Archive for technicolor lover
July 14, 2007 at 4:22 am | Filed under technicolor lover
Dear Mr Supervisor,
Let me start this by saying that I think you are major hotness. Now a lot of people would disagree with me on this. Truth be told, when I first confessed to a “good” friend that I had a crush on you, he shook his head in disbelief, poked my arm several times, and called my taste in men ‘disgusting’. Don’t worry and please, put that rusty serrated knife away. I know what he said stings, but you must understand that said “good” friend is gay and his last boyfriend cheated on him. Also, I sucked beaurocracy cock and had said “good” friend fired. For you.
But yes, you are hot. Unconventionally deliciously hot. But don’t get me wrong. What I feel for you is not lust; rather, it is something pure and true. You know, like how I feel for Taylor Hanson and Mark Herras? Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean you don’t cause a stirring in my loins whenever you pass my workstation and ever-so-lightly touch my shoulder. I do wish, though, that you’d stop holding my hand and smelling my hair and kissing my cheek “hello”, as I am a very carnal person and the last thing I wanna do is lose my control. So yeah, stop that.
No, please don’t. Your doing so gives me the giddies. And makes my heart soar. And inspires me to do something for the benefit of mankind. Like boycott the diamond industry. Or stop hissing at nuns. Or at least stop telling fat people to stop eating. I digress.
I also think you’re awesome, though a bit offbeat. I mean, what kind of person comes to the office when it’s his day off from work? Plus, you’re almost forty and you still do the rock-and-roll hand sign (with your tongue sticking out). And you have Bible study. LOL. But it’s your little quirks that make me swooooon. And I find it cute that you tried to write porn as a thirteen-year old, and it sucks that the only reason you stopped writing is cos your cousin and folks found your stories. But hope is not lost! It’s not too late to start writing again! WE! can make porn stories. TOGETHER!
Also, I wrote you a song:
You’re so fine
I want you mine
You’re so delicious
I think about ya all the time
You’re so addictive
Don’t you know what I could do to make you feel alright?
Don’t pretend I think you know I’m damn precious
And hell yeah I’m the motherfucking princess
I can tell you like me too and you know I’m right
Now I’m off to sue Avril Lavigne’s ass for plagiarizing my lyrics.
In love and Jesus Christ,
Amen
July 7, 2007 at 1:57 am | Filed under college rat, lists, technicolor lover
It finally hit me the other day that I’ve been out of college for a semester now. It feels longer, but only because I threw away my mom’s money by enrolling for a sem and not attending my classes. But let’s not go down that path.
There are a lot of things I miss about my college years, none of which are:
-partying and getting drunk as fuck on a school night and feeling guilty for missing all my classes the next day or
-getting drunk and dropping Stilnox the night before the first day of classes and sleeping through my first class and waking up to frantic messages on my phone from concerned blockmates worrying that I’ve flipped my education the middle finger in lieu of living a doped-up groupie life where I will get impregnated by a deadbeat has-been drummer in a matter of weeks and I’ll have to resort to selling my things on ebay to support my unplanned unborn child or
-getting shitfaced piss drunk on a school night and waking up two days later and feeling rejuvenated and good for a dazed two minutes before realizing that I missed two days worth of college and ‘holy shit, why am I naked and why don’t my room mates care?!’.
In short, here’s a semi-short list of worthwhile things I miss about college.
1. KAFE days. The epitome of crazy. This is when I discovered that reviewing for my Physics pre-lims while drinking San Mig Light mixed with Extra Joss with a straw from an ice bucket will result into my taking my pre-lims drunk and consequently my scoring the highest in the exam which will lead into my being exempted from said subject’s finals. The only one in my class, bitches. Also, I broke the sink in the ladies’ washroom with a bottle of Colt45. I wasn’t drunk, just angst-ridden. KAFE is also where I first and only experienced getting buzzed drinking cough syrup mixed with gin.
2. Starbucks. I know it sounds pretentious and shit, but I assure you: I was never that Miriam girl. You know, the kind who goes to Starbucks with five or eighteen of her friends and only one actually orders from the bar while the rest smoke their Winston lights and take photos of each other with their camera phones?
