Sunday, September 10, 2006

Honestly, I've always liked Philippine short stories, especially Arturo Rotor's. They're all so descriptive and I LURVE the "local coloring" or something like that. [It's the way the writers blend local images {i.e. suman, palay} into the stories to give it a realistic atmosphere.] The first Arturo Rotor story I ever read was Dahong-Palay from my English freshman textbook. It was so amazing that I kept rereading it ever since.

This story [Zita] is one of the saddest short stories I've read in my entire life. There's just something about the way the story goes, it somehow makes you feel the same pain the characters feel. Every time I read this story, it makes me cry, because it's just so heart-breaking, and so, so beautiful at the same time.

[Pardon me for the stupid commentary, but I'm having a pretty bad mental block right now. Too much MP3-downloading probably makes me lose brain cells.]

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Zita - Arturo B. Rotor

TURONG brought him from Pauambang in his small sailboat, for the coastwise steamer did not stop at any little island of broken cliffs and coconut palms. It was almost midday; they had been standing in that white glare where the tiniest pebble and fluted conch had become points of light, piercing-bright--the municipal president, the parish priest, Don Eliodoro who owned almost all the coconuts, the herb doctor, the village character. Their mild surprise over when he spoke in their native dialect, they looked at him more closely and his easy manner did not deceive them. His head was uncovered and he had a way of bringing the back of his hand to his brow or mouth; they read behind that too, it was not a gesture of protection. "An exile has come to Anayat… and he is so young, so young." So young and lonely and sufficient unto himself. There was no mistaking the stamp of a strong decision on that brow, the brow of those who have to be cold and haughty, those shoulders stooped slightly, less from the burden that they bore than from a carefully cultivated air of unconcern; no common school-teacher could dress so carelessly and not appear shoddy.

They had prepared a room for him in Don Eliodoro's house so that he would not have to walk far to school every morning, but he gave nothing more than a glance at the big stone building with its Spanish azotea, its arched doorways, its flagged courtyard. He chose instead Turong's home, a shaky hut near the sea. Was the sea rough and dangerous at times? He did not mind it. Was the place far from the church and the schoolhouse? The walk would do him good. Would he not feel lonely with nobody but an illiterate fisherman for a companion? He was used to living alone. And they let him do as he wanted, for the old men knew that it was not so much the nearness of the sea that he desired as its silence so that he might tell it secrets he could not tell anyone else.

They thought of nobody but him; they talked about him in the barber shop, in the cockpit, in the sari-sari store, the way he walked, the way he looked at you, his unruly hair. They dressed him in purple and linen, in myth and mystery, put him astride a black stallion, at the wheel of a blue automobile. Mr. Reteche? Mr. Reteche! The name suggested the fantasy and the glitter of a place and people they never would see; he was the scion of a powerful family, a poet and artist, a prince.

That night, Don Eliodoro had the story from his daughter of his first day in the classroom; she perched wide-eyed, low-voiced, short of breath on the arm of his chair.

"He strode into the room, very tall and serious and polite, stood in front of us and looked at us all over and yet did not seem to see us.

" 'Good morning, teacher,' we said timidly.

"He bowed as if we were his equals. He asked for the fist of our names and as he read off each one we looked at him long. When he came to my name, Father, the most surprising thing happened. He started pronouncing it and then he stopped as if he had forgotten something and just stared and stared at the paper in his hand. I heard my name repeated three times through his half-closed lips, 'Zita. Zita. Zita.'

" 'Yes sir, I am Zita.'

"He looked at me uncomprehendingly, inarticulate, and it seemed to me, Father, it actually seemed that he was begging me to tell him that that was not my name, that I was deceiving him. He looked so miserable and sick I felt like sinking down or running away.

" 'Zita is not your name; it is just a pet name, no?'

" 'My father has always called me that, sir.'

" 'It can't be; maybe it is Pacita or Luisa or--'

"His voice was scarcely above a whisper, Father, and all the while he looked at me begging, begging. I shook my head determinedly. My answer must have angered him. He must have thought I was very hard-headed, for he said, 'A thousand miles, Mother of Mercy… it is not possible.' He kept on looking at me; he was hurt perhaps that he should have such a stubborn pupil. But I am not really so, Father?"

"Yes, you are, my dear. But you must try to please him, he is a gentleman; he comes from the city. I was thinking… Private lessons, perhaps, if he won't ask too much." Don Eliodoro had his dreams and she was his only daughter.

