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I know I said in my last (and really old) post that I'll only write again if I've already gotten my shit together and if I talk about good things only. But wow the things one can say when he/she is sad!

I am always sad lately. I feel like there's something missing in my life - maybe a new friend or a new lifestyle or a new place to be in. Most of the time I feel hollow. Incomplete. Empty. Dead. No sense of purpose. Like I'm just passing through every waking day, trying to survive like life is one long ass apocalyptic movie of some sort. Ha, who knows, maybe it is. 

This worries me but sometimes I feel like I don't care already. When I'm hurt I don't do anything about it. My being passive is getting worse, and I hate it because when I'm angry I tend to channel that anger to myself, which then turns to self pity. I cry it off and then hate myself for crying and being so sensitive. I've always been an inclusive person but lately I've kept so many things to myself that I think it's quite normal already. I don't share things to people because I always think that they won't understand; I have this preconceived notion that I'm an outsider, that I know what I'm feeling isn't something new to others but I can't explain myself properly so what's the point? It also doesn't help that people are so tiring. Seriously. Every night I ask myself, 'wow I'm so tired, how many people did I talk to today?' You'd think being in the corporate world would improve my people skills, but it sadly did not. I'm still hesitant to start a conversation, and answering phone calls gives me anxiety. 

Another thing is I don't know what to do with my life. There will be a major change in the department I work in and I don't know what to do - should I stay where it's sure and familiar, or should I take a leap of faith and trudge the unknown? I know you'd urge me to choose the latter but do you know how hard it is to lose a job right now, in this economy? I have bills to pay and I can't afford to do something risky. That is not me: I don't take risks. I calculate. I plan. I know I talk a great deal about stepping outside the comfort zone and carpe diem and whatnot, but that's it - I only talk. I'm a fake. I'm always scared. I'm a sissy.

Maybe I should get a hobby, something artistic where I can pour my energy to. Maybe I should go somewhere alone, to get my bearings and my personal problems sorted out. Maybe I should make a new friend, someone I totally don't know so I could start fresh. Maybe that's what I really need - a fresh start, a clean slate.

 You see, I think I know what to do to make me feel better, but I don't do anything about it because I'm a fucking loser.

Hello. I am back. For now. Not really. Maybe just for today. I am a sad human being.

Remember when I used to say that I’d probably write for the rest of my life? That all I want to do is write and write and write and be rich from doing just that? Bad news: I don’t think I can write anymore. It’s not that I don’t have the capacity (I still can write; just not that good anymore), I just don’t have the energy and inspiration. I didn’t think working for a living would do this to me. I thought being an adult would give me so many experiences that would fuel my creative juices, but so far all it did was give me stress and the need to always sleep. The thing they say about how your first job is always your worst is true. Don’t get me wrong: I am thankful for this job because it provides money (ugh) and sometimes free access to events (yes), but I feel like I’m not improving in this field. My brain is so rusty and every single day is repetitive. If I didn’t have the liberty to browse anything online and watch movies/series on my free time and discover new artists to listen to, I would be a useless moron who worked her ass off in college. I want to quit this job but to be honest I am scared – I am so fucking scared of starting over and adapting to new people. I hate myself.

In all honesty I don’t really know what to do with my life. I celebrated my 23rd birthday last month and instead of being excited, all I felt was anxiety. I’m anxious of what I ought to have done and what I should be doing at this age. I haven’t achieved anything yet. I’ve gone to festivals and concerts, but that’s about it. That is the lamest thing ever. Do you think I’m suffering from early quarter life crisis? Not knowing what to do with your short life is kind of stressful – can’t we just eat ice cream every day and binge-watch series and let that be acceptable?

Maybe my problem is that I’m lazy. And scared. And I compare my life to everyone else’s. And I only envy them after. My life is a mediocre. I always feel like I’m missing out on things and that I should’ve achieved something by now. But I’m so lazy to do anything. And always so fucking tired. I admit I’m not the most enthusiastic person and I don’t have the most active lifestyle and I think I’m the type who doesn’t thrive early in life, but it’s so tiring to keep waiting for my moment. Holy shit, I’m just whining right now. I understand if you’re rolling your eyes at me. I am rolling my eyes at myself.

Is it stupid to want to start over? To live somewhere I haven’t been to? Meet new people and start new relationships? Start with a clean slate? Just writing about it triggers me – triggers my self-loathing and that feeling of being ungrateful.

I don’t want to be like this anymore. I promise when I come back to blogging, I will be better – better at it and better as a person. Better at life. Please be patient and wait for me. (Who am I even talking to?)

See you later.