Starbucks was for late-night studying with a study buddy or two, each of us talking minimally. Armed with our highlighters, stacks of photocopied reading materials, and a “break book”, we’d nurse our coffees until the guard lowered the metal accordion gate. And then we’d stay a little bit more before trudging back to our respective homes, bothered by the thought that we didn’t get to cram in enough studying.
3. My classes. It may not seem so, but Miriam College is actually a pretty awesome college. A bit hard to digest, being sandwiched by UP and Ateneo and being an all-girls school whose population is mainly made up of airheads whom I’ve been told all look the same (I think the exact words were mga chicks ng Miriam pare-pareho itsura). But really, we have a competitive curriculum. Or so I was told by my department head when I was stressing during registration because the classes I needed to take that sem weren’t offered (and they were pre-reqs!) when they said last sem they were going to be offered. I remember being buddies with our school registrar and sharing our frustrations. “Your course keeps changing it’s curriculum every sem!” “I know! ‘Dynamic’, my ass, I need that Seminar on International and Regional Organizations class, damn it and where is eeeet!!!”
There was this one semester I was willing to commit suicide by taking up 29 units. The registrar approved my request, my department head yelled at me. For wanting to commit suicide. “You’re taking International and Globalized Economics this sem!”, she shrieked, waving my list of subjects in the air. “Do you think that’s an easy class?! Are you suicidal?!” I ended up with 21 units and a 4.5 in IGE when the semester ended. PS: 5 is the highest in our grading system.
4. Screwing up all the damn time.
5. Regidorm. A story: once upon a time, I had friends who lived in a room in a house on Regidor Street inside Varsity Hills. We named that house Regidorm. Every vacant period, droves of Miriam girls would walk up to the tricycle stand with one cry: “Manong, sa Regidor!” Trike drivers wondered: “Sorority house ba yan?” No, manong, it’s Regidorm, the house where we smoke our lungs out in the front yard, eat meal after meal ordered from Happy Homes, played old school Family Computer video games (Pooyan!) on some VCD-like console, and just generally had beautiful conversations with friends.
6. Ionamin and going 48 hours without sleep because a comprehensive analysis slash book report of The Communist Manifesto is due on the same day as my 27-hour community service for Theology class is. And I still had four hours to complete. Red Bull Light as my date for four consecutive Fridays because there was always something that required pulling an all-nighter for for my Saturday morning Comparative Foreign Policy class. Nights spent at Seattle’s Best Coffee’s airconditioned smoking area, reading Mark Hardt’s Empire from my ancient Toshiba laptop. Begging my Thesis groupmate for a half-hour break so I can go home to the dorm and take a quick nap. Waking up forty-five minutes later, jumping into the shower, standing under cold water, wrapping myself in a towel afterwards, and then falling asleep with my head leaning against my closet.
In other words, making like a zombie.
7. The standard philosophical and political ramblings that seem to be expected of and even natural to college students, but are just pretentious and can be downright laughable now. LIKE, SERIOUSLY. Retardation, incoherence, and Sheryl Cruz > Jean-Paul Sartre, Amartya Sen, Focault, and figuring out the meaning of life (the answer is 42). But it’s still something to be missed, like, loads cos back then I could, like, actually finish a whole conversation without sounding like a wannabe Valley Girl. Tubular!
That’s my abridged list. And now, a photo for posterity: because if there’s one thing I will never miss, it’s having to wear my uniform four times a week. Do you guys have ANY idea how hot it is under those clothes?
And today’s “This Gave Me The Happies!” conversation is still with Mr Supervisor:
Helga: Ang taba-taba ni -Mr Sup’s name-! *squeezes Mr Supervisor’s tummy*
Him: Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m working on it! *squeezes my tummy back* Nakakahiya, I might not be able to date Helga HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
:blush:
July 4, 2007 at 2:16 am | Filed under technicolor lover, urban primadonna
It’s easy to lose yourself in a city of 11 million people and I find it a pleasant surprise when I recognize a stranger in the crowd. Now I’m not one to romanticize something as casual and insignificant as realizing the girl going down the subway (lol) stairs in front of me happens to be the same girl who stood right next to me on the platform some days ago. I knew it was her without having to look at her face because she was holding a battered copy of Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club on both occasions. …Why do I feel like I’m the only one who ever notices these things?