Turong had his own story to tell in the barber shop that night, a story as vividly etched as the lone coconut palm in front of the shop that shot up straight into the darkness of the night, as vaguely disturbing as the secrets that the sea whispered into the night.

"He did not sleep a wink, I am sure of it. When I came from the market the stars were already out and I saw that he had not touched the food I had prepared. I asked him to eat and he said he was not hungry. He sat by the window that faces the sea and just looked out hour after hour. I woke up three times during the night and saw that he had not so much as changed his position. I thought once that he was asleep and came near, but he motioned me away. When I awoke at dawn to prepare the nets, he was still there."

"Maybe he wants to go home already." They looked up with concern.

"He is sick. You remember Father Fernando? He had a way of looking like that, into space, seeing nobody, just before he died."

Every month there was a letter that came for him, sometimes two or three; large, blue envelopes with a gold design in the upper left hand comer, and addressed in broad, angular, sweeping handwriting. One time Turong brought one of them to him in the classroom. The students were busy writing a composition on a subject that he had given them, "The Things That I Love Most." Carelessly he had opened the letter, carelessly read it, and carelessly tossed it aside. Zita was all aflutter when the students handed in their work for he had promised that he would read aloud the best. He went over the pile two times, and once again, absently, a deep frown on his brow, as if he were displeased with their work. Then he stopped and picked up one. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not hers, she hardly heard him reading:

"I did not know any better. Moths are not supposed to know; they only come to the light. And the light looked so inviting, there was no resisting it. Moths are not supposed to know, one does not even know one is a moth until one's wings are burned."

It was incomprehensible, no beginning, no end. It did not have unity, coherence, emphasis. Why did he choose that one? What did he see in it? And she had worked so hard, she had wanted to please, she had written about the flowers that she loved most. Who could have written what he had read aloud? She did not know that any of her classmates could write so, use such words, sentences, use a blue paper to write her lessons on.
But then there was little in Mr. Reteche that the young people there could understand. Even his words were so difficult, just like those dark and dismaying things that they came across in their readers, which took them hour after hour in the dictionary. She had learned like a good student to pick out the words she did not recognize, writing them down as she heard them, but it was a thankless task. She had a whole notebook filled now, two columns to each page:
esurient greedy.
Amaranth a flower that never fades.
peacock a large bird with lovely gold and
green feathers.
Mirash

The last word was not in the dictionary.

And what did such things as original sin, selfishness, insatiable, actress of a thousand faces mean, and who were Sirse, Lorelay, other names she could not find anywhere? She meant to ask him someday, someday when his eyes were kinder.

He never went to church, but then, that always went with learning and education, did it not? One night Bue saw him coming out of the dim doorway. He watched again and the following night he saw him again. They would not believe it, they must see it with their own eyes and so they came. He did not go in every night, but he could be seen at the most unusual hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes at dawn, once when it was storming and the lightning etched ragged paths from heaven to earth. Sometimes he stayed for a few minutes, sometimes he came twice or thrice in one evening. They reported it to Father Cesareo but it seemed that he already knew. "Let a peaceful man alone in his prayers." The answer had surprised them.

The sky hangs over Anayat, in the middle of the Anayat Sea, like an inverted wineglass, a glass whose wine had been spilled, a purple wine of which Anayat was the last precious drop. For that is Anayat in the crepuscule, purple and mellow, sparkling and warm and effulgent when there is a moon, cool and heady and sensuous when there is no moon.

One may drink of it and forget what lies beyond a thousand miles, beyond a thousand years; one may sip it at the top of a jagged cliff, nearer peace, nearer God, where one can see the ocean dashing against the rocks in eternal frustration, more moving, more terrible than man's; or touch it to his lips in the lush shadows of the dama de noche, its blossoms iridescent like a thousand fireflies, its bouquet the fragrance of flowers that know no fading.

Zita sat by her open window, half asleep, half dreaming. Francisco B. Reteche; what a name! What could his nickname be. Paking, Frank, Pa… The night lay silent and expectant, a fairy princess waiting for the whispered words of a lover. She was not a bit sleepy; already she had counted three stars that had fallen to earth, one almost directly into that bush of dama de noche at their garden gate, where it had lighted the lamps of a thousand fireflies. He was not so forbidding now, he spoke less frequently to himself, more frequently to her; his eyes were still unseeing, but now they rested on her. She loved to remember those moments she had caught him looking when he thought she did not know. The knowledge came keenly, bitingly, like the sea breeze at dawn, like the prick of the rose's thorn, or--yes, like the purple liquid that her father gave the visitors during pintakasi which made them red and noisy. She had stolen a few drops one day, because she wanted to know, to taste, and that little sip had made her head whirl.

