Princess Banter

No One Else Is Coming

2010-10-05T09:37:00.007+08:00

My Life

Is a Train Station

Where I wait

and wait.

Sitting on the dull

gray concrete Bench

Just underneath

The Big Round Clock

... tick tock ...

I button up my pea coat

It was cold.

Love

Sat next to me

He said He was waiting too

May He sit a while?

I nodded

Red licorice? I offered.

He took one and chewed.

He waited with me,

For my Train,

No rush, He reassured.

He told me pretty stories

And we laughed

and we laughed

and ate candy corn.

I'll board your train

With You, He promised.

But not this one,

The next one, He said,

Or the next.

We waited.

I waited

and waited.

For a long time.

Impatience and frustration

Became of me.

No, I had to go

I left His Bench

Behind

And my bag of chocolate coins.

I boarded the Train

Heading West.

II.

I picked a seat

Next to the Window

The breeze, that earthy smell;

Like a tall glass of water

On a perfectly humid day.

The world cruised by

At a steady 90 miles per hour.

Faith

Sat next to me

He took my hand in His

And made promises

of Marvelous Tomorrows;

Honeysuckle, butterflies, dew drops

On purple maple leaves.

All out there

All out West.

But the Sun

Woke up in the East

All my senses -- as if like magnet

Drawn to its

Overpowering Lust.

I hopped off

My Westbound Train.

III.

On platform 12

He was waiting. Again.

Love, again.

You'd be back, He foresaw.

The Eastern Train is coming

Sit with Me.

Gummy Bears? He offered.

I took one and chewed.

We boarded the Train

Heading East.

The clouds were painted

In 16-tone colors;

Horses neighed and

Panthers loped.

It was like Art;

Beautiful.

Moons passed, hearts beat.

I was ready to alight

He wasn't.

Not yet, He said,

Soon.

But Soon never came

I jumped,

I tucked, I rolled;

Dusted off my bruised flesh

And my broken spirit.

Head held high

On platform 9

I waited

Again

And licked my wounds.

IV.

A train wreck

Nearby;

A collision

With God's Secret.

Hope

Emerged with tired eyes;

Wounded and damaged

But His Spirit flickered.

Hope

Sat next to me

Bloodied hands and all.

Twinkies? I offered.

No thanks, He said,

Then He changed His mind.

He took one and chewed.

He shook

From the crash He survived.

No more Trains, He vowed,

Just walking.

Very lonely though, I supplied.

Lonely is okay, He argued,

When life almost left you be...

Lonely is nothing.

We ate marshmallows

As the sun dipped.

He repaired His brazen self

Each day at a time

But the trains have stopped

Coming,

No more hoots, no more chugs.

He stood up, He shifted,

Wiping His hands on His jeans.

Coming? He asked.

I sat there rooted.

Coming? He echoed.

I sat still

On my Bench

Beneath the Big Round Clock

That same one

... tick tock...

Arms akimbo

I stared down the rails

Further down

And down

As far as this naked eye

Can see.

The Sky blushed

A bashful orange hue;

I trod down the beaten

Iron Path;

No one else was coming.

No one else is coming.

Faith, Love,

Gone.

Just got Hope.

That's all.

I Could Be

2010-09-06T13:06:00.002+08:00

I could be better to you

... For you

But the ghost standing

By the corner

-- holding a glass

of pink lemonade --

He taunts me

And he grins -- oh that

Malicious grin;

And he dares me.

He glides over to sit

On the

Lacquered coffee table;

His transience

Blurring

Your jagged edges.

His hollowness

His false distance

His inferiority

Bitter

Piercing

Permanent.

I could be better to you

... For you

But the ghost sitting

In front of me

Is still stepping heavily

On my

Bleeding toes.

Via Dolorosa - Scourging, Crowning And Falling

2010-09-05T14:05:00.004+08:00

Someone I look up to once told me that everyone has crosses to bear -- how there are one or two life-altering events in our lives that we must go through in order to learn from and become better people. A purging of sorts, if you may.

It made vague sense to me so I asked him what his crosses had been. He mentioned that one of them had been his journey through his survivorship of clinical depression. He was twenty four when he got diagnosed with it and the eight years to follow were the most difficult of his life. He went through an insane whirlwind of emotions with people coming and going (though most of the latter) in his life. And this was on top of having to experience a life so tumultuous as it already is. He scraped himself together one day and fought the depression with every ounce of strength that he had. And he was blessed with a partner that saw him through this. "She was my light at the end of the tunnel," he told me with unmeasured fondness.

I became thoughtful after that. I brought up the subject matter with my mother one evening that we had dinner together. She readily agreed about her concept of crosses. "As a matter of fact," she said, "You should be slightly wary of your pending cross. That as much as you're very blessed with many good things, you will get tried one way or another." I then asked her what her cross had been. She furrowed her eyebrows and picked on the pasta on her plate.

"Your father and I have gone through so much together," she began. "One of the more difficult parts of our life together was when we had to help each other through financial difficulties. We had marvelous plans for you kids, and failing wasn't an option. But we were a team and we'd be there for each other when one collapsed. It was hard, yes, but it was worth every bit of it. And if things came easily to us, then I don't think we'd appreciate where we currently are."

She looked at me in the eye. "I just hope that when it's your turn to carry your cross, you'd be strong enough and have enough faith that you could get through it. Because I know you will, but it's all up to you."

That conversation took place some five years ago -- but the idea never left my head. I am aware that no matter how invisible to the naked eye, we all fight some internal battle within ourselves. Some do a better job masking it from others while some just can't. Either way, we're all struggling with something.

Then one day, it hit me. My cross. It had been there all this time and I just didn't realize it. My cross consists of my collection of relationships that I can't seem to fully realize -- that I couldn't seem to be with those people that I truly love and care for.

My family -- a prime example. They perhaps make up the majority of my support system. And every single one of them live oceans away from me. Then there's my best friend whom I've only had the pleasure of sharing the same time zone with a couple of years ago. Not to mention all my closest friends and members of my extended close-knit family. They all have the same story. They are all anywhere but here with me.

And there were also my past relationships. They both had to end partly because of the distance. No matter what type of effort I had to put into them, I almost always had to pull the plug because I couldn't seem to bridge the growing gap between us. On my second one, I thought it was going to be different and that I was finally given a chance to rid of the constant gaping hole inside of me -- only to wearily watch the relationship suffer a slow and painful death at the end for the same reason as the first one.

That's when I stopped trying. I was convinced that I could only seem to love people whom I can't be with. Physically or otherwise.

The cross I bear isn't a particularly outstanding incident that shook my world once upon a time. As they say, God gives us burdens that come in different forms. Mine just happens to be the sort to travel with me and to constantly weigh on my shoulders. And only God knows how long I'd have to carry this. In terms of magnitude, I know that it pales in comparison to what others have had to go through, but it more than makes up for the length of time I've had to bear it -- and moreso, the uncertainty of the time when it would stop being my cross.

I've learned to deal with it though. And in exchange, I've become a stronger and a more emotionally self-sufficient person. I've become a person so vastly different from how I was before. But most importantly, it taught me to never take for granted whatever time I am allowed to be with the people who matter to me. I could only make the most out of it and then fervently hope that the next time wouldn't be too far away.

This is why I enjoy the happily boring events with the right people just as much as any world-class memories I've ever had -- simply because both don't come by that often in my life. And when they do, they're mine and mine forever.

Priceless Little Things

2010-08-04T15:07:00.001+08:00

I live for:

1) Toasted buns on my burger

2) Going away on holiday

3) Mindless chatter with people that matter to me

4) Reading while tightly wrapped in a blanket

5) Fresh snowflakes

6) Wearing clothes that look good on me

7) Excellence

8) Calamansi juice with kiamoy

9) Being in love

10) Keyboards that have just the right clicking sound

11) Awesome telephone conversations

12) Unexpected good news

13) Music while in a moving vehicle

14) Genuine warmth from pseudo-strangers

15) Purple fluffy slippers

The Steadfast Tin Soldier

2010-07-06T21:23:00.003+08:00

The other day, I rode a cab with a particularly chatty driver. He asked me perhaps the most common question I ever get asked since I moved here to Singapore.

"Where are you from?" he asked curiously. "You look Chinese, but you don't sound like you're from around here."

"I'm from Manila," I answered politely.

"Oh yeah?" he retorted stealing a glance at me. "You don't look Filipina."

Again, one of the most common comments I receive, but I never really know how to respond to it. I simply gave my usual awkward laugh.

"How long have you been living here? Are you a citizen now? Or a permanent resident?"

"I've been here for six years now," I said. "But I'm neither. I'm still on employment pass."

I braced myself for the usual retort about how being a permanent resident in Singapore has so many perks -- the CPF that eventually translates to retirement savings, the eligibility to apply to be a citizen, and just having the privilege to live in a country with a raging economy.

But he surprised me by saying, "You're very smart, you know?"

Huh?

"At least you get a choice where you want to live by not tying yourself down to Singapore," he continued. "If you decide to become a Singaporean, you will lose your other passport. They force you to give up so many other things."

I frowned. I don't get that a lot. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Singapore. Born and bred," he said simply. As if it was the answer to everything.

Having grown up in a country where colonial mentality is inherent, I could sincerely understand why many Filipinos would jump at the chance of owning a foreign passport. I've gotten accustomed to filling up lengthy application forms for visas whenever I have to travel and trust me, it's not exactly a bed of roses. I silently fume at how people holding privileged passports could take such a thing for granted. And holding a Philippine passport subjects me to various stereotypes and all kinds of racial profiling. It's not something I enjoy, but I've gotten used to it. Once you've gone through it a few times, you'd realize that everyone has the same idiotic ideas about your country and your nationality that you'd end up pitying them more than anything.

Despite all that, it never occurred to me to give up my Philippine passport. Sure, I still fantasize about owning a passport that will allow me to go to any country out of sheer whim. But it's too frivolous for me to act upon. I wouldn't mind holding dual citizenship for pragmatic purposes, but that's all it will be. A practical decision. As much as I curse being Filipino every time I have to shell out EUR 100 for a Schengen visa, I still maintain my pride for my national identity. After all, the Philippines is still my birthplace, my family home and the roots of my culture. I owe it that much.

I haven't lived in the Philippines for the past twelve years. That's about two-fifths of my life. Even though I still look back fondly on my memories of growing up at home, and even though I still keep a healthy amount of close relationships back home, I can't help but feel like I'm being pulled away further and further from it. I've spent my impressionable years in a couple of adopted cities -- I've had to adjust to other cultures and paradigms. While the core of my being is still very much Filipino (after all, it's the culture that molded me while growing up), a significant part of me has also absorbed bits and pieces of other cultures especially those that make sense to me. My ideas and mindsets have adjusted to more global environments, and my decision-making skills have morphed into the practical kind more than the usual traditional and emotional categories. In essence, it was like I was given a palette of cultures to choose from -- and I cherry-picked those elements that I wanted to keep.

I don't particularly strike myself as the patriotic kind. As a matter of fact, I am acutely aware of the shortcomings of being typically Filipino and I try so hard to stray from them. I refuse to fall into some cookie-cutter trap where my nationality defines my individuality. But if I was forced to choose sides, I wouldn't think twice about adhering to my mother land. I may not speak my first language like it's really my first language, I may have been quite a delinquent during voting and election times, I may not have as many Filipino friends than I have foreign friends, and I may not have traveled as extensively in the Philippines than I have in New England -- but these are not testament to my being any less Filipino than the next karaoke-belting woman dressed in a Maria Clara costume.

My passport is the only official document that links me to my country. I don't own anything else that proves I'm Filipino (though I fervently hope my mother still has my birth certificate somewhere). This hit me hard a few years ago when I had problems availing of the local hotel rates at the Shangri-la Hotel in Manila. There's nothing more frustrating than having to prove something true without any hard evidence to accompany it.

So to give up that single thing that reminds me of who I am and where I came from is asking for too much. It's too big of a footprint to discard so easily. As baseball player, Branch Rickey, once said "It is not the honor that you take with you, but the heritage you leave behind.”

这是给你的

2010-06-28T17:18:00.001+08:00

A haiku for you

Because you've always believed.

I love you, you know?

Half A Decade

2010-06-17T17:18:00.004+08:00

The last time I filled up one of these was way back in 2005 -- one year after I started my life in Singapore. It was both nostalgic and exhilirating re-reading my past blog entry ont it. Even though I never felt the past six years pass by, it made me realize how much I've changed as a person since my naive little self set foot at the legendary Changi airport upon my first arrival.

I could still afford then the luxury of having no idea what would be in store for the rest of my life. I've got to say. Not too shabby.

Happy sixth anniversary to me; to my life in this little island that I've managed to adopt as my home.

~*~*~*~*~

What did you do in the past 5 years that you hadn't done before?

It feels like my life only started at 23. Not that my life prior to my 23rd year was exceptionally bad, but I think I only started growing up at 23 when I realized just how big the world was -- and that it doesn't have to be scary. I've done so many things for the first time in the past half-decade, but having to let go of any nearby safety nets by living in a brand new country all on my own may have topped my entire list. Do I recommend it? No. It can be insanely frightening. Was it that traumatizing? It doesn't have to be. You simply take what is offered and make the most out of it.

Did anyone close to you die?

Unfortunately, my two Lolas passed away within months of each other in 2008. It was an intense year, but I hope there are a lot of flowers and greenery wherever they are right now. And with my Lolos. That would make them extremely happy. Rest in peace.

Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes, as a matter of fact. The world welcomed my three favorite nephews -- two from my sister and one from my brother. The buggers took my place as baby of the family.

Even if we did lose both my Lolas, we were still gifted with more additions to the family. Indeed a blessing.

Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?

You bet your behind I did. I completely made up for that cultural blackhole I suffered from when I was living back in the US. I rediscovered my wanderlust and remembered just how hard it kicked. It must've acquired some newfound energy while I was dormant. Traveling seems to be one of the very few things I live for these days. Asking me to pick a favorite holiday memory would be like asking me to pick a favorite child. If only I can bundle up all the memories up and stuff it in a cannister than I can take with me everywhere I go -- I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Best thing you bought?

My crappy camera. Seriously. It was the only thing that enabled me to capture all the memories I've collected over the past few years. And it was the only instrument that ever reminded me how awesome and how beautiful the world really is. And how we take so much for granted. And how we see things differently in hindsight. I really should invest in a better one, but it won't feel the same. Perhaps there can be beauty found in raw imperfection.

Where did most of your money go?

I wish I knew. Though I know that a solid chunk went to investments on my relationships with family and friends. May it be flying off to see them, traveling the world with them, enjoying gastronomic experiences with them or simply racking up on ginormous overseas phone bills to speak with them -- it was worth every penny.

What do you wish you had done more of?

I wish I had the mind to spend more time with my Lolas before they passed on to a much better place. But dwelling on that will take me nowhere so I wish to take that lesson and apply it somewhere that I can still control. Having said that, I've learned to cherish and appreciate the people around me even more -- knowing that the day will come that being with them will simply be reduced to memories. So while I can still hold on to those as realities, then I shall.

Other than that, I wish I wrote more. Never stop writing, I keep telling myself. And I still tell myself that.

What do you wish you had done less of?

Eating those damn ice cream sandwiches that they sell for a buck in the streets. Oh sigh, but they make such great comfort food! What's a girl to do?

But no regrets. As much as we feel the powerful sting of regrets that trail behind us, I believe that they still play important parts in turning our lives for the better and making us better people.

What kept you sane?

Knowing that I have a whole posse behind me that provides me with all the support I need -- plus the fact that I know they're all one plane ride away ready to welcome me with open arms. And of course, there are also the wonderful people (whose patience and tolerance I've unwittingly put to the test) that God peppered around me here in Singapore.

And Jack Daniels. And Absolut Vodka. And Amazon.com. Oh, and those awesome Malaysian pirates that bring my favorite American TV drama series right to my doorstep. May Allah bless you and catapult you straight to eternal happiness.

What drove you mad?

People. But hey, can't live with them, can't live without them. We're screwed.

How were your birthdays?

Pretty good. I can't say they were all memorable, but I do know I had fun in each one that passed. I spent them with all the right people and there was always cake (always a good benchmark for me). I had the most beautiful purple cake for my 25th birthday but I don't remember eating it. And I had one of my most expensive meals for my 27th birthday. One thing I realized, however -- birthdays are best spent as quiet occasions with people who matter most to you. Preferrably not sober because once it sinks in that a year has passed and I still haven't done much out of my life, it can be pretty damn depressing. So, bottoms up!

What political/economic issue stirred you the most?

The Financial Crisis of 2008. Being in the heart of the financial industry didn't help matters at all. I witnessed first-hand how lives of people turned for the worst, and I saw how former high-flyers had their wings clipped by humility. It was perhaps one of the greatest events that purged the world. Lessons of prudence and moderation were hopefully learned. I would sacrifice a lot not to go through that kind of trauma again.

What made you celebrate?

The weekends. Every single one of them.

What song will remind of the past 6 years?

Crash And Burn by Savage Garden

"Cause there has always been heartache and pain, and when it's over you'll breathe again, you'll breathe again"

It was a tough lesson to learn, but it's true.

Biggest achievement?

Achieving a state of pseudo-contentment and finding comfort in knowing what I don't want in life. I've spent my whole life trying to figure out what I want and truth be told, I could be 70 years old right now, and I still wouldn't have a clue. However, it took a while for me to realize that I want to be anything but ordinary. And that I don't desire the kind of life I was trained to work for along with everyone else. And realizing that it's okay not to want that, experiencing the joy of rejigging my priorities, and garnering the support of my loved ones -- just priceless.

Biggest disappointment?

Nursing heartaches, allowing fear to get the better of me (thus, yielding a lot to playing it safe and avoiding numerous risks), and having to sever ties with people who used to be important to me. But such is life, no? We don't get anywhere by sitting on the fence so no matter how intimidating, we have to jump off and pray hard that we land on the good side. And if we don't, then we simply deal.

What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

Instinctively, I wanted to write down that it would've been better if I were financially better off. But when I chewed on it, I don't think things would've panned out the way they did if I had everything I wanted. Or at least easy access to them. I was provided with everything I needed -- I had to work for anything else I wanted beyond that. And that's what it was all about, wasn't it? A big part of the journey is finding out whom you'd become as you pine after your aspirations. And more importantly, whom you'd become when you don't get them.

A valuable life lesson you learnt?

Leben und Lieben. Live and love (despite everything that can go wrong). It's the best thing you could ever do for yourself.

Do You Remember?

2010-05-27T15:32:00.006+08:00

To my beloved "Thelis,"

You were about three years old then; I was five. It was scorching hot that afternoon, but I don't remember which part of the year it was. Was it summer? All I know was that the leatherette seat covers on the backseat of our Toyota Corolla were burning my thighs from the heat. Daddy was driving and Mama was on the passenger seat. I was alone at the back -- and I couldn't wait to see you. My parents told me you were in the hospital and that we were going to visit you. I didn't get any details, but they said you were very sick. I hoped you were okay. I wanted to show you the new Rainbow Brite doll I got as a reward for getting a gold eagle award in school. Mama helped me pray for you at night so that Baby Jesus would make you all better.

We rode the elevator up the hospital. I don't remember which one it was, but I can still smell the stench of the Lysol that was generously sprayed on every corner. Mama knocked four times against your door and your Papa answered. I took his hand and touched it to my forehead, and I asked for you. Your Mommy said you just woke up and that I should take it easy with you. She looked like she had not slept in years. She said you just went through your operation and that you were tired. And to be gentle with you.

My height barely reached your hospital bed, but I managed to see you. You looked so small laying in the middle of those white pillows. Your eyes were closed. I poked my fingers through the bed railing trying to wake you up. Your eyelids fluttered -- and you smiled widely when you saw me. I grinned and waved. I missed you! You were sporting the coolest hot pink bracelet on your left hand. I pointed to it and you showed it to me. It had your name on it, as well as your doctor's name. At least that's what I thought it said. I couldn't read that well yet at that time. I wanted one so badly, but I knew it was one of those things I could never have.

Mama came over to see how you were. She was whispering rapidly with your Mommy. They were talking about your doctor, I think. Then she placed her hands over your head and started praying over you. You were staring at her as if not knowing what to do. You looked at me; I smirked and then you smiled. Heehee, Mama looked funny when she talked with her eyes closed.

I wish we could have stayed longer but my parents whisked me away and said you had to rest. Already? It was barely half an hour! They promised me that you'd be home soon and that I could come over to your house to play when you're better. And that in the meantime, we were going to SM Department Store to buy you a toy. I told Mama that you would like a Rainbow Brite doll too -- Shy Violet was your favorite. I turned around to say bye to you and you waved a limp hand. Hmm. You did look tired.

Back in the car, I asked Mama why you were sick. She told me that your intestines knotted up with each other and that the doctor had to open you up to unknot it. I didn't know what intestines were, but somehow I envisioned a friendship bracelet of sorts inside you. She said you had to watch out what you ate from then on -- no bananas, no suman, nothing sticky. And she told me that I should look after you just in case you ate something that's not good for you. I put on my most serious face and nodded sagely. No bananas, no suman and nothing sticky, I said to myself.

As promised, you were sent home a few days after. I brought you some gummy bears when I came to visit you, and you ran to your Papa to ask if you can eat some. He allowed you two, but you had to give the rest to Yaya Mercy so she can keep it for you. We were all very cautious of what you ate -- we didn't want you to end up in the hospital again. You turned to me and said "Mommy bought me Red Butler for being a good girl when I was sick, do you want to see it?" Of course I did.

I swear, if your parents could have placed you inside a vaccuum to protect you from everything that is harmful, they would have. I would have. They would have given you a million Red Butlers just to make sure you would always be safe. You scared them half to death with that incident -- you scared all of us. You were so young, so small. So helpless. You didn't deserve to go through that. We could have lost you. But praises to the heavens that you were okay. It was a big gamble.

Do you remember it?

God only knows how I would've turned out if you weren't there with me growing up. You grounded me and you gave me balance. You were the baby sister I never had -- and yet there were times when you seemed a lot older than me. Oh, the endless anecdotes we have with each other! Truly precious. I would have given anything to ensure your safety, good health and happiness. And I still will.

Now that you're about to embark on a whole new journey in your life, I do want you to know that nothing has to change between us. I promise you that. Despite everything we've gone through, we're still as solid as the two of us can be. Everything else that we are meant to weather will just add more colors to our story.

In two weeks' time, you will be someone else's -- and I know that there's nothing else in this world that makes you happier than that. Trust me when I say that you deserve nothing less. And I am more than honored to be there with you and for you on your special day. Because after everything you and I lived through, I won't have it any other way.

I love you.

Yours Forever,
"Basulelo"

Nullum Desiderium

2010-05-18T15:33:00.006+08:00

Regret
Is that bitter aftertaste
That
Lingers
For stretches of time

But we are only human
And
We must accept
That
All we can do
Is keep moving

Dwell not.

The anguish deliquesces
And
The remnants
Eventually veer
Into
Beautiful memories
Like scabs
That we relish to
Scratch

And then it stops
Hurting

Almost.

Bon Mot

2010-05-07T15:38:00.001+08:00

It's funny how we spend half our lives pining and praying for numerous things. We call out to our respective gods for favors and bargains; and then we spend the other half of our lives whining and complaining that we never get anything that we've asked for.

If we take a closer look at our lives, we are actually given most of what we've asked for. We rarely realize this. The caveat, however, is that they just aren't usually presented in the way that we were expecting they would come.

It's like asking for a huge sum of cash, and eventually getting it in the form of inheritance from a late parent. Or like asking to meet Mr. Perfect, only to meet Mr. Perfect and his equally perfect wife. Or like asking for a fair stab at love, only to find an acne-ridden stalker serenading you by your rose bushes every night despite your attempts at throwing him clumps of hardened clay. Or like asking for the dream job, only to find out it pays so poorly that you may have to live in a cardboard box outside your workplace.

Frustrating, really.

The gods indeed have a wicked sense of humor. But perhaps it's to prove to us that they know what's best for us so it might be in our best interest to simply let them do their jobs. We ought to just sit back and relax -- and just be grateful for what we have now instead of constantly kicking up a fuss about what we don't have. Life is tough enough as it is.

"It is better to want what you have than to have what you want." - Proverb

Schwarz (Black)

2010-04-29T16:02:00.010+08:00

What I've always wanted my eyes to be.

My favorite turtleneck which I bought from J. Crew for $9.99 that I still refuse to throw out after twelve years.

The sky during my entire birthday week when I turned fourteen.

Cabs in London.

The onyx bracelet my mum gave me two years ago for year-long luck -- which I broke three days later.

My outfit during my high school graduation dinner at Le Souffle.

Ink in my fountain pen.

The Oasis shirt my brother bought me during my first visit to Tower Records.

My favorite 600-thread count bedspread.

Pitch.

My upright piano that eventually found a new home at the Benedictine Monastery.

That Bebe cardigan which I never wore.

The ice on the road on Route 16 when I got into my first car accident.

Char that I don't like on my steaks.

The forest in my nightmares where I run through with bare feet

My patent leather Mary Janes that has always been too high for me to wear.

Kohl around my eyes.

The blood in the tub of that Alfred Hitchcock movie.

What Africa just isn't.

All fourteen of the Planet Hollywood shirts that I painstakingly collected from all over the world

My mood when I get crossed.

The suit I wore during my first job interview.

The Spanish fan my grandmother always brought to church on Sundays.

My Discman that I used to bring around on road trips as I watched the world pass me by.

The bruise on my thigh after I got spanked for lying when I was in 4th grade.

Darth Vader.

The beret I bought in Paris because my ears were too cold.

The tarnish on my mother's silverware that only I was allowed to clean until I moved out

The only pearls I'd ever wear.

The stage right before the first act opens.

Chanel's little dress that revolutionized fashion.

The sketchbook that I bought as a sign of support and encouragement.

is Beautiful.

Wayward One

2010-04-16T15:25:00.001+08:00

I was in my pre-bedtime lull last night when the words "Being adrift isn't that bad, considering its freedom" popped out of the book I was reading. My mind kept wandering back to it as I tried reading the next five pages after it. Once I assessed that it's impossible to get any further, I sighed to myself and joined my headphones laying on the floor. With the cold floor pressing against my back and loud music cozying up to fill my head, I allowed my ghosts to hover around me once again.

So there I was, at twenty eight years old, laying on my floor at the cusp of midnight on a random Thursday night. I would never have thought to myself that's how I'd end up at this juncture in my life. Not that there's anything wrong with it (quite the contrary, really), but when I envisioned my life back when I was younger, I thought I'd be more... textbook. Textbook and cliche. I counted on following the quintessential footsteps of the lives of people introduced to me by the media (and my traditional family). I thought that by the time I've reached this age, I would've reached some sort of "ordinariness" and predictability in my life. My plan was to finish school, work for a bit, meet someone spectacular in the process, get my master's degree, get engaged, enter marriage, acquire a mortgage, have 2.1 kids (and a dog) and live life within the bounds of white picket fences. I thought that's how it was supposed to be so I was gunning for that.

Little did I know that life had something else in mind. I did everything by the book up until I finished school -- then that's when my new friend, Uncertainty, embraced me with an all-encompassing gusto. It was like losing control over my life and allowing a rather unknown force to guide me through it instead. I had no idea how to steer myself back on track until I got derailed and eventually catapulted into a dimension completely alien to me.

I despised not knowing exactly where I was heading. And I hated it even more that I couldn't do anything about it. And to make matters worse, I had no idea how to handle the curveballs that life kept on hitting me with. I spent a good deal on the ground trying to regain my balance -- and while I'm still working on it, I'd like to think I've gotten exponentially better in taking Uncertainty in stride.

It took me a while to realize that Uncertainty can possibly be one of the more beautiful things in my life. It kept me from entering a fiercely mundane life and it taught me to fend for myself. I am still largely searching for myself -- but I think I may have caught glimpses of my reflection here and there. And it's not too shabby. I like how I've learned to love my imperfections more than yearn for their absence. And I like how I've learned that what really counts is how we rise above our tribulations more than how we have a lack of them in life. Because ultimately, the best experiences stem out of our difficult moments because the pain is what's ingrained in our minds -- and the determination to eliminate the need to go through it again. Forever.

It no longer matters that I still have no idea where my life is going right now because part of the fun is finding out. And along with that are the discoveries that I make about myself and the world -- and the realization of how little I know and how much more I can learn. And with Uncertainty also comes options. Forks on the road become more visible and possibilities simply become endless. All of a sudden, notions that have never occurred to me before has become a foreseeable choice. And there's no better feeling in this universe than autonomy. And knowing that there is absolutely nothing that holds me down. There's no way we can enjoy the ride if we don't let go.