It really cheers me up when I come across people who carry books with them while making their way through the city. The other day, I was on the train en route to work and the girl next to me was so absorbed in the book she was reading that I couldn’t resist being nosy. I leaned in a bit to get a look, haughtily expecting her to be reading some Mitch Albom or Mary Jo Putney kind of hogwash. So I was a bit impressed when I caught a glimpse of the cover: Michael Crichton’s The Andromeda Strain. You don’t expect that from your garden variety Filipino.
Anyways. I realize that I’ve come to enjoy taking the train to work because there’s something addicting about shamelessly watching people, and rush hour provides just the perfect setting for gawking. After more than a month of silently observing my fellow countrywomen, I have come to the conclusion that the general Filipina public is an…interesting bunch. It’s a curious thing, the way some of them smile sheepishly at no one in particular because someone beat them to a spot on the train bench. Or the way this one woman took out her handkerchief and ever-so-casually wiped at her sweaty armpits, as if it were the most natural thing to do in a train full of people. Or how some girls can lay out all their make-up on their laps and (for the lack of a better term) preen themselves in public. What Odds.
I’m suffering from reading ADD again. Last week, I was reading Peter S Beagle’s The Last Unicorn. Over the weekend, I started Neil Gaiman’s Don’t Panic: Douglas Adams & The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Yesterday morning, I came home to find the best friend’s copy of Candace Bushnell’s Lipstick Jungle on the bedroom floor. And I’m still not done with Marvin Harris’s Cows, Pigs, Wars, and Witches: The Riddles of Culture, and Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much Is True (which I started reading MONTHS ago and sort of forgot about when we moved into the condo).
And I’m behind my crossword puzzles.
Today’s “This Gave Me The Happies!” conversation is with Mr Supervisor:
Helga: Why are you here? Aren’t you off today?
Mr Supervisor: I don’t know, because I’m stalking you? HAHAHAHAHA!
(Seriously, though, he came from Bible study.)
May 18, 2007 at 9:29 am | Filed under a waste of human capital, camwhorage, technicolor lover
I originally was just planning on Twittering this, but it’s not short enough.
So liek ohmygah, Mr Supervisor held my hand. And it’s been more than four hours since, so I’ve calmed down a bit and the giddy schoolgirl feeling’s faded a little. But. Like. Oh. My. Gah.
As usual, I left work late— an hour after my shift ended. I stuffed all my things into my bag, cleared my desk, banged my head on my keyboard tray thrice (for a dash of drama), mumbled my good-byes to my co-workers, and shuffled past them. Mr Supervisor’s station (where he sits looking all sexy and squeezable) is right at the end of our quadrant, thus totally unavoidable. I smiled at him just as he looked up from his screen, cocked my head (because it’s cute to do so, I suppose) to the side and said my good-bye. He adjusted his headset, pushed his swivel chair back a bit, gently grabbed my left hand with his right hand and went:
…
…
…
“How are you going home?”
Mr Supervisor. Me. Holding hands. And yes, I admit to not being normal, cos I just stood there _holding his hand_ while I replied with a “I’m taking the bus”. Ya know. Just stood there instead of, I don’t know, rushing off to the washroom to lock myself in one of the cubicles so I could proceed to touch all my feminine spots with my left hand? Or something?
HE’S NOT EVEN CUTE!!! He’s just so big and meaty and so…attackable. Someone I can curl up to.
“You take care okay?” He squeezed my hand. I squeezed his hand back. And then slowly. Walked. Away. Like nothing special happened. While discreetly hugging myself.
No intertwining fingers, though. That would’ve been awkward. And creepy. Kinda.
Alsos. I am Kristina’s biggest fan at the moment. I don’t know how she does it, but she found a proxy server that works. For now, at least. So I’m still on the internets, huzzah!
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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Hi, my name's Helga Weber and welcome to my personal site. I'm 23. 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. 