Suddenly she stiffened; a shadow had emerged from the shrubs and had been lost in the other shadows. Her pulses raced, she strained forward. Was she dreaming? Who was it? A lost soul, an unvoiced thought, the shadow of a shadow, the prince from his tryst with the fairy princess? What were the words that he whispered to her?

They who have been young once say that only youth can make youth forget itself; that life is a river bed; the water passes over it, sometimes it encounters obstacles and cannot go on, sometimes it flows unencumbered with a song in every bubble and ripple, but always it goes forward. When its way is obstructed it burrows deeply or swerves aside and leaves its impression, and whether the impress will be shallow and transient, or deep and searing, only God determines. The people remembered the day when he went up Don Eliodoro's house, the light of a great decision in his eyes, and finally accepted the father's request that he teach his daughter "to be a lady."

"We are going to the city soon, after the next harvest perhaps; I want her not to feel like a 'provinciana' when we get there."

They remembered the time when his walks by the seashore became less solitary, for now of afternoons, he would draw the whole crowd of village boys from their game of leapfrog or patintero and bring them with him. And they would go home hours after sunset with the wonderful things that Mr. Reteche had told them, why the sea is green, the sky blue, what one who is strong and fearless might find at that exact place where the sky meets the sea. They would be flushed and happy and bright-eyed, for he could stand on his head longer than any of them, catch more crabs, send a pebble skimming over the breast of Anayat Bay farthest.

Turong still remembered those ominous, terrifying nights when he had got up cold and trembling to listen to the aching groan of the bamboo floor, as somebody in the other room restlessly paced to and fro. And his pupils still remember those mornings he received their flowers, the camia which had fainted away at her own fragrance, the kampupot, with the night dew still trembling in its heart; receive them with a smile and forget the lessons of the day and tell them all about those princesses and fairies who dwelt in flowers; why the dama de noche must have the darkness of the night to bring out its fragrance; how the petals of the ylang-ylang, crushed and soaked in some liquid, would one day touch the lips of some wondrous creature in some faraway land whose eyes were blue and hair golden.

Those were days of surprises for Zita. Box after box came in Turong's sailboat and each time they contained things that took the words from her lips. Silk as sheer and perishable as gossamer, or heavy and shiny and tinted like the sunset sky; slippers with bright stones which twinkled with the least movement of her feet; a necklace of green, flat, polished stone, whose feel against her throat sent a curious choking sensation there; perfume that she must touch her lips with. If only there would always be such things in Turong's sailboat, and none of those horrid blue envelopes that he always brought. And yet--the Virgin have pity on her selfish soul--suppose one day Turong brought not only those letters but the writer as well? She shuddered, not because she feared it but because she knew it would be.

"Why are these dresses so tight fitting?" Her father wanted to know.

"In society, women use clothes to reveal, not to hide." Was that a sneer or a smile in his eyes? The gown showed her arms and shoulders and she had never known how round and fair they were, how they could express so many things.

"Why do these dresses have such bright colors?"

"Because the peacock has bright feathers."

"They paint their lips…"

"So that they can smile when they do not want to."

"And their eyelashes are long."

"To hide deception."

He was not pleased like her father; she saw it, he had turned his face toward the window. And as she came nearer, swaying like a lily atop its stalk she heard the harsh, muttered words:

"One would think she'd feel shy or uncomfortable, but no… oh no… not a bit… all alike… comes naturally."
There were books to read; pictures, names to learn; lessons in everything; how to polish the nails, how to use a fan, even how to walk. How did these days come, how did they go? What does one do when one is so happy, so breathless? Sometimes they were a memory, sometimes a dream.

"Look, Zita, a society girl does not smile so openly; her eyes don't seek one's so--that reveals your true feelings."

"But if I am glad and happy and I want to show it?"

"Don't. If you must show it by smiling, let your eyes be mocking; if you would invite with your eyes, repulse with your lips."

That was a memory.