Dear blog/self/non-existent readers:


It has been so long since I blogged. More than six months of not-writing makes me feel weird and out-of-loop about this. I’m not even sure if I can still write. It’s sad. It’s pathetic. But I will try my best. (This is very sad. I won several writing awards back in school and spearheaded the whole 2014-2015 issue of our college paper. Writing should be second nature to me. But now I am in the dark – literally in the dark: I am writing this in my unlit room.)

Adulthood made me like this. I’d like to think that I’ve adjusted pretty well with being a working adult and going to the office to earn money, but the truth is I haven’t. Yes, I haven’t thought of quitting yet, but being an adult took the silly, fun-loving, creative side out of me. I lost time; I lost interest in things. My brain is still overthinking like fuck, and every night I still get torrents of ideas and thoughts that are blog-worthy but I don’t do anything about them because I am a sad and tired human being. I also get distracted easily. I’m losing the fervent amour I used to feel towards writing and sharing stories and basically blabbing on the Internet. It scares me. (Don’t get me wrong: I’m grateful for the opportunity of having a job, but sometimes I just want a timeout. I guess that’s not too bad and too much to ask.) I don’t want to lose this love. So now I came up with a solution to this uncalled-for dilemma: I am going old school. I will start a journal where I can write about every spontaneous thoughts, small or big, spontaneously. My friend gifted me a journal for Christmas (actually I requested for it), and I swear to God I will write on it as much as I can. And when I come up with something interesting enough to blog, I will.


So now that we have that out of the way, I will give some updates on my life in the past year (also known as “Random Shit Thoughts”) even though nobody cares because I am that type of person:

My reading is slow, but I still read. I set thirty reads last year, and thank goodness I surpassed that goal. I would legit hate myself if I didn’t achieved that. Overall I’ve read 32 novels this year, and one little black Penguin Classics book (No. 57: How Much Land Does a Man Need? by Leo Tolstoy). I am happy about these numbers. The best novels I’ve read last year are Mosquitoland (David Arnold); I’ll Give You the Sun (Jandy Nelson); Where’d You Go, Bernadette (Maria Semple); The Girl On the Train (Paula Hawkins); All the Bright Places (Jennifer Niven); and Red Queen (Victoria Aveyard).

I am so into Years & Years and the fandom basically swallowed me whole. I de-stress from work by fangirling over music. And my 2015, without a doubt, was dominated by Years & Years. But instead of feeling a sense of calmness every time I do my job as a Philippine Street Team member, I get very emotional. Just looking at the faces of the band members gives me feelings that make me want to cry; their interviews never fail to wreck me; and by the time I listen to their music, I am in a state of emotional coma. And I love everything about it! I love the fandom I become Internet-friends with! I hope this year will be our year to shine and be kings and be gold and experience Years & Years live! Oh my God my feels!

I’ve listened to so many artists last 2015 and I am very proud of myself. I am so in love with the artists on my playlist that I want to shove their music into every person I meet. A friend from the Years & Years fandom said that she loves my taste in music (and books), and it was basically the best compliment I have ever received. I cannot sing without embarrassing myself nor can I play any instruments, so my scary enthusiasm for discovering great artists and great music is my self-proclaimed skill/talent. Someday I will work for a recording company where I’ll listen to music all day and pitch in artists who deserve to be produced, and then be friends with these artists. This is what I call hashtag Goals As Fuck.

I’ve gained some non-Internet friends. Working exposed me to people I normally clam up when around. I learned to start relationships and forge (wow big word) friendships. I have “families” in the office that I’ve grown very attached to it’s scary. I learned to adjust to the different personalities of my colleagues, and haven’t made enemies yet (not that I will; I am passive-aggressive – allegedly). I haven’t lost my mind or had a panic attack in public so that’s a plus. I hope in time I will learn who are worth keeping. (I’m not a squad-friends kind: I just have small number of friends that I genuinely like. I have two best friends I love very much I can’t imagine losing. What am I even talking about.)

I still have time to be alone, so I guess that’s good. I seldom go out on weekends because I always choose to stay at home and rest my fucking fragile body. Being surrounded with people every day sometimes exhausts me, so Rest Day Me Times are important. I usually just read, watch movies/series and sleep all day in bed. It is fucking paradise.


So I guess that’s it. This 2016, I promise to rekindle romance with writing and other hobbies I left behind because of adulthood. Every day I will try to be good to myself and the people around me. And write Random Shit Thoughts on my journal that I’ve just now decided to name Finch (after the sad, dark, brilliant character from All the Bright Places).

(If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s how lame my closing paragraphs are.)

