1. Global warming!!! Ipa-AIRCON na ang buong Pilipinas!!!

2. Sitting in the jeepney near the driver and have everybody pass their transport fare to me. It’s like I was hired to be an instant konduktor.

3. Sitting in the jeepney near the entrance. People think my feet are part of the floor.

4. Events cancelled a minute before. Save the party and execute the killjoy.

5. People doing PDA in front of me when I’m single.

6. Salesladies following me around asking me to try this and that.

7. Sales persons selling perfume.

8. Bossy nurses. Nursing students are not minions of nurses just like nurses are not sycophants of doctors.

9. NCPs, case studies and case presentations.

10. My crush tricking me into actually admitting what I feel.

11. Flying ipis and all sorts of icky things

12. I’m not gonna say it. Clue: It’s a terribly ridiculous phobia of mine. I want to save myself from anybody who likes to taunt me or freak me out.

13. Going over budget. It’s when I realize I’m still poor despite the one-day millionaire feel.

14. An item I’ve been saving money for, Sold.

15. A Mall Sale when my wallet is <. . .crickets with spider webs. . .>

16. Kokey. He’s not cute. Kids should grow up because when Kokey grows older he’ll just become a teenage mutant ninja-kokey and he’s gonna break some little a—-I said butt.

17. Barney. He’s obviously gay. And colored purple with green. Ugh. Too metro sexual to be a kiddie mascot.

18. Hang over. . .

19. Broken promises. Yeah I get that a lot.

20. Making promises and breaking them. It’s an irony of life.

Today was a fun and adventurous day for me. I went out with this old batch mate of mine from the same high school. We went to Hoyop-hoyopan cave. He was a sweet guy. It was supposed to be just a friendly first date but he introduced me to his mom and like to the whole neighborhood as we rode his motorcycle. It was flattering. I mean I really felt like a princess. He was too serious and too gentleman unlike most of my exes. I had fun. It wasn’t typical of me to date in places like that but he really made it a point to make our first date memorable, not just some park or mall tambay or fine dining. And to think he was fifteen minutes early. His simplicity and effort could indeed melt a heart.

Of course, like any other girl whose got heart broken so many times, I was a bit awkward with all the shebang. Besides, during high school, we used to make fun of him and his nerdy friends. What would my friends think if suddenly I go out with a guy we used to label Freak from Nerdsville? I’d be the laughing stock of the town especially my mom. I kept on telling her time and again I would never ever date a geek and I’ll never be one them pretty girls who’s got butt ugly boyfriends, and she incessantly told me to never put a period in my words, who knows, I might give in. And I’m the kind of person who hates being told I told you so. Now I just want to crawl into a hole and not care.

He kept on telling me that ever since, I have been his dream girl and it was a dream come true for him to date me today. I remember him dance with me at Senior Prom and telling me the exact same thing. However, considering the fact that I have a prerogative, and as much as I hate breaking hearts, I also have a dream boy. I guess this will remain a dream for him and a lifetime torment for me if I don’t give him the chance.

There I was torn between wanting to give him a chance and thinking about my reputation. It would be too mean of me to reject him for such a frivolous reason, or better yet excuse. I would seem too shallow not to be able to look beyond the physical. Most of all, I would feel guilty if I broke his heart. On the other hand, I’d be fooling myself and keeping him waiting for nothing if I go on like this. I know at this point where my standards are too high, life has been and would be too unfair to him. But his effort and sweetness is too much for me to bear.

Unfortunately, I’ve learned from my past mistakes. Love is never for charity. I don’t have the heart to tell him we won’t work out as a couple.

Since the “road to holiness must necessarily pass through the world of action”, the author’s aspirations inevitably brought her alongside the pilgrimage of the Filipino people towards the elusive “Promised Land” of peace and prosperity. It led her to a first hand view of the betrayal and treason of our national leaders and made her review historically why this was so. Her trip back to the Filipinos’ collective past enabled her to see in a different light why the masses of ordinary Filipinos are bereft of a genuine national identity today. It also brought into focus the reasons why the present system has almost collapsed and why an urgent cleansing and transformation must happen in the Philippines if it is to prevent itself from turning into a “failed state”.