She was in a great drawing room whose floor was so polished it reflected the myriad red and green and blue fights above, the arches of flowers and ribbons and streamers. All the great names of the capital were there, stately ladies in wonderful gowns who walked so, waved their fans so, who said one thing with their eyes and another with their lips. And she was among them and every young and good-looking man wanted to dance with her. They were all so clever and charming but she answered: "Please, I am tired." For beyond them she had seen him alone, he whose eyes were dark and brooding and disapproving and she was waiting for him to take her.

That was a dream. Sometimes though, she could not tell so easily which was the dream and which the memory.

If only those letters would not bother him now, he might be happy and at peace. True he never answered them, but every time Turong brought him one, he would still become thoughtful and distracted. Like that time he was teaching her a dance, a Spanish dance, he said, and had told her to dress accordingly. Her heavy hair hung in a big, carelessly tied knot that always threatened to come loose but never did; its dark, deep shadows showing off in startling vividness how red a rose can be, how like velvet its petals. Her earrings--two circlets of precious stones, red like the pigeon's blood--almost touched her shoulders. The heavy Spanish shawl gave her the most trouble--she had nothing to help her but some pictures and magazines--she could not put it on just as she wanted. Like this, it revealed her shoulder too much; that way, it hampered the free movement of the legs. But she had done her best; for hours she had stood before her mirror and for hours it had told her that she was beautiful, that red lips and tragic eyes were becoming to her.

She'd never forget that look on his face when she came out. It was not surprise, joy, admiration. It was as if he saw somebody there whom he was expecting, for whom he had waited, prayed.

"Zita!" It was a cry of recognition.

She blushed even under her rouge when he took her in his arms and taught her to step this way, glide so, turn about; she looked half questioningly at her father for disapproval, but she saw that there was nothing there but admiration too. Mr. Reteche seemed so serious and so intent that she should learn quickly; but he did not deceive her, for once she happened to lean close and she felt how wildly his heart was beating. It frightened her and she drew away, but when she saw how unconcerned he seemed, as if he did not even know that she was in his arms, she smiled knowingly and drew close again. Dreamily she closed her eyes and dimly wondered if his were shut too, whether he was thinking the same thoughts, breathing the same prayer.
Turong came up and after his respectful "Good evening" he handed an envelope to the school teacher. It was large and blue and had a gold design in one comer; the handwriting was broad, angular, sweeping.

"Thank you, Turong." His voice was drawling, heavy, the voice of one who has just awakened. With one movement he tore the unopened envelope slowly, unconsciously, it seemed to her, to pieces.

"I thought I had forgotten," he murmured dully.

That changed the whole evening. His eyes lost their sparkle, his gaze wandered from time to time. Something powerful and dark had come between them, something which shut out the light, brought in a chill. The tears came to her eyes for she felt utterly powerless. When her sight cleared she saw that he was sitting down and trying to piece the letter together.

"Why do you tear up a letter if you must put it together again?" rebelliously.

He looked at her kindly. "Someday, Zita, you will do it too, and then you will understand."

One day Turong came from Pauambang and this time he brought a stranger. They knew at once that he came from where the teacher came--his clothes, his features, his politeness--and that he had come for the teacher. This one did not speak their dialect, and as he was led through the dusty, crooked streets, he kept forever wiping his face, gazing at the wobbly, thatched huts and muttering short, vehement phrases to himself. Zita heard his knock before Mr. Reteche did and she knew what he had come for. She must have been as pale as her teacher, as shaken, as rebellious. And yet the stranger was so cordial; there was nothing but gladness in his greeting, gladness at meeting an old friend. How strong he was; even at that moment he did not forget himself, but turned to his class and dismissed them for the day.

The door was thick and she did not dare lean against the jamb too much, so sometimes their voices floated away before they reached her.

"…like children… making yourselves… so unhappy."

"…happiness? Her idea of happiness…"

Mr. Reteche's voice was more low-pitched, hoarse, so that it didn't carry at all. She shuddered as he laughed, it was that way when he first came.

"She's been… did not mean… understand."

"…learning to forget…"

There were periods when they both became excited and talked fast and hard; she heard somebody's restless pacing, somebody sitting down heavily.

"I never realized what she meant to me until I began trying to seek from others what she would not give me."

She knew what was coming now, knew it before the stranger asked the question:

"Tomorrow?"

She fled; she could not wait for the answer.