There is nothing wrong with the life I've wanted for myself before. But obviously, it wasn't meant for me to have. At least not right now (or maybe not ever). But in hindsight, if I did attain that life, I highly doubt that I would've grown as spectacularly as I've had as a person otherwise. Maybe we do need those curveballs -- not to dodge, but for us to dance with. They will never go away; it's one of those things we have to deal with no matter what. And it's probably best to do so with grace.

So, yes, I agree -- to be adrift isn't bad because it gives us the chance to change perspectives. And the ability to change perspectives is something that isn't granted to everyone. It is reserved only for those who have lived and learned.

Taedium Vitae

2010-04-07T12:34:00.002+08:00

A state of nothingness
So shallow, yet so deep
Looking far beyond
Only for trifle to unfold

A state of quelling
And yet still deafening
Cadence of the pulse
Yield strident din

A state of solitude
So tranquil, yet so disturbing
There are thoughts and ideation
But none of vigor

A state of power...
... So meek, yet so puissant

- Lia (Notes from the Attic)

Theory Of Devotional Equilibrium

2010-03-31T17:25:00.002+08:00

My mother is your typical woman that sheds too many nuggets of wisdom. Most of them seem unnecessary until it hits you squarely in the face one day. Bugger. But there's this one thing she said that have always haunted me: "When you choose to be with someone, you have to make sure that he loves you more than you love him."

It sounded so unhealthy that I didn't know what to do with it. I did what every rebellious teen-ager would do -- unabashedly ignored it. And yes, I did regret it. I went around wearing my heart on my sleeves completely unmindful of the cuts and bruises that it garnered along the way. It wasn't until the final and worst blow that I made the conscious decision of becoming more selfish with it. Nursing it back to health was no mean feat, after all. Ever since then, I learned to love with my head. I only allow my heart to speak when the head has given it the green light. To love with the heart had always been my downfall -- it blinded me and it weakened me.

It sounds terribly cold, I'm aware, but let's simply consider it as my defense mechanism (one of my many). Contrary to popular belief, I'm quite a simplistic person. Whenever I care enough for someone (may it be family, a friend or a partner), I will give them my one thousand percent. No question. But what I learned the hard way is that to say that I don't expect anything in return for would be hogwash (or ferocious naivete). Not that unconditional love is the Holy Grail; it does exist -- but simply, it is reserved for the most unadulterated and noble cases.

There is that old adage where people claim that love is a two-way street. And it is. However, it was never designed to always be a fifty-fifty street. There are times when one gives more to the other; and likewise, other times would warrant for one to take more than the other. But when something as infinite as time is involved, this balance may either evolve or diminish. More often than not, I'm the one that ends up giving more as I have the tendency to get more attached (and I'm not sure if this is a product of me being of the Y-chromosome). I've never been one to count stock, but when the gap between efforts start becoming glaringly obvious, that's when I begin approaching a screeching halt -- and I very rarely look back.

If I have to plot my usual progress in a line graph, I tend to start at floor-zero with a very slow but steady upward movement. In my past experience, all my counterparts have started from the opposite, which is a perfect hundred -- with a lethargic decline through time, eventually hitting a plateau. In an eventual turn, our lines will cross and we will sit on a happy equilibrium. I am more than content with plateaus as long as it's on a level that I can work with (with the occasional spikes along the way). But once it dips below what is reasonable or once it stagnates -- and especially if it experiences a steep nosedive -- then I pull myself out.

To pseudo-quantify devotion like that is terrible, yes, I know. But for my mother to tell me that I must find someone who loves me more than I love him -- it is basically her telling me to find someone who has the capability to love me on a more or less equal footing to the kind of love I will be giving him in the future. Because I work on an inversely progressive direction, in the perfect world, we will eventually reach the halfway house. And perhaps, if happily ever after does exist, we may even achieve that. But of course, that's another thing worth pondering for another day. I haven't quite gotten there yet.

It's The Little Cracks

2010-03-23T15:50:00.000+08:00

Somebody wise told me before that people are no better than Bisque Dolls -- just as fragile and just as breakable. Although it takes quite a bit to completely fragment it, every little crack that it acquires will contribute to it at the end.

As people, we are not strangers to resilience and adversity. It's part of life, after all. An old adage claims that we only become stronger every time we fall but it fails to mention the fact that the strength only stems from the jadedness it comes with. Because of these tribulations, we learn pretty fast to put up walls around us to protect us from getting hurt again -- thereby mistaking it for strength. Perhaps it is strength. The kind of outside strength that we draw energy from while we're still repairing ourselves from deep inside.

There's nothing wrong with keeping the walls around us while we recover. But we must also know when it's time to bring them back down brick by brick.

We're all broken somehow. But what counts is how we mend the cracks -- no matter how long it takes us to do so. Like Bisque dolls, it isn't impossible to put us back together again, but there are certain areas that take a little more time to fix. And while it's impossible to get restored back to our original forms, we make do with what we have and we learn to live with our scars.

And then we will realize that we are just as beautiful despite them.

Forever And A Day

2010-03-16T12:04:00.002+08:00

Forever is probably the biggest word I've ever encountered. It's a concept that stretches far beyond my wildest imagination and I don't blame anyone who claims it to be a myth. It might very well be. But I surprise myself by realizing that I may actually believe in such a thing -- despite everything else inside and outside of my life.

I've had the unfortunate experience of having to hacksaw a person very close to my heart recently; someone that I've leaned on heavily for a decade. It was like getting rid of an important limb. It was severely painful and difficult to do. The indecision plagued me for months but I had to do it. We thrived on everything that was unhealthy -- battered self-esteems, irritating berations, regurgitated arguments, passionate yelling matches (short of throwing plates at each other), subconscious indifference and even juvenile name-calling. It was incredibly exhausting having to live through that over and over for ten years. Our relationship suffered an unnaturally long and agonizing death.

Despite all that, I still believed once upon a time that I was meant to be with him forever. A little naive, I know, but we clicked in more ways than one -- a rarity especially for me. Our fundamentals were solid. And funny enough, they were pretty much the only things we never argued about. Our philosophies, mindsets and beliefs flowed with each other like water from the pitcher's mouth. It was almost mind-blowing. For the longest time, they were the glue that kept us together in spite of the glaring differences in our lifestyles, personalities and interests. I thought it was enough. I had always been ready to take the good with the bad. After all, forever surely could surpass the little things, couldn't it?

Well, it didn't. The breakage in the little things eventually led us to our downward spiral.

To be fair, there were also the natural wear and tear of relationships that everyone goes through. And we were in a very difficult position to mend them as sturdily as most people do. We patched everything up with poorly chewed gum and willed them away. We were very good at ignoring kinks even though they constantly crept up to us. We figured that there were more important things we had to focus on because we had so little time to spend with each other. But these kinks -- they were powerful enough to gnaw two people apart. They clung to us like leeches and they unwittingly bred exponentially. And neither of us saw it coming. With everything that we've weathered together, I was confident that we were as strong as anything can be. But I was wrong. What didn't kill us only made us severely exhausted. And it reached a point where everything just became irreversible and unfixable.

With that at the back of my head, it just made forever sound that much longer. Surely it didn't have to be that way. But the thought of releasing one of the few anchors in my life and exposing a massive vulnerability for the cosmos to pounce on didn't bode well with me. However, there comes a point in our lives when we have to let go of good things in order to rid ourselves of the bad. Some call it sacrifice, I call it liberation. I had to set him free in order to set myself free. It was a trade-off I was willing to make because I love and respect myself that much. It's a simple case of self-preservation. I could no longer afford to lose more of myself to darkness.

My failed attempt at forever doesn't derail me from my faith in forever though. Just because I haven't reached it yet doesn't mean I'll never get there. And just because I may never get there doesn't mean it isn't there. And I need it to be there. I need it there because I need that one ray of hope that might assure me that I won't have to get hurt again. And that maybe, just maybe, it's all right to fully allow myself to be engulfed by someone else again. And to submit to that kind of surrender can never be achieved by the finite.

Unfortunately, there's no real way of knowing if forever does exist or not. After all, none of us can last that long. But to live believing that everything good will have to come to an end, I would live a very guarded and mediocre life. And life's a pretty damn long time to be lived like that.

So Beautiful

2010-02-26T16:16:00.001+08:00

Whether I'm right or wrong

There's no phrase that hits

Like an ocean needs the sand

Or a dirty old shoe that fits

And if all the world was perfect

I would only ever want to see your scars

You know they can have their universe

We'll be in the dirt designing stars

- Savage Garden

"So Beautiful"

Unwritten

2010-01-27T15:21:00.005+08:00

I'm not sure exactly what pushed me to dig up an age-old blog (one I created before this), but I did. I'm still deciding whether or not that's a good idea. A lot of the writing was cringe-worthy, but at the same time shamelessly nostalgic.

This particular one which I wrote back in 2006 managed to pull some chords somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. I vividly remember writing it four years ago... and I remember going through the emotions that I was feeling that very moment. It was my first time coming back to Boston after abruptly leaving it in 2003. It's one of my encounters with closure -- when I had to let go of an unfinished chapter in my life so I could move on to the next.

Ghost Of New Year Past
9:04pm EST - December 31, 2005

I'm glad I've come to terms that 2006 is coming... because it's here. Not that I can do much about it. I think I'm ready for it. I'm ready to accept all the changes that have happened and those that are bound to happen. One more bullet to bite -- out of the many that I've already choked on.

I've just arrived here in Boston a couple of hours ago. I feel like Death just ran over me with a vengeance. I don't think I ever got used to all those long-haul flights that I used to take four times a year (for about five years, mind you).

Coming to Boston has instilled a variety of feelings in me. I still haven't quite sorted out what they are, truth be told. I'm exhausted and bushed... and all I want is to lay in bed covered in fluffy comforters and feather-like pillows. I feel like I've been put in some bizarre twilight zone where I'm back to relive the past that I've left behind. The same past that I was hoping to detach myself from.

Upon inserting my key in the keyhole of my brother's flat (my former abode), and turning it slightly to the right and hearing the lock click before the door opens in a warm welcome... I observed the once-familiar place. As I turned on the lights by the foyer, I immediately saw my 22-year-old self running down the stairs, putting on my boots, grabbing my car keys and heading towards my car. It seems like it was just yesterday. I can still feel the sadness that I've kept inside me... the heaviness, the uncertainty. For two years I cradled it; it became a part of me. And this place was a witness to all of it. My bathroom was my refuge. I took profoundly long showers... hot showers that sent steam everywhere. I pretended that the steam were my problems and that I was letting them out.

I entered my former bedroom... and opened up my closet. All the clothes that I left were still there. They still smell of inexperience, naiveity and jadedness. Even my cupboards were still intact. All the consumer goods that I've purchased to boost the retail sales of the good ol' US of A were still there... untouched; as if waiting to be used again.

I'm no longer from around here. I'm officially a visitor... or perhaps a returning one. I'm not here to stay and somehow, this makes me smile of relief. This great city has certainly taught me lots and I've to admit, I was forced to grow up and make numerous major decisions in my life. Unfortunately, I had to take the consequences and results somewhere else...

I'm glad to be back, that's for sure... and because I know I'm not here to stay, everday is like a new dawn. Happy New Year!

It only seems like yesterday when everything happened. I can hardly fathom that it's almost been a decade. Good times, indeed. Memories are lovely things.

Babel

2009-09-02T15:42:00.000+08:00

I do have a love affair with languages. It mostly consists of dangerous lust to speak a multitude of them because I know it's something that I could never really do -- unless of course, I'm Wonder Woman. At best, I can probably speak a butchered version of a hand-picked selection, but nothing noteworthy.

I've tried studying Spanish and Chinese in the past -- and now, I'm onto German. Even though I'm a far cry from being a fluent speaker, I take comfort in knowing that I can probably survive going to parts of those countries that don't really speak English. Well, at least I know how to ask for the bathroom and to ask where I can get food. What else do we need, right? *grin* If I lived in a universe that resembled to that of The Matrix where I can download almost anything into my brain, I would love to learn Latin, Russian, Swahili and Thai. Why? I'm not sure, really, but doesn't that sound like a fabulous array of skills?

However, my biggest frustration lies on my own mother tongue. I find it the teensiest bit ironic that my spoken and written skills in Filipino is just a notch higher than "poor" and yet I have the hide to say that it's my first language. I assume that this is so simply because I was born in the Philippines. But in truth, I'm just absolute crap at it.

I blame our classist society, our colonial mentalities, and our overeagerness for Westernization for all this. It's not necessarily a bad thing, though. After all, it is because of the Filipinos' superior English-speaking skills (relative to the rest of Asia) that brought about many international businesses to be established and developed in the country. That is always a good thing for our GDP. Alas, I cannot say the same for our culture and native language.

Because of the government's and society's drive to get everyone to learn proper English -- which eventually became an indicator of one's level of education -- people continued to shy away from speaking Filipino. Nay, let me correct myself. It led people to speak broken Filipino because the focus just wasn't there anymore. Everyone was so bent on speaking in English that it no longer mattered whether or not it was real English. As long as someone speaks more English words than Filipino words (whether correctly or not is a different story on its own), then that was fine.

This incited the rise of the "conyo class" -- a class consisting of confused people that could neither speak neither straight English nor straight Filipino. The "conyos" (as they have lovingly become known as) have skillfully managed to create a language of its own that combine both English and Filipino dubbed as Taglish (Tagalog + English). Seeing this statement in black and white is enough to find it genuinely appalling but the sad reality is that the Filipinos have embraced this conyo way of speaking with both arms.

I can almost see our Filipino ancestors frowning on us trying to demand what we have done to a perfectly decent language. We, as a people, tried so hard to reach a bilingual status only to the detriment of our mother tongue. Finding someone in the Philippines who can still speak a full sentence in Tagalog without much of a pause or the interjection of an English word in it is just as good as finding a unicorn walking in the middle of a busy mall. I am not a hypocrite -- I am not one to deny guilt in being one of these people.

What have we done? We have bastardized our own language further than our Spanish ancestors have bastardized it (I know they did their fair bit in pouring truckloads of Spanish vocabulary in it).

I get the heebie-jeebies hearing today's generation try to speak Filipino. And I thought I was bad. I would probably forgive them for having such poor Filipino skills if they actually spoke English well. The sad reality is, their English language skills are just as bad as their Filipino language skills because they are used to blending the two together. And well, I highly doubt they can build a nation that can have Taglish as a national language.

Then again, I ought not speak so soon... it might just happen (that'll be the first sign of the Apocalypse). Both my parents are Filipino and both of them speak Filipino quite well. I know I have no excuse for my poor language skills in Filipino. Even though I know that I'm more competent in English (which a lot of people can appreciate) than my mother tongue, I still feel like a loser of sorts because of this fact. I envy those countries where English only comes as a secondary language -- where the locals still speak their native language flawlessly.

Is it too late for a country like the Philippines to be one of those?

Tip Of The Iceberg

2009-03-20T15:14:00.001+08:00

Having lived in the US for a while, I got familiarized with the rigid tipping culture of the Americans. While the concept of tipping exists to the rest of the world, the US just had to take it a hundred notches up -- almost causing people to miss the entire point. I have nothing against rewarding good service. I acknowledge that waiting tables and certain customer-oriented jobs can be jobs imported directly from hell. But the thing is, it's still a job. Some people are good at it, some are not, some enjoy it, some don't. That's the reality of work. If it's fun, then it probably won't be called a job.

I have no qualms at all having to pay for service charge in a restaurant. I mean, that's essentially what we're paying for anyway -- service during dinner or lunch -- if not, then we eat at home. And neither do I have problems shelling out for tips. But here's the thing -- if I leave a tip, it's because I want to leave it and not because I have to. If the 15% tip is mandatory in the US, then bloody put it on the check! If I think my waiter deserves more than that, then I'll leave him or her some extra cash in the cardholder. No big deal! But I don't like it when waiters sneer at me because I only left a 15% tip simply because they're expecting more.

I hate tipping especially because it forces the patron to put a price tag on the server. And as a result, servers tend to profile customers according to how they tip. Surely there are many creative ways to come up with these certain profiles. Though some profiles end up spot on, I'm sure some of it were done unfairly.

In most countries that I've been to (including those I've lived in), service charge is written up on the bill -- and no tips are expected from me. That's because the food and the services are duly paid for. If I particularly like my waiter, then I will leave him a little extra to show my appreciation. But because he is receiving a regular salary, whatever I leave is only a bonus for him. Whether or not he can make this month's rent doesn't depend on how much I leave him (just his financial management methods).

Here's the best part. I can probably swallow having to tip waiters 15% for their service, but why do I need to tip the coat girl for taking my coat? Isn't that her job? Why do I need to tip the doorman for opening the door for me? Again, isn't that his job? Why do I need to tip the bellhop for taking my suitcases to my room? What else was he expected to do? I mean, if I asked one of those people to do something out of their job description like asking the doorman to help me with my bags, then yeah, I'd tip him in a heartbeat. But for simply opening the door for me?

Seriously?

At the risk of being called a snob or elitist, this I will say -- I do have much respect for people who work in service-oriented industries such as hotels, restaurants, and the like simply because it's something that I know I will not be good at. To smile through gritted teeth while a customer raises hell over something no one can control, that's some skill right there. I just don't have the patience. But here's the thing, I also have to deal with clients and assholes in my line of work. I don't expect a tip whenever I answer a client's query. Neither do I expect a tip for fulfilling research assignments given to me. And I don't expect any tips whenever I make a client happy for resolving a data problem. Why?

Because it's my job to do those things!

I was hired to execute particular tasks -- just like in most (if not all) jobs. If lucky, we get a bonus at the end of the year. That is probably the most comparable thing we receive to a tip. But these bonuses are rarely guaranteed. That's why it's called a bonus -- it's something paid above what is due. Once bonuses start being required and mandatory, then it should no longer be called bonuses anymore, eh?

It's the same with tips. What's the point of tipping if it's mandatory? Why can't restaurants just charge for their service directly and place it on the bill? That way, there will be less arguments and less dissatisfied people. Waiters will get their money and patrons will be quantified and judged less.

I tip my hairdresser and my manicurists whenever I utilize their services. I don't have to, but I do so because they know how to make me happy. When I'm not, then I don't tip them or maybe I'll tip them less. What I ultimately loathe is paying for a full 15% tip even when I'm not happy with the service -- if not, my food will have spittle on it or my hair will magically turn purple.

Despite all this, I still think that when in Rome, we do as the Romans do. I had to succumb to the tipping culture in the US while I was living there simply because there was nothing else that can be done. I usually tip 15%, but I do the occasional 20% when a server goes the extra mile. For instance, I tend to give a bigger tip to delivery guys during a snow storm or to a nail technician during a public holiday. Or when a cab driver takes to my destination much earlier than expected.

I'm not a monster, I'm not stingy and I'm not ungrateful. I'm a fair person. I give credit where credit is due. I recognize hard work and outstanding service. I'm not in the hospitality or food/beverage industry but I definitely know how it is to face clients and customers. I can appreciate what patience and willpower not to strangle anyone when dealing with a particularly difficult one. But at the end of the day, we all do it for a paycheck. It's a job. The money that people part with for tips is hard-earned money (well, for many people at least) so we can't blame people if they choose to give it to those who truly deserve it.

Existensialism In Kindergarten

2009-03-11T16:33:00.005+08:00

I was five years old when I entered the school for the "big boys and girls." And at five, everyone else looked big indeed. There were about forty kids in my kindergarten class -- about half were boys, and the other half girls. Every morning just after the bell rings, the teacher gives us ten minutes to use the bathroom before classes properly started.

In the girls' bathroom, there were two stalls. For some reason, there became an unspoken rule that the firsr two girls that reached the stalls get to decide who can use "their" respective stalls. Great. Even bathroom stalls in kindergarten got bouncers. It's up to those two girls to decide what their criteria for the day was -- only girls with ribbons, only girls with braids, only girls with shiny shoes. There weren't much to choose from really because we all had to don uniforms.

Unfortunately, on days when the 'bouncers' were feeling particularly uncreative, they would usually say "only skinny girls are allowed." My five-year-old self would usually roll her eyes and walk out of the bathroom in search of another one. See, the thing is, I have never been regarded as skinny my entire life -- especially not at five years old. I was cute and cuddly because of the inch of fat that blanketed my body. My rotund face was framed by my Anna-Wintour-bob and my cheeks were smooth like peaches. I lost count of people who would pinch my cheeks and would couple it with snide remarks like "spending a bit too much time in the kitchen, aren't we?" If only my five-year-old self knew how to flip the bird. But you know what? I don't care. I was cute, hmph! Well, that's what my mum told me at least (so I'm sticking to that story).

Needless to say, there were a lot of times when I had to go to class without getting the chance to use the john -- or coming into class late because I had to use a farther bathroom. I would celebrate those days when my friends got the chance to be the stall bouncer. I would even get in even if the criteria only allowed skinny girls to come in. Ah, the power of connections! Nepotism in my country starts pretty early.

One day, for some odd reason, I managed to get to one of the stalls first. The feeling of power was exhilarating! I felt the blood rush through my veins. You see, because I've always been one of the tallest girls in my class and we had to go to the bathroom in single file (from the shortest to the tallest), this phenomenon was virtually impossible. I was usually the last in line. Hence, the delirious excitement for my little self.

It never happened to me again though. It was definitely a glitch due to my permanent disadvantage. I never got to play Stall God anymore. However, one day, one of the stalls had a big fat floater in the toilet. The girls squealed in disgust thereby abandoning that stall. They all flocked to the other one. I'm not sure what the category was that day but I remember one of the girls needing to pee really badly. She asked if she can go in because she was about to literally pee her pants. But the girls were adamant in forming a line and taking turns. The girl buckled her jaw and went for the soiled stall. Everyone watched her in amazement as she bravely peed in the toilet. She was smiling as if to say "Hey, at least I don't have to queue up."

I felt compelled to eat my Cheez Whiz sandwich with her during recess time that day. Now that was someone whom I wanted to be my friend -- someone who didn't give a shit about what people thought. Someone who broke the rules, and someone who created her own. We traded Rainbow Brite stickers that day. That cemented our friendship. I still remember her up until this day -- I wonder how she is.

It's funny how we all usually condemn high school for throwing us in a world of cliques and gangs. The need to belong starts at a really young age. I wonder where we learn it from. High school only makes it worse. Let's just say that high school is the peak of the ugly mountain of Mt. Mean Girls, but prior to that, it's a steady incline that eventually leads us there. The popular circle never disappears though -- they just change in form as we advance in life. College has them, and the workplace definitely breeds an assortment of them (though more subtle).

I love it how I emerged from that kind of world relatively unscathed. How that happened, I'm not quite sure. I was the perfect candidate for being an outcast when I was in my youth. Perhaps I managed to round up the other misfits and we were able to form our own comfortable circle? Or maybe people got intimidated by my size and height (and oh yeah, having a big brother helped)? Or was I just not worth being picked on because even though I had my quirks, I just wasn't interesting enough to be made fun of?

Whatever it was, I'm glad I eventually found myself. Because everyone was so busy trying to fit their square selves into circular holes, I was already sitting my triangular ass in the most perfect triangular hole. If only people knew the secret -- not to give a shit, and we're bound to find other people who also didn't give a shit -- then the world will indeed an easier and happier place to live in. Why do we insist so much on conforming to what bigger circles dictate? Where exactly does that take us? Acceptance? Does it really take that much to be accepted?

Be your own bouncer in your bathroom stall. Don't let the short skinny girls dictate what you should be like, because you know what, half of those girls ended up pregnant and expelled before high school ended anyway... That leaves most of the bathroom stalls available for taking over :)

Crap-orate America

2009-03-06T16:48:00.001+08:00

It's a slow Friday here at work right now so my brain is flitting slightly. Earlier, my thoughts found itself six years ago when I was twenty-one and at my first job. My very first job out of college was a customer support trainer for one of those multinational conglomerates that sold document solutions. That's what our brochure said though -- but to put it bluntly, we manufactured, produced and sold photocopiers from Japan. I was a small cog in a huge worldwide operations. Trust me, I totally felt my insignificance the minute I came in for my first interview.

My office was the Boston branch and it very much shared the same dynamics as The Office (though the boss wasn't that annoying). We even had a Dwight! However, as part of my job, I spent very little time in the office. Everyday, I put in at least fifty miles in my car driving from client to client training them on the complex boxes that we sold them for amounts that could've fed a family of ten in a third world country. It was a lonely job but I liked the independence -- and I really learned how to drive, read maps, navigate and guess roads (it was the pre-GPS days back then). Mapquest.com was my best friend. I only went in at work during the quiet days where there were no training requests from the sales representatives.

I didn't make a lot of money as a customer support trainer but it was better than nothing. I graduated in 2003 which was post-911. Jobs vacancies were skint and I had rent to pay. Not a very good combination. Some three months into my job, I noticed that the training requests were getting lesser and lesser. I was spending time in the office more and more. Our branch sales director was smoking more and more outside by the side entrance -- and he looked like he had more lines on his face than my college-ruled binder. I knew something was not right. I mean, the economy was struggling back then, but the management never made anything transparent to us. I knew we weren't making a lot of money but I had no idea we were actually negative.

One day, my manager called me into the conference room. The HR guy was in there. I didn't know what was going on -- I thought maybe it had to do with those bullshit Peoplesoft crap that our HR kept making us do. I vaguely remember, but our HR guy was one of those people you really had to force yourself to like. He moved really slowly and called everyone by their full names. He liked to think he was bourgeous just because he's from Connecticut. And he had this thick moustache across his face that made him look like the Monopoly guy.

"Maria," he started as I cringed with what he called me. He cleared his throat.

I waited.

"Due to the company's financial position currently, we would like to sever your services to the company operations beginning today," he said -- no joke, he really used those words. He said that my department was being abolished and that the sales representatives will be conducting the product training then on forward.

"What???" I demanded. I turned to look over to my manager --- who promised me the world when she offered me the job -- and she was extremely focused on her palms.

"What I meant to say is--" Monopoly guy started.

"I know what you mean to say," I said, rather rudely. "But I'd like to know if the four other people in my team will also be sacked. Are they?"

Neither of them said anything.

"Am I being let go because I'm the newest?" I asked. "Why am I not given the same chance as them? I can be a sales representative too! I know the range of products better than any of the sales representatives. Surely, if you guys will help me, I can learn how to sell too!"

Both of them still remained quiet. Monopoly guy looked more bewildered than somber.

"No seriously," I said. "If you think we're a cost center, then give me a chance to generate revenue for the company. Don't you think that it'd be a waste to simply let all the training you gave me go down the drain? Clearly I'd never use it again if I had to leave."

From the corner of my eye, my manager was looking at me and she was nodding in agreement. She almost looked proud of me.

"B-b-but," Monopoly guy stammered. "You're twenty one."

"And?" I countered.

He took a few seconds to collect himself. "I will discuss it with the sales managers and I will get back to you," he said. "For now, please clear your desk and we will give you a call if anyone agrees to grant you an interview." I wanted to deck him.

My manager escorted me back to my desk and asked if I had any outstanding accounts. I handed them over to her and wordleslly left the building. I entered my car and drove aimlessly for a good two hours until I got hungry.

I decided to go to Panera Bread for lunch. Mid-swallow of my panini, my mobile rang.

"Maria!!!!!!" the voice on the other side boomed. "Jim Kelly"

"Ah, James," I mocked. Monopoly guy always called him James. I could hear him cringe over the phone. Jim was one of the sales managers in the company and he looked like Santa Claus (complete with the platinum white hair. He rang me up because he heard from my manager that I was looking to start in sales.

"Why don't you come to the office tomorrow," he said jovially. "And we'll discuss your career, won't we?"

I agreed, happy that it was him who called me. Out of all the sales managers in the office, he was the most human-like. Everyone else either seemed like dried glue or like Margaret Thatcher reincarnations. Jim was the only one whom I had the gall to joke around with during the times I bumped into him in the pantry.

"You know," he said just before hanging up. "I told Marne to let me know if anything was going to happen to you. I had my eyes on you, kid."

The very next day, I signed my papers for my new position. My manager approached me in Jim's room just after signing the dotted line.

"The HR guy had to go to the hospital that afternoon, you know," she said. "He just couldn't take the tension like that. We weren't expecting all of that to come from a twenty-one-year old. Congratulations!" She smiled warmly.

That was my first real brush with the monster called Retrenchment. I hated it. Even though they company took me back, it was never the same again. It was like getting back together with an ex-boyfriend that cheated on you. There was a constant air of suspicious hovering around my head ever since. However, the rest is insignifanct because I have obviously moved on. But at twenty-one, it was perhaps one of my bigger achievements -- being able to turn a lay-off into a mini-promotion. Too bad I can't say it was happily ever after ever since.

