Wednesday, February 3, 2010


I don’t want you to go
But I’m not asking you to stay
I want you here with me
But I need you to be so far away
I want to touch your hand
But I have to let go of my grip
I want to tell you everything
But I need to bite my lip
I take a step forward
But you need to take two steps back
Sincerity we’re full of
But freedom we lack
We say we have it now
But we’re just bound to fail
Just tell me. And I’ll go.
But please don’t leave me so frail .

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

This is for him

After all these months, after swearing that I’m completely over it, after pining for a few guys, after kissing a total stranger at a bar, after proclaiming that I don’t care if I was the only single hot gay nerd (err, single hopeless gay nerd is more like it), I still cry whenever it rains.

I pretty much believed we could be friends. Just friends. I really thought I would be able to actually refrain from throwing up whenever we address each other as “girl” and talk about nonsensical things as if nothing happened before. I promised myself that what happened in the past would just be a painful reminder of my stupidity, of my shallowness, of my insignificant fantasies.

I guess I haven’t let go of my stupidity yet. But come to think of it, can we make ourselves not stupid? If yes, then I must be doing the process all wrong.

Yes, I made myself pre-occupied with other matters. I had a job. I went out with other guys. I even bought stuff I thought would make me happy. But whenever I am at work, I remember him smile so sweetly it friggin’ makes my blood sugar high. When some random guy hugs me, I remember that once warm embrace months ago. And crap, after buying these pricey pieces of shit, I can’t help but think if he was happy I finally got what I wanted.

Months ago, when a friend shared she’s still not over someone who broke her heart (when she wished he broke something else of her), I laughed at her face. Starfish, if you’re reading, text me. And tell me you were actually right, and I was wrong, that everything was but a fa├žade.

Months ago, when he was shattered, I was on cloud nine. I thought he was pathetic. Now, Tracy Chapman is playing, I am left in the corner, smoking more than a pack of marlboro’s, contemplating on whether I should use the fork to stab my lovable pink pimple for more pain or not. Now who’s pathetic?

Months ago, I thought I have already flown away. But now I realize I still am stuck in the same spot where I was left behind.

Months ago. Ago. A word to signify the past. And when we refer to the past, there is no use of hanging on; no use of remembering. And months ago, I thought I have already let go. But I guess I would need some more months.

And if you are reading this, thank you. All I wanted was to grab your attention. Don’t mind me, I’ll leave in time. Just give me enough time to forget you completely. In the meantime, let me cry over spilled milk.

I think I can carry a tune.

Not my usual voice on this video though. Trying the baritone range. I guess I'm getting tired of my high-pitched voice.

Well just lemme know what you think.

Last Night

(This was supposed to be my entry to the annual university literary awards years ago. Too bad I was too lazy to submit it before.)


The pale moonlight finally showed its face after hours and hours of rain. As the strong winds, boisterous thunders and frightening lightning ceased, the moon’s borrowed light from the sun finally made the once-so-dark room brighter.

He finally smiled upon seeing the moonlight fill the bedroom. “Never was a fan of the rain… never will be,” he uttered to himself. Lying down on the cream-colored queen-sized bed with small blue pillows, he decided to get up and fix himself a cup of coffee. But the man embracing him hugged him tighter once he moved a little, like a mouse slowly trying to get the cheese from a set-up trap. He looked at the man; groaned because he wanted something to drink, yet smiled upon seeing the face of the man still sleeping. Those eyelashes of gold, cheekbones high and thin pink lips appeared more beautiful than before, with the help of the moonlight giving that soft light, as it seemingly gazed at the couple through the bedroom window.

The scene was too much romantic for him to want it to stop, but he badly needed his caffeine fix. Gently, he tried to get out of bed, and unintentionally woke the man up.

“Carl?” the man asked, slowly opening his almond-shaped eyes, looking for him.
“Here.” He said, reaching for the man’s glasses on top of the brown antique desk near the bed. The man reached for the glasses, but he quickly placed it behind him, trying to hide it from the man. He suddenly never craved for coffee anymore. He just wanted the man to hug him again, but this time, tighter than before. And the man did, knowing that this was what he wanted.

The tight hugs turned to massive tickles, which eventually led to passionate kisses. As he was on top of him, he suddenly felt the urge to get up. The man tried to grab him back, but he got off the bed. He hastily went to the bathroom. The man just sighed and reached for his pack of cigarettes.

He looked at his reflection from the bathroom mirror. Just a few seconds later, teardrops fell down his cheeks. He hurriedly wiped off those tears, washed his face, looked again in the mirror, and waited for the redness of his eyes to go away. He could not hide the weariness coming from his eyes staring back at him. He remembered; after this, this blissful moment, he will be alone. Again.

He saw the man watching TV once he stepped out of the bathroom. A pained smile showed from the man’s face as his right hand tried to reach for his left hand. The man pointed towards the TV screen. He giggled. It was Spongebob, the only one thing that he enjoyed watching. Laughter once again reverberated throughout the room.