He did not sleep that night, she knew he did not, she told herself fiercely. And it was not only his preparations that kept him awake, she knew it, she knew it. With the first flicker of light she ran to her mirror. She must not show her feeling, it was not in good form, she must manage somehow. If her lips quivered, her eyes must smile, if in her eyes there were tears… She heard her father go out, but she did not go; although she knew his purpose, she had more important things to do. Little boys came up to the house and she wiped away their tears and told them that he was coming back, coming back, soon, soon.

The minutes flew, she was almost done now; her lips were red and her eyebrows penciled; the crimson shawl thrown over her shoulders just right. Everything must be like that day he had first seen her in a Spanish dress. Still he did not come, he must be bidding farewell now to Father Cesareo; now he was in Doña Ramona's house; now he was shaking the barber's hand. He would soon be through and come to her house. She glanced at the mirror and decided that her lips were not red enough; she put on more color. The rose in her hair had too long a stem; she tried to trim it with her fingers and a thorn dug deeply into her flesh.

Who knows? Perhaps they would soon meet again in the city; she wondered if she could not wheedle her father into going earlier. But she must know now what were the words he had wanted to whisper that night under the dama de noche, what he had wanted to say that day he held her in his arms; other things, questions whose answers she knew. She smiled. How well she knew them!

The big house was silent as death; the little village seemed deserted, everybody had gone to the seashore. Again she looked at the mirror. She was too pale, she must put on more rouge. She tried to keep from counting the minutes, the seconds, from getting up and pacing. But she was getting chilly and she must do it to keep warm.

The steps creaked. She bit her lips to stifle a wild cry there. The door opened.

"Turong!"

"Mr. Reteche bade me give you this. He said you would understand."

In one bound she had reached the open window. But dimly, for the sun was too bright, or was her sight failing?--she saw a blur of white moving out to sea, then disappearing behind a point of land so that she could no longer follow it; and then, clearly against a horizon suddenly drawn out of perspective, "Mr. Reteche," tall, lean, brooding, looking at her with eyes that told her somebody had hurt him. It was like that when he first came, and now he was gone. The tears came freely now. What matter, what matter? There was nobody to see and criticize her breeding. They came down unchecked and when she tried to brush them off with her hand, the color came away too from her cheeks, leaving them bloodless, cold. Sometimes they got into her mouth and they tasted bitter.

Her hands worked convulsively; there was a sound of tearing paper, once, twice. She became suddenly aware of what she had done when she looked at the pieces, wet and brightly stained with uneven streaks of red. Slowly, painfully, she tried to put the pieces together and as she did so a sob escaped deep from her breast--a great understanding had come to her.


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... Love hurts, doesn't it?

{/Where art thou?} 9:24 PM*

Saturday, August 19, 2006

A Song for XX

{title taken from Ayumi Hamasaki s song}

{content by ME}

If you hear that song again

Then, maybe you ll remember that rainy day

Then, maybe you ll remember me

The way I remember you

It won t really matter

We re all under the same stars

But when you hear that melody

Maybe I ll hear it too...

It s a song for you

My song for you

Maybe youll never hear it again

Maybe you will...

Someday.

But I ll wait

And I ll keep on singing that song

Because it will always be a song for you

My song for you

I ll catch every tear that falls from heaven

Hoping one of them will be yours

And I ll wait until you remember that song

Then, maybe, just maybe, you ll remember me...

One day.

{/Where art thou?} 7:33 PM*

WHAT?

I'm still alive?

*checks her pulse*

Yep, I still am. And as you can see, I have changed my layout. [Duh. It is NOT obvious.]

Lately, all I've been doing is scour the universe for J-Pop MP3 rotations and download anything I can get my hands on. I used to really hate Ayumi Hamasaki [because I used to think she looked like a homo] but ever since I heard her song Blue Bird, I think she's pretty great. [But Mika Nakashima will still be my number one!! LoL.] And I've got a lot of Utada Hikaru mp3s now. She's got a great voice, you know.

I really don't have a clue on what to write. I feel so... blank. I guess it's probably because nobody ever visits this blog anymore. I like it when people read the stuff I write.

[music: Be My Last - Utada Hikaru]
[mood: Blank and spaced out]

{/Where art thou?} 6:33 PM*

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

OMFG.

Spoilers, be DAMNED.

And I mean it.

