I’m slowly returning to my 18/19-year old self, and what worries me is that this whole getting drunk as fuck every night doesn’t make me feel guilty or bother me at all. It’s like I’m actually okay with it.

I passed out last Friday and skipped work. An unauthorized absence, so the shift manager told my team leader to slap a memo on my ass. That ruins my chances of getting promoted in three months. And you know what? I’mglad for this CITE form: it made the decision for me. I’m resigning, really. I’ve been hesitant if I actually wanted to leave this company, what with the opportunities, but come on: my lifestyle requires a fatter paycheck. And right now, I don’t care about climbing the call center career ladder; I just need a bigger disposable income.

It’s cowardice: fucking up on purpose so I won’t have to make a decision.

Halloween’s coming!, let’s dress up as farmers! And OMG, so we’re moving to the new house in less than three weeks and we’re throwing a wedding-themed hosuewarming party. But.. but.. come on, it’s Halloween. We should have a costume barbecue party, don’t you think (yeah, we <3 barbecues)!!!

From: Weber, Helga Gabrielle
To: Plazo, Bryan Del

Subject: on why I was absent last Friday (and other stories)

Yan,

I was unable to make it to work last Friday due to the following reasons:

• No thanks to the typhoon and lousy engineering (which rendered my windows and ceiling useless in keeping the wind and rain out), my condo unit was flooded with…well, rain water. I had to move out of my room into an extra room (provided to me by the building management), which unfortunately still held the belongings of the previous occupant (a Blue fanboy with a vast collection of gossip magazines, a Sam Milby album, a cheerleading outfit, and lots and lots of smelly laundry). Suffice to say, the room was highly uninhabitable.

• No thanks to the typhoon (again!!!), our building (and the whole of Katipunan Avenue) lost electricity and water. I live on the fifth floor, and I once almost died going down the stairs when I slipped on a puddle of water. There were lights on when this incident happened. There weren’t any lights last Thursday night/Friday early morning. My phone had died some hours before my shift (roughly around nine pm) so I was unable to check if anyone near my area had electricity and running water, so I could bum some bath water and toothbrush water.

In summary, I was unable to report to work last Friday for two reasons: 1) my condo unit was flooded; 2) no water + no electricity = smelly employee.

Thanks,
Helga Gabrielle Weber

I need not mention in the e-mail that more than half of the fifth-floor tenants (which includes me) convened in Alon’s room to drink the typhoon away. So yes, I was substantially drunk when Melenyo fucking WRECKED my condo unit. The typhoon abracadabra-ed a river in our hallway. A lake, my floor. And a poltergeist, my ceiling. It was crazy.

And I shit you not about Blue fanboy (whose room we have christened L’hotel Orphanage). He has a clearbook filled with Blue paraphernalia and a shitload of magazines that kept us entertained for two light-less, fan-less, TV-less, and water-less days.

FRIDAY NIGHT, WE CHECKED INTO A HOTEL BECAUSE WE COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. WE WERE SUICIDIAL (well, I was) AND RABID BECAUSE THE PHONELINES WEREN’T WORKING. WE WERE READY TO CHECK OURSELVES INTO A HOSPITAL IF WE COULDN’T FIND A VACANT HOTEL ROOM, THAT’S HOW DESPERATE WE WERE.

Saturday, we clean our rooms. We drinky-winky while doing so, if only to escape reality a bit. I was visibly buzzed by the time I was bringing my things back into my dry room. I conk out at 11am…

…And wake up at 9am the next day (Sunday). An hour into a game of Free Cell, Allah comes home from work and we open a bottle of rhum.

You know what, I’m gonna shut up now and just say it:

D AND I ARE OVER.

And so I bring you Sad/Angry Girl Anthem #1:  

Just tell me what you’ve got to say to me,
I’ve been waiting for so long to hear the truth,
It comes as no surprise at all you see,
So cut the crap and tell me that we’re through.

Now I know your heart, I know your mind,
You don’t even know you’re being unkind,
So much for all your highbrow Marxist ways,
Just use me up and then you walk away,
Boy you can’t play me that way.

Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.

When I saw my best friend yesterday,
She said she never liked you from the start,
Well me, I wish that I could claim the same,
But you always knew you held my heart.
And you’re such a charming handsome man,
Now I think I finally understand,
Is it in your genes?, I don’t know,
But I’ll soon find out, that’s for sure,
Why did you play me this way?

Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.

Well I guess what they say is true,
I could never spend my life with a man like you,
I could never be your woman.