I was about to blog about my little adventures as an adult, about those times when I looked for a job wearing a skirt and itchy makeup, that time I butchered my first interview, when I took two exams for a position in a big network, and what I do in between applications. But I have to cancel that because life took a turn and I’m already employed.

I’m very excited.

I started applying to different companies/networks last April 27, 2015. I was offered and accepted the position in one of the companies last May 20. I didn’t realize that it didn’t take me a whole month to be employed, but it felt like forever. I’m a very impatient person. I will start working for Viva Communications, Inc. this Monday, May 25, as MTV Pinoy (Philippines)’s Channel Assistant. I am so thankful for this.

To be honest I’m quite scared of the responsibilities I will be shouldering as the Channel Assistant. The functions of the said job was explained to me and I must admit it’s pretty vital. I can see pressure from a distant, slowly creeping towards me. I’m scared but at the same time I’m very excited to start. This is a new chapter in my life, and I know I’m not sure if I’m completely ready, but I’m quite adaptable to new environments. I just hope my painfully awkward socialization skills won’t ruin things for me.

Of course my overthinking skills is kind of ruining things for me already. The same week I was hired, I received two invitations from a production house and from the network I took the two exams. The people I confided with told me to still go to the interviews. The problem is I wasn’t and won’t be available on the said invitations because I have commitments already. I’m so fucking confused. They make me feel like I’m turning down and throwing away an opportunity. But I like the position I accepted in Viva. They are planting seeds of doubt in my mind and it’s driving me insane and I hate it. I hope I will not regret this decision... But if ever I did, I hope I will learn from it.


Back when I was still unemployed and waiting for invitations for an exam/interview from companies, I’ve also gotten into becoming an active, actually-working fandom member. Yes, half of this post is about my love for music. You have been fooled.


Lately I’ve been obsessing over Years & Years, this London-based electro-soul-pop group that’s making a scene in the music industry lately. I love them so much that sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself. Some nights when I listen to their songs while I lie on my bed, I get really emotional and just squeak with delight and shed some joyful tears and you know, the usual torrent of fangirl emotions. I’ve decided to take another step into adulthood and co-manage a fan account dedicated to Years & Years, @yearsandyearsph. I am having a blast! Aside from their phenomenal music, Years & Years is a very inspiring group. The lead vocalist, Olly Alexander, is openly gay and has been inspiring everyone to not be afraid to be who they are. He’s a hero. Emre Turkmen (synth) is a genius and he looks hot in maroon and he’s my favourite; Mikey Goldsworthy (bass, synth) is so posh and fabulous you have to shield your eyes if you dare look at his gloriousness; Dylan Bell (drums) is one of the funniest people ever. The fandom is very supportive and funny and intelligent. Now we not only celebrate the great music they produce (I literally cannot wait for “Communion,” out 07/10!), but also we celebrate the persons they’ve inspired us to become.


This week I’ve decided to amp up my fangirl game, so I made an account for local Flor fans, @florsoundsPH. I’m not sure if there are Filipino supporters of this beautiful band hailing from Oregon, but I hope there is or there will be, because I don’t want to do this alone. And lately I’m feeling generous, so I want the poor, little mundanes to see the light and have a taste of eternally beautiful music.

Go and do yourselves a favor and head on to Soundcloud and listen to Years & Years and Flor! You can thank me later.

(Dear The Summer Set, a.k.a. Still My Favourite Band In The World, don’t be jealous. I still love you the best, and I’m still active in the fandom. I’m so excited for the photos from your promo shoot and for the next album! I will try my best to balance my love for all of you, although I must admit it’s pretty exhausting.)


So that’s what I’ve been doing this summer. I know it’s not so majestic but at least I’m practicing my English grammar since the fandoms are international and multiracial. And I get aural sunshine orgasm that I don’t regret. I don’t have plans to go on a vacation because the fucking sun is terrible on my skin and my mood okay.

And I am so fucking excited to be an adult. Wish me luck. (I hope I don’t abandon blogging and social life altogether.)

An open letter to Great Love:


Hi.

It’s official: I don’t love you anymore. You have to congratulate me for this. You have to commend me on finally admitting to myself that I haven’t any slightest bit of romantic feelings left for you. I know it in my heart. It’s over. The era of you (which spanned for almost five years, bless you) has reached its ending.

I feel so fucking liberated.

Now I’m sure that I was only in love with the idea of you. All the boys back in school and the ones I interact with paled in comparison to you. Maybe that was why I thought I was in love with you – because I haven’t met someone that encompasses my ideal man, except for you. You were everything I wanted in a guy. You’re an achiever with a bad sense of humour, but that was fine. I was so crazy for you. I led myself into believing this fantasy of us. I came into my senses and realized that it’s stupid. How can I be genuinely in love with you when we don’t even meet?