I just found out something in this forum. And, as you can see, I'm not too pleased.

I hate f****** spoilers. They ruin the fun for everybody.

Come on. Would you give at least a little consideration for people whohaven't finished watching the whole series yet? You don't just go and say it out loud for the entire world to hear, if you know what I mean.

Oh well. Am I making such a big deal about it?

If yes, then I beg your pardon. I'm just so pissed off.
If no, then... APIR, PARE~!! You hate spoilers too, don'tcha, ole buddy?

-------

Anyway... Things have been and are going to be pretty busy this month. The UPCAT's only a month away [*gulps*] and around the same date as our school exams!!! I applied for the Diliman campus, and I picked BA Journalism. My insides feel like crap.

Because... I mean, this is UP Diliman. Nobody gets in there just like that.

I'll keep my fingers crossed.

-------

Sorry for being away for a while. And I won't be hanging around these days that much either. Being a senior is hard work. Trust me.

And speaking of hard work, I still have to do something, so au revoir, baby. Remember, SPOILERS SUCK.

Mwuah.

{/Where art thou?} 8:46 PM*

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Things have changed a lot lately.

KHQ used to be a lot of fun. Now it just bores me to death. A couple of months ago I couldn't wait to go and see who replied to my thread or who did this or did that. Now I just go there for the sake of... now that I think of it, nothing.

A lot of people have gone away. I don't wanna come back either.

I'll be away for a little while this June. I don't think my mom's gonna allow us to have Internet while school's going on. Whatever. Everything just makes me bored anyway.

*screams in frustration*

The only thing that keeps me going is my beloved LimeWire.

Wait. It's only my 'beloved' as long as it doesn't suddenly lose its sources while I'm in the middle of downloading some J-Pop songs. [But it usually doesn't act like that whenever I'm downloading normal American songs.]

{/Where art thou?} 8:23 PM*

Friday, June 02, 2006

Okay... I'm sorry because I haven't posted in a long time.

My mind's still blank, so I'll just put here something I wrote in my diary last night. It's pretty weird but never mind...

-------

Talk about frustrating.

Here are just some frustrating things on my mind [and school hasn't even started yet]:

- The friggin' computer suddenly restarted twice today. Gad. I hope there's nothing wrong with it. *hyperventilates*

- Speaking of the computer, the first time it went ballistic, I was in the middle of writing some book reviews for [this] blog. Grrrr. And the second time it did, I was almost finished downloading this song by RYTHEM, and since everytime LimeWire restarts, I lose my sources, you can say I was pretty upset.

- My father got pretty angry at my sister earlier this evening because she kept forgetting to close the bedroom door. And you know how much it scares me to death when my father gets angry. *has heart palpitations*

- My room is a pigsty. And this is what's been making my mother angry for more than a month. [I promise I'll clean it up after I finish writing here. *angelic eyes*] {NOTE: I did clean up my room after writing in my diary.}

- My sister got her you-know-what today. Which means sooner or later, she'll be taller than me, since it's like, totally the law of nature these days and it's usually what happens to younger sisters.

*sobs*

But whatever. At least Rukia and I are the same height. XD

Anyway, congratulations, dear sister. You're a woman now. *sticks her tongue out* LoL.

- And speaking of little sisters, my own just made me turn the bedroom lights off because she can't sleep if it's on. {Why, oh why can't I have my own room?} So now I have to write all this by cellphone-light. This will so totally ruin my eyesight but I really have to get this out of my system before anything else.

- I still haven't drawn that drawing I promised Auntie N. for ages. I have to hurry up and draw it, or else I won't have a {secret wish}.

- My mother found out I've been eating Sunshine green peas {which I have a strange fascination of} inside my room. So green peas + one heck of a pigsty room = sermon. x_X

- I still haven't finished covering some of my books and notebooks and it's already June. I am so dead.

- I haven't put on Dalacin-C for weeks and now zits are popping out on my face like crazy. And just before school...! DAMN IT.

- Little sister still rolling around on her bed. Gad. Fall asleep, won't you?? I still have to clean up the room before my mom gets a coronary.

- It is exactly 12:39 in the morning and my room still looks like a pigsty, and I haven't brushed my teeth or taken my usual before-bedtime bath. I feel as sticky as a piece of bubblegum and I so need to switch on the lights. Watdahek.

- More crap I can't post online.

- Aw, crud. It's one o'clock. I still haven't cleaned the friggin' room.