The author’s priority for moral values and her Catholic standpoint are seen in the more controversial parts of the book – the many men of Gloria Arroyo and her “dance with the devil” as an illegitimate president turned dictator, a detailed recital of the treachery of all our presidents from Aguinaldo to Arroyo, how the United States veered away from the original intent of their Founding Fathers in dealing with the Philippines and the call to the conscience of the American people to undertake voluntary rectification in our country if it is to save America and finally, the imperative for all Filipinos today to choose either the path towards peace and prosperity but through civil war or maintain the status quo and become a failed state . She asserts that unless these sins are addressed we all share in the guilt. The author contends that if we are in a miserable and desperate state today it is because we have forsaken God’s directive “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and all other things shall be given to you”. Happiness to her is “going back to our Ultimate Source”. And if as a result of this book the “first couple” decides to physically terminate her, the author believes they would only shorten her journey back to God.

The book is the author’s personal story. But it is also your story, the account of every Filipino who cares for his country, whether in the Philippines or abroad. It echoes the tale of all peoples in the underdeveloped countries, all preys and victims of the powerful governments, huge banks and corporations—the corporatocracy—and like us, each of them is also “A Nation Unborn”.

I never thought I would encounter such a book like this. It has been put on hold from further publication and reprinting. You wouldn't see any copy of this from the National Bookstore or any other book sale shop. I got it from my mother's friend which ironically is a government employee. Well, they're not all the same. Some employees hate their employer but hesitates to rant about it to keep the job and the life-sustaining salary and let's not forget, the 13th-month pay.

Of course, like any other printed item created to expose the scandals and anomalies brought about by the Philippine Government, I was surprised to know that Maria Linda Olaguer Montayre, the book's author, is still alive. Or at least for now. In these times of rampant media person killing, it would be safe to conclude that she's in the list. It's just not yet her time. We all hope she continues to live unscathed.

Why the title A Nation Unborn? To me the Philippine Nation was born the moment Negritos came and multiplied to the reign of the datus and finally to the present regime. I'd say despite the Filipinos' being born from the Motherland, it is still ignorance and hesitation that keeps us immature or in the most abstruse sense, Unborn. If I were asked I'd rather change the title to "More Reasons to Hate the Philippine Government" or "The Philippine Government Sucks: Were You Surprised?" or better yet "The Little Filipino Aborted by the Nymphoadministration". Hell yeah.

I'm gonna read this from cover to cover after I furnish my Sims 3 mansion.

Yah I remember that friend of mine I used to call Pucca. Anatomically speaking, like Pucca, you can barely see her eyes. The more it disappears when she smiles or laughs. Even when she’s mad or serious or at the height of watching a really scary movie, her eyes remain a secret unless you look her straight in the face. An epitome of a regular chinita.

Back in our Manila Summer Affiliation, especially when she’s wearing red, I’d tie her hair in buns and take her pictures like a cosplayer in Anime conventions. Here’s one of her pictures.

Meyl, sorry for the exposure. Love you! ^_^

After almost a month, I suddenly found myself going through a Pucca Funny Love episode marathon in Youtube. This cutest chinese cartoon character gives me more reasons to enjoy my youthfulness. I love Pucca so much. Her unique passion for chasing Garu around in romantic attempts is overwhelming. It's the "funny love" the sequel title was talking about. I'm no Pucca but I could tell Garu likes her too not only because she's got mad skills in Kung-fu but maybe because he doesn't want to be chased by anyone else, and even so he'd still pick Pucca as his private stalker no matter how resenting his expressions may be.

