December 21, 2006 at 11:32 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, bitchin' a ride
It’s a fact that I hate to admit, but in Katipunan, tricycle drivers are kings. Those shitheads own not just the roads, but a huge chunk of your everyday Katipunan existence as well. And on days like today, I wish I were God (like, truly truly God) armed with an AK-47 and the legal right to open fire and headshot their sneering smirking heads to bits.
Today, I left the apartment at half past two in the afternoon with 21 Christmas cards in my bag. I took a jeep to get to the UP Post Office. Now UP is only SUPPOSED to be ten minutes away from Katipunan, but no thanks to the traffic, my plans of sending out those cards were foiled. The post office closes at 3. It doesn’t help that I haven’t been to the Diliman campus in MONTHS— I had this wild look in my eyes that screamed “I DON’T BELONG HERE!” and I just had to leave my cigarettes at home. I could be naked and fat in the middle of EDSA during rush hour, but hand me a lit cigarette and I can fucking strut the highway and make naked and fat look cool. Or the new black.
So anyway. I passed by Shoppersville to get some boxes and wrappers because ’tis the season for that. After dilly-dallying for half an hour, I leave the place and approach a parked tricycle. I give the driver my street name and my exact compound, he pauses and then asks how much I normally pay. 12 pesos, I say. Asshat starts reasoning out and for the nth time that day, I wish I had my cigarettes with me so I could’ve blown smoke into his face before I walked away. This cretin (a tricycle driver, too) who was sitting on the sidewalk next to his tricycle scoffed at my back: “12 pesos? For a pedicab, maybe!” Fucking idiot. You’re a trike driver, I live on lower, not upper Abada. KNOW THE FARE DIFFERENCE.
So off I walk to the tricycle terminal outside the dorm where I used to live. I stopped by the bank, drew out some cash, and as I walked past Rustan’s (the grocery), I hear someone calling my name. Not just one “Helga!” but many many Helgas. “Helga! Helga! HELGA!”
I turn my head and what do I see? A group of tricycle drivers sitting on a concrete stump with silly smiles pasted on their grimy city-tanned faces. My mind seriously froze. Like. Seriously. Froze. I was holding my phone because I had a message from Chuchubells and the words were a blur and for a few seconds, it was like my brain had forgotten how to string letters and words together. I approached a waiting trike, stared at the driver (who stared back) before I was able to go “Abada. *pause* Family Montessori. *pause*” And then I realized I actually had to get in, to get home.
I texted Chuchubells about the incident and he said that’s what I get for always walking along and around Katipunan. IT’S NOT LIKE I DO SO WEARING A FUCKING NAME TAG!
“Maybe I should change my name”, I told Allah when I got home. So from now on, my Katipunan screen name is MARY-KATE, okay? In front of tricycle drivers and tambays, I am NOT Helga; I am Mary-Kate.
Also, I’d just like to point out how much I hate office gossip. D texted me last Tuesday night, out of the blue, to say that he’s disappointed that he’s heard I’ve been talking trash about him. I replied with a “Don’t talk about you. Don’t even THINK about you.”
So last night, I was drunk, pissed off at Chuchubells, had downed three Vis, and had the brilliant idea to bitch at D. Don’t ask me what happened because my memory’s a bit fuzzy. Why are the Alabang people even talking about me, damn it.
December 17, 2006 at 3:53 am | Filed under joyful girl, technicolor lover
So seriously, I need help. Like every other unimaginative sort-of-relationshipped person out there, I seek your advice: WHAT DO I GET CHUCHUBELLS FOR CHRISTMAS?
Bitch is a Libran, with expensive taste. I’m thinking of getting him two gifts: one fun and/or kinky, one real and/or serious. I already know what to get him for fun: plain white boxers with my signature on it, because I’m a celebrity-wannabe like that.