*goes ballistic*

Little sister apparently still awake. CRAP, CRAP, CRAP. No wonder I'm so frustrated.

- There was this sound from the next-door neighbors just now and it scared me silly. Probably just some plate knocked down by some rats.

- 1:08 - Can I turn on the lights now??

- Because of my abnormal sleep schedule, I continually wake up at noon. It embarrasses the hell outta me, seeing as to nobody else in the whole house is as lazy as I am. But I still don't do anything about it. I should be called Little Miss Sloth instead.

*pokes herself in the eye*

- Little sister finally asleep!! But I'm not too awake either. Sh*t.

*drags herself off the bed*

- [Long-winded description of the mess on my bed I would rather not share with the whole world.]

- *currently eating green peas mentioned earlier*

^ I am SOOO going to be killed.

Okay. I gotta go. I have to clean up my beloved pigsty.

-------

End of diary entry.

Forgive me if all I ever write is pure C-R-A-P.

Baboosh.

{/Where art thou?} 7:41 PM*

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Just thought I'd put an image to make things... um... livelier.

So... for this post... I've decided to, um, sort of explain the stuff that's written there at the right.

Yung sa ilalim ng | Yours Truly |... Kita mo??

1. Naomi ****** - The asterisks stand for my last name. *sticks out her tongue at reader* I won't tell. But you don't really care, anyway. LoL.

2. Fourteen years old - Hay. You have to be that slow not to get what this is.

3. From the economically-progressive country Philippines - It may not be the richest country in the world, but I'm not ashamed I'm Filipino. [Oh my. How patriotic.]

4. Vertically challenged - This is one thing Edward Elric and I have in common. You have to figure out the rest.

5. Has wavy hair [that she would like to get rid of.] - Oi, Chinky!! Mutual ang feelings namin pagdating sa mga bagay na ganito. Hay.

6. Has gender issues - If you read my other posts [which I highly doubt that you do], you'll pretty much get an idea. As of now, though, I am feeling rather female.

7. Has extremely low alcohol tolerance - Make me drink half a glass of any alcoholic drink and drag me off the floor afterwards.

8. May appear perverted at times- Doesn't work in the virtual world. [I'm usually very... um... conservative online. LoL.] In the real world, however, you can ask my friends.

9. Tremendously antisocial in real life - Doesn't know how to mingle with other people. I've got an inferiority complex, you see.

10. A misoneist - According to the [very trusty] Encarta Dictionary Tool, a misoneist is a person who hates new things or change. Story of my life. They say resisting change is futile. I keep on resisting it, anyway.

11. Usually bad-tempered whenever on YM - I don't have time to think over the stuff I'm writing when I'm instant-messaging, so when I type in something sort of mean, I don't have the chance to, um, "revise" it. I just press enter, and voila...!

12. An otaku...?? - ...

13. Angsty -Again, if you read my other posts, I'm a very good example of teen spirit, este, teen angst...

14. Obnoxious - Consult your own dictionary.

15. Ocassionally plastic - Hmmm... I can't be that nice all the time, can I??

16. Will randomly attack anybody in the vicinity if in a freaky mood - Works only in real life, at very random times. [Exaggerated.]

17. Easily gets seasick - Bonamine! Kailangan ko ng Bonamine!! At plastic bag!! *throws up*

18. The total opposite of athletic - I am probably the most athletic, sporty, active person in the world... NOT!!

Hay... Natapos din.

Have to go... Pinapagalitan na eh...

{/Where art thou?} 3:08 PM*

Friday, May 26, 2006

Hay nakoo...

I'm in a pretty bad mood today. My Bleach DVDs are malfunctioning!!!

*grabs a knife and attempts to slash her throat*

This is the problem with pirated stuff!!!

*wails*

I hate it!! Aaaaaargh!! I hate the fact that I live in a place where nobody sells manga and anime DVDs!! I can't wait until the new SM here opens in October. But if they still don't have manga and anime DVDs, I will either destroy the whole place or end up moving to Nepal.

*cusses for twelve hours straight*

[Regine: Shut up, you foul-mouthed #%3&!!]
[Me: Ha!]

End of post.

*throws her DVDs out the window*

{/Where art thou?} 3:00 PM*

Thursday, May 25, 2006

I've noticed lately that there are so many stuff that I hate.

