Archive for the helga manual
February 19, 2008 at 5:22 am | Filed under ditz drivel, the helga manual
I’ve never been one to plan for the future, nor have I been one to speculate on what I’ll be X months or years from now. I always kind of didn’t like it when people would ask me about my future plans. Where do you see yourself 5-10 years from now? Where do you see yourself IN THIS COMPANY 5 years from now? What do you hope to achieve 6 months from now? Stuff like that. I always manage to say something stupid like “I don’t know, married with 3 kids all belonging to different fathers, two dogs named Big Boy and Come Boy, four cats named Stupsi, Machiavelli, Piggy, and Love&Kisses Mandy, and a boytoy on the side?” (answer to the first question) or “I don’t know, NOT HERE, I guess? Otherwise, sleeping with the boss?” (answer to the second question) or “I don’t know, hopefully not be 80 pounds overweight and maybe develop a drug habit or an addiction to beautiful things like gasoline rainbows?” (answer to the last question). Stuff like that.
It’s pitiful, really, but it’s how I get by. Because quite honestly, unless it concerns what I’m having for breakfast tomorrow, I suck at planning for the future.
So it’s a mystery how I get from one place to another (otherwise known as going from one sucky situation to a suckier one, because that’s how my life is, basically), considering that I don’t plan. If you really must know, though, movement in my life is brought about by me painting myself into a corner or by me eliminating all options but one (the GET THE FUCK OUT option). Oddly enough, it works. Of course, that’s not the point of this entry.
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February 8, 2008 at 3:24 pm | Filed under ditz drivel, lists, the helga manual
Valentine’s Day is nearing and for some reason, I feel slightly compelled to write an entry relating to the occasion. I’m not about to bitch about my lacking a physical Valentine this year (much like last year) because despite the fact that I’m often single (though involved…a situation that sucks more than being just plain single) whenever February 14 comes around, I’m still a big fan of the day. Which I spend celebrating my love for friends. All together now: Sige, maglokohan tayo, Helga.
Given that, I am severely lacking experience when it comes to Valentine’s Day dates. But I’ve had my fair share, and so because blogging about how sad I am gets old fast (and quite honestly, I don’t want to wallow; coping and getting back to happy mode comes to me almost automatically, much like the way I move cards around in a game of Free Cell: I just click click click and before I know it, Mr King’s telling me I just won. Again. Fuck, what was I saying. I don’t want to wallow. There), I give you my five worst Valentine’s Day dates EVER (#5 being the lesser nightmare, #1 being an example of why drunk girls should never make very drunken and bad and stupid decisions to go out with dudes who ask them out two days before Valentine’s Day. YEAH, WE ALL KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING).
5 -
4 -
3 -
2 -
You think I’m stupid (and most likely drunk as I am typing this), but I’m trying to prove a point here. Also, I’m saving you time.
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January 8, 2008 at 6:22 pm | Filed under Y!M conversations, mr wonderful, the helga manual
Despite looking like your average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina adult who you’d think, at first glance, most likely spends her time doing average run-of-the-mill wouldn’t-know-better good-for-nothing Filipina stuff— I actually don’t. Or I’m actually not. Or: I’m actually not and I actually don’t.
It’s been pointed out several times by lover that I am not normal (actually, not just not normal but far from normal) and that I should be taking steps towards normalcy. And I am working on that, and anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: at the risk of being laughed at or having your respect levels for me plummet to -19, I’d like to come clean and say that I. Have a thing. For armpits.
All along, I thought having an armpit fetish was an acceptable thing. Until today:
WEIRDING OUT SOMEONE WHO LIKES TALKING DIRTY TO HIS PENIS. :(
KILI-KILI = ARMPITS
This thing for armpits began some time ago when I saw a picture of Jerry Yan wearing a sleeveless top for a Pepsi endorsement. Instead of saying the usual “Patingin ng titi!” (trans: your penis, show me it), I got so…interested in his armpits and his armpit hair that I said “PATINGIN NG KILI-KILIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!” (trans: I could have sex with your ampits if you showed me it).