You are still one of the awesomest people I know, but now I will look at you and remember those moments without that painful feeling of being punched to the heart. I will not yearn for you anymore. I will not spend time in my dark room daydreaming what it would be like to hang out and be silly with you, or to hug you and hold your hand. I will only remember you as the guy I fell stupidly in love with for many years and yet nada. Nothing happened.


I don’t miss you anymore. This is the truth. It’s weird. Before, back when I still go googly-eyes on you, I got giddy feelings every time you took notice of me [on Facebook or Twitter]. I actually used to cry with happiness. I treated you like a celebrity. I did subtle things to get your attention. I revered you. It was asinine and ridiculous. And every time I successfully borrowed a portion of your time, I cherished the moments we talked online and kept them, carefully tucking them away in my own little memory bank. Now I don’t give a fuck about that bank. One of these days it will declare bankruptcy.

A few weeks ago, we had a little catching up and it was great and your humour had improved, but it was nothing. I felt nothing. I didn’t jump up and down or run around wildly. My heart didn’t swell. I didn’t cry. Yes, I might have admitted that I got a bit jealous over someone, but that was bullshit. I’m not even sure why I said that. I don’t care what you do anymore. I don’t care if you flirt with other girls. I don’t care if you let others use the nickname I gave you (how dare you). I don’t love you anymore. I don’t even have a crush on you. You have been demoted, my friend. Here, take your things and settle on your new desk on the corner.

It’s not that you’ve changed. It’s not that I have someone else already (how I wish). It’s me. I’ve changed. I’m an adult now and I should make adult decisions (Mom, I want a popsicle). The butterflies migrated, bye; the fire died and turned to ashes; the affection dwindled like the fucking economy. I realized that I don’t have to be this kind of person for a guy. I don’t have to run blindly in an alley that I believed would lead me to you (and vice versa). I don’t have to do things just to make you notice me, and be disappointed when you didn’t. I don’t have to prove myself to you.


It was a good run, and I fell a lot but I learned. But I’m quitting this halfway, because no, I don’t think the finish line is worth it.

I will still call you Great Love (although not in your face), but that name is empty. There’s nothing behind it. You can keep the label because you earned it (add it to your pile of achievements). Congratulations, here’s your medal for giving my heart a rollercoaster ride.

I don’t hate you. I will not unfriend you either (that’s pathetic). I wish you all the best.

Bye.

I am very proud of my musical taste it’s ridiculous. I listen to music and musicians most of my friends aren’t familiar with. I listen to songs that are basically not heard on the radio. I’m no hipster… but what I’m doing – shying away from the familiar and basically worshipping underrated artists – is so basic it’s almost hipster. That is very screwed up.

I like sharing to others the music I listen to, and it gives me tremendous joy when they eventually love the music I love. It’s like a purpose I have to meet and achieve. Many have asked me how I learned about this and that artist, and I have so much emotions I cannot explain how without sounding like a tortured pig and crying. So this blog post is dedicated to narrating when, where and how I came to some bands/groups that make my life complete and yet ruin me in the process.


The Summer Set. Probably my most favourite band of all, I learned about The Summer Set in a news article in 2012 about the Liv5 shows featuring A Rocket to the Moon, A+ Dropouts, Forever the Sickest Kids, The Ready Set and The Summer Set. Already a fan of The Ready Set and familiar with A Rocket to the Moon at that time, I decided to see the show. To prepare myself, I listened to all the artists. To be honest I wasn’t blown away by TSS’s music at first. I listened to “Someone Like You,” “Chelsea,” and “The Boys You Do (Get Back At You),” and I didn’t fall in love right away. So I saw them on Liv5 and thought that they’re a pretty band (and awesome BECAUSE FEMALE DRUMMER). I kind of forgot about them after that.

The release of Legendary on April 2013 changed everything. The music was better; the lyrics relatable and real; the members sexier than ever. The boomerang hit me and I was a goner. I started following everyone on Twitter… and that only made everything worse. I fell in love not only with their music, but also with their personality. I knew it would be forever when Josh Montgomery (guitars) told Brian Dales (vocals) to stop quoting Peter Pan and just get laid. The Summer Set is a collection of smart, creative (check out their merch!), funny and inspiring people. I would stop right here because it would take me forever to express my love for them.



