A TIMELINE OF SORTS.

July 22, 2008 at 7:47 pm | Filed under joyful girl, mr wonderful, technicolor lover, the helga manual

Age 5: Kindergarten 2 Helga’s defining moment of the whole school year is her going up to the chalkboard and correctly solving the math problem in front of her peers (who were most likely not paying any attention at all). She may be incapable— at the age of 23— to count past a hundred, but she will always know that 2+3=5.

Age 7: Helga comes to terms with the fact that she will never be a Little Miss Philippines, a gymnast, a ballerina, or Candy Candy.

Age 8: Helga comes to terms with the fact that she will never be Wendy, surrogate mother to the Lost Boys, either. Makes a conscious effort to stop forcing herself to fly “in her sleep”.

Age 10: Physical Ed. She does 86 sit-ups and pwns everyone in her class— girls and boys.

Helga: We had to do sit-ups for PE. I did 86 sit-ups. I pwnd everyone
Lover: hahhaha. I used to be able to do 100 upside down. 4 sets of 25.
Helga: O YA? HOW OLD WERE YOU?!?!?!?!?!
Lover: yeah. Hmm…18? I had mad abs hehe
Helga: I WAS 10! WHEN I DID 86 SIT UPS!
Lover: Hehehe. Fine!

Age 11: Helga falls in love for the first time with a boy named Taylor Hanson.

Age 12: She kicks a boy in the nuts because he was talking smack about Hanson TO HER FACE!! Discovers the internet; she finds it awesome.

Age 17: Moves to the big city. Loses five pounds during her first week of college, prompting relatives to ask if she’s doing drugs. Spends a lot of nights hanging out at her neighborhood Starbucks, walking home at two in the morning with her male best friend from high school. While walking, they’d create lines of poetry that they’d yell at the moon.

Age 17.5: Male best friend from high school admits to her he’s gay. There is finally hope for her to be a fag hag fruit fly.

Age 18: Gay male best friend from high school drops out of college and moves back to the boonies. Helga starts dating and sleeping with the wrong and worst kind of men, but not as the result of.

Age 19: Spends the whole first semester of her junior year a drunken stoned mess. Is still dating and sleeping with the wrong and worst kind of men, the result and cause of.

Age 20: At a hundred and five pounds and looking wonderfully wanarexic skinny (yet needing a steady supply of blemish acne cream for the pimple farm on her forehead), she flips the nightmare that is her Little-Thesis-That-Could-But-Wouldn’t the middle finger. Makes the biggest mistake of her life. Is still dating and sleeping with the wrong and worst kind of men.

Age 21: Is still dating and sleeping with the wrong and worstest kind of men.

Age 22: Helga sets a record and goes through four men in less than four months. Man #5 comes along and she falls in love.

Age 23: Remedies the mistake she committed at age 20 by getting a normal job. Life, it is wonderful.

=)

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A LOL-EX.

April 6, 2008 at 2:02 pm | Filed under bitchin' a ride, technicolor lover

If there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s recycling men. Sure, whenever I go through a break-up, there’s always that initial phase of bitching and moaning and pining— for a few days or weeks, I turn into a Lindsay Lohan song-quoting pile of woe-is-me self-destructive idiot (and no! I am not ashamed to admit I listen to LiLo!). Because really, no matter how big a dick the now-ex is or was, break-ups always hurt and it’s the kind of hurt that could only be cured by, let’s see, the now-ex waltzing back in to your life after realizing he was being such a stupo for ending things with you.

But really, once the opportunity for reconciliation presents itself, I run. Away. Okay, so maybe it’s more like a few unsure baby steps towards the opposite direction, before breaking into a sprint. But yes, you get the idea.

For those of you who have been following this blog since Day 1 (I’m looking at you, Tracy, teehee) and are still able to recall— what with all the somewhat shoddily documented accounts of my men here (huh)— that dude known as D is back. For the third time.

It’s absolute LOL material, now that I’m done being pissed off at not being taken seriously and at his arrogance. I would never have imagined a 6’3″ man can be as pitiful and desperate as this. His latest message, sent an hour ago, is one of those recycled SMS messages:

“I hate the time before I go to sleep…Because that’s when the thoughts I’ve been trying to avoid…start to linger…”

I haven’t been replying to his messages since Friday night, but I’m tempted to reply to this one with a “LULZ. Eh di mag-shabu ka.”