For real/serious, up until twenty minutes ago, I already had a solid idea what to get him: a lava lamp. And then I remembered his collection of funky lights and lamps in his room, so I sent him a message asking if he already has one. HE DOES.
And now I’m back to square one.
HELP?
(We had our first fight last Friday night. He bit my ear, I cried. I kicked and punched him, my left thumb ended up with a dead nail. But that’s just foreplay for us, because we ended up doing it in the restaurant’s bathroom. Man, we were so drunk. Anyway, he started pissing me off, so I texted our boss who called me up and THAT’S what really pissed Chuchubells off. Long story short, we ended up doing it back in my room.)
December 5, 2006 at 11:02 pm | Filed under a waste of human capital, joyful girl, technicolor lover
It’s been a while. I was sick for one week and I’m all better now, thankyouverymuch. I’ve succumbed to being Boring, though, allowing my time to be consumed by work, sleep, getting drunk on rhum, and sex.
Last weekend, I sprained Chuchubells’s dick. It was funny. That’s what he gets for calling a ‘Sex Night’. But I weep at the aftermath: my bedsheets are still a crumpled mess, most of my clothes are still strewn all over my bedroom floor, and I have a three-week old bottle of apple C2 fermenting in my room. Yowza. Plus, my hamper is overflowing with laundry while my closet is slowly becoming devoid of clothes.
Oh! Oh! Oh! I got kicked out of my team (here at work) because I suck. November was a bad month for me, so I was put into Phoenix or PIP (Performance Improvement Program). And then my previous team’s supervisor switched from inbound sales to outbound, and guess who’s handling my previous team now? CHUCHUBELLS.
Had I not slacked off last month, this would be this month’s scenario:
Helga: I’m not going to work tonight.
CCB: Why?
Helga: I’m.. umm.. going.. uh.. drinking.
CCB: Drinking?! With who?! I’m not with you, no, you can’t be absent tonight!!!
So yeah, I officially like Chuchubells. I realized that when we were drinking with the Frenchies two Saturdays ago and Elton John’s Tiny Dancer was playing and he started singing along. And theeen, while dressing up to go out, I put on my knee-high fishnet whore stockings which freaked him out/pissed him off. He refused to get out of my bed/take my pillow off his head, and insisted that he’d rather go home or stay at my place than have me go out with prostitute legs :cute:.
People from work are starting to sense that something’s going on between us. It started with me wearing CCB’s jacket to work (a nondescript men’s company jacket) and then him being absent during my rest days and.. uh, our matching hickeys (how very grade school, I know). So much for keeping a low profile.
November 24, 2006 at 11:40 am | Filed under bitchin' a ride, technicolor lover
I’ve been in and out two hospitals this week alone. My diagnosis? AIDS and VD. Deadly combination. Folks, it’s terminal.
All right, so that isn’t funny at all. Truth be told, I have a bacterial blood infection, a bad case of UTI (which caused the blood infection and causes my on-and-off fever and chills), and lumbar strain. Now I’m stuck in the hills of Antipolo for the time being, under the not-so-watchful eyes of my parents (who insist on a rice bran and fruit diet), and DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DAYS OF WORK I’VE SKIPPED??? I’m bound to get, what, ten bucks on my next paycheck. No kidding.
And mehn, I’m all What-The-Fuck-ed Out. The first time I remember (cos mom says I used to come down with it all the time when I was a kid) getting UTI was at the nubile age of nineteen because I was banging this band’s drummer. Pissing razors, no fever, laid off the alcohol for a week, got better. The second time, my chud of an ex gave it to me. Again: pissing razors, no fever, could NOT lay off the alcohol so chugged down coconut juice and doubled my water intake, got better.
This third time? NO pissing razors. Fever. Chills. An actual, no, TWO actual trips to two different hospitals. IS IT BECAUSE I’M 21 AND NO LONGER ALLOWED TO BE YOUNG AND STUPID?