I ended up leaving the company six months later for a Fortune 500 company. It was a similar position with a wider range of products (but no photocopiers, thank goodness). I went through four different people during my interview and a fifth one with the Boston sales director. She was this middle-aged woman who looked more suburban than any of the Desperate Housewives. And she had a faux fur coat hanging from the back of her door.

"So I see you've just worked for (insert old company name here)," she commented as she looked at my resume.

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

She looked at me. "The fact that you're speaking to me right now simply means that my sales managers that you spoke to prior to this really liked you."

I didn't think she was looking for a response so I kept my mouth shut.

"I used to work for your old company, you know," she revealed. "It was a heavily male-dominated industry back then. They were all ruthless. Who's the sales director there now?"
I gave her his name.

"That bastard," she said good-naturedly (I think). Then she cleared her throat. "Okay, do you have any other questions?"

"Yep," I said rather boldy. "When do I start?"

She smiled. "How about the second week of November?"

I survived my first economic crisis five years ago (albeit nowhere as big as the one going on right now). I also survived my first retrenchment experience, and I survived my first real job. A lot of my experiences were more bitter than they were sweet, though I don't regret any of them happening. I am now involved in an industry that has absolutely nothing to do with those two companies I first worked with -- but admittedly, the experiences I garnered from there all contributed to who and where I am now. And most importantly, I learned a lot about people and work dynamics. I realized what my priorities were and which direction I wanted to head towards as an individual.

With the current global financial crisis, I can just imagine all the people losing their jobs -- and college graduates having a tough beyond imagination time finding employment. My heart totally goes out to them because somehow, I've been there done that. However, I am confident in saying that they will be able to get through these hardships and tribulations in due time. And that it's still possible to hold on to hope.

I still have my job and for that, I am eternally grateful. But becauseof what I've already gone through in the past, it comforts me to know that it's something that I can conquer somehow.

Pushing The Envelope

2009-03-01T23:14:00.005+08:00

A few months ago when I went home for my grandmother's funeral, I was able to find some time to hang out with my cousins -- which I was very thankful for since it has become a rare event with me living overseas. My closest cousin is two years my junior. Her boyfriend of six years was chewing the fat with us one late night.

"Dude, it's been so long," I said to him half-joking. "When are you going to marry her?"

He turned serious and furrowed his brow for a bit. "Maybe in two years," he said. "I want to save up a bit of cash first before we enter the lifetime commitment." I heard a slight mockery in his voice when he uttered the last two words. But I had no doubt he was serious about taking my cousin for his wife one day.

Then two weeks ago, he IM-ed me which was a surprise since it's something he never does. He asked me if I wanted him to burn some songs on a CD to send my cousin whom I was meeting in Hong Kong a week from then. In mid-nonchalance, he told me that he was planning on proposing to her on the first of March -- during their seventh year anniversary.

The funny thing is, even though every bone in my body expected him to say it, I still felt taken aback when the words on my screen looked me in the eye. Somehow, it felt more real. It felt concrete. It really was happening. Somewhere deeper inside me, I was really happy -- that I will gain an awesome family member and that my cousin will finally fulfill her lifelong dreams of getting married (and perhaps starting a family soon afterwards too). I am confident that my entire clan will be shocked if they broke up (and I'm willing to bet my cousin won't be the only one that will be nursing a broken heart).

I couldn't understand what was the matter with me. Could it be jealousy? It can't be -- I know that if anyone asked me to marry him now, I wouldn't be able to answer NO fast enough. Could it be age wincing at me? After all, she is younger than me -- and in my family (and culture), there are great expectations for the older girls to get married first. That is their definition of "a natural order of things."

It took me a while to realize that it was the fear that the happiness she will feel when proposed to may not be something that I could ever experience. I know, I know -- I expect many eyes to roll with me saying that because I'm hardly in my 30's and that I still have strings of years to find "the one." But no matter. I wish I can be secured that I will someday possess the certainty that she will have when it comes to being with a lifetime companion.

I don't ask to get married right now -- not even to get engaged. The idea actually sends chills down my spine right now simply because I am not ready. But that doesn't stop me from wishing and hoping that I knew what was in store for me in that department. And it kills me not knowing. And it kills me even further knowing that there's a possibility that it might not happen.

You know when men in their 50's hit the brick wall called "the mid-life crisis" and they set off to buy a tiny red sports car to compensate for it? Well, my version of it is buying a house. Not really, but something similar. I was presented a potential opportunity to buy the house that my siblings and I grew up in (a result of my grandmother dying). At one point during a conversation with my mum, I heard myself saying that I'd be interested in maybe purchasing it if my dad and uncles decided to let it go (and then they can divide the proceed among themselves).

It was like a demon possessed me into saying that. Did I really know the responsibility of having a mortgage -- on top of having to pay for rent since I live in a different country? Ironically, it made sense. The timing seemed spot on to buy the house and knowing that I will be buying the house that furnished me and my family a thousand fond memories makes the deal even sweeter. The idea set my heart to race in Olympic speeds. It felt right... only if destiny has written in the stars that I'm meant to own it. If not, then que sera sera, right?

I'm not sure if it's simply coincidence that the opportunity presented itself just when I was feeling rather down and confused regarding my cousin's engagement. They are two separate events that have absolutely nothing to do with each other -- yet I feel that they cancel each other out.

Was it my version of over-compensating for the fear that I might not get married at all? Or was it my method of acquiring stability and certainty of sorts for myself? Or maybe I simply needed something to distract myself from my destructive thoughts? I'm really not sure.

It's no doubt that at one point in our lives, we all need some growing up to do. Some people are able to do so gradually in their own pace while others get forced to mature more quickly. My cousin and I grew up together -- and it's nice to know that we're still growing up together, just in different ways.

I got the call at 3:30 this afternoon. My mobile phone reflected her name and I knew that he finally popped the question. My cheeks hurt from smiling as she spilled the story of how he proposed. Then her boyfriend took the phone from her and confessed he was unable to sleep last night due to his excessive nervousness. I laughed -- not because it was funny, but because I was sincerely joyous for the both of them. For them, and for me. I wish them all the happiness in the world.

Journey To The End

2008-09-02T11:30:00.001+08:00

A few days before my grandmother died this year, my mum and I were talking about how she just wanted her to finally "go with my grandfather and into the gates of heaven." Her last few weeks on earth seemed to be the most painful to her -- physically! It is not so much that my mum was being mean or selfish for saying that, but you had to be there to know what she means. I would fly home quite frequently to visit her in fear that I may never be able to do it again. And every time I'd see her, my heart broke a little.

Just like anyone laying on the deathbed, there came a point where she stopped waking up and opening her eyes, her hand grip became almost non-existent, oxygen had to help her breathe as she started wheezing, and she stopped eating (the nurse had to feed her through a tube). I couldn't stand looking at her in that state. I was extremely thankful to the nurse for being so compassionate -- she would comb my grandma's hair lovingly, put lipstick on her from time to time and lathered her face with moisturizer to keep it from peeling. May God bless her kind soul.

The nurse also told me that there were times when my grandma would call out my grandfather's name (he died some 25 years ago) in the middle of the night. Goosebumps populated my epidermis all over my body -- she was already being fetched. I knew it was all she had been waiting for.

The ground beneath me stopped moving the day I got the dreaded phone call from my sister that my grandma died. I was in the middle of the pavement on the way to the grocery store then. I found a small rock to sit down on and dialed up my mother's number to confirm the news. She picked up clumsily and started spewing incoherent words in the middle of sobs and chokes on the phone. I whispered a few words of assurances but we both knew that it was only for the best.

I sat on that rock for several minutes trying to process everything that just happened. My brain was chanting "she's dead, she's gone, she's dead, she's gone" and effectively, I knew it was my cue to cry for my loss. I waited for the tears to come... none. I went to the grocery, bought a few knick-knacks, went home, sat in bed... still no tears.

I prayed for my late grandma's soul and looked back on my lovely memories with her. Still no tears.

For a while, I felt guilty for my lack of tears. Why was I not mourning? Could it be that I've been expecting her death for so long that the nightmare's realization became almost anti-climactic?

It was only recently that it dawned on me that I was actually happy for my grandma that she's in a far better place than the rest of us -- she's happy with the Lord, with my grandpa, in paradise. Why cry when you're feeling only happiness for someone? Sure, I'm sad for my family's loss but ultimately, we are happy that she is finally delivered from pain and suffering and that she has fulfilled a full life... and is now with her maker.

She lived a full life. Now she has reached its end and is embarking on the next journey -- one that is still unknown to the rest of us. We could only pray for her journey's success and her peace.

I miss you greatly, Lola, I love you. We all do.

I'm no longer sorry for not crying when you passed away. I only feel happiness for you and not grief. I'm only sorry that I can't be with you right now... but at one point, I will be. I hope you're there when it's my turn to take that journey. I will have a lot of stories to tell you.

The Full Circle Of Life

2008-08-14T10:50:00.002+08:00

Though I've always known that there's a reason why my best friend is my best friend, I never fully realized why. Sure, we have the general ties that bind us together -- the musical genre we listen to, the desire to travel the world in all its glory, our choice of clothing color (black), our preference for 'out of the box' and 'non-mainstream' options, and loving our respectively dysfunctional family dynamics. It has been over ten years since that one fateful day that we met. And we have gone through tests of timezone differentials, geography and distance to be confident enough to say that we are definitely stuck with each other in this lifetime (sort of like saying 'I really tried to lose her but the bitch just keeps on coming back!') -- I love you *grin*

However, I only fully understood the reason to our friendship a few weeks ago when we were lazily hanging out in my living room after a shopfest the day earlier. Her feet were propped up on the sofa and she was idly looking at the TV without really watching.

"Mass tomorrow is at 9am. We've to find a way to wake up that early," I reminded her.

"Mmm-hmm," was her lazy response.

"You know," I said. "Not that I say not going to church anymore is wrong, after all, to each their own, but I'm quite glad that you still do. I think it's only because many of the people I know stopped going to church after high school -- after they stopped getting forced to go."

Ah, the products of private Catholic school.

"And quite frankly," I continued. "I don't think I know anyone else who has the same degree of faith as me."

She frowned and looked at me. "Like what do you mean?"

I sat up on the couch and tried to think.

"Well, for one thing, I've always believed that God knows what He's doing and that everything He does has a reason," I said.

"Okay..." she prodded.

"And even though I can't explain why bad things happen to good people, I still believe that He knows what He's doing," I replied. "Like, I believe that God doesn't let us down but why do women get raped, or why do babies die, or why do good people get conned? To date, I've been blessed with so much and I don't want the day to come that something terribly unfortunate would happen to me and test my faith in God. And people will go 'so you still think your God is so great?'"

"Well, the way I see it, people being humans can only fathom up to a certain extent," she replied. "There's this movie that I watched which explained it to me quite well." (she did mention the movie's title but I naturally forgot)

She sat up as well.

"There's this one guy who went to a clairvoyant or something," she started. "The woman told him about the future. She basically said that he will write a book and he will get published. However, the book will be a colossal flop and that no one will buy it. The woman adds that it is important to still write the book, get published and go on with life's motions even though he already knows about his pending failure. Twenty years after he dies, a little boy will pick up this book and he will be greatly inspired by it. The book will inspire him to be a politician and eventually get elected to be the country's president -- all because of the book that flopped."

I raised my eyebrows.

"What I'm getting at here..." she said. "There is a bigger picture out there that is probably too big for us to see. We always say 'look at the bigger picture' but we really don't know how big this bigger picture can be. So everything that happens may have a direct impact in the future no matter how near or far it is. And you know what, God's probably the only one who can understand all this."

I sat there quietly and I could feel the wheels in my head churning with a vengeance.

"Like getting pregnant from rape, for instance," she continued. "I understand why people would want to resort to abortion if they got pregnant through rape. But you never know, a woman might potentially give birth to a scientist that can find the cure for AIDS or something. You just never know."

"So God may have His own sordid way of making things work out?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not," she said. "But yeah, I also have faith that He knows what He's doing -- whether or not we like His methodology of it."

And with that, she went back to idly watching MTV.

I went to the kitchen to fetch myself a cold glass of water. I think that my friend may have just brought my belief and faith into a full circle.

I didn't want to call it blind faith but I really do believe that everything happens for a reason -- and that there are no accidents whether good or bad. Everything that happens simply set the stage for bigger and better events. And unfortunately, in universal law, in the yin and yang, the good and the bad will always be present somehow.

It only proves that my best friend and I are best friends beyond our black wardrobe collection and the brimming playlists on our iPods -- we share the same philosophies, faith, beliefs and values. I now understand that it is bigger and deeper things that draw us to each other despite the seeming abundance of display of commonalities.

Where I stop running the race... she finishes it off for me.

*goofing around in our hotel room in Bangkok, Thailand*

Tuktuk Rides, Pork Floss, Friendship, Etc.

2008-07-24T11:27:00.002+08:00

It's amazing how I never realized that a decade has already passed since I have lived in the same country as my best friends. Having been a social nomad since my late teens, I have gone to appreciate more and more whatever stable friendships and relationships I had left. About six months ago, upon hearing the news that my best friend is moving back to Asia, my friends and I took advantage of the opportunity on taking on a long overdue girly trip -- which involves a flight to neutral grounds, lots of shopping, lots of good food and cheap expenses.

A trip to Bangkok was then finally booked. It was the only country that fit the bill, after all :)

It wasn't my first time to travel to that fair city, but this trip has got to be part of the "Ten Most Memorable Trips" in my life -- seeing my life flash before me whilst riding a tuktuk (with a driver who was perhaps a struggling F1 race car driver), getting lost in a market amidst the area where they sell animals making strange noises (with a friend going "ohmygod, that rodent-looking one managed to get out of its cage!"), feasting on junk food literally for four days straight which is enough for a medium-sized coronary (and then taking in massive amounts of this nasty fiber drink in an attempt to get rid of the calories we just took in), and battling with cab drivers that wish to extort wealth straight out of your bank account by overcharging for journeys. Oh, and not to mention the overweight luggages.

Yes. Experiences that only make one stronger -- and more scared. Love that!

One of my biggest fears is to grow old and die alone. And I don't mean being single and unmarried for the rest of my life. I don't mind that. But not having anyone to spend the holidays with or not having anyone to call on for help when I have to drag a dead body across the floor, those are what I intensely fear. I used to pray to God to give me more friends so that I may never have to be alone for any moment in my life. Now that I'm slightly older, I'm glad that He chose to ignore my request because I find that I get annoyed and irritated by people more easily. I find people to be more insecure, self-absorbed and self-indulgent as they get older. A lot of them tend to be users as well only looking out for their own benefits and not anyone else's. And some are just plain lunatics (I wish I were exaggerating here). Trust me, these are the last people on earth that I want to hang out with.

Funny enough, I seem to find more and more people like that. They're a dime a dozen! Instinctively, one would assume that adults are more mature and smarter, but you'd be surprised. I've met kids who have better thought processes than some of the older people I've met. This goes to show that there will always be an inner child in all of us -- it's just unfortunate that some people have the mind of a child rather than the heart of a child.

I don't have many friends. As a matter of fact, I can probably count them all within the fingers on my right hand. However, I can at least say that these people have gone through the tests of time, geography, distance and circumstances with me. They were the ones who stuck around and well, they're the only ones who probably know me in and out. They love me despite my quirks and my flaws (like having excessively sarcastic comments that thrown during inopportune moments and like continuously nurturing a messy apartment with a poorly-functioning bathroom). I always find myself seeking refuge amongst them, my childhood friends, no matter which part of the globe they're at.

So thanks to the inventors of IDD/international text messaging, emails, international couriers and chat messengers, I feel incredibly daft thinking that once upon a time, I actually prayed to meet more friends. I already have all the friends that I need. At least I will be spoilt for choice if the time comes that I only get to have one phone call to find someone to bail me out of trouble *grin*

Here's to more deadly tuktuk rides and coronary feasts! We may live in a big world, but it sure is small enough for gossip to travel fast within friends... thank heavens! :)

Life Is A Box Of Chocolates... Or Is It?

2008-06-27T17:54:00.000+08:00

I recently had a brief dialogue with someone who doesn't believe in the concept of destiny. As someone who believes that everything happens for a reason, one would think that it is only intuitive for me to scream bloody murder at him until gray matter oozes out of his ears. However, I sat there intrigued with his argument. How can one deny the concept of destiny?

His argument reminded me greatly of Neo's answer in The Matrix as he himself declared that he doesn't believe in fate. He said that he likes to think that everything is up to him and that his future is entirely in his hands -- that he basically has complete control over it.

Valid argument, yes.

Then he mentioned that God's best gift to man was free will. And because of free will, we are given the freedom to choose whatever path we wish to take. I felt my ears perk up at the mention of God's name.

I asked, "So, you believe in God?"

"Of course," he answered. I just had to make sure. These days, one can never know.

"Isn't it that God already has a plan for us? Well, at least that's how we are taught," I rebutted. "Where does it fit in that we are in total control of our lives if He already knows what will happen to us in the end?"

Don't get me wrong, I do believe that God was pretty damn generous to grant us all free will. But this is how I see it: God gave us free will so that we can make our own choices and perhaps even to make our own mistakes to learn from. And even if He has given us this much power over our lives, He is still pretty involved in steering us towards the right direction. I like thinking that we embark on a journey towards our destinies -- it's just that our adventures vary depending on which roads and turns we take.

Believing in destiny doesn't mean that we have to leave everything up to God or the Universe (whichever we believe in). And it doesn't mean that we can simply sit by the beach sipping a cocktail while we wait for the sky to drop destiny on our laps. Life still goes on. We are still the sculptors of our own life statues -- but I cannot deny the existence of a greater master that guides us on the creation of our works of art.

My concept of destiny is largely intertwined with my belief in God and His masterplan. I feel that I will have a difficult time coping with disappointments and failures if not for it. Whenever I stumble, I pick myself up with the thought that it must have happened for a reason. It must have happened to pave for something bigger and better to come through. The idea makes me plow forward with heart and spirit.

I do respect his preference for not believing in destiny. But I think that to a certain extent, he believes in it -- just not in the conventional sense. And it's not wrong at all. God did give us free will to exercise and for this power, we thank Him everyday.

Forrest Gump teaches us that "life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get." However, even though we may not know what we're going to get, surely, someone with a plan has handpicked all those chocolates to put in our boxes. They are all carefully tailored just for us.

And it's our job to find out why.

Be In Peace...

2008-06-04T23:29:00.002+08:00

My nightmare from last year has reached its materialization stage. My grandmother has one foot out the door... the other one is still being held onto by life support.

The universe gave her a second chance in life. However, it wasn't as long as we wanted it to be. I know she held on as long as she could, but I guess the end is inevitable. I just pray that she be delivered from pain and suffering. Lola, I love you. We all do.

I will see you on the other side. One day, I promise. In the meantime, please watch over us from heaven.

I'm flying back home tomorrow to be with my family and to join them in mourning. Please pray for me. For her. For all of us.

Some Kosher Love

2008-06-01T22:05:00.007+08:00

In my entire life, Israel only represented two things in my mind: Jesus-land and a warzone (a bit on the extreme ends of the spectrum, don't you think?). When I was told by my company that I was going to get sent to Tel Aviv for four weeks, I didn't know how to take the news. As a Catholic, I was glad that I was given an opportunity to go to the Holy Land. On the other hand, as a human being that watches CNN and the BBC quite frequently, I was practically convinced that I would never make it back to Singapore in one piece.

In the interest of keeping my job, I sucked it up and packed up my bags with the bare minimum as I heard that airport security gives the word scrutiny new meaning. And I also made it a point to stop watching any international news channel. They were simply giving me the heebie jeebies. I flew twelve grueling hours to Istanbul and another two hours to Tel Aviv. I was beyond knackered, but my nervousness remained.

Prior to leaving Singapore, I had at least four million people bidding me farewell and "please take care of yourself" comments. They were harboring the same fears as I. I'm guessing we all watched the same channels on cable TV.

However, isn't it that the best surprises usually come by when there aren't any expectations?

I never expected to fall in love with Israel the moment that I stepped out of the Ben Gurion airport. The weather was gorgeous and the thirty minute ride into Tel Aviv had me mesmerized -- let's face it, I didn't expect Israel to be that beautiful and I solely blame it on the media. The media does not give Israel the credit it deserves. It only shows of the war, poverty and unrests that are present in the country. But what about everything else? Sure, admittedly, Israel has more socio-political problems than a teen-ager has zits, but its positive attributes definitely outweigh its negative ones. Seriously, who would've thought that great wine could be manufactured in the midst of a desert? Move over Napa Valley...

As for safety -- pffft! I never dreamed in a million years that I would say this: I felt safer in Tel Aviv than I did in central London. For twenty five nights, I pranced around the city at night with my colleagues without any lingering fears or doubts. We ate (very) good food, we drank merrily by the seaside, we enjoyed the local scene and we befriended the people. During the weekends, we rode camels, had long car rides through the desert, soaked in the Dead Sea, toured the Old City of Jerusalem and followed Jesus' path of agony at the Via Dolorosa (a bit of culture doesn't hurt anyone, no?). During the week days, well, we had to work. Not much to say about that unfortunately.

Nonetheless, it was an experience worth gold. But more importantly, it was a lesson worth learning -- to never judge a country based on what you hear about it. Do not attribute suckage towards a place that you haven't been to because you haven't earned the right to bash it yet until you've seen it with your very own eyes (just a personal philosophy).

I envy the patriotism that inhabits the Israelis (which was best illustrated during the celebration of the country's 60th Independence Day). And I envy the heart of the Jews even more. Israel is a melting pot of Jews from all over the world in their desire to "be with their people." As simple as that. They want to be with their people, plain and simple. I find it ironic... where I come from, more people are itching to escape their lives in my native land than otherwise (and not to be a hypocrite, technically, I'm one of those people).

As I stick another thumb tack onto my map of places I have been to, I know that Israel will remain as one of my favorites for the mere fact that the journey has taught me more than I ever expected to learn. And it reminded me once again that God created such a beautiful place for us to live in.

And also, kosher food isn't that bad... :P

I'm not a fussy traveller, but I really wouldn't want to travel on this everyday...

The Princess Is (Back) In

2008-05-30T10:02:00.003+08:00

My apologies, truly, for my unannounced (and unexpected) hiatus. 2008 has sprung so much surprises on me that I actually had trouble coping and keeping myself steady. Having said that, my writing has suffered greatly.

This time, I'd like to think that I'm definitely back on track. The waves have more or less died down on me though I still expect a few small ones to roll in (nothing that can't be handled though, pshaw! *winks*). Princess Banter is back armed with more tales and words -- if you still wish to receive them :)

In the meantime... I have:

1) Been sent to stay in a different country which the media doesn't look so kindly upon for an entire month (though I must say it's one of the best countries I've been to)!

2) Made a few good friends (locally and from around the world).

3) Been busy settling in the new job -- the one where the Red Pill led me to.

4) Massively re-acquainted myself with an old love -- MUSIC!

5) More adventures in the pipeline to look forward to.

I hope to see you on the other side! I have missed everyone and everything in cyberland greatly... and my muse, I think she's grown cobwebs already. Time for a fresh bath for her :)

Red and Blue Pills

2008-03-04T22:02:00.001+08:00

I was only speaking about my life and its state of being Jell-O not too long ago when funny events started aligning themselves as if the gods are teasing me. I was already beginning to accept my place and status of "staying put" as I firmly believed that I was being prepared for something bigger that was bound to happen sooner or later. When people say that there is always something in store around the corner, we never really know how far off this corner is. Little did I know that my corner was literally just around the corner.

Over the past couple of weeks that I have been absent from cyberspace and this blog, the universe was busy pouring mischief, confusion, reflections and delight on me -- a mixed bag of emotions indeed. A good friend involved me in an almost complex recruitment process that I was taking lightly and partly in humor. Sure, I was looking for a change in my life but nothing so massive that I was willing to give up my security and fringe benefits in my current job. I went in with the mindset that I may potentially bag an offer that I can slap back to my current management in a bid to show them what I was really worth.

After what seemed to be the most disastrous second job interview in my life (the first one was obviously decent enough for me to get through to the next round), I got through to a third teleconference with the department manager from head office. I shit you not, it was worse than this. Up 'til this day, I am convinced that it was the luckiest fluke of nature -- or a good case of desperation from their side. Nonetheless, after a few weeks, I was the recipient of an offer from a company that I admired and respected. I have achieved what I wanted -- the license to ask for a raise.

However, I realized that I wasn't as simple as I thought. Rather, what I wanted wasn't as simple as I thought. My initial intention was to chase for more money -- of course, who wouldn't want that? But as the days went by, it dawned on me that it was growth and opportunity that I was looking for. Perhaps I wasn't as shallow as I deemed myself to be?

My present company did a stellar job causing me much conflict on whether I should stay or go. They used a very powerful tool -- money, and lots of it -- to retain me. Indeed, be careful what you wish for as mine just came true. In an instant, my salary got doubled and a managerial promotion was left on the table for me to take. However, I knew that accepting that very tempting offer was like taking the blue pill (in the Matrix?) and allowing the story to abruptly end right there. Then again, it wasn't as if I was in a bad place. I was in a good place... just with a brick wall right in front of me. I can turn left, right and around -- just not forward. As much as I love what I am doing now, I knew from the abyss of my mind that I wasn't stretching myself enough to develop myself as a person and as a professional.

I'm still deciding whether it's a good thing or a bad thing -- but I let my curiosity get the best of me. I opted for the red pill and accepted the other side's offer (albeit with a slightly lower pay after the offer of a doubled salary). I feel as if I took on a challenge to jump from one skyscraper to the next without the necessary safety nets and without knowing if I can actually make it to the other side. Hell, there's just one way to find out, right?

I lost at least four nights worth of sleep reaching a final decision. At the end of the day, I know that what I will learn in the new job and what I can potentially become will surpass the big fat paycheck that I have gingerly turned down from my present company. It was a very generous offer from them, yes, but I felt that I owed myself this opportunity to explore newer things and to open more doors. I may fall flat on my face with a bruised ego and hampered spirit -- but at least I can sincerely tell myself that I tried. For me, that is the better option than sitting at my present desk and being haunted by "what if" questions simply because I am the type to always wonder about "what could have happened." Certainly, people like me tend to get in trouble more than the average person, but it is my way to avoid regret (or have at least amount of regret).

Now I sit here nervously fumbling with my fingers hoping against hope that I did make the best decision for myself. Every bone, joint and nerve-ending in my body says yes, though the small nagging voice in my head keeps reminding me of what I am giving up -- job security, awesome colleagues, respect, flexibility and a happy professional abode. Trust me, letting go of a doubled salaray was like dipping my paper cuts into vinegar. However, what may seem big right now may actually be trivial once the future is unfolded in front of me. I do not dare deny myself of this opportunity and I do not dare put a monetary cap on my abilities.

Unlike Neo in the Matrix, I believe in destiny. And I have faith in it. So I take the red pill... and I will enjoy the ride. You can count on that, Mr. Anderson.

Dog's Eye View

2008-02-12T22:14:00.000+08:00

Everything falls apart,
Then I get to try to put it back together
Everything falls apart,
And you can count on that like you can count on bad,
bad weather again

- Dog's Eye View, Everything Falls Apart

Just a couple of weeks ago, I received an SMS from a good friend that her puppy had died -- her 4-month old puppy that she had just adopted not too long before that. Anyone who says that I'm completely detached and devoid from the animal world is not lying. But for some reason, that message I got pinched the ends of my heart strings and I found myself getting a bit more despondent than I had anticipated.

For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to step in the elusive world of pets. I never understood it and I never appreciated it, but I thought to myself, what the heck? There must be something that I'm not seeing that other people are. Unfortunately, I did not get far enough to be completely enamored by it but I did get pretty damn far for a beginner. For a few weekends, I spent time at the park with my friend training the little pup how to walk and how to mingle in the real world. Being around him was a bit awkward at first -- sort of like getting to know someone for the first time -- but I eventually started opening up. I began looking forward to our little sessions and time together. Not just with my friend, but also with our new little weekend companion.

And then the bomb dropped. He died. Just like that -- no warning at all. He apparently fell and he didn't make it. The details are hazy as I couldn't get it out of my friend and I felt it was inappropriate to prod some more. She was clearly devastated and I expected nothing less.

My short-lived experience with pets reminded me greatly of many encounters that I've had with people. One cannot blame me for keeping my guards up more often than it is down. I have learned the hard way -- through numerous instances -- that just because you have let people in your doors doesn't mean they're there to stay. And the disappointments are like the biting wind in a harsh winter's day. And even worse, some don't even walk out of the same door that they used coming in. Rather, they sneak out of the windows without you realizing it. No goodbyes, no farewells.