The 1975. This is where I tell you that I’m secretly a hipster. I learned about The 1975 when they had a show in the country, and I was bored so I went. This was on March 2014. I didn’t know them or any of their songs. I went out of curiosity and boredom. And it was the best decision of my life! Feeling like an outsider in the midst of true fans and getting really toasted by the sun, I found myself enjoying the band’s music even though I couldn’t understand what the hell Matty Healy (vocals) was singing because of his thick accent. Okay fine, I also enjoyed the show because the members were good-looking, and they wore monochrome colours and that’s a total turn on.

The 1975 makes music one wouldn’t appreciate at first. They sound different and sometimes creepy. The essence of their songs lies in the words. When you listen to the songs and really grasp the story behind, you will bawl your fucking eyes off. Plus, watching their bromances bloom before your eyes doesn’t hurt.


Echosmith. I’ll make this short: I learned about the Sierota siblings because of the Bazooka Rocks show (which I failed to see) and because of Brian Dales who says he loves the band (anything the Dales says, I believe). The only depressing thing is that the oldest member is as old as me, and that is fucking twisted. What a way to feel small and irrelevant.


The Royal Concept. Once, I listened to a radio show [which plays indie music] and heard this really fun song “On Our Way” that asked to “pull me close, we’re losing time; pull me close, we’re falling to the ground.” I noted this song and did a little research on the band and looked their songs up on Youtube. I know you know I’d say this, but let me say it anyway: it was the best decision of my life! The album Goldrushed is amazing! And I swear to God, when I heard “Cabin Down Below,” my insides just melted. By 1:43, I turned into a puddle. And even though I don’t dance, the song “Damn” turns me into a druggie on alcohol and ecstasy. I don’t care if they alter the voice and incorporate a lot of sound effects and shit; they are still amazing. They are also funny people (they travel to the studio with a Nimbus 2000), so your argument is invalid.



Royal Teeth. Thank you, American Idol, for introducing me to Royal Teeth. Thank you, Harry Connick Jr., for believing in their talent. Thank you, Youtube, for providing video archives and album streams that made my love for this group become full circle. Thank you, Twitter, for providing the means to communicate with them. Thank you, Royal Teeth, for great music and for the beautiful Nora and for acknowledging my tweets.

I have to give credit to Royal Teeth for introducing me to the world of indie and folk music. It is actually because of them that I got interested with bands with tambourines and skinny members. I survived summer of 2014 running to Glow (and watching tons of foreign movies). I hope they release a new record soon because I need more of them in my life. I hope they visit the Philippines because why the heck not. Royal Teeth, my loves, how long will you take? ‘Cause I’ve been waiting here for you.
Passion Pit. I actually forgot how I learned about Passion Pit. All I know is that Gossamer is giving me aural orgasm. It is so good that even the interlude “Two Veils to Hide My Face” is one of my favorite tracks. The best thing is that my best friend and I share the same love for Passion Pit and the song “Constant Conversation.” It goes without saying that Passion Pit’s music shakes my core. My body and feels are ready for Kindred. I will go see him on his August concert because duh. It’s not my fault I’m happy. (P.S.: Is Passion Pit a band?)


The Colourist. I actually discovered this band through a recommendation. When I visited and liked/followed Echosmith’s Facebook page, The Colourist appeared on the recommendation panel. Out of sheer curiosity and hunger for new music, I checked them out. The first song I heard was “Little Games” which has a cute music video, but my favorite songs from their self-titled album are “Tonight (Young Hearts)” and “We Won’t Go Home.” This is also an awesome band BECAUSE BEAUTIFUL FEMALE DRUMMER – very beautiful that I made her photo my computer’s wallpaper.


Magic Man. Another product of a recommendation panel. The album Before the Waves is incredible. The members also dress nicely. (What.)


Flor. I actually haven’t done an intensive research on this band yet, but so far their music is killing me. The vocalist’s hair is glorious. I have to give all the credit to mega bae Sam Smith for introducing me to Flor. He posted the album on Instagram and I just had to check the artist out because I’m a sucker for epic album artworks. Yes, sometimes we have to judge the music by its cover. The only sad thing in the world right now is that the band doesn’t have a full-length album yet and they should. The Sounds EP only has four songs and sometimes the fans ask for more. Oh well, let’s not lose faith. We’re gonna pull through; we’re gonna let heart hold true.


Paradise Fears. It’s very frustrating that I don’t remember how I stumbled upon Paradise Fears because they are an amazing band and their music changes lives. Paradise Fears is one of the rare bands whose music actually inspires people. The lyrics are on point that you just have to say “Oh, that’s me; oh, that’s right, thank you” and start crying and continue listening to the songs because you’re a fucking masochist. This band deserves so much more credit and the #PREACH award. (P.S.: I probably learned about this band through The Summer Set. I’m not sure.)