Here's a more specific list... Which means more stuff [and people] that I hate.

But please, please, please, if I happen to hate something you like, I'm really sorry... I don't mean any harm. Oh, and by the way, my reasons are extremely... um... unreasonable; sorry about that.

Here goes...

-Franz Ferdinand
They're weird. Nuff said.

-James Blunt [You know, that guy who sang 'You're Beautiful'??]
He irritates the hell outta me. I hate his nasal voice. Yo, dude! How many boogers are stuck up your nose? Plus, he looks gay.
He raped had this gross music video with Mischa Barton [for 'Goodbye My Lover'].

-Boy bands
I'm talking about the Backstreet Boys, Westlife, 98 Degrees or whatever. They are so stupid. So are the songs.
The members are complete idiots too.
I mean, have you heard whatever-his-name-is's song called 'All Night Long I Dream Of Sex'?!?!
Profane, I tell you, profane.

-That anime called Monkey Typhoon
Gad. If you've never seen this anime, don't even try to.
It sucks so much I... I... *throws up*

-Rap
It shouldn't even be called music at all.
It's junk, pure junk. Kill me for saying that but that's the way I see it.

Okay, okay... I should stop. I might get carried away.

{/Where art thou?} 9:59 PM*

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Yes! New post, finally. [My mind's been too blank for too long.]

Currently addicted to this anime called Bleach.

[I wouldn't mind recruiting more Bleach fans, so if you want to give it a try, you can actually download episodes and manga scanslations here.]

I bought a couple of Bleach DVDs yesterday [obviously fake ones, since those are the only kind I can afford], and I can't believe that I'm already so addicted just after watching several episodes.

Bleach is totally the height of cool. Trust me.

*squeals*

I just can't get enough of it. Gyaaaaaaa! [Oh, and by the way, I'm all IchigoxRukia.]

And here's a really sad... um... whatever I saw in some random Bleach blog...

Meeting him was fate...
Falling for him was a mistake...
Trusting in him is my only hope...
Loving him is my only strength...

Awwwww... Isn't that sad?

{/Where art thou?} 9:37 PM*

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Currently feeling: Murderous Extremely romantic

Woot!

*giggles uncontrollably*

Oooh, Syaoran.... *goggles at the TV screen*

[Naomi: Have you completely forgotten Ken-chan?!?]

[Me: Oh, don't worry. He's my husband, remember? And my obsessions usually don't last long.. *giggles likecrazy*]

Anyway, my romantic modes don't come that often, so...

*giggles for the umpteenth time*

I was listening to Tsubasa Chronicles songs last night and I was, like, "Wouldn't it be cool if the love of your life turned out to be just like Syaoran...?"

Everytime I watch TRC, I get all giddy and girly. I mean, it seems kinda weird since I'm not a 'romantic' type of person. [Hmm... In denial kaya?]

*sighs dreamily*

I feel fine and I feel good.
I feel like I never should.
Whenever I get this way, I just don't know what to say.
Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday?

If only things were a bit more romantic in real life.

Because you know what? I think I'm incapable of ever loving anybody who is not related to me and is of the opposite gender [and who is not animated]...

I haven't had a crush in [*counts*] roughly four years.

And lately I have never felt any attraction to a real live guy. [That's excluding anime boys.]

Am I abnormal or something????

But I can't help it if I'm not attracted to anybody!!

For instance, if I'm with my friends and I see this totally cute guy, I'll go, "Ooooh. He's cute... " then, after three seconds, "The Trigonometry homework almost killed me last night!! "

If there's short-term memory loss [You know, the kind Dory, from Finding Nemo, has?], then I probably have short-term attraction loss. LoL.

If you ask me, the only people I actually love are God, my parents, my sister, SOME of my relatives, and my [all female] friends. [Plus some other anime characters, but they probably don't count, do they?]

[Regine: Hala!! Something's probably wrong with you!!]

[Me: *cries*]

Or... worse yet, I'm probably attracted to...

*gasps*

AAACK!!! YURI!!! AAACK!!!

*runs around the room like a turkey*

I have to admit, there are times when I don't know who I love better, Kaoru or Kenshin... But that's basically besides my point.

As far as I know, I am completely female in all aspects.

The only thing that's wrong with me is the fact that I have never been infatuated with a real person for four years.

But, really, is there something wrong with that?

Tell me, okay?

{/Where art thou?} 4:40 PM*