I never actively pursued my men’s armpits, though, and it wasn’t a non-negotiable when it came to whether or not this guy would make a qualified partner in bed. Truth be told, only two of my exes had armpits yummy enough that made me want to pitch a tent in them and live there forever. One of them was 6′3″ and the other used to fight— professionally. So to say, they had (uhhh) big and (uhhh) very accomodating armpits that doubled as a pillow because back then, all I had was a tiny single bed that could hardly fit two people.
(Dear Lover,
Please remember that like you, your armpits are #1.
Love,
Helga)
Lover’s armpits are another story, though. They’re not big, they’re not very accomodating, and quite frankly, they’re a couple of snobs. But I have never EVER met a pair of sexier snobs in my life. It can be said that I’m nearing the state of being obsessed. Lover didn’t sleep over the other night and I woke up to a dream of him showing me his armpits. So imagine my disappointment when I opened my eyes, rolled to my side, and saw not a sexy hairy armpit waiting to be kissed or have my nose buried in it, but empty space. I almost cried.
Having an armpit fetish is a dangerous thing for someone who hardly has any sense of privacy or for someone who is lacking inhibitions, both of which can be said of me. It’s also mighty embarrassing for lover that I am or have all three. Several times it has happened that we’re in a public place and I automatically reach up his sleeve to tuck my hand into his armpit. It’s something I do out of habit and as sort of like a replacement for a kiss or a hug.
Of course, lover had to analyze the shit out of it and kill it for me by saying that showing affection for armpits in public is actually a gesture more intimate than a kiss; posing questions such as “would you greet your friend by touching their armpits?” and “would you kiss your friend’s armpits?”. The answers to both questions are an obvious no…although there was this one time that Aa was passed out and drunk in my bed and I had to move her and she wouldn’t budge, so I bit her armpit— that doesn’t count, though, because I did it out of necessity, not because I had the desire to.
I’m curious: is armpit-touching in public something you actually notice? I know that no one sane would consider it acceptable public behavior (same goes for loudly commenting on your partner’s ass— something that I, once again, am guilty of), but is it something that would grab your attention if you see strangers doing it?
Helga: I’m blogging about your armpits.
Lover: You’re kidding me.
Helga: Nope. Lol.
Lover: Aww baaaaayb, lol.
Helga: They’re so sexy kasi eh hmp.
Lover: Fine. I’ll blog about your singit.
December 21, 2007 at 2:25 am | Filed under the helga manual
HEY THERE BOYS AND GIRLS! IT’S FOUR DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS! FOUR DAYS BEFORE SANTA SHOWS HIS FACE IN TOWN!!! WHO’S EXCITED???
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!
HO HO HO HO! I WANT ME SOME HO HO HO HOES!
I didn’t come up with a Christmas wishlist this year (I don’t think I came up with one last year, either) and I’m not about to. Instead, I bring you:
HELGA’S LIST OF THINGS NOT TO GIVE HER IF YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT GIVING HER THINGS BUT ARE OUT OF IDEAS SO LISTEN HERE’S A LIST OF THINGS NOT TO GIVE HELGA THIS CHRISTMAS (OR ON HER BIRTHDAY OR ON VALENTINE’S DAY OR ON ANY DAY):
#1: Useless Figurines
One of the things I will never understand is why people give out figurines as gifts. I admit, though, that when I was ten, I gave my mom an angel magnet resin for Christmas (my dad threw it away because figurines have little demons behind them, just like the statues of Mother Mary and Santo Nino you have on your altars at home have little satans and demons crouched behind them, too. And when you pray to them during Angelus or before bedtime, you’re actually praying to the demons. Oh yes. I had nightmares about a Mother Mary figurine killing me in my sleep. But he broke it— the angel magnet— into a million little pieces first. In front of me) and that was during her Imma-collect-all-the-angels-in-heaven-and-put-them-on-this-shelf-beside-the-living-room-TV phase. They’re despicable cutesy things that do nothing but gather dust, and the only purpose they hold (that I can think of) is as paperweight. And quite honestly, I use random objects like my foot to pin paper to the surfaces I choose to put them on. Or a mug. And speaking of mugs…
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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?)
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?
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. 