Years & Years. This is the group I’ve been listening to and obsessing over lately that I feel very guilty because it seems like I’m betraying The Summer Set. I first heard Years & Years on V Channel, where their song “Desire” was part of a segment Top 5 Indie. I noticed and took note of them because (1) nice voice, (2) nice face, (3) nice song, and (4) nice music video. I was at school when I looked them up on Youtube, and – tada! – Emily Browning’s face welcomed me. That was a good sign. I don’t know how many times in my lifetime I would say this (probably a thousand times more) but it was the best decision of my life! I got so obsessed with their music my thesis partner at that time was almost annoyed. I couldn’t concentrate on what I was doing because I went on full cyberstalker mode and basically took all information gluttonously. I learned what their style is, and that Olly Alexander (vocals) is also an actor. So what in the world did I do? I watched two of his latest movies! I know it’s so mainstream to love the vocalist the best, but Olly is the most adorable creature ever! His personality is off the roof, and he’s so funny, candid and entertaining that one can’t help but scroll through his tweets/Instagram posts and burst into fits of laughter.

I am so all over them these days it’s scary; I’m smothering them with my emotions. My excitement for their debut album is beyond comparison, and I think my soul would depart from my body for ten seconds if/when they decide to do a show in our Narnia country. (P.S.: I’m listening to “Worship” as I write this.)


I didn’t expect for this post to be this long. Ah, the torrent of fangirl feelings. So much feelings. Very feelings. Drowning of feelings. Feelings feelings. Thank you, universe, for amazing music and people who decided to share their talents to us. They are kings; we are mere peasants.

I’ve used so many song references here it’s ridiculous.



This was how the glorious day of 16 January started: I woke up with a very uncooperative stomach.

I woke up way ahead of my alarm to sit on the faux porcelain throne and take care of my junk. I know this is kind of TMI*, but really, this was how my day started.

I went back to bed and tried to catch a few hours of snooze. I was almost successful. By the time I really got into sleeping, I only had an hour left. How fantastic. (Lately I’m having the hardest time sleeping. It’s very frustrating.) Reluctantly turning off the alarm and zombie-walking to the kitchen, I prepared for the day.


This day we planned to see Pope Francis. To be honest, the first time I learned that the Pontifex will be visiting the country, I felt rather ordinary. Yes, I was excited; it was very thoughtful of the Pope to choose the Philippines as one of his pilgrim countries. Being part of our parish’s Media Ministry, my co-members and I were assigned to produce short informative videos about the Pope for the perusal of our parishioners. It was a task that was made complicated by our conflicting schedules, but thank goodness, we were able to produce and release two AVPs. I was assigned in the actual and post-production. (Note: there were only three of us working; it demanded multi-tasking.) Editing the videos, working on them, heightened my excitement for the Papal Visit. It made me realize how important the Pope is not just to us Catholics, but also to other people, regardless of race or belief.

But what really amplified my anticipation to its seams was the actual arrival of the Pope. I opted to watch the coverage of CNN because I wanted to know what non-Filipinos thought of us and our faith. (The CNN correspondent’s pronunciation of “Tacloban” made me smile.) Upon seeing the Pope alighting his chartered Sri Lankan plane, I felt this surge of desire and need to see him in person and witness his Pontifical glory. And so the epic day of 16 January happened.


I was with Mark Inocencio (my co-Media Ministry member) and his best friend, Lucky Chinatown (I don’t know his last name). We first went to the Malacañan Palace. We weren’t able to see the Pope’s motorcade to the palace, so we opted to join others who were hoping to see the Holy Father’s exit. We walked a few miles, and it would’ve been tiring had it not been very fun. All those Catholics in their Papal Visit commemorative shirts, waving little flags saying “Welcome, Pope Francis!”, added excitement, emotion and meaning to our own little pilgrimage. We squeezed ourselves in between spectators to get a good spot. The people in my life would know that putting me in the middle of a crowd is a recipe for disaster. I have something I call “semi-claustrophobia.” (I panic over tight spaces, and once I was even afraid of riding elevators.) I fitted myself in the available space, and tried to control the images in my head that were threatening to make me cry and scurry away like a rat. I don’t like clichés, but you know what? All the short breaths, the humid feeling, the pain from walking and standing, and the jitters, they were all worth it.