I think I've watched every Pucca Funny Love episode and I won't hesitate to watch it over and over again. She's so cute that she reminds me of a girl I used to know. Haha

I have this female cousin who just turned 10. She lives in a subdivision of another province 1 hour ride away from ours but she and her older brother is currently residing in our house for the meantime due to summer education matters. Basically, their parent’s favor was to let them stay over at my uncle’s house just beside ours. It was more spacious. So spacious that you barely see any live human being gallivanting around and even if there was, they’d be heading next door—to our house. It’s not a haunted house but a typical house of a rich family, pretty chic but dull and yeah, spacious. Unfortunately due to the lucid and irritating excuses of an average businessman, they decided to stay here in our simple yet cozy place where unlike the other house, is full of people.

They’re nice siblings. They know how to wash their own dishes and help my yaya with household chores. Her brother was like a 11-year old version of my brother, creative and gay. She was nothing like me, but she’s got some likeable attitude sometimes. They’re both taking advance classes at a review center nearby. Each Thursday my uncle picks them up and by Sunday afternoon they return.

Anyway, so I was talking about this little girl. We don’t get along well. We don’t fight but a thin sheet of awkwardness hanged itself between us. We spoke different dialects of Bicol (Me, Legazpeno and she Sorsoganon, if that’s what you call the spoken word of Legazpi and Sorsogon) but we’re both Filipinos so practically we understand each other. We have different interests and never did a thought of playing with her occur to me. We’re just plainly different. I was quite a regular ate, silent and mature and she was a regular child with a weird point of view: She thinks she’s not her father’s daughter.

I don’t understand why sometimes children despite the almost-perfect life, want some drama? When I was her age I only poured my heart out in a stupid and uncalled for emotional breakdown and got myself a short term psychogenic fugue just because I got my crush’s notebook only to see a girl’s name written for like ten times or more. Yeah I nearly died for getting heart broken for the first time. I also remember telling the DSWD speaker during one of our elementary fieldtrips that my mother tied me and a huge scandal broke out. That story of course with some bitchy teachers’ additional and exaggerated stories had my mom called for at the principal’s office when in the first place I only meant a tourniquet test for Dengue. I absolutely had no idea about it at that time and if I were to evaluate that attitude of mine eight years before, I’d say that was indeed ludicrous. As I continued to ridicule and curse my childhood nonsense, I got into thinking that somehow despite how idiotic crying over a boy and telling the world that my mom tied me was, at least the fact that people cry when they’re hurt and a naïve description of a diagnostic procedure was a bit sensible.

So then, what the hell is this kid’s basis for inventing a terribly cruel and baseless story? Even in her facebook account, she uses her mother’s maiden name. Maybe it’s because she’s the only girl among her brothers. Oh please she can’t be that stupid. But what do I know? I wasn’t there to observe her milestones and to jot down whatever happened that made her think that way. Could it be? No way.

Even so, despite the possibility of her not inventing anything in the first place, I know her dad is a good father. My uncle has been my substitute father each time my real dad went to work abroad. He has been a stroke survivor and although he’s partially incapable, I am a witness of how hard he tries to help with everything each time they visit. I just hope she sees whether whoever the sperm donor or the man she grew up with has been a real father to her. And I hope she learns to appreciate her dad more than create a depressing story to get attention.

Time has given its verdict. I'm destined with essays and the utter use of the mighty pen. Of course with the technology nowadays, I'm sticking with the easy keyboard instead (save the trees!).

Back when I was in elementary I used to say only the geeks love words, sentences and paragraphs. I never really took my time to go to the library and discover for myself what kind of magic these books have over these so-called geeks that they love writing so much. I'd rather do Math or play patintero and jack stones.

Like a normal elementary student, each Language class we were required to write paragraphs about random topics. Remember the formal and the non-formal theme notebook which is the size of a drawing book? I dreaded to write my heart out that time despite how our energetic teacher encouraged us. To make my 5-sentence paragraph look long I tried to use two lines as I drew the seemingly enlarged and exaggerated words along the page. It was a style of the typical dawdler but I was proud of what I did. That would be enough just to get my grades done. One shocking incident happened though. My teacher loved my work! I said to myself she must be crazy. She must be in her most desperate attempt to lure me into her microcosm. The next thing I knew, I woke up inside the library A PARTICIPANT IN AN ENGLISH WRITING CONTEST!