Just. Like. That.

I simply cannot count how many people I have met and struck friendships with my entire life. However, I may only need one hand to count those people who have managed to stay. And I am eternally grateful for people like them because they let me keep what little faith I have left in the human race.

The funny thing is -- I don't like keeping my doors closed or my curtains drawn. I hate it. I loathe being inside practically alone and on my own. However, better the devil that I know, no? I'd rather be by myself enshrouded by my dull security blanket than let people paint colorful events in my life without necessarily knowing if I will like it or not. One can only get burned so many times. As a matter of fact, I'm still trying to put gather together the ashes of my memories that have been caught in flames once upon a time.

Letting people in our lives is perhaps one of the biggest gambles we can ever take. Whenever we wear our hearts on our sleeves, we actually risk getting our shirts stolen right off our backs. And I've only gotten one heart -- too bad God didn't think of giving us two just like he did with kidneys. But surely He has good reason for doing that. It's just something I still have yet to figure out.

When everything falls apart, that's when we find out who sticks around to help us put things back together again -- even when the doors and windows are wide open and in full view. It hurts to see those people whom you expect the most from slowly tiptoe-ing towards the back door. That's when we learn to keep it closed -- not because we are wary of who else might go out, but because we are wary of who might come in and do it all over again.

Perhaps it is true that dogs are a man's best friend. I heard they stay loyal until the end. But I don't like dogs. Where does that leave me?

Jell-O Shots

2008-01-26T12:23:00.000+08:00

Ever observed how Jell-O behaves? You shake the plate that it's on and it just wiggles endlessly without moving an inch. That about sums up how I view my life to be right now -- stuck! Though I am going through the motions of life and it seems to be going right along with me, I feel that I'm not getting anywhere at all. A part of me wants to move, but another part of me just wants to stay put and enjoy the ride (or whatever I can take from it).

All my life I have been trained to always look forward -- to see the bigger picture and to think long-term. And all my life, that's exactly what I have been doing. And it's quite exhausting, not to mention disheartening when things don't go your way. I find that looking far ahead only strains my neck and makes me lose sight of the present in its entirety. How am I supposed to enjoy the future when I can't even enjoy the present?

Imagine a full busy day with back-to-back meetings. You get in one meeting and all you can think of is your next meeting already. Been there, done that and quite frankly, it was a disaster in the making. I certainly wouldn't wish that kind of fate in my life.

I like the plate where my Jell-O is on right now and I certainly enjoy wiggling about in my own time and pace. I just find it incredibly annoying when people tell me to push my plate to a better place because I'm too good for my current position right now. Granted, I could get a better job, I could get better pay, I could earn more and be able to afford the finer things in life -- but I enjoy where I am right now. I enjoy my job albeit the crappy pay, I like the certainty and stability it gives me and I especially like the freedom it gives me to be able to do what I please. And for the first time, I am rather enjoying the present.

Don't get me wrong, I still do worry about the future. I am wary that I'm only a few years shy of turning thirty and I am still vividly conscious of what society expects of me. However, I also worry about falling into cliches and not necessarily enjoying them. I do wonder if there's a proper way to do this because if there is, then I must be missing out big time.

The opposite spectrums of life -- it's either too long or too short. Sometimes it certainly feels like it's too long that taking risks might spell one's own death. I've met people who always choose to take safer decisions and quite honestly, I don't blame them. One irrational act can make a lifetime of about eighty years seem like eight hundred instead. On the other hand, seizing the day makes life seem more worth living. It is risky indeed, but winning it is ever so worth it. It's now or never. All that matters is how badly you want something that makes losing that risk actually worth it.

I think I'll hold on to the plate where my Jell-O lays on for now -- and take whatever I can get from it. It's not so bad after all. I know I run the danger of settling and compromising and underutilizing my "God-given gifts" but, so what? At least there are no regrets for now and I can honestly say that I don't have to drag myself to get out of bed everyday. Now, how many people in this world has that luxury?

After all, the little things in life do matter, no?

Wikang Sinilangan (Mother Tongue)

2008-01-13T20:40:00.000+08:00

These days, all one must do is to blink and it's already twenty six years later. More conservatively, I blinked and then I found myself already in the middle of the first month of 2008. Regardless whether or not you're having fun, time certainly flies with engines roaring at full speed.

My time flew on a positive note, fortunately. My slight hiatus allowed me to end my 2007 completely in the midst of family, friends and loved ones -- surrounded by the holiday ambience. It's not exactly something that happens everyday (not even every year) so rest assured, it has been one hell of a month. I was almost sad to see it end, especially boarding the airplane back to Singapore the day after New Years. However, I knew that I have a lot to look forward to in 2008. I'm not exactly sure what they are but I'd like to say that I have enough faith to know that there's got to be *something* good about 2008.

Being back home after a year has reminded me of a few things -- aside from the fact that it can get very stressful. I remembered who I was in contrast to whom I have become after leaving my domicile since almost nine years ago. Seeing my friends and extended family brought back a flash flood of memories that made up the person that I became. And one of those elements was my mother tongue.

Growing up in a bilingual country can be tricky. I grew up in a society that carries the notion that one's expertise in the English language dictates his or her level of education and skills. Put more simply, the better you are in speaking English, the smarter and better off you are. Granted, it's quite an unfair measure to impose, but it is widely acknowledged.

I don't remember learning English at all. It has always been integrated into my everyday life along with my native language (Tagalog, which is perhaps the most popular dialect in the Philippines). I didn't actively start using it in terms of speaking until later on at fifteen years old but I've always understood the language with little difficulty. I'm a voracious reader, which helped tons, and for once, I may actually have to attribute something good to American media whose influence dominated Philippine channels and publications.

For the most part while growing up, the campaign was always to speak English and to get better at it. The educational system in my school was chiefly operated in English bar a couple of classes which needed to be taught in Filipino. It wasn't until I reached high school that I realized how scheisse I've become in speaking my own language. Sure, I speak it everyday at home and with my friends, but it wasn't until I started listening closely that I realized each sentence that I spoke contained at least one English word in it.

English became my more intuitive tongue.

I struggled in my Filipino literature classes because I was not exposed to the level of Tagalog that the books were using. Hand me works of Shakespeare and Chaucer and we can talk endlessly about it over a mug of mocha. Hand me Jose Rizal's Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo (Tagalog version, of course, and not in the original Spanish) and we're in trouble. I wouldn't be able to compose a half-decent blog post in Tagalog without anyone mocking it.

How shameful!

Having travelled quite a bit to countries that do not promote English as much as America's/England's former colonies *cough* I began wishing that my country embrace our dying language more fervently. Is it only me who finds it ridiculous that with the seventy-odd dialects existing in the Philippines, I only know one and I know it half-assed at that?

In countries like France, Germany and Thailand, everyone speaks their own language with such passion and gusto. I was eavesdropping (if you can call it that since I couldn't understand a thing) in a conversation taking place between two German girls on a train ride to Frankfurt and seeing the expressions being given away by their eyes and faces, I was dying for some subtitles. In the Philippines, given the same scenario, one can pick out a slight idea on what's taking place because of the loose English words and phrases that probably pepper the conversation.

Sure, it's always good for tourism and business in the country that almost everyone understands English. I only hope that one century later on, we can still keep our identity as a people and that our lips can still perfectly form Tagalog words. I've always prided myself in being bilingual because it's sometimes like knowing a secret language. And I can only wish that I can be good in both.

It disappoints me seeing the younger generations speak even worse Tagalog than I do. Who can blame them though? It's how it has become, sadly.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It's good to be back *cracks knuckles* I hope everyone had a good holiday!

My apologies for the long absence but trust me, it was enough for me to miss being here.

Auf Wiedersen 2007!

2007-12-06T21:37:00.000+08:00

I'm still having a difficult time coming to terms with the fact that another year will be coming to a close in a few weeks' time. It seems like the years are getting shorter every year -- and I find it even more frustrating that I cannot seem to do anything about it.

Looking back into 2007, with the aid of this blog's archives, it never occurred to me just how much has happened within a span of twelve months. Exactly this time last year, I was getting ready to travel to San Francisco where I celebrated Christmas with my family. In a couple of weeks, I will be taking a flight to my original home in Manila where we will be spending Christmas with my grandma whom I haven't seen in a while. It will be the first year that my brother wouldn't be with us as he needs to stay back in Boston for work purposes. I have realized how small the world really is with my family scattered all over it. I thank God for allowing us to overcome all geographical obstacles. But at the same time, it seems very big especially in times when I'm feeling particularly small.

It has been another year filled with milestones. I managed to maintain a record of my thoughts (of sorts, at least) as Princess Banter will be having her first birthday soon -- hear hear! I was able to travel to cities -- both old and new -- and formed wonderful memories from these trips. As for friends, I may not have gained that much more, but I have certainly realized whom the true ones are and who will run the race with me through and through. And I am certain that there will be more curbs and bumps to anticipate but I have reason to believe that we will make it to the end.

I grew up a lot this entire year. I sure hope I did -- after all, I'm officially in my late twenties *cringe* Thank you to everyone who have been patient enough with me and who have been accompanying me in my roller coaster of thoughts and musings. I hope you enjoyed the ride. I, of course, intend to carry on into 2008... into 2009... and the next years to come. I do hope that you'd still be with me then.

For now, I will be closing the first chapter inside the head of Princess Banter. I am joining everyone in the holiday madness that we participate in every single year. I will be back in January as we welcome the new year. Though I am sure that changes will be in order (as they changes can be good, too, sometimes), I am fairly certain that I will still be the same person that started writing here exactly a year ago.

I think I will do something different next year. I will not make any resolutions for a few obvious reasons -- and also because I want to believe that changes and pure intentions need not only take place when a new year enters the calendar. It had been another good year, I would have to say, despite all my gripes that it seemingly is the "same shit, different day." Thank you, Stephen King, for being brilliant enough to articulate that :) Truly!

I wish everyone a very happy Christmas and a tremendously prosperous New Year.

May everyone enjoy their new canvass in life -- and may we all learn to live with (and perhaps forgive) the past drawings that still haunt us up until this day. May we keep on creating new drawings that we can peruse later on with a twinkle in our eyes and an enigmatic bite on our lower lips.

Karma - The Great Equalizer

2007-11-26T20:36:00.000+08:00

If there is anything that I desperately hope is true, it isn't God. Rather, the concept of karma. Many of us believe in it perhaps as a way to console ourselves with regards to unfortunate situation that are beyond our control. On the other hand, it only makes sense to subscribe to it because it seems to be the universal balance keeper.

Karma. What is karma?

According to the dictionary, it is "the cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished in one incarnation according to that person's deeds in the previous incarnation."

Karma, it seems, stems largely from religious principles and dogmas (Hindus, help me out here?). It involves living a fair life in order to bid for a better one in the next. Though it seems to refer to reincarnation and such, the more modern concept of it conveys the same theme as the Bible's Golden Rule -- "Do unto others what you want to be done unto you." Similar, yes?

The universe has its own mechanism where it imposes natural balance upon itself. There is the good and the bad, black and white, heaven and hell -- the yin ang yang of life. It is said that for every misdeed that we commit, it will come back to bite off our behinds at an aggravated degree. There is justice and there is fairness.

I cannot seem to agree more.

If it were up to me, I would like to be the one to inflict justice in my own life. I wish that I can have matters in my own hands whenever I get wronged or taken advantage of. However, life isn't as rosy as such. I don't think it's entirely possible to think clearly -- more so think of justice -- when one is ridden in rage and anger over an incident. Various people deal with obnoxious emotions differently and these people also act differently in certain situations. It will be an unfair system if people lived in my ideal world. Most importantly, who are we to decide what kind of justice the wrongdoer must receive?

To believe in karma is to award the divine with the task of maintaining moral equilibrium on earth -- or in the universe. Believing in it allows me to pick myself up after a messy fall, to dust my hands quickly against each other, and still hold my head up high with a smirk. It comforts me greatly knowing that I need not lift a finger in order for some people to experience the vileness that they inflict on others. It is all taken cared of.

Karma keeps us humble. Knowing and acknowledging its power keeps us in check because ultimately, our actions are a reflection of ourselves.

There have been many occassions that I have been duped and toyed with -- in all aspects of the words. And just like everyone else, as I would presume, I wish nothing short of misery and pain for those people who have engineered the scenario, no matter how big or small. I can be completely high strung and vengeful (as a matter of fact, isn't that part of being a Scorio? *wink*) and my emotions can get the best of me sometimes. If I act upon any of them, I will probably end up doing something I would regret for eternity (I already have some regrets as it is). My only option is to leave it to the professionals -- to those up there controlling the karma switchboard.

Unfortunately, patience is greatly needed in this whole karma game. It isn't up to us when the shit will hit the fan for the other side. We only see the smaller picture, but karma sees the larger one and will know where it will hurt the most for them. We can do nothing but wait until that moment emerges -- and one can only hope that he or she will be present to witness this sweetest thing called revenge.

We are not entitled to play God. We are not God. Even if someone doesn't believe in God or any kind of god, it is still not up to him or her to take control and ensure that justice will be served for every fault held against them. If we follow the karmic school of thought, doing so will only entail a bigger blow against one's self in the form of higher karma. It's one vicious circle that we wouldn't want to get trapped in.

God has given man free will. Whether or not someone decides to choose evil rather than good is his or her choice entirely. However, the consequences can be pretty dire and there really is no way of knowing when the ax will fall. That, I believe, is God's greatest disclaimer.

Whilst we wait for all the pieces of the universe to all fall into place, we can always resort to swearing, yeah? It's harmless and it's therapeutic. Then we sit back and enjoy the ride.

And if you're anything like me, I would be hoping the worst for that person.

(I can so totally feel the gates of hell opening up for me now)

~*~*~*~*~*~

My apologies for the negligence, I'm aware that it has been a while since my last post. And perhaps, I am also guilty for the dwindling quality of the posts. Caught with the holiday madness, wrestling with illnesses and dealing with year-end wrap-ups, I do not know when I am expected to catch up on my sleep. Nonetheless, still toiling hard.

To those who celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you all had a good one! Brace yourselves for another holiday filled with lots of food and excessive spending.

Cheers!

Love Actually

2007-11-18T20:54:00.000+08:00

It was a little before seven o'clock at night and I just finished attending church. It was still twilight outside and I decided that I didn't want to go home just yet. After all, witnessing twilight is such a novelty nowadays with me trekking out of work so late on weekdays. I approached the vendor selling street ice cream and purchased a yam-flavored one. Not exactly the healthiest option, but when cravings call, who am I to deny it?

Content with my indulgence, I walked around the town center where people were lazily milling around and trying to savor the last few hours of their weekend. I took a double take at this couple who were having an incredibly intense conversation -- neither were they being discrete about it.

Call me nosy, but I was simply curious, I found myself sidling up to the bench next to theirs and pretended to be very interested in my ice cream.

The guy was probably in his late twenties. He was wearing smart clothes -- a crisp white shirt and black trousers -- and his face looked tired despite the twinkle in his eyes. The girl was sporting a barely there dress with her hair piled on top of her head immaculately. Her ankles look like they're screaming in torment judging from how swollen they were inside her super high heels. Her youthful face betrays her looks and demeanor because I get the feeling that she wishes to appear older than she really is.

"I'm sorry, but we couldn't do this anymore," the guy told her in half Mandarin, half English.

Swollen Ankles tilted her head to the right showing me her despondent expression. "But I really enjoyed last night," she said. "You were so good. I felt really one with you. I'm glad you were my first."

Crisp Shirt blushed. And I blushed for him.

With her right hand, she untucked the left side of his shirt and she slipped it underneath. From the corner of my eye, I could see her hand making rubbing gestures against his rib cage. Seriously... we're in public, people!

He gently took her hand away from its position. "No, don't," he pleaded. "We can't do this anymore."

Tears started spilling from her eyes. "Why not?" she asked with desperation rising in her voice. "You said you love me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Wo ai ni!"

Crisp Shirt shifted in his seat restlessly.

At this point, I was really feeling for the girl already. She was about to get hysterical and I could sense the frustration in her voice. Her naiveity was killing me.

She tried putting her arms around him only to be met with restrain. "You said we'll be together forever," she said accusingly. "You said we'll get married. We don't have to tell my parents, we'll just run away."

My ice cream was already melting in my hands. I couldn't eat and listen at the same time -- I'm apparently a bad multi-tasker. I stole another look at the couple and in doing so, it astonished me how young the girl looked. She couldn't be more than seventeen years old. I hurriedly tried to lick the dripping liquid yam from the cone.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "Look, I'll give you some money and I'll buy you that mobile phone that you wanted. But we just can't see each other anymore."

He took out his wallet and gave her several hundred dollar bills. Swollen Ankles held the wad of money stiffly in her left hand. Her nails were painted a deep dark purple. Some fingernails were already beginning to chip.

She looked at him with confused eyes. "Do you not love me anymore?" she asked. He had on a face that was short of sayin "Oh god, give me strength."

He sighed. "Love is a very strong word," he answered uncertainly.

It was my turn to give an "Oh god, give me strength" face. I rolled my eyes at my fast-melting ice cream. This guy needs to get some new lines.

"I do love you," he said to her. "But I don't love you the way that you want me to love you."

What a freak! He says this after he takes her virginity the night before?

The girl burst out crying. "Why?" she wailed. "Why are you leaving me? Was it something that I did? Was I not good in bed?" Then she said something in Mandarin that I didn't catch.

He held her hand. "Look," he said. "I'm really sorry. There's something I must tell you, but please don't hate me."

She didn't say anything but looked at him expectantly.

"You see, I'm married."

My eyes bugged out of its sockets. The ice cream has totally been forgotten now.

"And my wife's pregnant with twins," he added. "We just found out this morning."

Swollen Ankles didn't say anything. If my head was swimming in so much thoughts, I could just imagine what in the world was going on in hers. I was too scared to look over her way, but I'm fairly certain that the words KILL and HIM flashed through her head at one point.

"Mei Li," he called out softly. "Talk to me."

She was still silent. The earth seemed to have stopped moving for a few seconds. The next thing I knew, she reached out and slapped him right across his face. He sat there frozen, probably in shock. And for good measure, she reached out and did it again -- harder this time because I heard a snap like a dry twig breaking.

A few people walking by stopped to look at the scene. Thank goodness they were all decent enough to keep walking as they realized what was going on.

"You bastard!" she bellowed at him in full force. "How dare you?!?"

She grabbed her bag and ran away from him despite the swollen ankles. He sat there utterly dumbfounded not quite realizing what had just taken place. A few people started hushing with each other. I was simply biting my lower lip and concentrated on searching for a tissue in my bag.

I decided to give Crisp Shirt some privacy and headed towards home. It's amazing how these things just unfold within a span of minutes. And for Swollen Ankles sake, her life just turned around rapidly within twenty four hours. Her heart and spirit had been broken, and she has been robbed off her innocence in broad daylight.

I wanted nothing but for her to come to terms with all the incidents that just took place. It's almost unfair that girls like her has to be taken advantage of. Then again, it always takes more than one to tango -- usually two, but sometimes there are more dancers to the music.

Seriously. When did the world's events start warranting so much cynicism?

I just hope that she will be getting one helluva mobile phone.

Sometimes

2007-11-13T18:15:00.000+08:00

This was inspired by something that I read in a forum. And this is my attempt at freeing some of my demons.

Here goes nothing...

1) Sometimes I wish that I were one of those cutesy ditzy girls that I hate just so I can get people's attention easier.

2) Sometimes I feel bad for not feeling an ounce of remorse for the bad things that I do/have done.

3) Sometimes I feign dumbness and ignorance about a particular topic that I know about because I'm afraid that the person I'm talking to would think I'm Ms Know-It-All.

4) Sometimes I put up with people I don't necessarily like just so I can have someone to be with for a while.

5) Sometimes I just want to ask telemarketers if they enjoy their job.

6) Sometimes I take the longer way home just so I can watch people live their everyday lives.

7) Sometimes I get so bitter about why even ugly and fat girls can get a boyfriend... while I can't. Then I ALWAYS feel instantly bad for thinking they're ugly and fat.

8) Sometimes I wonder how people would react if I shaved my hair off my head completely.

9) Sometimes I think about how my funeral will turn out and I wonder who will be attending it.

10) Sometimes, when I get scared, I sleep with all the lights on even if my conscience gets racked with guilt about the energy and power that I'm wasting.

Your turn now.

Bastille

2007-11-08T22:38:00.000+08:00

I have never really been one to read and follow horoscopes faithfully. Once in a while I would glance at it to get myself a dollop of amusement -- I can just imagine how many Scorpios there are in the world that's reading the same blurb and trying to fit their daily life into that mold. Don't get me wrong, I don't dispel astrology and psychic powers and such. I do believe that to a certain point, there is some truth and reality to it, and that God indeed has created such gifted people. My skepticism only stems from being realistic and the refusal to seem gullible enough to be taken for a ride. Throwing salt behind one's shoulders has never hurt anyone, yeah? In any case, my religious beliefs go against the concept of fortune-telling and the like -- I love having that excuse whenever my opinion is sought out about it. It's like a quick ticket out of a sticky mess. I'm aware of the differing opinions that people hold about it. Let's just put it this way: I don't believe in it, but I won't get surprised if one day, I discern that it is all real. I like keeping an open mind.

Just the other day, I was reading the profile of a typical Scorpio. It wasn't the first time that I've seen one. I know the basics and yeah, agreeably, some of it are applicable to me but also some traits of Geminis, Leos, Cancers, blah blah blah, you get the point. I refuse to get boxed in a profile just because I was born on a certain date. However, there was one thing that caught my eye whilst reading it. Allegedly, I ultimately seek for independence and freedom in life. True -- can't argue with that, but who doesn't? And then it said "she [a Scorpio woman] will constantly show you that she loves freedom. If she has freedom, she will not leave you, but will love you even more."

I couldn't have said it any better.

I'm not an expert on relationships -- far from it, as a matter of fact. However, I do know that in order for me to stay in one, I do need a fair amount of freedom. I don't ask to be completely independent because I believe in being somewhat attached to your partner as a result of special bonding. I want to feel the beauty of being needed and needing. Emotional dependence can be good as long as it's manageable.

It only dawned on me then that the only way to keep me nearby is to avoid putting a leash on me. I need trust, I need respect and I need freedom. Well, enough space and elbow room, at least. I hate being told what I can do and what I can't do. And I especially hate it when someone acts as if they own me.

I dislike being provoked. The best way to get me to do something is to tell me exactly the opposite. I am notorious for disobeying for the sole purpose of spite. I can be in total agreement with a particular task, but if the method of being asked rubbed me the wrong way, I will drop it like yesterday's lunch. For this reason, I know I will make a horrid secretary or assistant. I demand nothing less than proper respect and consideration. I believe that it is entirely possible for a superior to still command a sub with respect. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against authority and I do not seek for power. I am not the quintessential alpha female that needs to be in control all the time. I can be a fiercely loyal follower to the right master. And I can be a faithful partner to a deserving one.

It took me a while to learn this about myself. I found myself in a serious relationship at a young-ish age and I still had yet to know myself back then. I couldn't understand why I felt purposely deviant and vengeful towards my boyfriend until I realized that I was badly reacting to his attempt of controlling me. We had passionate arguments about how I allegedly never listen to him, and how bad I was at keeping a relationship. This affected me for a long time. I sincerely thought I wasn't ready for a commitment and I even blamed myself largely for the wrinkles in our relationship. And I began doubting myself.

Now that I've grown a tad wiser (or so I'd like to think), I discovered that putting a leash on someone can only drive them further away instead of keeping them closer. Though I may have the tendency to be territorial, selfish and possessive, I would always have to put myself in people's shoes and rethink. If I loathe the feeling of my leash getting shorter and shorter -- or even having a leash in the first place -- what right have I got to do that to others?

I believe that it takes a pretty big person to not need a leash. However, it takes an even bigger person to let go of the leash. The magic will work on itself. The moment we let go, it's pretty surprising how we can gain so much more -- instead of losing something. A little bit of faith is all that is needed.

I'd like to think that this is a universal thing and that it is not something only exclusive to Scorpios. If it is, then by golly, more people would have to mate in February.

Birthday Cake, Tea and Sympathy

2007-11-05T23:55:00.000+08:00

Now that I've moved, I pretty much have a few new things in my life -- new keys, a new address, new bedsheets, new(ish) furniture, new neighbors and a new commute. Riding the train is now included in my daily routine and is admittedly growing on me. I've forgotten how much I like trains. It allows me twenty minutes twice a day to be one with my thoughts and not have to worry about keeping anyone entertained. With my music blaring in my ears thereby shutting off the rest of the world, I find the ultimate peace and enlightenment.

It's like being alone amid a thousand people surrounding you.

At promptly six thirty-five in the morning, I make my way towards the nearest train station to catch the six forty-three ride to the central business district. I count exactly seven stops and estimate about four songs on my iPod before I get there. Luck is never usually on my side when it comes to finding a seat. The train is always filled with students heading to their respective schools -- college students with their textbooks in tow, female Muslim students with their white uniformed veils perched on their heads and the male ones with their black velvet hats, and Chinese students with their squeaky clean white sneakers.

It wasn't too long ago that I was one of those students. Well, except for the train bit, I never had to take it back where I grew up since there really wasn't any. I used to take the school bus at what seemed like the crack of dawn as the bus service always attempts to beat morning traffic. It was only later on that my parents took pity on me and had me driven to school instead (bless them!).

It only seemed like yesterday that I was roaming the high school hallways with my friends and beating deadlines for book reports and science investigatory projects. And then having powows with the group in the school cafeteria during lunch or the steps in front of the high school building after classes. Our schedules were comprised purely of schoolwork and friends -- we were one of those lucky ones who only had to worry about so much. We invented drama in our lives and dwelled on it, not realizing how ludicrous we were being and how clueless we were about how the world really worked. I was once one of those kids who thought I knew everything there is to know in this world. I was once one of those kids whom I've grown to hate as I got older.

Now, I see these kids on the train every single day as I make my way to work. I feel compelled to tell them to take it easy and to have fun while they still can. After all, being a grown up is so overrated -- why are they rushing to get rid of their youth? Get rid of the nail polish (it'll just make your nails yellow), lose the make-up (believe me, when you get older, you will wish you can pull off not having to wear some), don't get too serious with the opposite sex (you have the rest of your life to get headaches from them), wear clothes that suit people your age (count your blessings that you can still follow trends), and most importantly, stay in school (believe me, you will miss it when you start scraping up your own dough). What I wouldn't give to be able to switch places with them.

In about a couple of hours, I will be marking my twenty-sixth year here on earth. Another year added onto my life. That means, I would have been one year wiser from my last birthday. Somehow, I don't feel any older or wiser. I feel like a fraud. This year will be my official foray into the "late twenties" group and I still feel the high-schooler living vivaciously in me -- just a little more saged and jaded with experience but nonetheless still the same uncertain person that I always was.

I don't think we really let the child in us grow out completely. I like holding on to mine because it reminds me of that time in my life when I was deliriously happy and truly innocent. If only I took out the time to protect those moments instead of robbing myself off youthful naiveity, I could have enjoyed it that much longer. In my entire twenty six years, there isn't one day that I didn't refer to my past and search for little nibblets of happiness for me to ponder on. The happy memories keep me going in hopes that I will find more along the way.

I wish the kids on my train would realize that in ten years' time, they will be in my shoes looking back into their pasts desperately searching for something to hold on to. That they will be wishing for longer childhoods and more time to make mistakes. If only I can convey the sadness that I feel for them on how they seem to be losing their childhood faster and faster each day. And if only I can show them how precious they are at their age. I don't understand why they want to grow up so quickly.

It's funny, isn't it? Kids will do anything to be grown up whilst everything that adults want is to be kids all over again -- devoid of all responsibilities and obligations.

Happy twenty sixth to me. And happy sweet sixteen to the kid still living inside me.

Hiatus

2007-10-22T07:31:00.000+08:00

Britney Spears isn't the only one allowed to have a hiatus... however, I will draw the line somewhere between shaving my head bald, marrying a loser and making a complete fool out of myself in front of the whole world.

Unfortunately, the reasons for my absence is thoroughly uncreative and uninteresting -- I still have yet to move flats (I've been taking it slow to avoid trauma as to how much junk I managed to accumulate over the past two years), my internet in my current flat will probably die in the next couple of days as I transfer over my services to my other place, my load at work has been increasingly shitty and the clincher -- my parents are coming to visit for a week!!!

Oh lordy be.

I don't mind the first two as much as the third one. I love them to death, but they just stress me out so much. I will be needing all the energy that I can get for this one. A week will be like eternity and I will age about a hundred years.