Seeing the Pope in person was like an out-of-body experience. I was waving and chanting “Viva! Viva!” while balancing Mark’s Canon. I most definitely looked like a fan fawning over a famous rock star. I was thinking of two things during the encounter: 1) “Oh my goodness, the Pope!” and 2) “No stampede, please. No.” The Pope mobile passed in front of us for, like, two seconds, but the effect of it would last a lifetime. I almost cried; Mark was left speechless; Lucky had goosebumps. I can’t fully describe how it felt like; “amazing” doesn’t even cover it.

After the motorcade, we continued our trudging to Manila Cathedral. Again, we didn’t make it on time for the mass, and we were starving so we opted to roam around and look for food. There were tons of people and tons of souvenir items being peddled. It was amazing. I’m not particularly fond of crowds and muggles in general, but seeing individuals from all walks of life come together to strengthen their faith gave me a new perspective. Everyone was united through God, Jesus, and the Vicar of Christ Pope Francis. He truly is Pontifex Maximus: the nation and the people’s bridge builder.

Faith in humanity restored.


PS: I have an interesting story to tell – I almost died. I had the worst cramps in my life and couldn’t even take a step. I fell down on the ground, on the highway, like my legs suddenly turned into jelly but really excruciating. Mark and Lucky helped me get up and recover my senses. It was a first time experience and I don’t want it to happen again. I was so nervous about it I almost threw up. My companions laughed at me while I recovered. Through the pain I made a self-deprecating joke: I was dancing “Wiggle, Wiggle.” Humor is a quack doctor.

*TMI - too much information.

This blog post is very inconsequential it’s sad. I haven’t been blogging so much these past weeks, and it scares me because I think I’m slowly losing my writing skills. I’m not sure what’s wrong: maybe I’m not inspired to write; maybe I can’t find inspiration around me; maybe I’m not putting much effort in finding inspiration; maybe I’m procrastinating a lot; maybe I just don’t have anything to write about. For many times, I’ve thought of writing about my best friend, about the current state of my education, about my plans in the future, about my indefinite decision to not get married (oh, maybe I will write about that next time). Right now I can maybe write a little bit about everything. This is like that “What’s happening?” box in every social networking sites, only longer.

(P.S.: This will end abruptly, with no closing statement whatsoever. I’m a bad writer like that.)


One: Our thesis is doing good. In our class, my partner and I are the only ones who are progressing and meeting deadlines (*champagne*). We’ve done our survey and interviewed respondents that were either too enthusiastic or too bland. But what’s funny is that, despite the heat and the strain and the constant fear of being mobbed, I enjoyed our little trips to the communities. We’ve encountered diverse sets of people that share stories where we learned a thing or two. Our thesis looks promising, but being the pessimistic and cynical person that I am, I’m both sure and dreading that something bad is bound to happen. I just hope we’d be able to fix things without losing everything, including our minds.

Two: I’m reading too much. In the beginning of the year, I’ve set my reading goal of 25 books. By midsummer, I’ve reached that goal, so I adjusted it to 30. As of press time, my number of read books has reached 72 and I don’t plan on adjusting it again. I look at this number and almost believe that there’s something wrong with me. I read too much. I know there are other people out there who read 300 novels every year, but it still scares me. I’m being an introvert again. Once, my college mates complained about being stuck at home and dying of boredom. And I was, like, “What’s wrong with staying at home? I love being at home. It gives me time to read. I’d stay in my room and read and read, and I’d be surprised that I’ve been reading for five hours straight.” They gave me a “this girl’s crazy” look. I could’ve said “I like being bored” and not make a difference. I just like to read. What’s wrong with that? Anyway, I’m currently reading Gone series by Michael Grant, and you know, the kids in here are kind of insane.

Three: I’ve concluded that I love indie music. (Gosh, I sound like a hippie.) Lately, I’ve discovered great bands that I’m guessing are indie music people. I don’t actually do genres because, to quote Brian Dales of The Summer Set, “great music defies all genre.” But it says “indie pop” or “indie rock” in their Wikipedia pages, so I guess I do genres afterall. I’m getting eargasm right now from The Colourist, The Royal Concept (my neurons catch flames every time I listen to “Cabin Down Below”) and this electrosoul something band, Years And Years. Besides my awesome love for reading, I take pride in the diversity of music I listen to. I feel special every time I discover that people around me aren’t familiar with the music I adore. It’s like, “man, you haven’t lived if you haven’t listened to The 1975.” At the same time, it frustrates me that others aren’t open to different artists or music genres. When you check their playlist, you’d see pop, mainstream songs, and different, ridiculous renditions of “All of Me.” They box themselves in a certain standard. One of the ways to stay creative is to listen to different types of music, and I know they don’t give a fuck about what I say, but it doesn’t hurt to troll around Youtube and discover that “Sweater Weather” isn’t the only song The Neighbourhood has.