-YOUR WOMAN, WHITE TOWN

I’m tired. Why must The Last Goodbye be so irresistible for moments like these, when we know it’ll only make us cry.

PS: I came in for work, turns out I DON’T have work today.

PPS: My tita bought me a laptop, I’m getting it when her friend comes here to the Philippines.

PPPS: I’m gonna be okay, okay, okay. :)

The weekend that was can be summed up in five words: alcohol. And more alcohol. Woohoo!

Three geeks and a girl. Friday night saw me east of the city at Home Alone Roel‘s place with Gutch and Gelo. Notable how Gelo greeted me when Roel and I met up with them at 7-11 to buy drinks: “You look drunk.” It wasn’t supposed to be an all-night thing, so can the host tell me why I got home at 5am? :P

Starting early. I greeted the Saturday morning with a nasty headache, wondering to myself when the hell did I start having hangovers. This was cured by liters upon liters of water and several episodes of Veronica Mars. At a little past three, Sunrise’s resident fairy, Drew, giggled outside Anna and Allah‘s room with an invitation to start the night early. He had psyched himself up so much that waiting for the sun to set for the alcohol to start flowing into our systems was unbearable.

The social weather and such. First stop was Drew’s— the crappiest watering hole (that’s just my humble opinion, of course) that offers the most disgusting drinks (save for the Jam Jar— that was actually almost good, but I don’t see it in their bar list anymore?) and plays host to the most exasperating crowd  this side of the city.

Yes, yes, I admit that back in the day, I once gave the owner a lap dance and rendered one of his friends shirtless. Reformed Katipunan biotch, what can I say. 

Hard chairs and wuss drinks. Drew’s was rented out for the night, so we had to leave after a gut-wrenching two liters of Jerbaxx (did I mention they also have the grossest names for their drinks?). It’s not like we wanted to stick around anyway :P

So off we went to Tribu where the five of us (3 girls and 2 gay people— I have resolved to surround myself with people of the harmless genders until things return to normal between D and I) managed to rack up over a thousand bucks in food and wuss drinks (rhum cokes, mango rhum shakes, and long islands?). I believe I had six long island iced teas which brought down the buzz that the Jerbaxx gave me. :hmph: We were later joined by a member of the forbidden sex, but yeah, Yero‘s harmless enough.

A broken heel and forbidden beer. At 10, we headed back to Sunrise so Allah could get dressed for work and the rest of us could change into something Duran Duran-ish for Duran Duran night at Saguijo. So much for avoiding beer at the two bars we previously came from— I left with three bottles worth in my belly and a broken heel.

Soda thief! We’re not ones to call it a night at 3am, not without being idiotically drunk. We end up in the ever-so-familiar Meatshop for more rhum and more food. When we had downed the bottle of rhum, the guy from the table beside us stood up, grabbed our bottle of Coke Light, went “Amin nalang ‘to” and left. How… very working class. And yes, my heel was still very much broken.

Home, sweet, home. It is beyond me where the bottle of gin came from, but there it was. The sun was up, I was watching Veronica Mars, and taking a shot of gin and I don’t even remember what my chaser was. Breakfast!

D is still being a bitch and Surfer Boy and I were texting each other last Saturday night. Yeah, I finally worked up the courage to say “hi” and he replied!!! Again, he’s invited us to Siargao. Cum to Siargao. Cum. Just cum. Haha!

I think I’ll de-toxify this week. Oy, a Medifast coupon code!

I’m resigning. Soon.

Six months today. Hello, I’m Helga and I’m a regular employee, fully-entitled to all company benefits. And I can now make use of the six incentive leaves I’ve earned these past six months.

But I’m resigning. Even though I am highly promotable (I haven’t been late in weeks), as implied by my direct supervisor. Even though I’m kinda good at what I do. Even though I have made some good friends in this program.

I admit that a big contributor to this decision is the fact that I went crying-psycho in front of co-workers and bosses last Sunday. I have exerted a great deal of effort at keeping a low profile here at work: sure, everyone knows me, but only impersonally. You know: Helga— crazy and mean but a good girl, nonetheless? NOT drunken hysterical Helga who airs out her issues to everyfuckingone?

And, well, Branders is hiring and they pay a whole lot better than my current employer.

I have to get out.

Do I like you? No? Then here’s some piece of advice: do NOT have a term of endearment for me.