I apologize for the lack of posts and comments -- but I promise that I'll be back in gear once I've sorted out my life (AGAIN!). Sorry, it has been a rather busy month :(

I cannot wait for everything to be over... a new start is definitely what I need.

Thanks many for the patience and consideration. I hope you all don't forget me.

I will be back sometime during the first week of November, I swear!

Destiny's Child

2007-10-15T20:17:00.000+08:00

In my native tongue, the phrase "bahala na" is very much overused in instances that we have very little control over. In other words, it happens most in times where we have no sodding idea on what to do. It is derived from the phrase "Bathala na" which quite literally means "Leave it to the hands of the gods." One who is new to the concept would think that it's an endearingly spiritual way of thinking but someone like me who has grown accustomed to it thinks of it as a glorified way of saying "Whatever!" It never kept me from using it though *grin* Over and over at that.

I probably join the millions who believe that there are no accidents, just incidents. And that, yes, everything happens for a reason. It's not so much that believing such things easily gives meaning to situations that we cannot make sense of, but it's more of -- I really do believe that everything happens for a reason. Perhaps it partly stems from my background as a Catholic. You know, believing in a God who has our lives mapped out given the twists, turns, options and choices that we make. Then again, when we think about it, is it really possible to have that many coincidences in our lives? When everything seems to just fall into place without ample reason or logic?

Accepting the idea of fate or destiny is, at the same token, also accepting the idea that there is someone or something out there that is guiding our life. Though it isn't utter surrender to a superior power, it is acknowledging the presence of something else having a hand in what happens in our lives. Happenstance, destiny, fate, serendipity, kismet -- all these beautiful and meaningful words all mean one thing. We often allude incidents to these and resigning to the fact that it's just meant to be. It makes it difficult for one to deny that sometimes, it really is just meant to be.

Though I promote and approve of this paradigm, I do not indulge in the idea of completely resigning one's self to the hands of predestination. Just like anything taken in excess, it can be abused and be rather unhealthy. I know of some people who have a little too much faith in the stars that they presume that everything will just fall on their laps. They reason that if something is truly meant to be, then it shall happen. They miss one detail in the scenario -- that they need to help themselves to achieve it. If only life were that easy to maneuver, then wouldn't we be all happy... in a dull unfulfilled way? We arrange our lives in a way that makes it easier for destiny to shoot for the target. We engineer it, we arrange it, we reinforce it. Tempting fate, if you will. If it doesn't happen the way we want it to, then maybe, destiny has got something bigger and better in store for us around the corner. Admittedly though, the distance to the corner can be a very long one sometimes.

I learned that the gods smile kindly on those people who pull their weight. Eighty percent along the way, we are awarded the rest of the twenty percent. Or maybe more if we're lucky. Very rare are we given the whole hundred percent for simply swinging our legs under the table whilst tapping our fingers impatiently (or patiently). Those who have experienced such miracles must have done something right in their past life.

Even God has bestowed on us the free will and intelligence to make our own decisions. We cannot expect Him to answer all our prayers -- may they be devoted or whimsical -- without working for it. God supposedly has our lives mapped out on the palm of His hands and it's entirely up to us to find our ways to our end. However, the question on whether we choose the right path or not can only be answered at the end of time.

Believing in destiny is a beautiful thing, I at least like to believe. It gives life a mysterious flavor and it gives me something to look forward to. It's like putting the pieces of a puzzle together and only seeing the picture after it has been worked on for a while. It is when secrets are unfolded before us, and when everything finally starts making sense. Going with the flow and rolling with the waves are not exactly bad things to do as long as it is done with care. After all, how else are we expected to explore life's essence if we don't get lost in it?

From here to eternity... bahala na!

Love Unconditional

2007-10-10T23:31:00.000+08:00

I have never been married and I have never been a mother. And I have never loved to the point of surrender. I have yet to understand and experience how it is to love unconditionally -- to love still yet be not loved in return, to love forever even when death intervenes, and to love no matter what even when plagued with liabilities. I do know enough though that unconditional love does exist as I have been a recipient of it. I never felt worthy of it though. It is a kind of love that is bigger than me and larger than life itself. Obstacles such as pride, ego and dignity often get in my way as I find that I have an overabundance of it.

Love in itself is a big word. It's a mixed bag of emotions too many to be counted and too complicated to be identified. And yet, there is something beyond simple love that exists in this universe. To fathom the concept is nearly attaining nirvana as I can imagine, it ought to take a certain level of intellect and maturity to take it all in.

Or perhaps, it's the complete opposite.

Maybe love -- unconditional love -- is simpler than we all think it to be. To give and not expect any exchange, and to smile in the midst of jabs directed straight at the heart. And to not let anything get in the way of feeling so strongly for someone even if one would have to sacrifice a lifetime. And to give up everything that one possesses without once thinking about it. Blind submission to the point of fatuity.

Simple yet magnanimous.

To love unconditionally is allowing ourselves to be vulnerable to all piths of pain -- and to test the human's tolerance for anguish. The left side of my brain prays hard that I may not have to go through that. However, a big part of me yearns to feel the euphoria in having to love someone that much. To love simply is to theoretically love with no boundaries. We only get acquainted with those boundaries though once we encounter the real pain involved.

And to be able to break through that is love unconditional.

"The only love worthy of a name is unconditional" - John Powell

Ruling the Roost

2007-10-09T22:05:00.000+08:00

I felt like I signed away my life -- again -- last night. Two years of it, at least. I have entered into the umpteenth flat lease in my life, thereby digging my soles deeper into the ground and giving it instructions to stay put for another couple of years. The erratic property market here in Singapore has finally caught up to me and threatened to render me homeless by the start of the new year. My landlord hopped on the selling spree bandwagon and decided to rake in at least a hundred percent profit by putting my current flat in the market. Like honey is to bees, my little Chinatown abode within arm's length of Singapore's celebrated business district was clinched just like that. Doesn't money matter to people anymore these days?

Getting the call from my landlord was like receiving a sentence of death. His usually side-splitting funny jokes sounded like metal on asphalt as he attempted to keep the conversation light. Serves me right for entering a non-binding agreement with him in the first place. Two years ago, my gentleman's arrangement with him was the dog's bollocks -- no deposit, no contract, and dirt cheap rent considering the location with all utilities thrown in. Now, the tables have turned and I'm the one with the tail in between my legs. And legitimately homeless at that.

Though I had a quarter to get my act together, I knew that with every single day that passes, rental rates go up a few hundred dollars. What I would have paid for a good two-bedroom apartment in a decent location a couple of years ago would get me a bathroom in the border of Malaysia. So either I suck it up or buy a lottery ticket and pray hard that I hit all the right numbers. The likelihood of the latter depresses me so I opted for the former. Over the weekend, I drowned myself in phone calls to various property agents and sheepishly informed them of my budget and my choice of area. If it weren't for the phone lines between us, I would have gotten spit on vehemently a hundred times. Thank goodness I couldn't see the sneers. The funny part is, the amount I'm willing to shell out for a new place is actually double the amount of money I'm paying right now. I'll clue you in -- it's not small. It's enough live on for a month sans all unnecessary luxuries. And I've allowed myself to veer more than five train stops away from the city proper in terms of location.

It was a surprisingly short process though, me snagging a new place. The end came unexpectedly after a long tiring work day followed by back to back viewings of what seemed like dirty giant boxes dubbed as apartments. It was the last one on my schedule and it was pushing nine o'clock at night. I was cranky, extremely hungry and running out of patience -- the agent was late! I walked towards the apartment complex with a heavy heart as I was sure the place looked crappy inside (despite the grand exterior) or that they made a mistake on the pricing as it looked suspiciously "cheap" (at this point, the word has become entirely relative). I'm not sure what kind of fortune surrounded me last night but everything just fell into place. It was an affordable rate (no need to sell my left kidney), located in my preferred area, and the flat didn't look like a war broke out inside it. I must've made the quickest decision in my life as I found myself saying "I'll take it" before I could even blink. In this market, people looked for flats and houses with checkbooks in tow. I didn't think I would find something so quickly that I didn't dare to bring mine -- but I do know how to beg profusely. I managed to convince the agent and the owner to settle the paperwork with me today instead. So as I write this, I am now a few thousand dollars poorer, bound in this country for at least another two years, a certified suburban (in my books, at least) and a future commuter fighting her way through the rush hour throng. Despite all of the above, I at least know that I will have a roof over my head.

So, yes, the next two weeks will be filled by the familiar glow of the moonlight as I pack up boxes once again and ready myself to shift. I've had more than enough practice stuffing in the devil. Though I will only move some fifteen minutes away, it seems to be a whole new world to me. No more skyscrapers, no more brightly lit fireworks during Chinese holidays, no more noisy cars and buses all throughout the night, and no more going home for a kip during lunch time. And the next two years will be filled with new experiences that will surely be missed when it's time for me to move again.

I once told a friend that even though two years sounds like infinitude sometimes, we don't realize just how short it really is. I cannot fathom that I've been living here for three years already (I only counted the months recently and cannot get over the shock) as it only feels like it was yesterday when I dragged my luggage out of the famous Singapore international airport for the first time. In two years' time, I will be slightly younger than twenty eight years old and the number just fries my brain. Two years ago, I was barely twenty four and still trying not to get lost. Somewhere in the middle I apparently grew up and hopefully matured, and adopted this city which I call my own for as long as it's willing to have me. I have nothing to my name but a clumsy collection of experiences -- and perhaps a few dollars just enough to buy noodles for supper. That should be enough for now, no?

Grim's Keeper

2007-10-06T10:53:00.000+08:00

My experience with death is not an unfamiliar one though it has always been pretty confined and limited. I know of the sadness, the anger, the torment, and that divided decision of not knowing whether to laugh out the anguish tearing up one's internal being or to cry until tears itself go out of vogue. The gnawing sense of loss and guilt pepper the mind -- particularly when we realize that we could have spent more time with the person whilst the time and company still mattered. It has always been like that, no? That regret always comes through last. And neither can any of us say that we never saw it coming.

Being the youngest one in my family, I am painfully aware that the likelihood of me having to witness the deaths of all my family members is paramount -- unless, of course, a simple twist of fate dictates otherwise. Truly, it is something that I dread and it is a thought that I always try to push to the back burner. As a child, I never had a pet. I never had the chance to form any sorts of attachment with a life form that I have raised and been responsible for and then suddenly losing him or her. I've always counted myself lucky. The only real time that I've had to deal with death's cold blow was during my grandfather's sudden passing away some fifteen years ago. It caught all of us off guard and just like that... he was gone. I wasn't young then, but neither was I old enough to really fathom the situation and to take it all in. I remember seeing my grandmother absolutely shattered and I also remember fervently wishing I would never have to know how it is to be in her shoes.

Yesterday, I felt the world move under my feet. I received a gruesome text message from my mother who conveyed that she had just brought my grandmother to the hospital -- to the ICU ward. She apparently was suffering from chest pains and is dangerously close to having a heart attack. She has to be monitored for a few nights and only God knows what will happen. Within a millisecond, I called on every saint that I know and begged the high heavens for pity and to bide my grandmother more time. That was when I realized how badly I will deal with losing her.

Unfortunately, it is common knowledge that death is required in the natural order of life. I never had any problems with the concept of death -- as long as it didn't happen to anyone close to me. I read and hear about loads of people dying everyday with terrorist attacks, wars, bird flu, AIDS, name it. But the thing is, all these people are faceless and nameless to me. I may have contracted the arrogance and overconfidence that none of these will happen to my loved ones, therefore saving me from grief and agony. And then one day, life creeps up unexpectedly and gives me the most sobering wake-up call known to man. It can happen to anyone and it will. And guess what? There is absolutely nothing that I can do about it but to stand back, watch and accept it. Just like that. To accept the permanence of loss. Of death.

There really is no way to prepare for death and losing a loved one, is there? Given that, is it better to know that one only has so much time left in this world... or not? Really, how superficial are we all to only spend time with our loved ones only when we know we won't be able to anymore in the near future? Again, guilt or regret? Our fabulous friends that we only see at the end of the line.

It is indeed a very humbling experience having to deal with death. No matter how much we have achieved and garnered in our lives, and no matter how well we've done, it will all be stripped off from us and we start from where we began. Nothing. What matters is how we'll be remembered and how clean our conscience is that we may be allowed to take on the next step -- whatever it may be. We get so caught up with having to live life and we often forget that it all ends one day.

Sure, live life to the fullest and consider everyday as our last because you know what? One day, it will indeed be our last. But more importantly, treat your loved ones as if it were the last time you will see them. You can never know... it just might be.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

A jumbo-sized thank you to Lemonade for the spectacular banner that she created for my blog :) Much love and kisses to you, darling. I shall get it uploaded as soon as I get settled.

It's good to be back :)

Buggeroo!

2007-10-01T21:13:00.000+08:00

Hello my lovelies...

This little princess is having a mean streak of bad luck in her world. For one thing, my five-year old laptop has finally decided to die out on me last night -- in the middle of walking down Memory Lane of late 90s bubblegum pop/Eurotrash music videos, courtesy of YouTube (my guilty pleasure, thank you). If I decide to resuscitate the poor git of a laptop back to life, it would have already been on its third reincarnation so I've decided to let it go in peace. Though I may have to temporarily revive it to pull out all my precious MP3s, movies and TV shows (as it took me ages downloading those bootlegs). Afterwhich, I shall give it a well-deserved funeral which includes me wistfully scratching off those darling Svarowski crystals on the cover which I spent a hundred dollars on that could have well paid for some utilities in my flat.

Normally, I wouldn't worry about disrupting my blog updates as I am guilty of regularly composing my thoughts whilst at work in the midst of economic updates and financial whatsits. Unfortunately, an alarming amount of work continues to plague me and my teammates that it makes nipping to the loo and scarfing down a coronation chicken sandwich for lunch become almost impossible feats during the work day. Not to mention taking a trip to the water cooler about ten yards away from me. Grossly overworked and underpaid, that I am.

I tell you, being a responsible grown up is vastly overrated. Why can't money simply grow on trees? Then perhaps I will make greater effort to appreciate nature.

I will have to go and get myself another laptop and find a way to make it last more than five years this time. My old one has just volunteered to become a very fancy and expensive doorstop.

Not to worry as I will be back in a couple of days. I wish I were to spend this small fortune on another trip involving an airplane ride and exotic sights, but alas, it is for a necessary evil. Is it so sad that I have fallen victim to being unable to live without such contraptions for a length of time?

I pray that some of you will at least miss me *wink* as I will very much miss all of you in my short absence. In the meantime, I shall take advantage of this time to finish Anna Karenina, my latest ambitious project. Lately, I have not been able to find time to sit still for half an hour and read more than three pages of the damn thing.

Be seeing you. And be good.

Eternally,
Your Princess

Crossroads

2007-09-27T20:43:00.001+08:00

In more ways than one, we have a lot to thank the internet for -- the dawn of an era! It has indeed made our lives a thousand times easier and more convenient, and at the same time, it has given birth to a multitude of ideas and tossed in more spices to our already flavorful lives. It has spurred enterprises and industries that were once only a figment of our imaginations, and it also left no rhyme or reason for us to lose touch with our pasts and our presents.

The nascent of networking tools such as Friendster and Facebook has certainly added new meaning to "keeping in touch." The million-dollar ideas were met with resounding success. These networks provide numerous ways to catch up with lost friends without having to make that awkward phone call or to keep in touch with comrades literally by lifting a single finger (to click on that mouse).

I admit that I have sold out to these fads and trends. It makes stalking all the more fun and easier -- especially for incredibly nosy people like me. However, flipping through the pages of these so-called electronic yearbooks have caused me tremendous longing to revisit certain patches of my life. As I look at the long lists of people that are somehow (allegedly) connected to me, I acquire this sad realization that people in our lives come and go like waves crashing in and out of the shores. There are people that have been confined only during certain years in my life, and once I move on to the next few years, they're as good as gone, unfortunately. They are stowed away in a little treasure box in my head that is labeled "Memories [enter year here]." And as I open new chapters in my life, more characters come flitting in and only God knows how long they will last. If it were entirely up to me, I would never wish it to be like this. I would love to simply accumulate friends and never have to lose touch with any of them.

I can almost feel bittersweet smiles playing on my face whenever I decide to take one of these trips down memory lane and revisit the people that have walked through my life at least once. Many of them have moved on with their own lives and have picked up new friends, new partners, new hobbies, new activities -- basically, they have started a life that no longer includes me just like how I started a life far away from them. But remembering the lives that we shared once upon a time provokes a yearning of sorts inside me that wants it all over again. Those days, no doubt, have been happy as we frolic about in innocence and grandeur as we anticipate what the future brings. And the future is now here. Surely we would have never believed it would end up like this if the Oracle of Delphi allowed us to take a peep into our own futures back then.

Funny, isn't it, how life can offer so many different forks in the road for us to take? As from childhood, the people that we meet are more or less from the same starting point as us, and as we go on running the marathon of life, we find ourselves going towards different finish lines. Some I cannot believe have ended up where they are and it leads me to question what we had in common back then that actually bound us together. Whilst others, I cannot help but feel a spark of jealousy because they seem genuinely happy -- the same kind of serenity and glory that I wish for myself. And others, I feel a pang of curiosity as to how it is to be them for just one day.

We carve our own roads and we meet other racers in the process -- some we stick with and some we leave at the curbs, and if we're lucky, we get to meet them again at one point later on. Several miles I have run and I still get surprised how I ended up where I am today with the various turns that I have taken. And as I retrace the roads I've once gone on, I get brought back to memories of those I was running with and I can only wish that they have all found the right roads to take. Unfortunately, the only way for us to find out whether or not we've made the right choices is when we reach the finish line.

Out of the various elements making up my intricate networks, I can count using only my ten fingers those who have stuck running with me. Of course, not all of them run side by side with me, but they all run within a comfortable distance -- near enough for me to get guidance when I'm feeling lost but far enough for me to have the proper space that I need. And for these people I exalt and thank the Lord.

It's no big secret that crossroad friends make up quite a chunk of my life especially with my constant hopping around. I am very fortunate for they always impart a little something with me during every encounter. And every single one counts. For without them, I will have no memories. Even if that's all they remain to be -- memories -- it is still enough to be thankful about. I leave the question up to fate as why they all have to be crossroad friends instead of lifelong friends. But whomever is watching from up above, I have faith that He knows what He's doing. Maybe one day I'll find out. Maybe one day, they will reappear in my life.

For now, my crossroad friends are immortalized with the aid of the Internet. And my bosom friends -- they are immortalized in my heart. (You know who you are. And you know I love you)

Rat Race

2007-09-23T21:29:00.000+08:00

Regardless of how many internal debates I've had in my head, it will always come up that though money doesn't make the world go round, it does contribute quite a bit to its push and rotation. In other words, we can convince ourselves as much as we can that being rich is overrated but we will always deduce that it sure does have its perks. In the garden of good and evil that we call earth, money is the serpent that tempts people to cross certain paths that are not meant to be crossed. At the same time, money is also the goodness that is endowed in order to go about everyday life -- and then some.

Unfortunately, money could never be the forbidden fruit as it does not grow on trees. How we wish of even the remotest possibility that it does though. Money is earned through hard work, drive and motivation though some would say that adding passion, integrity and loyalty can go a long way. We devote about one-third of our lives to garner a decent living and enslave ourselves to people that are willing to part with money in exchange of our services. Some are not so lucky and work half their lives -- and still not get enough.

With work being a significant part of our lives, it has evolved into a lifestyle or a life undertaking that has been lavishly dubbed as a career. A career has been transformed into a social indicator that determines which circle we move in and which ladder to climb. It has become a symbol of one's life and order that it progressed to become a title next to a name, a label used to be judged with, and a reputation of sorts. As kids, we have always been trained to think of future career aspects. What do you want to be when you grow up? As teen-agers, the prodding to narrow down career choices continues. What major do you wish you take in college? As young adults, the recognition that the end of the waiting line is near. Find a job that will open more doors for your career.

As full-fledged grown-ups, just how important does a career mean? Thanks to the media, the hype of having a career has gotten worse. There are television shows, books, movies, even songs, that get rolled out every single day that zero in on people whose stories revolve around what they do for a living. I can name about twenty shows about lawyers from the top of my head -- even more involving doctors. Movies feature high-flying men in suits all the time and make their worlds sound so glamorous despite the debauchery and profligacy of certain industries. One's monetary worth is tacked against his or her profession and career it seems like. By simply asking "so, what do you do?" one can jump to about a thousand conclusions about the person -- hitting at least five hundred correct ones. Through this, stereotypes are either enhanced or defied.

A job, on the other hand, is.... what? How does a job differ from a career? I never really understood. The social stigma of having a job instead of a career seems to be quite heavy. Nonetheless, both generate money that is the needed for everyday living -- a fine reason to have either one. I have heard many who say that a job is something done for the sake of obtaining a paycheck whereas a career is something more meaningful and fulfilling. Is it only I who find it funny that many a times, a career becomes a job purely because we find ourselves caring more and more about the paycheck attached to it? At least we can quit jobs when it stops being fun -- but quitting a career? When we change careers, do we also change a part of ourselves simply because of all the emotional and mental investments we have made to our previous choices? Do we lose a piece of ourselves too?

Why has the focus on gaining careers become such a huge ordeal? What's wrong with simply having jobs? Why must we only hone one particular skill instead of gaining experiences that we can learn many things from? And most importantly, why must we only choose one craft to master and stick with it through and through? What happens if we exceed our allowed timetable to think about a career? Do we succumb to the consequences of a potential mistake?

People who do not fit the bill of having a career get unjustly punished by society. So what if one chooses to not have a career? Our professions do not necessarily dictate whom we are and what we can do. A partner in a law firm is not much different from a construction worker that frames houses. Both cash a check at the end of the pay period, and both need food on the table and a roof over their heads. The same goes with a college professor and a barista in a coffee shop. Or an accountant and a doctor. Or a garbage man and a telemarketer. We are whom we make ourselves to be and what we do for a living is only a speck of it. We cannot be judged by what we do because that will be similar to judging books by its covers. The world is a place that contests our survival skills and our methods of coping amid struggles. We all have different methods of surviving and coping -- as long as we all get to where we want, sometimes it is all that matters.

A job. A career. To-may-to. To-mah-to. At the end of the day, it is always about what makes us happy whilst trying to survive.

As I have said, in the garden of good and evil, money can either be the goodness that paradise brings or the serpent that brings vileness to it. Either we be content on what we have or sell ourselves to the devil for more. It's all a matter of choice. It's all up to us.

Ladies In Waiting

2007-09-17T23:08:00.000+08:00

I am one of the lucky few who were raised in a household that included my maternal grandmother. She is quite an influential figure in my life and will always adore her for what she had taught me. My Lola is the embodiment of how it is to be a true lady.

As my mother never gave up a full-time job amid giving birth to three rowdy children, we were often left in my Lola's care whilst growing up. And with me being the youngest, I was favored the most -- given the best part of the chicken, having the most sweets piled up on my bowl, minor gifts sneaked here and there, and I lapped it all up with no shame. I would often watch her daily regiment in amusement as she moved with womanly grace in everything she did. She would meticulously primp herself to beauty everyday even if she were just staying home. Her curls were always intact, carefully dyed of a natural brown color, and her lips sealed with a pink shade of lipstick and perfume daintily dabbled on her neck. As she was a skilled mistress, her clothes always fit her perfectly in styles that she knew only flattered her curves.

My Lola is also a very pious lady. She maintained a strict prayer scheduled scattered throughout the day, some of which she let me join. Every morning she would wake up at five and say her morning prayers, to be followed by the Angelus at noon, the three-o'clock habit in the afternoon, the Angelus again and then her evening prayers. When her health still permitted her, she also attended mass every morning at the crack of dawn. The way she held her rosary beads and prayer books were so fragile as if she were holding the Baby Jesus in her hands instead. The way she turned the pages so slowly and how her lips moved without sound as she read the litanies -- somehow, I found it mesmerizing. She did everything in such grace and disposition that I thought, how could God possibly deny her of her prayers?

After my nanny left at seven years old (as I was deemed to old to have one), my Lola took over in caring for me. She taught me how to bathe myself thoroughly showing me how to prepare the sponge and the basin, and she meticulously helped me every morning to get into my school uniform (not to mention drag me out of bed with great difficulty), and always inspected my final outcome from my socks all the way up to my hair band. She taught me how to be a girl.

As my grandmother was born early into the first half of last century, it is just to be expected that she is a typically conservative one. I remember having a male friend over to the house a few years ago as I needed his help to sort out my ailing computer. And upon knowing that I let him up to my room, she raged in fury that we stay in the living room where we can be in plain site. My mother simply laughed at the gesture when I informed her of it that same night and begged me to understand that my Lola is indeed from a different time. During her time, women were to serve their husbands, to keep house and to maintain her feminine dignity and integrity. My Lola having worked as a secretary in the American Airbase back during the American rule in the Philippines was already deemed quite radical.

My mother, though not as hardcore as her mother, is still quite conservative I find. She would laboriously attempt to teach my sister and I a thing or two about the kitchen and cooking whilst growing up as she would constantly chide us "How will your future mother-in-law like you if you can't even cook a chicken stew properly?" My sister and I, of course, rolling our eyes until they were practically at the back of our skulls.

Here I am now, a quarter of a century old, and not entirely sure if I passed the tests of womanhood. Though I display traits of an independent coming-of-age girl, I know deep inside that I will be unable to shake off what I learned from two of the most remarkable women in my lives. Given how the world works nowadays, I still consider myself relatively conservative in my stances. I may shame my mother for never cooking (unless desperate) and wearing non-collared shirts to church, and my Lola for continuing to bicker with the opposite sex, but I'd like to show them one day that they didn't fail me. I still hold some dignity in being a woman and the need to be respected as one -- just in my own subdued ways. I still hold in high regard the modesty and integrity, cleanliness in body and surroundings, and of course, grace in actions and movements (as much as I can, at least). As I need to be consistent with the times and the unfolding liberties presented to women, I must use my best judgment as to when it's okay to be bold and forthcoming without sacrificing my merits as a woman (and without being accused of being a feminist either!).

I may enjoy the independence that my Lola and mother didn't have when they were my age, but I would like to think that I am still bound by a moral code of ethics that come with being a lady. The term "conservative" seems to change every generation and its meaning gets lighter and lighter. I fear to know what my daughters will say of me when it's their time to whinge about their uptight mother that don't let them wear skirts with lengths within five inches of their thighs! And I do not look forward to going back to my mother to get advice as to keep said daughters from running out with the boys at age eleven wearing these skirts.

Sunday's Best

2007-09-16T23:13:00.000+08:00

Though I'm an avid promoter of academia and higher education, I would have to admit that the best lessons in life are not learned in school.

A few things that I picked up today:

- Being a family is more than sharing the same DNA with each other. It’s about working in a team.

- Friendships and relationships aren’t necessarily very different. Both require the same amount of effort to keep maintained… and both ought to be equally treated in terms of importance.

- It just takes one special someone to make you laugh and it’ll do a whole world of difference to your day.

- Saying "please" can sometimes go a long way without you realizing it. It makes one wonder how such a simple and effortless word could be so widely absent in life.

- Throw away your pride and always mind your position.

- Even though the breakthrough of mobile phones and the Internet has got to be the best thing since the invention of Tim Tams, I’ve got to admit that it has ruined quite a few things for us… like uninterrupted conversations, luxurious lounging times, etc. Instead of making our lives easier and things more convenient, it just gives us more excuse to work a little bit more because technology would deliver us more vacancies in our time.

- Organic and non-organic lettuce actually taste the same.

- You never know when you’ll get your second wind so hold that coffee.

- Courage and confidence are always good to possess but too much of those would just lead you to trouble. Moderation is always key. Never swallow more than what you can chew (regardless of precedent).

- It’s best to usually work in worst case scenarios. Although hoping for the best doesn't hurt.

- Always under-promise and over-deliver.

It was indeed a long Sunday today... it was all good though.

Cheers! (yes, that would be me in the wake of a VERY early morning hang-over)

*wink*

Inside My Head

2007-09-13T22:17:00.000+08:00

* For those who have dared to join me in my life's journey (of constant banter)

When I started this blog, I had no idea how long I will write on it for. I've had journals, diaries and other blogs -- I started recording my sentiments at the tender age of six. However, it was a habit that I've possessed on and off much like an unpredictable switch. I thought that I only wrote when I was being a tad too emotional or simply bored. I would persistently promise myself that I will make writing a consistent habit -- sort of like committing myself to a marriage and a lifestyle. In my head, I knew that I would break that promise one time or another for whatever reason.