I didn't win though. My greatest competitors were the geeks I was talking about. And boy they sure loved filling up every bit of space a tablet paper has as I just sat there watching them, dazed, not knowing what to write or how to begin. For one thing, I had a really bad handwriting and certainly my dawdling style didn't work at all. The saddest part of it, due to my childhood naiveté (I actually mean stupidity) and inability to grasp or even care about the world, I didn't know what the theme is about ("What the hell is global warming?!") so basically my work wasn't as readable and essential as a competitor's work in an English writing contest supposed to be. It was a mess.

It was the most frustrating event in my early childhood years but nevertheless, as nostalgia took me back in awe I realize it opened my eyes to the wonderful world of journalism. I wanted to know more. I wanted to write with passion. I wanted to be a geek.

High school became my training ground in the field of writing. In my personal sojourn, I saw myself growing and gradually maturing into the Freelancer Geek I craved to be. I met and have been good friends with the same people I branded weird back in elementary. I helped finish a really cool short story for an English class project. I became an active writer and layout editor of newspaper-making projects in Journalism class. I formulated some scripts for group or class plays. I wrote poems, essays, and various literary pieces that finally in my senior year, from a copyreader I was appointed associate editor-in-chief with my co-geek best friend as the editor-in-chief in our school publication The Agnesian.

Sadly we didn’t produce any paper the whole year despite the relentless nights and skipping-classes-for-publication-related-and-invented-excuses days we almost lost our lives to. I guess we were bound to enjoy the antipathetic stresses of a student journalist merely for the sake of experience because after everything we did the world suddenly sucked. It was an issue between our budget for the printing and reproduction of our hard work and the new principal of our school. I wonder where it went and why it wasn’t followed up but one thing’s for sure, the world moved on and so should I. I got me a The Agnesian service award during graduation anyway.

College was a different picture than high school. Way different. I continuously forced myself to love and commit myself in the art and science of nursing. I convinced myself I needed this odd kind of covenant with medicine in order for me to go abroad and earn dollars. However, in the long tedious process of education, I failed to notice I began disregarding my other skills. I started having the most grotesque symptom of an erratic scribbler, the writer’s block.

I had the writer's block for almost three years now and it gave me quite a lag in the development of my inner scribe. Each time we were tasked to write an essay, I'd be too in a hurry and straight to the point like the average and the obvious instead of playing with words and constructing my piece to full detail and expecting a higher grade.

I keep a diary to spare that part of my brain that loves literature from ulterior deterioration. Oftentimes though, despite having a personal journal to capture my college moments, I’d be too tired to even think of an opening sentence. I’d be too mysterious and brief with my story so my brother can’t understand what really happened when he comes meddling with my personal life. And that journal remains brief in every date of every page. Almost as if I killed the world detail in my mind dictionary. I failed to tell my story as detailed as I wanted to read about it 50 or 60 years in the future.

I even missed intentionally the opportunity to join our college publication The Vital Signs. The moment the publication’s adviser announced the upcoming auditions, an inner spark of hope made me want to grab that chance and be an instant officer of that club. But then at the back of my mind, the desperate devil kept on whispering, “Additional stress…Your friends are not joining anyway that’ll be boring right?...You’re too lazy you can’t even study in advance or review enough to get exams perfect what more with another responsibility?” And the ever echoing, “Don’t…don’t…don’t” continued hovering above my head until I realized the auditions were over and a new set of staffers were declared. Oh well. Rant.

Wonder what suddenly hit my head, took over my body and commanded me to create a purple-themed Blogger blog site? Would you believe it’s Boredom? Well, believe it or tell me “Wehh di nga?” but yes, boredom over the summer vacation triggered this reawakening of my inner scribe. I’ve proven my own destiny with writing that despite the lazy moments and the three year old freakin’ writer’s block, I still have it.

And now I just finished writing my first post. I missed this so much. ^_^