I am itching to hit kill someone in the face right now (hey, whatever happened to that tagline of mine? “Don’t mess with pretty girls because they will kill you in the face“? I was THAT angsty and arrogant before?). Like seriously, if I run into IT, I will attack with a blunt pair of scissors for maximum pain. And yes, this is what too much of Prison Break’s T-Bird can do.

I don’t even ask for much. Here are three important DO NOTs when it comes to addressing me.

• Do NOT (ever) call me HELGS (whether I like you, or not). It sounds cheap and is ONE fucking syllable away from HEL-GA. Go the extra ‘uh’, yes?
• Do NOT call me “LURVE” or “LURVES“— ESPECIALLY IF I DON’T LIKE YOU because it just fucking gets on my nerves. What the fuck is up with that? Unless you’re English, of course, because that gives you an excuse.
• Do NOT call me “Hell” or “Hel” in an attempt to give my name a nickname. Because really, how shorter can my name get?

Basically, my point is, unless I have given you some sort of a go signal to call me something else, I am Helga, Helgaaa, or Helgrrr to you. Gaby/Gabby if you’re feeling cute. Okay?

THE WEEKEND HAS LANDED! Prison Break season 1 plus Veronica Mars seasons 1 and 2 marathon in the afternoon, and then D in the evening!

On my way home yesterday, I told an old lady to hurry the fuck up, or move to the goddamn side.

But I was prepared and faking a phone call. She turned around, I gave her a big toothy smile, pointed at my phone, and said (in my most annoying voice) sorry. “Saaaahraaaaaaay!!!“

Unfortunately, only the words ‘fuck’ and ‘goddamn’ seemed to register in her brain.

I ain’t made for this country, yo.

(Karma got me in the ass when I got home, though. Stupid tricycle driver didn’t have enough change, so I was charged an extra 4 bucks for my fare. Four bucks is nothing, but it’s still four bucks.)

PS: I <3 Prison Break.

PPS: Why am I so pissed at the world. Oh. Right. D.

I have nothing against walking, the sun, and walking under the sun. It’s something I actually enjoy doing provided the right circumstances, the right setting, the right people and provided that I won’t have to do it on a regular basis (and with my lifestyle— I don’t). But walking under the sun IN THE CITY, IN STILETTO HEELS AN INCH AND A HALF HIGH after a nine-hour shift at work just irritates the shittles out of me— especially when it could’ve been easily avoided if only the people around me weren’t such idiots.

(On my way home yesterday, a woman got on the bus somewhere in the Ortigas area and sat next to me— no, squeezed her sticky self next to me, even though we were occupying a three-seater. We were to get off at the same place: Farmers, and it was CRUCIAL for us to get off right there there there because the bus was taking the fast lane and the next stop would offset me by [I'm guessing] more than a hundred meters.

We were seated near the back of the bus and she took her time to get up and move when the bus was ALREADY AT OUR STOP. I had already stood up and was nudging her slightly [she was in my way]— a signal that she should hurry her ass down the exit because unlike her, I have to be somewhere. She didn’t. And so we I miss my stop and am inconvenienced. Unnecessary anger.)

Walking through Cubao isn’t my number one most hated thing in the world (that honor belongs to gaining weight) but it comes in pretty close. It’s a scorching Wednesday afternoon and the diseased masses of Cubao move as if they were going for a Sunday stroll in the park, seemingly unbothered by the vehicular fumes. Sometimes, they’re also unmindful of other people and act as if they own the fucking city and block the way. Oh look, stairs, perfect!; let me stop RIGHTHERE and send someone a message on my phone. Who the hell cares if I’m a goddamn obstruction— I don’t.

(You know what else I hate? Groups of people who stand around by the entrance or the exit and discuss where to go next or whatever. MOVE TO THE GODDAMN SIDE AND LET PEOPLE THROUGH.)

Stressed, sleepy, hungry, and angry, I comforted myself with a 16-ounce brownie temptation blizzard from Dairy Queen.

I have the worst luck with (men and) cab drivers. 

Last night, D wrestled my phone away from me, and I almost scratched his eyes out.

Some days, I absolutely adore him; some days, I want to stick a pair of stilettos up his ass and shrug my shoulders in resignation.

Some days, I just don’t care.

You peer inside yourself / You take the things you like / And try to love the things you took / And then you take that love you made and stick it into some / Someone else’s heart / Pumping someone else’s blood / And walking arm in arm / You hope it don’t get harmed / But even if it does / You’ll just do it all again

-On The Radio, Regina Spektor

PS: I am SOFUCKINGSICK of that Rihanna song.