The biggest difference with this blog and the rest that I've had before (including hand-written journals) is you, dear reader. You. Simply you. You keep me going and you keep me inspired. Even when I'm downright exhausted from the daily rituals of everyday life, I push myself to write because I want you to keep me and my thoughts as your companion. It may not be much, but I try to make it as soulful and honest as possible with the hopes that maybe it would be good enough for you to stay.

Admittedly, this has been the most open journal that I've had. I'm quite a private person (mysterious, no, just private) and it takes a lot for me to bare out my mind. It took a few reluctant key strokes on my battered yet trusty laptop to compose pieces that I never thought I would have the cheek to publish even anonymously. They were my private thoughts, mine and mine alone. What business did I have displaying it for the world to see? I felt somewhat narcissistic thinking that anyone at all would be remotely interested in what I had to say. After all, what did I know? I know just as much as the next Tom, Dick and Harry, no?

Then you came along. You started leaving a few words of sweetness just after reading what I wrote and even came back for more helpings afterwards! Oh the joy! They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? I think not. It is when someone like you comes back to see if I have more to say. Surely I have disappointed you somehow one time or another -- maybe because of the lack of posts, or the quality of writing, or the dullness of the topic. I apologize, though it is saddening that we can't always please though we aim for it. I am only glad and eternally thankful that you still haven't lost faith.

For those times when I seem terribly detached and impersonal, I'm sorry. I have never meant it to be so. I truly wish that I be allowed more time for interaction and the exchange of ideas. It has always been my intent to do so, I swear, but I just never have the time. I should put in more effort, I know, but a part of me just wants to keep my regiment of churning out pieces that I thought you may enjoy. Hoping that maybe, it will make up somehow for my negligence.

I started out very cautious about my writing. I didn't want to give out too much and neither did I want to tread of touchy waters. I was so scared that I may seem too opinionated or even arrogant. God, I hope not. Truly, that is the last thing I would want. Gradually, however, I have learned to trust you. I have learned to slowly let loose and allow you to get to know me. I had no idea how good it would feel... like a little baby chick let out of its shell. I simply fear that I may start boring you with the daily accounts of my life. It's difficult to help it though because I pick up inspiration from them... but I promise to keep the mundane bits to a minimum level.

With all this banter, and all that I have written on this blog, I want you to know that it's all for you. I fooled myself for a long time thinking that I was writing for myself... but really, I am writing for you. Because you know me more than anyone else that I know. I never thought it would feel so great to write for someone else other than myself. You keep me going and you keep me alive. And I draw my biggest inspirations from you.

I love hearing your thoughts and your anecdotes. You have no idea how many times I re-read what you have written as your nuggets of life and wisdom is something that I learn from as well. Whenever I hear that 'ping' from my email, I say a silent prayer that it would be you leaving me a few words and telling me that you're still there. I yearn to hear your stories and I long for your thoughts.

Thank you for always being there, dear reader, as you have changed my life in paramount ways. I do hope you roll with the punches with me as I go through a bumpy ride. I invite you to leave me some ideas and thoughts that you may want me to write about. As I said, you are my biggest inspiration. You are my muse -- the best kind that anyone could ever have. I cannot thank you enough.

Ever so sincerely,
Your Princess

Learning Curves

2007-09-09T20:42:00.000+08:00

The most beautiful person that I have ever laid my eyes on worked in this tea shop that my brother and I frequented on lazy autumn Sunday afternoons several years ago. Her hair strands fell into dark curls and framed her fair face. And she spoke in a rhythm that only hummingbirds could replicate. Her eyes were enchanting, almost alluring with its enigmatic pull. I don't know what it is about her that I found so blissfully grand as she is probably just as common as I and the next girl. My brother would often tease me that I had a girl-crush on her though he fully knows my wild attraction for the male species. Beauty has no gender, I retorted.

Growing up, I have always been just a little too something -- a little too tall, a little too pale, a little too fat, a little too ungraceful, a little too awkward. I never knew how to place myself because I was always just a little too much. I never thought of myself as pretty or beautiful as those words only belonged to the thin, slender and elegant. And I always had short hair. It would get snipped the minute the length touched my chin. I somehow acquired the idea that only those girls with long hair could be called beautiful and deserved happy endings. As a matter of fact, all the princesses and damsels in fairytales had long hair. This was how I preferred Snow White over the others. She had short black hair and not ostensibly beautiful; nonetheless ended up with Prince Charming. Maybe, just maybe, the norm could be broken.

I bloomed, as they say, later on in life. Perhaps a tad too late, because I didn't know what to do with myself. My hair grew for the first time as I needed something to protect my neck from the biting Bostonian winters. I couldn't afford the regular maintenance of a bob so I had to learn to like my long hair. I shed the baby fat due to the absence of a regular meal structure, and I got rid of the acne plaguing my skin, many thanks to advanced medicine. Braces came off and the insides of my mouth boasted of a perfect set of teeth capped with porcelain. I slowly managed my independence, grew a spine and all of a sudden, owned my own opinions. Well, I always have but this time, I actually feel no reluctance in letting them known. For a long time, I was a work under progress.

I knew when I was growing up that I wasn't a pretty face and though I had curves, they weren't the right ones. I banked on my intellect, my caustic personality and my wit to charm people. I thought that maybe, if I continued to be funny, I wouldn't have to worry about people not liking me. After all, didn't everyone love laughing? The only catch is that people would have to get to know me first before they can decide whether they liked me or not. I operated like this for many years.

Springtime in my life finally came through when I noticed for the first time that a guy was sizing me up. I was in a restaurant with my friends when I saw him looking over. I looked behind me to make sure he wasn't looking at anyone else. I felt terribly self-conscious and it's almost shameful that I didn't know what to do. I did what I thought best, absolutely nothing. The butterflies in the stomach stayed though and I felt a warm glow on my cheeks. So this was how it must feel being on the other side of the fence. It felt bloody great.

The next few years flew by and I had to learn to take care of myself -- I was a woman now (and how odd it felt to think that). I looked to my older sister and other friends to learn the ropes. Make-up, hair, skin care, perfumes, nails, any more? I found the regiment quite exhausting but I was told that was unfortunately necessary. And I obliged. I thought, this must be how insecurities are born.

However, I slowly realized that I didn't like having to fuss over physical beauty. Exhausting, isn't it? For some people, it came easier than others. I was one of those others. My hair never looked endearingly tousled when I wake up in the morning, my skin was never perfect enough for me to walk out my door without make-up, and my nails always looked like claws without a manicure. Why couldn't being funny and clever be enough? Why couldn't being an enjoyable companion do the trick? And why did we all have to feel the need to get people's validations that we are indeed attractive enough to be seen with them?

I decided that I liked it more that people were drawn to me because of how I am rather than how I looked. That gave me a better sense of affirmation that I'm on the right track. I focused more on being myself than creating an intricate exterior. I wanted to believe that I had enough inner radiance to take care of the front. Admittedly, I still don't know if I do up until this day, but my change in outlook increased my confidence and boosted my self-esteem. I realized which parts in life essentially mattered -- and which of them are the most beautiful. My sister's words always resonated in my head, "If you think you're beautiful, other people will think so as well." Mind over matter.

Nobody isn't perfect and life isn't ideal, no big secrets right there. But instead of focusing on making things perfect, it may be worth our whiles to actually look at the imperfections and see how they actually make us more perfect than we think. And looking closely, we will see that we are all masterpieces of unique artworks and designs.

To that lady whom I think is of pure beauty, I thank you for making me realize that it's possible to be gorgeous wearing an apron, with disheveled hair, and smudged mascara. And that true beauty cannot be bought over the counters (though they do help sometimes).

Cabin Fever

2007-09-05T11:41:00.000+08:00

As much as I love travelling, the one thing I hate the most is the transporting process -- ie. the airplane ride. So there I was, recently boarded the Boeing 747 that will fly me from the indelible London Heathrow airport to my layover in the Bangkok airport. As I walked down the crowded aisle, I was praying hard that the empty space near the cranky nine-month old infant a couple of seats away and the chatty couple seated right next to it wasn't mine. Unfortunately, the label adorned up top unmistakably had the same 37C embossed on my boarding pass. Well, at least I got my aisle seat.

As I stowed my Crumpler messenger bag on the overhead, found solace on my iPod, fastened my seatbelt and comfortably sank on my chair after trying numerous positions, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me, miss," the guy-half of the chatty couple next to me said. "I was wondering if you can let me pass to go to the loo."

I instantly knew it was going to be the longest ten hours of my life.

Trying my best not to sigh loudly, I basically undid everything that allowed me to reach the most comfort to let this guy out. But of course, I cannot just quite settle back in because the guy would have to come back. Oh how I wished he could teleport instead. Predictably, the guy took forever. And just when he got back, his girl friend decided that she wanted to go as well. Great. Just eff-in great!

Because I resorted to getting the cheapo flight, I had to settle for having to travel at a horrible hour. I tend to favor red eye flights as it allows me to pass the time away by dozing off and minimizing wasted travel time. This time, however, I got stuck travelling in the dead of noon in exchange for skimping on five hundred dollars -- effectively meaning that I will be unable to sleep. And to add icing to the cake, I will lose about six hours due to the time difference, and will land on Asian soil at six in the morning the next day. Make way for Princess Zombie. I, for one, could never make it on artificial nights.

As the aircraft finally took off, I tried drowning out all the noise around me and opted for a "night cap" of whiskey and coke. I looked back on the past week and how lovely it had been. I was able to spend time with my most favorite people in the world in one of the best places on earth. My siblings have flown from various parts of the world to join me in a week-long soul searching expedition.

It wasn't my first time in London, but I've always looked forward to each visit. There's something about it that is both haunting and enchanting -- it's like something old and familiar that never wastes away in your memory. Oh how we laughed while stuffing ourselves silly with fatty and greasy food (arguably the best kind of food there is) as if time and distance never got between us. Driving down unfamiliar paths in the countryside brought new experiences and sights to our city-slick attitudes and urbane conventions. And walking up those elaborate pavements whilst taking pictures as if its about to go out of style -- highly embarrassing, yes, but eternally blissful. I was once again allowed to be the person I once was. Where had I been?

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by the grumpy middle-aged man on the seat in front of me as his backseat reclined without warning almost hitting me squarely on the nose. The chatty couple next to me decided to go on their thirtieth bathroom break in two hours -- after consuming several rounds of gin and tonic that only fuelled their insanity. The meal cart arrived adorned with bad food and excessively processed nibbles. Being thirty three thousand feed up in the air, did I really need more salt in my already dehydrated body?

I felt my body relax. This plane trip from hell was perhaps called for as the yin has to somehow start overtaking the yang of my journey. I was constantly on top of the wheel for the past week. I knew it wasn't going to last and that the wheel would have to start going down one way or another. The plane ride was the pivotal point of it all... I was on the way back to painful reality. But pay no mind as I pocketed enough positive energy from my trip to bring on.

My mission was definitely accomplished. Indeed, it was something that I needed and had unknowingly been longing for. My siblings and I have retreated to our respective corners of the globe and god knows when we'll be able to do it again. Until then, I can only go back on my memories with a soft smile playing on my lips.

"Excuse me," the girl-half of the couple next to me said as she slurred through her words, her breath stinking of cheap gin. Her eyes were half-closed. "I need to go to the loo. I think I'm going to be sick."

It left me wondering if the five hundred dollars that I saved was worth it.

Just One Of Those Days

2007-08-23T22:50:00.000+08:00

Some days I just feel like being random -- and speak in tidbits instead of coherent sentences. I hate these days when I'm right smacked at the bottom of the wheel.

I. Keep Moving

Everyone has bad days right? And every once in a while we get slammed.

Right?

Today was a pothole down my road... more like a giant manhole infested with maggots the size of big macs. I don't know why I constantly let trivial things get to me like the pettiness of people, for instance. I know I'm entirely above that but why does it still bother me? Why do I let it bother me?

I know better than to trust people. It's something that I've picked up along the way -- mostly from smart people who give me sound advice. It makes sense; it's the wise thing to do. Sometimes I slip though. I feel that I'm naturally trusting... or perhaps just too naive. There are atypically atrocious people crawling the earth. And it's beyond me why I insist on getting burnt multiple times.

Another thing that bothers me is the obscene amount of self-absorbent people out there. When did the vexed ship from Planet Selfish sail over to Earth to bring all these immigrants in? And why do they procreate in exponential rates?

People who are true and sincere listeners are a rare commodity. But when I seemingly find someone like that, I get scared... I get scared that they would think I'm self-absorbent. I don't like being the epitome of my own worst enemy.

Sadly, I think it's getting there. I'm becoming my own worst enemy. I need to listen to myself more.

Before, during my hey days (or so-called ones), when I was upset I would reach for a cigarette and a glass of soda+vodka. I would tell myself that it'll make me feel better. And it did. The only problem was, once my lungs could no longer tolerate the killer smoke, the problems come back. It's like they were put on hold while I finished taking in my toxins and then would come back to bite me even harder in the behind. After I flick the last butt, I realize that I'm back to square one... again.

II. Need...More...Sleep...

Sometimes it feels like trudging through mud and glue. So exhausting -- both physically and mentally. As as we get older, it seems like responsibilities and obligations just keep on piling up. Never running out of things to do. I pray that life won't lose its meaning... and for everyone I care about to never stray. It's only at the end that you realize what is most important. Through the everyday dealings, they seem rather trivial -- often we take for granted the presence of our reasons for living.

Every moment that I get where I don't have to deal with worldly things, I just wish to sleep. If only I can sleep forever and never have to open my eyes again. I feel drained, I feel tired. And I especially feel lost. And scared. What if the feelings of dread never stop???

I like the musical laughters that I hear and the smiling eyes that I see. It keeps me grounded... it gives me hope. Perhaps at the end of this long tunnel, there is a light after all. It's just something we all have to go through. But why? What for? Is the light worth seeing and working hard towards?

Having to hurt some people on your way over, will they heal? Will they forgive? Will they understand? And getting hurt by the people most important to you... they're just going through the tunnel as well. You can't blame them now, can you?

I'm tired. I just want to sleep. Because in my dreams, there are no tunnels. All just light.

III. Doh!

I have learned that there are things that are better left unknown. I know someone who always told me: "Remember in the play Oedipus? When the chorus would always go 'You don't want to know' over and over? Well, most of the time, they have a point."

Stupid chorus. Stupid Oedipus. Stupid me!

Ignorance is bliss -- I semi-agree with this... but the left part of my brain knows that this is not good enough for me. Why must I have the need to know everything? Why do I always need to know what the score is?

To get ahead of the game... that's why.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

I will be taking another wee break, possibly my last one for a while. It's been getting too crazy in my life -- what little I have of it lately. I've been consumed by too many insignificant things. It's quite suffocating. I feel the need to take a step back, to regroup, and to regain a little bit of perspective. From a city with crap weather (at present, at least) to another city with even crappier weather, I'm off to London for the next nine days. God, how I miss that fair city. I will drop by to scribble a few times perhaps, but I cannot promise anything.

Nonetheless, I'm hoping to be back here rejuvenated, recharged and ready once again. And perhaps bringing back a few extra trinkets of thoughts and sentiments to share with everyone. That I'm looking forward to.

Love Affair

2007-08-19T21:41:00.000+08:00

My love affair with books only began at the impressionable age of nine years old. Prior to that, I only had but mere attraction towards it. The colorful pictures, the glossy pages and the beautiful covers were enough for me to get drawn to it. However, it was only when I graduated on to young adult paperbacks that I decided I wanted books to be my Roman spring.

I've always treaded carefully with my parents when it comes to getting them to buy me books. It's not like they discouraged me from it. As a matter of fact, they urged me to get lost in it -- as long as they are appropriate. Coming from a slightly conservative family, I didn't want my mother telling me that something was "too grown up" for me to read. It was insulting and I felt discredited. I couldn't keep on reading books about happy rose petals dancing in gardens and singing whilst baking nectar cookies forever. I badly wanted to get my hands on those books without pictures -- just oceans and oceans of words that I can drown in. Every other book I had left me hungry for more. It wasn't satisfactory, it wasn't filling me up.

One day, when I discovered that I earned high enough marks in school to prod my mother to indulge me for it, I took advantage of it and took her to the bookstore. Normally, children my age would have asked for the latest toys, gadgets, gizmos, whatnot. Not I. I wanted my books, my kind of books. I was nine years old and led her to the aisle where the teen books were sitting. She bought me three of them -- Sweet Valley Twins, as I recall -- and I finished reading them before the weekend ended. Knowing the precious value of money in those days, I knew I couldn't ask for more. Surely those new books was expected to last me for a couple of weeks. Instead, I attacked our library at home and found my older sister's beloved Nancy Drew books. The hard bound matte covers deeply enchanted me -- and there were volumes of them! And the rest is history. That was when my life began. Books became my currency.

I could never imagine my life without books. I have read numerous genres -- some I liked more than others -- and truth be told, it is through reading that I learned most from. I have read about historical figures, different cultures, global landmarks, significant events, human emotions, everything. It's all there -- in every style there is. It is like getting lifted into another world without having to budge and go anywhere. And what I like most about books is that they will never run out. There will always be something to read. May they be good reads or bad reads, still something to read.

As I got older, life took a turn and started taking over more rudely. My love affair with books would hit some stale phases. It would get bumped off by relatively inane things such as movies, socializing, worldly matters -- both important and otherwise -- and traveling. However, just like a lost lamb finding Jesus again, I would eventually get found and get sucked right back in. I would remember the feeling quite vividly. It's like being famished and devouring your favorite homecooked meal. It's like not being able to get enough of it and repeatedly asking myself, "What was I thinking?"

I still go through these wild love-hate phases with books, but I know deep inside that I will always come running back. No other vice of mine -- either past or present -- could ever assuage me like they do.

Books are good. It offers me a chance to step out of my life and see the world through another set of eyes. It makes me feel less lonely and at the same time, it makes the world that much bigger. And upon coming back to my own world, I would gain a little bit every single time. And I would feel that much smarter.

To say the least, that is.

As William Ennergy Channeling has once put it so eloquently, "It is chiefly through books that we enjoy the intercourse with superior minds." Touche!

It never made sense to me why bookworms and so-called nerds were the ones who were made fun of. We should be the ones making fun of the others simply because they don't know what they're missing. Raging bastards! *twinkling eyes*

Ten For Starters

2007-08-16T23:21:00.000+08:00

If I do become a grandma one day, I will probably not have a trust fund for any of my grandchildren. For starters, I will never win the lottery because I am never bothered to buy a ticket. And secondly, if I do have that much money to burn, rest assured, I will find a way to spend every nickel of it. Nonetheless, I do have some nuggets of wisdom that I would like to share with them. And I will counter their accusatory thoughts of being a cheap grandma by saying that I wish someone told me these things earlier on in my life -- as it would have made a world of difference.

Ten things I wish I learned a long time ago:

1) Weight and dress sizes are just numbers, just like age

2) When it really hurts, it's okay to cry -- even in public

3) Moisturize every night before going to bed

4) To avoid road rage, imagine that it's Grandpa driving the car in front of me

5) Never take what is not mine -- no matter how badly I want it

6) To clean up after my own mess and that it doesn't kill to say "I'm sorry"

7) Use a fountain pen to instantly make my penmanship look better

8) There is no better time than the present

9) Try first before complaining

10) Waking up early on Saturdays make the weekend seem much longer

[ 11) It might not hurt to buy a lottery ticket from time to time ]

Life isn't very complicated, really. We make it complicated because it seems a bit suspicious when it's all too simple. And besides, it's easier to make something more complicated than to make it simpler.

What about you? What will you tell your grandchildren?

The Mightiest Sword

2007-08-12T15:13:00.000+08:00

Being the bigger person and turning the other cheek are ideologies that are easier said than done. Surely the respect that goes with it stems from Robert Frost's popular line about taking the road less traveled by. It is no big secret that forgiving others is truly a divine and supernhuman thing to do given the mere difficulty in bringing ourselves to do it. Vengeance and redemption seem to be more satisfactory and fulfilling alternatives at the height of passion in most cases.

In order for forgiveness to actually take place, at least one party must be able to understand the concept of letting go. This is made more arduous if stronger emotions get in the way -- such as love, respect, anger and hatred. These are usually coupled by pride and self-preservation. It truly does take a big person to take the high road. The ability to forgive is reserved for those people who possess qualities which show a certain degree of intelligence and maturity. If forgiveness is something excessively easy to part with, Lucifer will probably not have half as many of his crew down there in Abaddon.

However, there is more to forgiveness than meets the eye. Forgiveness doesn't end in forgiving the person who carried out the sin or fault. It requires far more than that which is even harder to do -- forgetting. Forgiveness is completely executed if we agree to forget that the fault was carried out at all, and if we give that person who wronged us a clean slate. Achieving that would perhaps be more divine than it is superhuman.

Being raised in a predominantly Catholic society, I was given a pretty good run down on the stories of Jesus and his lessons of forgiveness. Somehow, it sounds so much simpler on text than it is applied in real life. Admittedly, I have forgiven numerous people in my life -- and that, I'm very proud of. However, I would have to confess that my relationships with most, if not all, of those people have changed. Either the frequence of my correspondence with them have dramatically been reduced or been cut off painstakingly. I dare not forget any wrongdoings slapped against me. Sure, I have never resorted to violence or low-level compromises against anyone who have wronged me. I have learned to let go and accept consequences -- but I have never forgotten. Ever. Perhaps I'm not as big a person as I'd like to think I am.

I am generally a very trusting person, perhaps even to a fault, despite my attested cynicsm towards people. Everyone that I meet is given a perfect score and as I get to know him or her, the scores change. Every fault or negative aspect would render a demerit. And usually, that demerit is permanent and nothing could ever make up for it.

I know many people, but I don't have a lot of friends. Those few that I regard as friends have already gone through the test of time and its difficulties. However, I will have no remorse cutting anyone off if he or she has seriously done something to damage the friendship. I will probably forgive him or her for doing it, but I probably will never forget that it happened for as long as I live. In essence, as a defense mechanism and as a guard to keep it from happening again, I will consciously allow the relationship to dwindle and eventually die a natural death. Again, I leave it up to time to heal all wounds and perhaps, if happenstance agrees with us, the friendship might again get resuscitated.

I'd like to believe that I'm a very fair person and that I give everyone a fair chance to kindle friendship with me. I'm genuine in saying that anyone can be my friend as long as sincerity is present. However, most people just get a maximum of two chances with me -- depending on the degree of the first sin. I can forgive for the first time, but rarely the second time. And neither times do I ever forget.

I am only human. Being divine and superhuman requires greatness -- and it may take a while before I get there. Maybe even never. I'm still working on it though and I'll keep at it. For now, I'm still trying to muster up taking the road less traveled by because I know, I know deep inside me, that it will make all the difference.

In A Material World

2007-08-08T09:51:00.000+08:00

We all work, or have at least worked once in our lives, for a variety of reasons -- some more profound than others. However, it would be safe to say that most of us work for that paycheck that we receive during the month-end period, no? Otherwise, congratulations on being passionate and noble. We need more people like you in this world.

Material wealth and money have become the convoluted indicator of success in our times. This stems from the human mentality of wanting more than what we really need to survive. It is the desire and the yearning for more. We like having the capacity to earn more so that we may be able to own whatever we fancy -- regardless of whether or not we need it. It's not wrong to want pretty things, is it? And neither is it wrong to want more, right?

However, it is when materialism is grossly mistaken for ambition that it becomes unhealthy. A quick trip to Dictionary.com led me to learn that Materialism is the "preoccupation with or emphasis on material objects, comforts, and considerations, with a disinterest in or rejection of spiritual, intellectual, or cultural values." Whilst reading those very lines, I could come up with a handful of people from the top of my head that will fit that description to a T. Being materialistic does not, by any means, make them evil or nasty people. They simply have a knack for driving away those that they have engaged in conversation by constantly talking about money and anything remotely related to it. Admittedly, it can be quite annoying and not to mention yawn-inducing.

Nonetheless, I cannot help but see the humor in materialistic people. I find it quite fascinating how they can put a price tag to literally anything and everything. From the coffee that they drink in the morning to the pens they use to jot down notes to the cars they drive and the shoes they walk on. Everything for them would have to be some status of sorts. Do they not realize how ridiculous they're being? In all honesty, tea tastes the same to me whether or it's served in a Royal Doulton tea cup or a styrofoam tumbler.

I have met numerous people whose lives are controlled by money and brand names. One of them, as a matter of fact, openly admits to only agreeing to marriage if the guy can produce a two-carat diamond ring as an engagement present. Or if he holds a certain job position that pays x-amount of money. And I thought girls like those only exists in movies -- and they usually die at the end or end up in some mud hole depending on the movie's genre. I have also had my fair share of meeting people who are so in love with designer brands that one would expect them to have Christian Dior or Louis Vuitton tattooed onto their buttocks. Even some of these people's children have to go to certain schools in order to be accepted into social circles.

My recent trip to Hong Kong has re-ignited my cynicism towards materialism. I go to Hong Kong every couple of months usually for weekend getaways -- it's the big city syndrome curse, really -- as I'm rarely the type to trek to the mountains or go camping. Shopping relaxes me and I enjoy having dinner whilst getting bathed in the city's lights. However, Hong Kong is likened to a drug where it must be taken in moderation. Overdosing in Hong Kong is a tough one because it involves a mix between a culture focused on monetary gains and working excessively hard for them. I reckon that the reason why Hong Kong is such a happening place is that people work ultimately hard -- and they play equally hard. This is true among the circles that I move around in, that is. There is a balance that must be respected. Most people in Hong Kong get caught up in the glitz and glamor of life. Having said that, they are usually beautifully packaged, ooze with poise and immaculately dressed. The thing is, beauty usually comes with a price -- and a hefty one at that. It is a shame to wear anything worth less than a few hundred dollars. It is no wonder that Hong Kong's economy is constantly booming.

As much as I love Hong Kong, I cannot live there and expose myself to that kind of life. I have never met anyone who has left Hong Kong unjaded. The experience makes you stronger and wiser, but a lot less happy. The stress and competition are too much to keep up with -- be it at work or not -- as they are constants in the city's life. Everyone works for money to be spent for ephemeral fulfillment and satisfaction.

Nowadays, whenever I meet people who have love affairs with worldly goods, I feel more pity than aggravation towards them. It's like they have a void that they're trying to fill. And from first hand experience, fulfillment obtained from material wealth is fleeting. As I said, like a drug, the high wears off and leaves you wanting more -- and more, and more, until it could no longer satisfy. At the end of the day, what is it really that they're pining for?

"There is something perverse about more than enough. When we have more, it is never enough. It is always somewhere out there, just out of reach. The more we acquire, the more elusive enough becomes" - Unknown

It's a vicious cycle, isn't it?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

In my defense, I felt the need to post something up first before you guys totally forget about me before proceeding on to the comment replies *sheepish grin* Sigh... it's my head in the soup today, isn't it?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2007-08-02T23:02:00.000+08:00

Singapore was recently hit by a tragedy called a booming real estate market and unfortunately for most people (read: those who don't own property), it's here to stay for quite a while. The rented apartments that people never used to bat an eyelash on have suddenly become hot property and everyone's clamoring for it. It's become a seller's market -- and there is definitely no mistaking who the kings and queens are. Because of this phenomenon, people who were looking to upgrade to a nicer apartment have suddenly changed their gears and are now fighting to keep their current apartments. What could have paid for a nice two-bedroom apartment in a skyrise building within walking distance to the city central shopping malls can now pay for a two-bedroom apartment within arm's length of Malaysia -- if you're lucky.

Practically overnight, people who were looking for changes had to struggle just to keep anything from changing. One would have to put up a fight in order to keep a present apartment for the same rate. Some would concede to topping up their rent with a few more hundred dollars a month as long as they get to keep the roof over their heads whilst others are left with no choice but to head Malaysia-bound (or ocean-bound if they fancy going the other direction) in order to stretch their dollars.

We generally tend to take many things for granted until something extraordinary hits us that threatens the peace and order of our lives. The classic saying of "you don't know what you got 'til it's gone" particularly comes to mind.

I find it quite funny because numerous times, I consciously put myself out there to look for changes. When I get bored and time seems to be standing still, I look for something in my life that I can change -- maybe my hair color, my laptop's operating system, my mobile phone, my travel plans, my diet, my doctors, etc. I seek and struggle to force changes to take place. However, when change comes barging on our doors completely unexpected and uninvited, that's when the real struggle happens. I learned the hard way that struggling to keep things the way they are is actually more frustrating and more difficult than struggling to change the way things are (did you get that?). At least with changes, there are various options that we can consider. After all, as long as it involves some kind of change, it's an option. Whereas with preventing changes, we limit ourselves to a single outcome and practically zero choices because we want things to remain the same -- no more, no less.

