m amazed and pleasantly surprised. Who would’ve thought?

Someone emotionally-available, for a change.

Edit//
FORGIVE ME IF THIS ENTRY REEKS OF GAY, AS STEEL (whom I will defenestrate the next time I see him) POINTED OUT:

Steel aka Man. Rude. Evil.: Someone from the past. And WTF is up with your new blog post? It reeks with GAY!

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WEEKENDS MADE OF WIN.

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

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. This company also needs better office furniture.

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