Has anyone ever had an unwanted ex come back into their life and act as if everything was just peachy?

I’d like to stab him with some promotional pens.

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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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Oh, Friday Random

August 10, 2007 at 4:01 am | Filed under ditz drivel, made in the Philippines, technicolor lover

For no apparent reason, I am reminded of this time the best friend and I took on Pampanga on our own. Armed with bikinis, two days’ worth of clothes, Valium, and each other’s company (all you need in life, but throw in some cigarettes and rum in there) we made our way to a provincial bus station, sat in the front of an ordinary bus (so we could smoke during the two-hour ride) and started badgering the driver to leave. But anyway, not the point.

So this security guard comes up, stands on the steps in front of us, and starts trying to get me admit that I was Yasmien Kurdi from Starstruck. Or just anyone from Starstruck/a celebrity. And then the guard does the laughable: he pulls out a wallet-sized photo of him, hands it to me, and asks for my autograph.

Several levels of weird and crazy right there. Tell me this doesn’t only happen in the Philippines.

I’m feeling extremely irritable and territorial today and I’m trying my bestest to suck it up and remain pleasant. So I’m calling forth happy thoughts, such as how Mr Supervisor likened me to Avril Lavigne: like a strawberry milkshake with a shot of tequila. Amusing.

This is a couple of weeks late (and for good reason): haha. Mr Supervisor reads my blog. Now, the face-palm awkward are-those-crickets-I-hear? moment only lasted, like, a day. It’s the omg-my-world-is-getting-smaller feeling that took longer to shake off. But what’s really a bother is the whole oh-noes-I-can’t-blog-about-how-hot-he-is-today-in-that-red-sweater-of-his-and-other-stories thing. See, I can’t even write properly anymore.

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WENDY VS PETER PAN.

August 2, 2007 at 5:18 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, technicolor lover

I won’t go into details anymore (as I am sorely aiming to keep my calm and do things in an ordered, adult-like, and legal manner) about the “little spat” I had with my landlord yesterday morning. Just thinking about the whole thing puts me in a terrible I-wanna-Shabak-technique-somebody mood. Because you do not talk to a person you do business with that way. You do not start a conversation by yelling at a person and you do not continue the conversation still yelling at the person when she has been nothing but cool-headed and civil all throughout.

Insert giant soothing sigh here.

Argh. Sometimes I wish I could run to my folks and have them sort out things for me, but all I’d probably get from them is a good verbal shellacking and yet another attempt to lure me back home to Antipolo. In a situation like this (I am SO fed up, like really), I just might pack all my stuff and move to the mountains to live a life of daily hugs and kisses from mom, dad, and The Creatures— something I haven’t had since I was 16. But no. I am not a kid anymore; I will handle this and I will figure this out myself. With the help of Allah, of course. And Allah’s sue-happy lawyer, yay!

And sometimes, I wish I still had it in me to fight dirty. Being a grown up is no fun. You have to deal with and go through all these trivialities, legalities, and niceties and bore yourself with the black-and-whites of things.

It’s odd how Katipunan failed to work its magic on me. This place is Neverland— people don’t grow up here. Sure, we all eventually get out of college and leave our sheltered middle-class upbringings to make like modern day proletariats and all that jazz. But we remain like college kids all our lives. BAH. I don’t know what I’m getting at. I guess this is me taking a serious stab at adulthood (and being repeatedly bitchslapped by it).

As a shining example of how unprepared I really am to take on adult responsibility: …HEE. My Starbucks barista crush remembers me. It’s been MONTHS since I last went to our building’s Starbucks and I was pleasantly surprised to find out that he was still working there. Nevermind that getting my coffee made me three minutes late for work. I’m, like, still swooning here: someone else had taken my order and when I gave my name for the cup, barista crush flashed me a smile and went “Oh hey, it’s Helda! (grumble) It’s been so long!” It’s the braces, man. The Braces.

Pffft. It’s such a schoolgirl thing to be attracted to.

You know what’s a funny term? Grand total. It makes me giggle. And rv camping.

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