I remember my first job. I graduated in probably one of the worst years to finish school -- the year after 9/11. The economy was crap so naturally, the labor market was pretty ugly. I was lucky to bag a job within three months upon graduating. Unfortunately, it wasn't a terribly glamorous job and was quite low-paying. Then again, aside from Ivanka Trump, who has a high-paying and high-flying first job? It was enough to pay for my rent and newly-acquired car, however. I kept on complaining and moaning about my job and how I thought I deserved a better one. I felt seriously underemployed. I kept my eyes peeled and constantly scoured Monster and Careerbuilder for new opportunities. The bad economy coupled with my lack of experience (and availability of more experienced desperate people out there) were totally going against me. Then one day, the ax fell. I got called into the death chambers of the Human Resources Department and got told that my unit was going to be made redundant. Actually, not all of us will get laid off, just a few of us and I was first in line because I was the newest. You know, LIFO -- last in, first out. Dumb methodology -- at least that's what I thought that time.

How I managed to persuade them to give me a promotion instead and move me diagonally in the organization is saved for another time. Miracles still do happen -- have faith. The whole experience was perhaps the most humbling one that I have ever gone through. I found myself praying hard to be able to keep the same job that I was condemning for being beneath me just a day prior. I was borderline desperate that I was willing to work extra hours with no pay. Thank goodness for divine interventions. Since that day forward, I have been tremendously grateful for having a job -- full stop.

Changes -- no matter how good they generally are in life, there are some that we'd rather not go through. Fighting changes is possible, but it's truly an exhausting battle. When we think we've won, we receive a rude awakening later on because in truth, we can never keep changes from taking place. We simply delay them from happening. Whether we like it or not, changes will always be there like wrinkles on our faces (no matter how hard we try to get rid of them).

"If you're in a bad situation, don't worry, it'll change. If you're in a good situation, don't worry, it'll change." - John A. Simone

Tough shit, right?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

Nipping out of town for a long weekend -- from one city to another -- as I visit some loved ones in Hong Kong. I will be back early next week and will be looking forward to reading your posts :)

To CrashDummie, you are so incredibly sweet! It's an honor to be considered one schmoozing blogger! :) Thank you!

As for everyone else, I know I'm horrible at replying to comments, but I will give the extra push to do so starting next week. I swear! If not, you can cut my head off and boil it for supper. Thank you so much for all the love... this princess can definitely feel it :) And totally enjoying the warm fuzzy feelings that I get inside. You guys really know how to make a girl smile. Like, a lot!

Home Sweet Nothings

2007-07-28T22:28:00.000+08:00

One night earlier in the week, I agreed to meet up with a friend-by-association to have dinner of Belgian mussels, racks of lamb, stoemp and fruit beers. It was one of those polite courtesy dinners that came as a result of the "we need to get together and catch up" line -- those that we always say but rarely mean. The dinner was set a good week prior and I had doubts as to how long we can keep a conversation going without hitting any brick walls of awkwardness. I have never hung out with her without my sister present, who happens to be our binding glue. As a matter of fact, she's my sister's really good friend. And because I am my sister's sister, by association, that makes me her very good friend too. Second helpings of logic, anyone?

"See? I think that you and I are more alike than me and your sister is," she said with a flourish as she took a dainty sip of her beer.

I almost choked on the pesto-covered mussel that was trying to make its way down my esophagus. "Excuse me?" I asked. "How did you derive that conclusion?"

"Because even though your sister is seemingly the stronger one being the oldest one in the family, she actually is quite emotional and harbors attachments to certain things and people," she explained. "And we're not like that. We're very independent and free from those."

I still don't get it though.

She must have seen the confused look in my eyes because she prodded on. "Like, for instance, you're the type of person who would consider the place you're currently living in as home," she retorted. "Most people only consider the place where they were born or grew up in as home even though they're living somewhere else. And haven't gone 'home' in a while."

My god, she sussed this out of me within half an hour? "Really?" I asked cautiously. "What makes you think that?"

"Simple," she answered helping herself to the fries. "You referred to your house in Manila as your 'parents' house' instead of just 'home.' Why? Where is home for you?"

Good question. I don't know. And neither did I catch myself referring to my parents' house as my parents' house. Could it be one of those psychological mumbo-jumbos about the subconscious and all?

My friend seemed to have hit home within a span of that minute. And she has totally caught me off guard because admittedly, I have never gotten around to thinking about it. Where is home indeed? Better yet, when did home stop being home for me?

It would already have been a decade next year since I moved out of our house when I was seventeen. I cannot imagine where time has gone to. All I know is that within that decade (well, almost), I may have moved at least ten times. Because I moved/move a lot, I have learned to live with minimal things. Not the bare minimum, mind you, just minimal. The idea of packing up boxes and boxes of rubbish brings tears to my eyes not because of emotional and sentimental reasons, but because the idea is just so tiring and exhausting. The more I moved, the more I learned about possessing just the essential stuff -- and having to let go of the unnecessary baggage. After all, it isn't all the time that there will be someone to help you with your baggages -- and I meant that both literally and figuratively. Pun intended!

I may be the typical girl having too much make-up, too many shoes and an excessive amount of clothes in my possession, but I assure you that when push comes to shove, I can be out of this apartment within two hours carrying everything that is important for me to live on and actually survive on. Sure, I have the token heirlooms, jewelry pieces and critical documents that I can't afford to lose, but other than that, I can leave everything behind.

I learned that though not everything is replaceable, there are many things that are. And we agonize so much about the complications that we have in our lives when in truth, zoom out to see the bigger picture, and it's actually very simple. If you want something to happen, do it whilst only taking what you need. Anything in excess will just kill the journey because it will gobble up extra energy and resources. When you get there, you can always build your home all over again. Until the next one comes along, that is. Then you do everything all over again -- maybe with a little bit more to bring, maybe less. It depends. Who knows, one day you may just hit your final destination where you can build your home for one last time.

I know I will always have a home at my parents' house. However, I could no longer call it my home because I'm not there often enough to dress the place with my soul. It was my first home and it will always serve as my launching pad for my subsequent homes. And wherever I decide to build my current home at, I will always remember my first home because I will always take a piece of it with me. My alarm clock has traveled the world with me since I purchased it when I was eleven. It has woken me up every morning for fifteen years. It has stood on numerous bedside tables and it has survived many seasons. My home is where that alarm clock is.

"Ohmygod," my friend exclaimed. "It's already ten-thirty! I think I have to go, I promised the maid I'd be home by ten."

Honestly, where does time go when I'm not looking?

"I had fun though," she smiled. "We really should do this more often."

"I know. We need to get together again and catch up," I said.

And this time, I meant it.

Raising Little Orphan Annie

2007-07-25T21:40:00.000+08:00

Adoption used to be this big hush-hush thing where I grew up -- it's like this big secret that no one was supposed to know or else it would be a one-way ticket to social Siberia. Divulging such a secret is likened to opening up Pandora's box with a vengeance. I remember how school children would use the term with malice to take the mick out of someone else. The term "adopted" back then represented someone who was vastly different, or simply, someone who did not belong. We have all been called names at least once in our lives. And no matter how fancy or rotten they were, they all hurt either way...

People always seemed to be walking on eggshells whenever they were around adopted kids. It was as if they were afraid that their tact and tongue-biting would betray them and accidentally spill the beans to the poor fragile child. And the slightest hint of pity would always be present in their conversations with the adoptive parents -- the patronizing glances and the inward sneers. "Poor thing would never know how it is to cuddle with your own flesh and blood." A rather noble act of kindness was all of a sudden likened to the curse of a dreadful and incurable disease. It is beyond me why it is the strong and compassionate people are the ones being unfairly judged.

Plucked directly from personal experience, I noticed that it is those from the older generations that are not as forthcoming with the concept of adoption. Those from clannish and wealthy families are worse. Perhaps it has got something to do with taking excessive pride with the family name and gene pool, but aside from DNA, is there a real difference between a biological child and an adopted one? The big misconception back then of being adopted was that one is only of second rank compared to the real ones. I mean, imagine if the Queen of England had 2 sons -- one adopted and one biological. Clearly we know right off the bat which one will be at a disadvantage. Hopefully, someone would prove me wrong on this one.

Adoption -- I compare it to being an artist; a painter, for instance. We can all technically do it but it is not for all of us. After all, not everyone can paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Only the worthy and special ones are called to go through with it. And the rest, well... I'm not sure. Maybe they're those who are still unsure or those who simply don't understand.

I would be so honored if I found out one day that I am picked to be an adoptive parent. Of course, I wish to have children of my own as well, but I pine after the chance to provide a deprived child the love and care that he or she deserves. I honestly believe that no one must have to go through living with uncaring (especially abusive) parents. And believe me, this decision came way before Angelina Jolie started scooping kids left and right around the globe for her to create a mini-United Nations General Assembly in her home. Then again, as I always say, it's easier said than done. I am open to the chances that I may do a 360-degree turn once I'm installed in that particular situation. I hope not though.

Questions that constantly plague my mind: Should a child know if he or she is adopted? Does it matter? If so, when is the best time to break the life-altering news? This adoption business truly is more than meets the eye.

There are millions of homeless children out there. And likewise, there are millions of childless parents who want nothing more than having a child. Do the math. Tell me, why is it that the scales still don't balance?

Sure, people nowadays are more open with adopting children, especially those of foreign origin from developing countries. I'm almost afraid to ask, however, if it is only a fruit of a fashion trend. Adopting a Chinese girl isn't quite like investing a boatload of money on a Birkin bag. Nonetheless, the awareness that Hollywood icons have brought to adopting children have been massive. A bit misguided, yes, but still massive. And it has led many families to consider -- or even pursue with -- the option.

I have dealt with a fair number of adopted people -- I've met them, I've spoken to them, I've hung out with them, I've embraced them and I've loved them -- and they are unsurprisingly nothing short of normal, just like you and me. I'm beginning to think that the idea of adoption is a highly psychological condition with non-adopted/adoptive people.

Having the means to adopt and to provide is a privilege. But having the capability to give a complete stranger a loving home and a sense of security -- is a gift.

Interview With Vampires

2007-07-20T22:26:00.000+08:00

Unfortunately for all of us, there are numerous necessarily evils that we have to encounter in our lifetimes. And through these usually surfaces sheer idiocy and monumental stupidities. Nonetheless, there is nothing that can be done but keep our eyes closed and go through with it.

Interviews -- they are the bane of my existence. Although I understand why the concept of interviews came to be, I have difficulty accepting the fact that it has become an annoying, insincere and utterly fake protocol. So much so that I can't help but wonder why tremendous weight is put on it when considering a person for a position. I would think that the idea of an interview is to get to know a potential employee. Plain and simple. Almost like an interesting and engaging conversation. You know, get a feel of his or her personality, skills, capabilities and such.

But no. As a matter of fact, I more or less equate interviews nowadays with tedious and rigorous processes that simply drain the lives out of us. I never understood the need to prolong interviews to as much as eight to ten phases -- only to find out that you weren't good enough on the ninth. Obviously, interviews can be stretched out to a hundred phases and one will still be unable to make certain that the candidate is the perfect one. After all, it takes a lifetime to get to know oneself; more so a complete stranger who just wants an honest job with a paycheck attached to it every month.

And then there are those tests. Admittedly, there are some professions and industries where tests are necessary and I accept that. I can understand why aspiring journalists need to show samples of their work or take a writing test. Or perhaps why engineers need to get certified and also why lawyers need to pass the bar. However, I do not quite agree with asking an administrative assistant to take a math test involving algebraic and trigonometric problems. Or asking a consultant to estimate how many ping pong balls can fit in a Boeing 747. Or -- get this -- asking an entry level analyst which famous people he or she would take during a scavenger hunt. And those cheesy brainteasers -- seriously... why?

So if I happen to know why the person only takes the lift up the twentieth floor even though he really lives on the twenty-fourth floor, that makes me a better fit for a job?

I once had a job interview where I was asked to estimate how many flights there are all over the world on a daily basis. As I tried keeping my eyeballs from popping out of their sockets, I was silently shitting myself in my seat. I mean, where in the world do I start? Whatever happened to those overplayed questions where they ask you to name three strengths and three weaknesses?

"How about I look it up online?" I asked cheekily knowing full well that I have probably bombed the interview already anyway.

"But that's not the point of the exercise," my interviewer countered.

"Oh I know," I said. "I know you just want to know how my brain works. And trust me, it works that's why I'm asking you if I can just look it up online. I'm smart, I know how to make things easier."

He sighed. "Fine, let's try another one," he said clearly not impressed. "Can you estimate the world's population in a thousand years?"

"What do you care? We'll all be dead."

Needless to say, I didn't get the gleaming job in the prestigious firm. But hell, if I have to go through nonsense like that to prove myself worthy, then no thanks. Having the talent for knowing useless things will not grant me a better career. These days, it seems that the more bull we know, the better chance we stand to bagging our dream jobs.

On a more serious note, interviews truly are an important portion of recruiting and finding a job. It's the only real way to get to know someone and to gauge whether he or she can do the job. And naturally, we put our best feet forward when being interviewed. The only real way to find out if a person truly is a good fit is to give him or her the job -- and hope for the best. We win some, we lose some. Recruiting employees is a massive trial and error feat.

However, the creation of a department dedicated to recruitment has decided to make themselves feel important by asking applicants to go through hoops just to clinch an interview. Otherwise, they send an uber-impersonal email or letter lying about how genuinely sorry they are for not being able to grant us an interview. I cannot believe there is an industry solely devoted to this cause.

Looking for a full-time job is a full-time job in itself. It is one that is most depressing and is simply complete torture. Going through interviews is the validation of our crushed self-esteems. I can imagine how much better it would be to roll around on rock salt after rubbing our bodies with sandpaper. Bagging that one job is the sweetest victory -- and an added bonus if we actually don't mind doing what it entails.

At the end of the day, aren't we all just prostitutes that accept whomever takes us as long as they are willing to pay us? We go where the most money is.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

I apologize for the negligence from posting this week. I was swamped with that little bugger called work and exhaustion clung to me like a lovesick hormonal teenage boy to the hottest girl in class. Having a full-time job seriously gets in the way of the fun things in life. I will catch up with comments this weekend, I promise. Really!

Stealing Magnolias

2007-07-15T16:30:00.001+08:00

Just like everyone out there, I have a closet that houses all the skeletons I've been hiding all my life. The collection of bones have accumulated over the years as I hopped from one experience to another. From the outside, however, it looks like a gorgeous antique closet -- adorned with carvings of flowers and angels -- that contains precious jewels, family heirlooms, grand dresses and glass slippers. One of those things that people pay top dollar for at Sotheby's.

I have seemingly led a blemish-free life that therapists hate as my subconscious neither holds any traumatic ordeals or dysfunctional meanderings. I hate to say it but my parents did their jobs pretty damn well raising me -- hence, making it difficult for me to put blame on them for any of my psychological paroxysms. Just picture Meredith Grey, just as damaged and broken, without much excuse for being damaged and broken. And minus 95% of the whining.

When I was uprooted from my cushy life back at seventeen years old, my excitement was uncontainable. New life, new environment, new country, new friends -- and of course, independence! Well, not exactly as my parents were still financially supporting me 100%, but at least more independence that I got compared to living under the same roof as them. I realized how sheltered I was. This both scared and delighted me. I was thrown in a world where I was about to discover many new things.

Just like everyone, I had been foolish and I had been smart. After all, it was college. That's my excuse. I followed the herd. I drank and got drunk, I had cold pizza and swigs of vodka for weekend brunch (coffee and cigarettes for the weekday ones), I bought more clothes to make up for the fact that I hadn't done my laundry in weeks, I blew all my hard-earned cash on clubbing and going out, I *ahem* dabbled with things I knew I shouldn't be touching, and I incurred excessive credit card debts. Nothing especially out of the ordinary, but it was all new to me. However, the angel perenially sitting on my right shoulder kept me afloat -- with constant reminders on why I was there in the first place. Though admittedly, I did horrendous things, I still made sure I still maintained top grades, kept myself out of jail and made sure I graduated. It was the least I can do to thank my parents, right?

There was one instance, however, that brought my fast pace to a skidding halt. This time, my moral values came screaming at me -- and truly tested me for the first time. I was with a friend at that time. We just finished taking a horrible final in accounting and we felt we deserved a treat. We had ice cream and went shopping.

"It's getting cold, I really need a new muffler. My old one is already moldy and I could no longer see the colors in its original shade," I commented as I browsed around scarves, beanies, mufflers and mittens.

She picked up one of the mufflers and examined it. "Hey," she said. "This one's not too bad. It actually looks pretty warm." She tied it around her neck as if to prove it.

"Yeah," I said. "You should get it."

"Yeah, I should," she agreed.

"How much is it?"

Before I could get an answer from her, she was already out of the store -- with the muffler still around her neck! I stood there agape; my brain still trying to process what just happened there. I mean, she was supposedly my friend. How long has she been doing this? And when were the other times that she did this? If she got caught, I could go down with her. All these questions flooded me.

"I got you one as well!" she said as she triumphantly showed a second muffler hiding under the first one she lifted.

I took it, said thanks, and wrapped it around my neck. She was right, it was mighty warm. That was six years ago and I still have that muffler inside my trunk that has all my winter clothing. I still ask myself why I didn't say anything and why I didn't do anything about it. It wasn't the first time it happened, neither was it the last. And I don't know why I tolerated it.

I may have done so many ridiculous things in my life but I do have my boundaries. I'm not angel and I've never been. There are things I can let go -- whether easily or with difficulty, I can still let it slide -- but there are things I ought not tolerate. And going against the law is on top of my list. I have no reason to rebel and neither have I got a good reason to disregard my intelligence. I know what's right from wrong and though ethics can cause me to stray over a gray area once in a while, I find no reason to put so much at risk for a measly muffler (or anything, for that matter). If only fate decided to take the red pill on me that day, I would have lost everything -- my stellar scholastic and academic career, my family's trust, my independence, my life basically, plus I would be denied of a great future. All for a muffler? Shoplifting is still a crime and though I didn't pull the deed myself, there was no way I could explicitly prove that I wasn't an accomplice. If I were to go to jail for a crime, I'd make sure it was worth it like embezzling billions of dollars to a Cayman Islands secret bank account. Not a ruddy muffler!

I learned a lot from that episode. The gods were definitely looking down on me kindly that day as they gave me a sobering premonition instead of a rude awakening. I have toned down the risks that I take as a result of growing up and learning from my mistakes though I don't regret making any of them. My gut feeling has become my best friend especially now that I am continuously faced with new experiences that I've never encountered before. And I have become pickier with whom I allow myself to be surrounded with. Sure, I've made foolish choices before as to whom I let influence my life, but admittedly, they did show me another world that I know for sure I didn't want to be a part of. It's always a case of "the moon is rounder in another continent" but now that I've seen the other side, I'd like to stick with this one, thankyouverymuch. We do make our fair share of mistakes and there's nothing wrong with that as long as we know they were mistakes. And that they remain in the past.

As for friends, it is our choice whether or not we bite the bullet and get in trouble with our friends. However, true friends don't put their friends in a dangerous position without giving them a choice. It is, indeed, a good test to find out who our friends really are but it isn't a decision for us to make for them.

Big mistakes stem from small mistakes. And good friends keep you from those.

'Til Death Do Us Part

2007-07-12T11:48:00.000+08:00

"It's easier to be a widow than to be a widower," one of my colleagues stated matter of factly.

I choked on the tea that I was drinking when I heard this from him. Him being a guy in his late thirties, very soft-spoken and very very very very very nice. He's so nice that it pains him to pass out his own opinion. He's known to sit on the fence at lot. Ironically enough, he's a whiz currency strategist -- a career that depends on personal views and perspective when it comes to taking certain positions. And he does this every. single. day. Probably another one of God's jokes to mankind.

"It's true," he insisted, offering me some water and some tissue paper. "Men have difficulty expressing their emotions" -- altogether ladies: DUH! -- "so when they lose their life partner, it gets to really difficult."

See, if just any guy would have told me that, I probably would have thought he was just saying it for the sake of saying it. But no, this is coming from a guy who rarely volunteers anything that comes from his head. He's really nice (have I mentioned that?). His wife has ultimately hit the lottery... he's the type to open doors and to always offer his hand even in situations where he knows he can't do anything to help.

My parents had a conversation about each other's death a few years ago. It started out very casually -- like, my mum just happened to think about it and blurted it out. It didn't turn out very pretty because my dad opined that if my mum went ahead of him, he'll simply go back to his province and spend the remainder of his time there. My mum, evidently, didn't like this because she wanted him to stay in our current home and live there because she feels that they've worked so hard to acquire. It has become a legacy for them -- a symbol of their life together. Touche!

While I don't think that any of them were wrong, I understood why my dad said that. My dad was never really one to speak up (unless he feels unusually strongly about a certain issue). I'm not sure if this is due to the fact that my mother is just (extremely) strong-headed or that he's just smart enough to not go against her. I, however, reckon that my dad will have a harder time coping with my mother's loss primarily because of the abovementioned reason: that he doesn't express himself enough. I'm sure he has his own coping methods but I somehow wish that we were more involved in it. We, his children, are still learning to read him... and everyday, there's always something new to learn about him. I feel that as we get older, he deems us more trustworthy of his thoughts and feelings.

My mother, on the other hand, is an open book. Actually, that's quite an understatement. She's an open book with multi-colored highlighted lines and lots of dog-eared pages. She always makes sure that everyone knows what she's thinking and feeling... especially when she's not pleased. She's a terrible liar. Her lies just fall out of her eyes in truckloads. She's also good at piling guilt on us (something that I'm convinced that this comes with the maternal instinct package that mothers automatically receive once they pop their first-born).

The fact that I know that my mother will be shattered into talcum powder if (knock on wood) my dad goes first goes to show that she will be fine -- eventually, at least. And I know this because she tells me. My dad, on the other hand, I have absolutely no idea. He'll probably be less obtrusive in his kids' lives but there's really no way of getting in his head. And somehow, that scares me.

Secrets scare me, as a matter of fact. Nevermind that this statement is coming from a person who never runs out of them. I like knowing what's going on... and what's going to happen. I like being kept in the loop. What they say about what you don't know doesn't hurt you -- bollocks! It simply gears you to get even more hurt once you find out the truth. And trust me, the truth always comes out somehow... whenever it may be and whether we like it or not. And no matter how distant you are from the truth (time-wise and geographically), it will still hurt.

Anyway, I digress.

I hope that I won't have to find out the truth about whether or not it's easier to be a widow any time in the near future (or at all, if I can help it). It's a very sad thing to think about. Losing a life partner -- a best friend -- must be indescribably tough. Break ups are bad enough but at least there is still that thread of hope we cling on that a reconcilation is still possible.

I no longer have living grandfathers. My maternal grandma has outlived her husband for almost twenty five years now; my paternal one is on her fourteenth year of widowhood -- and still struggling. I don't know how they do it but they sure are doing one hell of a job. Bless them both.

A dear friend once told me that it is indeed possible for people to die of a broken heart. It's not accepted by science, but it still is possible.

I don't know about everyone else, but that must be the worst way to die. To die of a broken heart.

Candy Conversations

2007-07-11T22:01:00.001+08:00

"It's getting late," he said. "Shouldn't you be going to bed?"

As if on cue, I let out a yawn. I tried stifling it to despairing failure. "I guess," I conceded. "My cell phone battery's running out as well. I think it needs to go to sleep, too."

He laughed lightly. "All right then, Princess," he said. "Have yourself a good night's sleep. I'll call you again tomorrow."

In bed, I shifted my body to the right as my left side has completely lost feeling.

"Okay, Mr Stingy Smiles," I retorted.

I heard him smile over the phone.

"Why do you insist that you never smile?" I asked curiously.

"I don't know," he replied. "I was never really the smiling type."

"So you mean to tell me that during this whole conversation we had, you never smiled once?"

Oh come on!

"A few times -- " he answered.

"Hey, not a bad start, right?"

"A few times I may have stopped smiling."

Crawl-Out Clause

2007-07-07T14:49:00.000+08:00

A friend attending law school once told me that because divorce is still considered illegal in the Philippines, sometimes lawyers would deliberately put certain weaknesses and kinks on marriage documents as a way to break out of it legally in the future. Hearing this disturbed me beyond belief. Sure, it's a practical oversight and can be considered smart in a twisted way, but it was like putting a hex on marriage and a couple's togetherness.

Don't get me wrong, I have long ago stowed away my rose-colored glasses behind my closet, almost reaching Narnia. It has paved the way for my cynical evolution. However, I still have great respect for the institution of marriage. I am aware of the fact that in this day and age, marriage has somehow been reduced down to a contract that society unconsciously demands from us -- despite loud and rambunctious protests against it. We all don't have to think like that, do we?

I am aware of most compelling issues that often result to -- no, must result to -- divorce such as domestic violence, child molestation, criminal offenses and such. I absolutely approve of breaking down a family or a marriage if the above-mentioned are concerned as it is obviously for the best. It continuously amazes me how the world can house such sick sad bastards sometimes. However, I still frown upon the concept of divorce because it has evolved into something that people take for granted. Instead of using it as a last resort, it has become a clause that allows one to get out of a binding contract in the drop of a hat -- albeit a very expensive loophole at times.

I shall not even touch on the ludicrous lifestyles of the rich and famous as surely, they have single-handedly created the multibillion dollar industry that divorce lawyers swim in. The phenomenon has trickled down to next-door families and couples who seemingly have the average-joe life that you and I live. I still remember back when I was growing up when kids come from "broken families" instead of the newly coined "single-parent families." Getting a divorce was once the curse that casts you out of the loop straight into the arms of the untouchables. Now, it has become a habit, almost fashionable. It has become as common and expected as getting married.

From what I have learned, when one gets married, there is no turning back. After all, it is meant to be forever (resisting to say "no shit, sherlock" right now). There is no such thing as a trial marriage. Getting to know each other is usually part of the whole dating and relationship process -- thus giving way to the idea of waiting a while before getting married until one is definitely sure. More often than not, divorce is waiting at the other end of the tunnel when one marries for the wrong reasons. Also, some people use divorce as leverage and event as a threat to the other person.

Coming from a society where divorce is still taboo, I do find that the people in it tend to work on their ailing marriages a little bit more. It probably also stems from a culture filled with close family ties, and the repeated reminder of the importance of face value. The problem no longer becomes exclusive to the husband and wife because of the rest of the (extended) family gets involved.

Walking over to the side of the fence, this can also be quite harmful. Not getting out of a marriage because "it's the right thing to do" despite the suffering and misery can take a toll on one's health and self-esteem. Sometimes, we need to know when to throw in the towel because it not only affects us, but also the people around us. This is where Oprah's right in saying that we must love ourselves first before we love other people. For instance, some marriages get through cheating spouses -- but if it's chronically done and will obviously not end, what is the point of staying? Staying married but living different lives is as good as having no marriage anymore, methinks. There's a difference between working on the marriage and just letting it run.

I used to be 100% against divorce because of my ultimate respect for the institution of marriage. I've always thought that marriage was the end all and be all of things, and that no matter what, we're stuck with it that's why decisions have to be made wisely. It still is true to a certain extent, but there really is no way to know everything without running the course of life, is there? People and circumstances change -- something beyond our control. However, with the help of experience and maturity, I have grown to accept divorce as part of the survival process. It is necessary in order to gain access to a second chance. I only disagree with using divorce as a means to repossess life a third, fourth, fifth or sixth (maybe more) time. Surely, everyone makes mistakes, but we need to learn at some point. Someone told me before that making the same mistake twice is stupidity. Touche!

I don't judge people who have resorted to divorce -- no, not at all. If any, my respect and sympathy goes out to them because it must be one of the most difficult decisions they had to make. That's what it should be. It ought to remain being a tough decision to make. It should never be an option that is within arm's length. Otherwise, the world will be one big Melrose Place production where we just swap spouses and continue pouring money into divorce lawyers' banks. And marriage? It will just be another excuse to throw a party...

Look Ma! No Hands!

2007-07-05T17:05:00.000+08:00

Going to Australia was my answer to the aged-old question: "When was the last time you did something for the first time?" Not only was it my first time to visit the country, but it was also my first time to wear a full-fledged coat in June-July -- ever! It was a bit disconcerting thinking about it initially, I was almost dubious, until the biting cold hit my ears when we braved the Blue Mountains in New South Wales and when I intuitively parted with twenty bucks to purchase a beanie in the nearest tourist trap of a store.

I had this juvenile notion as a little girl that with Australia being down south, everyone was holding onto rails trying hard not to fall off the earth. "Look Ma! No hands!" Though, thankfully, that little theory of mine has been disregarded just a few minutes after its conception -- by hysterics coming from blood-related people. I still do find it amusing, however, being in a country where it gets colder as you head south and hotter heading the opposite direction. And where the water swirls down the drain in a counter clockwise motion instead (I lie, I didn't really notice, but is it only an old wives' tale?).