Rawr. Seriously, yesterday, I looked like some kid her mom literally dragged to the hospital. Board shorts, an old vintage tee (with little ipis holes!), flipflops, no make-up, and a messy ponytail. Ten minutes before leaving the house, I was curled up in bed going “Don’t wanna don’t wanna don’t wannaaaaaaaa! You can’t make meeeeee!” until mom got mad. LAWLZ.
Armed with my natural good looks and my good english skillz, I managed to face the bustling city looking like that. Over lunch, wearing that plastic patient bracelet and a cotton ball stuck to my inner elbow fold with hospital tape, I asked my mom: Wouldn’t it be awesome if I started coughing on people’s food?
Mom just laughed, yay, we’re friends again. We, like, totally bonded over Max’s chicken and kare-kare, and both agreed that my idiot of a cousin, Kiko, deserves death by horse-bukkake.
My meds set me back by a grand, and I feel guilty referring to the new boytoy as…well, ‘new boytoy’. So from now on, he is Chuchubells on here, okay?
Chuchubells was the one who convinced and brought me to the hospital four days ago. Ain’t that sweet. It don’t matter if he ain’t cute like D is, yo, he’s super nice, filthy rich, hooks me up with my needed social drugs, and drinks more than I do.
November 19, 2006 at 5:05 am | Filed under breaking up the girl, technicolor lover, the single girl phenomenon
I don’t want to wax emoetic over the fact that D just dumped me last night, three hours before my shift for work. Boyfriend is in Galera right now, and after two days of being incommunicado, he finally texts me. What we had was awesome, but hey, let’s stop blah blah blah. I told him I always kept my end of the bargain (kinda), and that I respect his decision, but I’m not about to be friends with him.
And that I don’t know which is sadder: the possibility of me never having good sex again, or that I’ve finally lost him :cute:. But enough about that. Let’s quote one of my favorite break-up songs: LiLo’s Over (by the way, I’ve reconstructed my Oh Well— WHAT WASTED UNCONDTIONAL LOVE!— playlist to include some RnB songs for major heartbreak. Oh why did I have to fall for a man who listens to RnB).
I watch the walls around me crumble, but it’s not like I won’t build them up again.
I realized over coffee, cigarettes, and the Oh Well playlist that I’m capable of getting even without getting mad first. In a demented and masochistic way, of course. Running to his ex and spilling the beans (oh, did I mention? They broke up last week) isn’t something I’d do— that’s, like, totally B-class you-slept-with-my-boyfriend-you-slut! drama; and I’m all for the bitch-slut-whore-you-slept-with-my-friend!!! kind of thing. B+ drama, what’s up.
In other news, I fell down the stairs last Thursday and sort of sprained my lower back and my left arm. The new boytoy and I were supposed to go out for drinks Friday night, but I was too plastered from lunch (I kidnapped one of my co-workers and made it my mission to turn her into a Southern version of me. Translation: Project “Let’s Make Vida An Alcoholic”. We started drinking at 12 noon) and had to take a nap to prep myself for another night of fun social casualties. I woke up Friday night with MAJOR CHILLS, like mehn, my teeth hurt so much from chattering non-stop for two hours.
The spoiled brat in me kicked in— boytoy offered to take me to the hospital the next day (after WE have OUR car carwashed), which turned into “Do you want me to bring you to the hospital right now?”, to which I replied with an “Are you fucking kidding me, can’t you see it HURTS to even move my toes right now???”
He got me out of my miniskirt and put me in sweats, socks, and his jacket. Basically, his “I’m gonna rape you tonight” statement turned into “I’m getting you medicine, and you better eat something”.
Oh, and I’m at work. I refuse to take more paracetamol and mefenamic acid, because I am aiming for the clinic to send me home by lunch. So I can sit in my Vortex, smoke a pack of Marlboro Reds, and listen to the Oh Well playlist.
I won’t be the one to chase you, but at the same time you’re the heart that I call home.
:cry:
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. 