As time passed by, silence enveloped the room, with just the TV breaking the solitary atmosphere surrounding it. While both were on the bed, one broke the silence.

“Will you wait for me?” tears began to fall his eyes. The man never answered. Instead, he reached for his hand once again, caressed it, and placed it on his chest. He rested his head on the man’s chest, and teardrops fell on the man’s hand. The man noticed and quickly wiped the tears off. In their faces was plastered a pained smile as they stared blankly on one corner of the room, where his packed bags and suitcases were placed.

The moon shyly went away as thunder and lightning came back. Outside the room, the once quiet streets and trees once again had to endure the heavy pours of rain, the wind’s tantrums.

The rain didn’t stop. It never will.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Define reminiscing

I was just messing with my computer out of boredom when I found this peculiar file. And then it all hit me once again. Memories of college affairs (like, yuck) began to return... Bring on the handful of valiums and barf bags.

Feel free to read and criticize this sorry excuse of an article (and then this is the point where I laugh at my own jokes).

Just those I’ve gone to bed with
(And those I wish I would have)

Stuffed with fried chicken and intoxicated with non-fat milk (not a pretty good combination), I begin to remember all of them. I never intended to be mushy; I just want to feel bloated and sick. But no, I just had to let my masochist side dominate.

And so I went into a road of nostalgia, reminiscing all of them who have hurt me, loved me, hurt AND loved me, and loved BUT hurt me.

Accompanied by Anita Baker, I had spent the wee hours of the morning remembering them.

How could I forget the nursing student who, while his wits swam in his beer-filled belly, made me feel the pain of being a bottom? I still can’t let go of the fact that after he broke my hole, he broke my heart too. “Sorry, was just curious. I never meant to hurt you.” Ugh. And did I mention he broke it on Christmas? Puh-lease, don’t remind me of that Wham song. Please. I already went to that phase.

Next in the list, with his oh-so-big, uhm… words coming back into my thoughts, is Jay, the online journalism graduate, who has yummy oriental facial features (definitely a hottie), and a humongous, hmm, well, you know.

Then there’s Michael, the British travel agent, whom I met (and fell in love with) online. The one who liked me and promised to meet me here in February was the same guy who cut all our forms of communication, and, in an instant, broke my fragile heart (mush alert).

Next comes Warren, the chinky-eyed cutie who was a radio DJ from a US-based station in Japan. After nights of phone conversations and, ahem, cock-teasing, we finally met. Then I never heard from him again. His short message (sorry, it would never work out. You’re a nice guy though.) just made me grab the nearest hard object and knocked my head with it .

And then, Mark, the chubby yet hot Filipino business management major; the one who made me smile with his cheap attempts of cuteness, the guy who promised me bliss.
He, like the rest of them, left.

I thought that if I could handle journalism ethics, master news reporting styles and strategies, and remember different writing techniques, then having relationships (which I thought is like making a newspaper) would be easy. But I was wrong. Definitely wrong. But why do I always have to know it the harsh way?

I know, don’t tell me. I’m dumb when it comes to that l-word (and I’m not talking about lesbianism or laxatives, if you’re trying to be funny). I’m so sick of being a slave to this, this emotion, that I even loathe uttering it. But the other side of me tells me to hope, to dream, to fantasize that one day, I’ll meet him. Whoever he is.

See, I really am dumb. Sheesh. Now could you help me learn that when a guy fucks my ass, it doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to fuck (positively, of course, but then again, do we fuck negatively?) my heart too?

Maybe I just need some sleep. Or antacids. Hmm.

Just a simple personal ad

With this month being February and all, and with the nauseating love and other related emotions in the air, I have decided to end my year-long romantic hiatus. While it is convenient to live life alone and with the inner peace that being single brings, it doesn’t hurt to have someone else tell you you’re beautiful even if you no longer have two molars, and will cook something for you when you’re hungry but you don’t want to lift a finger. I know, hiring a maid is easier, but having a boyfriend would cost less. And so I'm looking for some guy who would not only fulfill my high school kilig fantasies, but would also help me clean up my lifetime mess.

Now because of that, I have come up with a short list (haha!) of who he should be (good luck B).

I'm just looking for someone...

-who is not from the medical field (have had it with nurses. they're weird. :-D)

-who believes in long-distance relationships, and would like to have one (X-D)

-who does not fuck other guys but me.

-who stands taller than 5'5" and weighs more than 125 pounds (i want my dude tall and huge).

-who breathes and eats art (have no clue what I'm tryin to say here. slap me.).

-who listens to basil valdez, the all-american rejects and madonna at the same time.

-who is ridiculously handsome but does not know what shu uemura is.

-who must have acne scars and stretchmarks, but does not give a fuck about his (and my :-D) imperfections.

-who knows english so well that he can edit my trashy pieces, from bulletin posts, to blog entries, to literary stuff.

There's actually more but yeah, we have to wake up and stop dreaming. :-)

Interested applicants may contact me through telepathy.