I did enjoy -- yes -- very much so. Getting to know new cities is likened to a blind date. I wasn't sure if I were going to like it or not. And neither was I sure if it will envelope my attempts to assimilate. I was a bit apprehensive with mixed stories about Sydney and Melbourne from cynical and forever-roseate associates who frequent the place. I decided that I had to, for once and for all, form my own opinion of the place and contribute to raves and rants. And I'm glad I did.

It was several days of getting filled up with good lager and wine, extremely scrumptious food (both from land and water, of course), and lots and lots of walking and getting lost -- which is perhaps, I daresay, the best part of any travel adventure. Sydney is just as sassy and cosmopolitan as ingrained in my imagination and Melbourne, I reckon, is her funky and hip sister with a carefree attitude.

If there is one thing that I envy about Australians, it would be their perseverance to maintain a healthy balance in life. I have long forgotten how it is to leave work at five in the afternoon and come in at nine in the morning with a steaming cup of tea and muffin on each hand -- and a smile pasted on my face. These days, everything is so rushed and everyone succumbs to it. Especially in Asia, there seems to be this unspoken race to the top where profits are seemingly generated from long hours of service and labor. I didn't enjoy having my window shopping spree getting interrupted whilst the sun is still up in Australia but I do understand and respect the reason why it has to be done. I don't blame the people for wanting to get out of work -- do you?

I have completely lost the concept of a forty-hour week. That's practically saying you have a part-time job. Seeing Australians enjoy their life and not allowing work to ruin it is quite admirable. I can't help but think: is it too late for the rest of the world to revert back to that kind of life? Or, should I say, can the rest of the world afford to do it? After all, old habits die hard, no?

Though I immensely wish to go for another holiday, I am quite happy to be back. One can only live in a suitcase for so long. And one can only be away from blogging for so long...

The bantering is back :) I have missed you all!

Can anyone guess where this picture was taken? (clue: it's in Sydney)

Hey Spanky!

2007-06-23T09:45:00.000+08:00

I grew up in a culture and society where spanking is a form of discipline rather than violence. I was spanked god knows how many times and admittedly, it did me a world of good. My parents never hit me -- now that's different. They spanked me when I was seriously asking for it. I was the type of kid who always tried to push the limits seeing how much I can get away with. Hardly angelic, I know.

We always had to cope with different kinds of pressure and stress as children. Mine, unfortunately, centered on grades and academics. My parents believed in working hard, doing well in school and getting distinctions. I never understood it though -- not until now. If my parents didn't push me towards that direction -- with spanking or not -- I wouldn't be where I am today. They instilled high standards in us, their children, and we accepted nothing less. Sure, there were a lot of disappointments growing up because of these things but c'est la vie, no?

I'm very sure that there are numerous people out there who will disagree with me regarding this. I have met parents who believe in "talking sense" to their children even at a young age. Perhaps I need to be a parent first before I fathom this but at this point, I couldn't help but wonder -- how do you talk sense into a two-year-old?

One thing that really grates me are those parents who couldn't control their children whilst out in public. Once I was at the mall doing my obligatory Christmas shopping, and there was a kid, three-years-old at most, on the floor kicking and screaming bloody murder. It was bad enough that I had to work over time that day, then I had to muscle in to do my holiday shopping with the crowd, and now there's this brat who is creating so much chaos in the middle of the floor. Just what I needed. I looked around to see where her mum was. And when I spotted her, she was chuckling at the sight of her daughter saying "Isn't she cute?"

Hel-lo?!?!

Thankfully, an equally distressed lady who seem to be not enjoying the scene told the highly inconsiderate mother that her kid was disturbing the shoppers. The mother gave her a dirty look and proceeded to fetch her banshee-child. I kid you not, the child attacked her! The mother was so taken aback and didn't know what to do. Her daughter left a horrible gash on her neck and continued to wail -- this time at a much higher pitch. For a while there, I felt instantly bad for the mother because she looked so helpless.

I'm sorry, but how in the world can one talk sense into someone like that? That little girl seriously deserved either a spanking or a tweak in the ear. I would never have pulled something like that as a kid -- just imagining what my mother could have done to me! In fairness though, my mother never spanked or pinched me in public. There was always that dreaded car ride back home where I know I did something wrong and I was going to pay high prices for it. In hindsight, probably the funniest thing my parents ever did to us as punishment was to kneel on rock salt for an hour with heavy encyclopedias on each hand whilst they were outstretched. Of course, I didn't find it funny back then -- but I tell you, whatever I did to deserve that, I sure as hell never did it again!

Just the other day, a colleague of mine was regaling his weekend to me. He adores his kids, and indeed he had two of the cutest little girls I've ever seen. Incidentally, his older daughter is at that cheeky age where she is big into experimenting. In the process, she broke a vase that she was told thousands of times not to touch. My colleague said, "Well, I had no choice but to spank her. And I did it in front of my other daughter so she'd learn from it too." He sounded so pained when he said he had to perform the deed.

My parents always told us back then that they only spank us because they love us. It sounded like outright bullshit at the time, but I do see the bigger picture now. My parents have always wanted the best for us and they want us to be the best people that we can be. They gave us absolutely everything -- to the point where we could have easily grown up as spoiled brats. They disciplined us in order to keep our feet on the ground. See, my parents always knew which buttons to push. After a certain age where it's no longer appropriate to spank us, she took away our luxuries. Millions of times I got grounded from the phone, from television, from seeing my friends -- man, were those terribly humbling.

To each their own, is what I always say. I believe in spanking -- not hurting and not hitting -- as a form of discipline. And I probably will do the same to my kids too. But who am I to say as I still am not in that situation? Well, I don't know but I think I have a pretty good idea.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Post Script:

I will be taking a quick holiday Down Under for a week and a half. I think I need the change of scenery. After all, traveling to as many destinations as I can is part of my grand plan of dominating the world. I'll be back though. I shall miss everyone :)

Skinpad

2007-06-20T20:42:00.000+08:00

Some years ago when I was still living in Boston, my brother and I would meet up every Sunday to spend time together -- he picks me up from my dorm, we go to church, and we have lunch. Afternoon activities were highly dependent on the weather. The temperature outside is directly proportional to the probability of us staying outdoors.

It was summer -- one of those rare days when the weather's just right. Boston is the type of city where you can experience four seasons within one day. Whacked, I know, but it's the absolute truth. My brother and I were strolling down the end of Newbury St and we saw a tattoo parlor. I don't recall seeing it before, but hey, it happened to be there during that day. My brother nodded towards the place and said, "You want to check it out?"

A lovely Indian lady was running the store; she was maybe fifty-ish. She had quite a team of talented tattoo artists with their arms boasting of numerous artworks. I was looking at the array of designs and patterns when she made her way towards me. "You have very beautiful skin," she said. "Would you want some art on it?"

"Oh, no. I'm not really one for pain," I said a bit too quickly. It was true, too!

She took my hand and led me to another part of the room. There, she pulled out a collection of more designs. "These," she said. "These are temporary ones. Henna tattoos, that's what they are. And I promise, they won't hurt." She smiled softly at me.

My brother appeared behind me and looked over my shoulder. "Oh, I've always wanted to get one of those!" he exclaimed. "Come on, come on, let's get them!"

Here's my thing about body art. What's the point of having them when no one's going to see them? I asked the lovely Indian lady to custom-make a pattern that would look good on the back of my hand. My brother, on the other hand, opted to go for the conventional tattoo on his arm where the sleeves of his short fall off.

I was madly pleased with how it turned out. I left the ink to dry for several hours and squeezed enough lemons to rob a little girl off her lemonade stand on it. It was gorgeous. For the next week or so, I was the superstar. Everyone greeted it with praises and "ooohs" and "aaahs." Even my Chemistry professor loved it -- amid me trying to measure some iron fillings to put in a beaker.

One night as I was brushing my teeth, I caught sight of my hand in the mirror. For some reason, it no longer attracted me, it no longer looked good to me. I spit out the rest of the foamy toothpaste and decidedly starting rubbing the back of my hand under running water. It wasn't coming off! I poured some liquid soap on it, some shampoo, rubbing alcohol -- anything I can get my hands on. I even tried using laundry detergent! It still wouldn't come off. It faded a bit but it was nothing compared to the redness of my skin. It looked like I shoved my hand in a pre-heated oven and let it bake for half an hour. I was so infuriated! However, I eventually conceded defeat and allowed my tattoo to fade with time. It took another two more weeks before it completely disappeared.

That was when I realized that getting a real tattoo would probably be a big mistake. It hurts -- and it's permanent!

I have nothing against permanent states or "forever"... or commitment. As a matter of fact, I quite believe in it. Commitment is essential in relationships, in raising a family, in establishing a career and forming friendships. However, commitment to certain things frighten me. I hate the idea of getting pinned down and not being able to do anything about it. Though we have technology to thank as tattoos can now be erased, there's a part of you that knows it will always be there though it may not be visible to the naked eye. Getting one is a decision that I have to deal with for the rest of my life. Who am I to know that I would still enjoy having a drawing of a purple fairy on my hip when I'm seventy years old? And how will I deal if my career takes on a path where tattoos are simply unacceptable?

I also have reservations regarding long contracts. The idea of a mortgage, for instance, is pretty intense. Though half the world has one, it doesn't stop me from feeling adversely towards it. I'm hoping that it has got something to do with my age and the place where I am in my life, but to be locked down in a series of payments for thirty years? I mean, that's as good as chaining myself to the lamp post near City Hall. Furthermore, I also shun long term investments -- those kinds where you have to trust a financial institution that it wouldn't run off with your money for a certain amount of time. What if I need the money all of a sudden and I can't take it out (without paying a hefty fee)? What if I have to leave the country and settle somewhere else? How do I get my money to follow me without the hassle?

Perhaps it's me having a knee-jerk reaction to settling down. Though technically, I am of a marry-able age and I could very well look into settling down, a big part of me still feels incomplete. I know that I will reach a part of my life where I have to sit down the dining table and pour over a stack of bills (including a mortgage), think about long-term savings plans for my kids and maybe get a loan to finance a small business -- this totally blows away the two-year mobile phone contract that I had to carefully scrutinize and think over. Right now though, I'm anything but ready -- financially, mentally and emotionally. And I've had to convince myself over and over before that it is pefectly okay to admit that I'm not ready. People walk in various paces. I walk a little slower in this aspect -- so bloody what? At least I know I'm a slow walker. I know of some people who deny themselves of this fact and tries to convince themselves that they aren't -- only to run into problems that are bigger than life.

At present, I like the idea of knowing that I can up and leave whenever I want and go wherever I want. I still have no idea where I'm headed so I'm allowing myself to make a few mistakes in the hopes that maybe, through the process of elimination, I can find myself a good destination. And perhaps on the way there, I can pick myself up a lifelong companion who wishes to go to the same place.

Commitment isn't a bad thing -- neither is settling down. However, it's also important that we are ready and prepared when we decide to do either. Or else, it would be like getting stuck with an ugly tattoo on your favorite body part.

Lip Service

2007-06-17T13:47:00.000+08:00

There are friends... and there are friends. I've always adhered to the traditional sense of the word, which according to Mr. Webster, is one whom we hold in high esteem or share a particular affection for. Yeah. Okay. No thanks to social politicking that the word's meaning has evolved into something so convoluted. The basic fundamentals of the word are still there, I agree, but it has become more complicated than it really should be.

I liken friendship into a pyramid -- like the great Egyptian ones. It's quite short really, this pyramid of mine, with an ultimately wide base. The higher up you go, the intimacy level increases exponentially, thereby significantly narrowing the top. It's an odd-looking one, you may deduce.

The first level of my pyramid is the widest. It is the category where my acquaintances, colleagues (generally) and chums fall in. All our friendships have to start from here, don't you agree? We meet people and from there, we cultivate the relationship. However, as time goes by, I have realized that the nourishment of my little pyramid seems to be the healthiest at the base. I have met so many people from different walks of life... and they seem to stay as acquaintances most of the time. I'm constantly at crossroads of sorts due to my constant hopping and well, the lack of time's availability. We have established that as beings of survival, we tend to unconsciously sell our souls to the devil's whim called work and career. Given that, we tend to be choosy as to how we spend the very rare free time we are handed. Thus, significantly slashing the opportunities we have to get to know people.

I have quite a lengthy list of people on my mobile phone's contact list. However, I can tell you frankly that there are probably only six people that I really correspond with on a regular basis. The polite exchanging of numbers during dinner parties and social gatherings have caused my list to swell. Also, I have to thank the first few degrees of separation for this. Friends of friends of friends. By association, you are obliged to give the proverbial air kisses if you bump into them in the streets whilst shopping or traipsing about. You have to feign interest in their job/family/hobbies/friends for courtesy's sake. It can be quite exhausting, really. It makes me think twice about the amount of effort that socialites put in their lives -- maybe, just maybe, they can be respected for that after all. One can only have so much for pretending to like others and having to scrape the barrel to engage in small talk. I don't know how some people can make it a way of life.

Within this wide base of acquaintances, a few outstanding ones emerge to the surface and boost themselves up to the next level. I call them my meal buddies. These people, naturally, are those that I seem to have the slightest chemistry with -- at least enough for me to willingly endure an hour of food intake and swapping stories with. Discussions generally consist of topics that both are removed from -- in other words, safe topics that will not hit nerves. Thank heavens the world is quite big and that there's usually enough about it that can be dissected before it is thoroughly exhausted.

I consider myself fortunate to have quite a few of these friends -- they help make the mundane patches in life easier to ignore. And living vicariously through other people's experiences gives us a break from what we know. Stumbling upon other people who more or less have things in common with us is becoming an art -- because it's beginning to get rare. These meal buddies of mine double as movie buddies, travel buddies, drinking buddies... name it! I don't mind spending time with them as long as it's still fun.

When the fun ends, however, there are two options that one can take. And usually, it involves the evaluation of relationship. Once a speed bump is hit through the course of the friendship, it can go two days: either up the pyramid or not. Once, one of my very good meal buddies opened up to me that he was gay and that his relationship with his parents were struggling as he came from a typical "WASPy" family. And his secret gay partner still was not out of the closet and was constantly beating him up. He was so in love with him that it never occurred to him to walk out of the abusive relationship. I knew from that night onwards that he got catapulted into a notch higher in my life. We spent all night until the sun rose talking about his troubles. It made me see another side of him. One that I never thought existed, or at least one that I never though I'd see.

Friends like those I generally consider as friends. The real deal. That's where I really draw the line that distinguishes my friends from the others. There is a certain degree of closeness between me and my friends -- however, my guards remain up. Contrary to what other people perceive me as, it takes quite a bit for me to trust people. I open myself up enough for them to think I'm transparent, but I'm not. It's like inviting friends into my house, my home even, but there will always be that certain room, perhaps the attic, that no one knows about. And in there lays the very core of my being.

I'm very selective in allowing friends into the attic -- which is the final, topmost and smallest part of my pyramid. They are so few that I may have more fingers in my hands than soulmates like that. Very few people know me for who I am. Such relationships are founded through time and experiences and well, I just never had much of that luxury. My biggest weakness is the inability to show my weaknesses to others. And those that actually know of my weaknesses are those people that I trust the most. I love them and I will do anything for them. I think it's just fair to say that in our lifetimes, we really only get a couple of really close friends who would lay their life for us... and those that we'll lay our lives for. They double my joy and divide my pain.

Friends come and go -- all the time -- may they be on the first, second or third level in my pyramid. I've lost friends whom I thought were on their way to the topmost level. Though it's sad, I've learned to accept that just like most things in life, friends are fleeting. I am thankful for the creation of memories. Nonetheless, soulmates are there to stay no matter which corner of the globe you're at. I miss them every single day for they form a major part of me. My relationship with them can withstand distances, differences in timezones, the passage of time itself, environmental and personal changes, but best of all, the love only grows stronger. Numerous farewells and goodbyes to each other are never a good enough reason to say farewell and goodbye for good.

One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly possible -- Henry Adams

Twilight Baby

2007-06-16T18:26:00.000+08:00

The day closes up
Behind the sheets of rain
Visible through the window pane

Light fades before the earth
Replaced by the shroud of dark

These sublime minutes
When the sun makes its exit
And brother moon takes the seat

It is within these short moments
-- Of Twilight
That I find to be the loneliest
Yet most beautiful
Part of my day

Bird Flu & Yellow Fever

2007-06-16T16:05:00.000+08:00

Have a look-see below. This article was from many moons ago (slightly over a year, to be specific) and I had no idea it was still posted up until it recently got pointed out to me. It surprisingly garnered some comments and while I always welcome and respect any feedback geared towards my written literature -- some of these comments just sent some belly laughs my way.

Seriously, sometimes we just need to see some issues in the light of humor :) Do enjoy!

Asiance Magazine Article -- Yellow Fever

I can't help but wonder sometimes if stereotypes will ever vanish. Maybe they will -- to make way for the creation of more. What do you think?

Alter Ego

2007-06-13T21:28:00.000+08:00

When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend named Clara. She was no ordinary friend -- besides the fact that no one else can see her -- because she was also my twin. Yes, daft as it may sound, I had an imaginary twin. My creative juices probably ran out just as I conjured her up because I decided afterwards that Clara and I will have the exact same personalities and like the exact same things. And surprise, surprise, I also decided that we looked exactly alike. Then again, we were twins right? For a seven-year-old, any other type of twins except identical ones didn't exist.

Clara only inhabited my imagination for a grand total of four days because I decided that we didn't get along very well. This stems from the fact it was both confusing and frustrating having her around. Knowing that Clara was a direct reflection of who I am, I couldn't just make up stories about her -- unless those stories actually happened to me first. I couldn't make up any of her traits and attributes because I had to possess those first before she had them. And she also had to carry my idiosyncrasies that I didn't really enjoy having to deal with myself -- neither did I particularly like admitting that I had them.

My logic back then was simple. I wanted a friend who was similar to me so that we wouldn't have to argue much. It never occurred to me that I would learn at a very young age that a) I didn't like myself very much, b) it would be helluva lot boring if everyone was the same, and c) dolls are so much more fun to play with.

Up until this day, Clara sometimes still haunts me. She reminds me of the person that I've become -- unconsciously or not. It surprises me though whenever I realize that I don't know myself as well as I think I do. Do you know what I mean? I'd like to think that I have quite a good grasp on the person that I am but then I catch myself doing something that I never thought I'd be capable of doing (and no, I didn't mean that in a sinister way at all). It's like I'm still in the process of getting to know myself. A neverending process, at that. Life is full of surprises... and so am I.

Over the years, I've found out quite a bit about myself. I've grown -- I'd like to think that I did. There were some years wherein I have grown faster than other years, but I've learned something all the same. Getting to know myself, I find, is like getting to know a friend. I discovered good things, and I discovered bad things. And just like getting to know someone else, there were some things that I liked about myself and there were things that I didn't.

I was one of those straight-A students who always made a beeline towards the top percentile of the class. I studied religiously, did my homework all the time, engaged in extra-curricular activities and teachers loved me. I was one of those kids that parents wanted their children to hang out with. I was, in other words, the perfect student. I finished school scraping some honors on the side and managed to form a decent collection of awards. It wasn't until I left the four walls of my last academic institution that I realized... I wasn't as smart as I thought I was. It was a rude awakening and truly a difficult one to come to terms with. I felt cheated in thinking that I had everything I need in my back pocket to survive life.

This realization eventually led to other discoveries such as the degree of my impatience, my low tolerance level for frustrations, my surprising complacency regarding financial achievements, my renewed pride in weak moments, and my right to self-entitlement. I never knew I was any of those -- until I was put in various situations that allowed me to unleash my monsters.

Getting to know myself was like getting to know someone else -- discovering the positives and the negatives. It's still a work in progress for me, though I more or less have an idea on how it's looking. However, there's one main difference about getting to know myself and getting to know a new friend. At least I know that I can do something about those negative traits that I don't like about me. Unlike being with someone else, I can't just abandon myself in pursuit of a new self. Don't we all wish that it were that easy sometimes? I have to live with myself forever -- and forever is a long time. I know I have some hiccups and nicks that I have to cure, but at least I now know which ones.

I do wonder sometimes though... if Clara were real, would she like how I turned out?

Perhaps I have those life lessons to thank for letting me find out more about myself. It's definitely true that you don't learn everything in school -- especially the most important stuff. If there was a "University of Life," I doubt that I would do as well as I did back in school. Then again, who cares? It's not like there would be any grades. It's either we pass or we fail. Seemingly simple -- but not that simple.

Freakonomies of Scale

2007-06-10T18:47:00.000+08:00

I work with economics. Macroeconomics. Everyday.

And with macroeconomics follows the concept of ridiculously big sums of money -- like gross domestic product, trade numbers, national budgets, etc. We don't flinch for anything less than a hundred million dollars. After all, it's macroeconomics. Macro. Big picture. We look closely at equity markets and capital markets and monitor massive cash movements between countries that may move the foreign exchange market -- which eventually affects currency. Big numbers. Very big numbers that even I couldn't physically fathom. All these are mere figures that I see on the screen of a Bloomberg terminal. If I have to visualize, however, how many stacks of hundreds I'd have to have in order to amass these amounts... then I would have to admit that I'd be stunted.

Money. That one thing that makes the world move. If not for money, then I wouldn't have a job. Neither will millions of people out there -- some of whom hold the most powerful jobs in the world. The world's various nations would be trading herds of cattle and sacks of rice instead. How exactly do you measure the inflation of sheep? Do you judge a country's wealth by how many chickens there are in the people's backyard?

If it weren't for present-day currency, however, people would have found another way to measure one's success or achievements. It is only human nature to aspire for material wealth as part of survival. Though money is not the root of evil, it can be an instrument of it. People react to money differently. And also, many people change because of it.

Here's a borderline-idiotic question: Why is money so important? However, here's a spin-off from that question: What is it about money that changes us?

Money changes people - either for the better or the worse.

We all work to rake in enough dough to survive. Yay or nay? Getting in a decent sum in our bank accounts grants us the basic requirements to live and perhaps allows us the luxury to enjoy the finer things in life. We progress and we move forward. That's what success and achievements are about. However, moving forward does not mean we have to forget where we came from. We do not let such a physical concept like money get in our heads and allow it to rule us over.

I have met people who did one-eighty-degree turns because of money. Friends, even. I have noticed some morph into some sort of being that I could no longer recognize. And all because of money. It doesn't make me upset, though. It makes me sad. It makes me sad that I had lost some friends to dead national icons whose faces are imprinted on a piece of paper.

I laud these kinds of people for working hard for money. From humble beginnings to exuberant standings -- and admittedly, I have once thought that they deserve nothing less. However, witnessing Kafka-like metamorphoses makes me think otherwise. The notion of having fat wads of bills in one's pocket gives people confidence - enough of it that eventually turns into arrogance and deceit. Into extreme materialism, into shallowness, into tastelessness (ironic enough), and pettiness. Why is that? What is it about money that makes people so powerless against it?

As P.T. Barnum once put it: "Money is in some respects life's fire: it is a very excellent servant, but a terrible master."

Do you ever question why no matter how much we pray to get rich, we never get it? No matter how hard we work, no matter how much dexterity there is in our souls, we don't quite get what we want? However, we will always have just enough. God perhaps wants to control these metamorphoses in the world. Maybe the Creator knows too well what will happen if everyone had money. We become aware of crimes and atrocities that take place because of money presently. We never know -- maybe that's a small price to pay for having only a handful of people in this world to have money.

If everyone's rich, I very much doubt it will be a happy world. How else can people learn to share or learn to work hard? What more will people work for that is tangible and measurable by success? Will people become more lazy or too complacent? Or will people find something else to turn to that will change them for the worse? Will people honestly pay attention to non-monetary values given the trickiness of human nature? Think about it, knowing how human nature works, people will probably find ways to get even richer than they already are. And we will all be back to ground zero... just with higher inflation numbers.

First Love -- Part III

2007-06-06T18:22:00.000+08:00

"I'm really sorry," he said quietly. It was probably the eight hundredth time he had uttered those godforsaken words within the past hour.

I ignored him. I engrossed myself in the art of folding my laundry. Three weeks had passed since I last did my laundry -- or any chores for that matter. I spent every single day in bed under my sheets except when I had to go to class. I did nothing that deviated from the norm. My roommate managed to develop scorn of some sort towards me already. She hasn't gone back for a week now. She's been crashing at her boyfriend's all this time. I must have been a jolly good fellow to be around with.

"Please talk to me," he begged. "Say something."

I looked at him sternly. "And what exactly did you want me to say?"

"I don't know, anything!" He looked more desperate than a recovering alcoholic in front of a champagne fountain.

My eyes couldn't bring themselves to produce any more tears. I must've fulfilled my year's quota for tears over the past three weeks. I reckon that the sadness is over -- anger and hate washing it over in full force.

I dumped the turtleneck sweater I was holding on my bed. I stood up and tried hard to regain my composure.

"I'm sorry," I started.

I almost heard a whiplash happen as his head swung towards my direction. "Excuse me?" he said positively bewildered.

"I'm sorry," I repeated it. A little more loudly this time.

"I'm sorry that you are a world class jackass. I'm sorry that you have a brain the size of a bean sprout. I'm sorry that you are so weak. I'm sorry that you cheated on me. And I'm even more sorry that it had to be with that slut lady friend of yours that's a friend of the family's," I said whilst making dramatic finger quotes for emphasis on the last phrase. I felt my voice rising and my cheeks flaring up.

"I'm sorry that you got drunk. I'm sorry that you never learned how to handle your alcohol. I'm sorry that it all started with a kiss. I'm sorry that it just happened without any of you planning on it," I was seething inside and a giant lump was rising in my throat.

Then I yelled, "And I'm sorriest for being the stupidest girl alive to allow this to happen the second time around!!!"

I fell on my knees and started sobbing uncontrollably. My knees hit the rug the wrong way and I felt my kneecaps throbbing in pain. The pain, however, wasn't enough to override the hurt I was feeling inside. I wanted the ground to just open up and swallow me in my entirety.

He ran to my side and put his arms around me. "Baby, I'm really really really sorry. I swear to God I'm so sorry. You gotta believe me. I'll never hurt you again."

I cradled my knees to stop the pain. Whether or not I was trying to curb the pain on my knees or my heart, I'm not quite sure. My tears felt hot against my face and my hair was clinging onto the its wetness. I couldn't breathe -- literally -- I started gasping for breath as if the tubes to my lungs have closed up.

"Baby?" he whispered, almost scared that I might die in that instant. "Are you okay?"

It took a minute or two to calm myself down. I shut my eyes tightly and briefly tried to go to a wonderful place. Even in my most private thoughts he was there. I opened my eyes again and saw his face filled with concern and anxiety.

"Get out," I said in a hoarse voice. "I want you to get out -- out of my room, out of my apartment and out of my life!"

His face crumpled and his eyes glazed over. "But baby," he said. "We've been together for four years. Can I try working my way back to you? Please don't shut me out. Not yet. I love you. I love you so much. Please?"

I stared him down. "You should've thought of that three weeks ago when you came back from home with the slut's note stuck in your coat's pocket," I glowered at him without remorse.

Then he broke down. He covered his face with his hands in that typical male fashion where they don't want anyone to know that they're actually capable of crying.

He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Please find it in your heart to give me half a chance," he said, barely audible. "I can't live without you. I wouldn't know what to do without you."

I brushed his hands off my arm. "Yes, you can. I managed to live without you for the past three weeks. It's a promising start," I retorted. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble doing the same thing. After all, you have that slut to go back to."

"No," he cried. "No, no, no..."

I held my room's door open for him. I was breaking inside but I know I needed to do this for myself. He took one last look at me in a bid to say farewell and I'm sorry but I turned away.

"I will always love you. I'm so sorry," I heard him say before I heard him trudge across the apartment to let himself out.

I held tightly onto the doorknob as if willing it to keep me from running after him. I hated him for hurting me so much, and I hated myself for falling so deeply for him. I wanted the aching to stop... it was consuming my very being.

Does it always hurt this much? This funny thing they call love? It's like taking you to the summit of the world only to commit to a head-on free fall with nothing to catch you at the bottom.

I had to let him go -- for his sake, for my sake, for my sanity's sake. I will always love him but it's perhaps best to contain the happy memories before the ugly ones elbow it over completely. First love. First heartbreak.

First meltdown.

Even though he had stripped me off everything I have -- including my heart and my soul -- I know that deep inside, he loved me too. Maybe we were right for each other, but we just met at the wrong time.

Or maybe... maybe I just cannot bring myself to accept that sometimes, what we thought would last forever doesn't last at all. Because maybe there is no forever.