Four: I’m still craving for awesome, intelligent conversations that blow my mind. My best friend is very busy with work right now so I couldn’t actually talk nonstop with him. My friend, Aram, is living thousands and thousands of miles away from me and talking on Facebook is stupid. My other friend, Mary Ann, works at night and sleeps when I’m awake, so I can’t burden her with my impending insanity. I just miss these people so much. I’m trying to find other people that I can talk to and learn from, but so far I end up disappointed. They give me weird looks when I ask unusual questions; they stop listening when I get all hot and gesture-y; they laugh at the wrong time; they don’t challenge my reasoning. I don’t crave for conversations and intellectual arguments so I can feel superior; I crave for them because I actually want to lose. I want them to prove that I’m wrong. What would you feel when you tell someone that Hermione Granger should’ve been in Ravenclaw instead of Gryffindor, and he’ll say yes, you’re right, you’re very right, period? (You’d be lucky if they know who Hermione Granger is.) There’s no argument whatsoever. And for the record: Hermione is a true Gryffindor because she’s more than just brains. Sigh. Can we customize our friends’ personalities? Double sigh. I find myself really annoying.

I have news for you: I’m gradually getting over Great Love. It’s both sad and fulfilling. I’ve written many times how I tried to move on from him and how much I failed and fell all over again. But now, maybe, I actually am almost free from the ridiculous binds that connect me to him. I cannot say how I actually did it. Maybe I realized my love for him is not only not reciprocated but also futile, moot, a shot in the dark. Maybe I taught myself not to miss him. Maybe ceasing to stalk him online actually worked. Maybe the binds loosened a bit after many years. Maybe they got severed from too much tugging. Maybe the Fates or Cupid or Aphrodite found me pitiful and cut the binds themselves. Maybe I just stopped trying.

Yeah, I probably just stopped trying... and it led me to not caring so much anymore.

Of course I still internally celebrate with him every time he achieves his dreams. I still get this proud feeling every time he accomplishes something mind blowing. I still smile every time he tries to be witty and fails at it. I’m still a friend. But I’m not that dedicated friend anymore; I’m not that friend with a hidden agenda anymore. I don’t try to win him over anymore. I stopped. Sometimes I don’t even know what’s happening to him. I’d be surprised that he’s in this or that place already. I don’t even check his Facebook timeline. I stopped being creepy. It’s awesome. He probably doesn’t know about it, but I’m sure it should be awesome for him, too.

I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he changes his relationship status and I wouldn’t know about it. Ha: think about it. What if he really changes his status from Single to In A Relationship? What if suddenly he’s not that Forever Alone kid anymore? What if there’s finally a girl whom he’d lay his beautiful eyes on, smile that shiny smile of his to, wrap his arms around? I’m trying to formulate what I’d feel about that. Shocked that it happened without me knowing about it? Bewildered, because how did he manage winning a girl over? Hurt, because deep down I still care about him? I’m not sure, but I hope when that time comes, I’ve gotten over him enough not to feel like it’s a Million Dollar Baby blow to my heart.


Another news: I like someone that, for the first time, isn’t Great Love. With my meager social life, even I am suprised that I’ve managed to meet other people. This isn’t a crush-going-full-on-infatuation yet. I smile when he says hello to me, and I pat myself on the back every time I manage to croak a hello back. Oh my gosh, I hope I’m not being too obvious! Oh my gosh, I sound like a rainbow shit! Look, I have two automatic response when someone I like is within close proximity. Either: (1) I become really animated and talk non-stop, like I’m trying to prove how funny I am; or (2) I clam up, trying to contain all my emotions and ending up looking constipated; it’s a defense mechanism. As much as I’m looking for a diversion, I’m not exerting effort to building up this crush. I don’t want to take it seriously because it’s not even a priority; although I must say the extra giddy feeling doesn’t hurt. (Holy shit, I’m acting like a teenager; the YA novels are ruining me.)

Oh: maybe having a new crush is one of the reasons why I’m not crazy over Great Love anymore. Huh. It must do me good to flirt a bit... which I’m sure I suck miserably at. So maybe not. There’s good news to this though: at least I don’t compare other guys to Great Love anymore. I don’t ask WWGLD (What Would Great Love Do) when I observe or meet other guys. I don’t look at them and see a flicker of Great Love beside them, calculating who’s better in what. I look at others and not see him. You have to consider that as a feat. WWGLD do in this situation? He’d applaud me and we’d make a toast. So where’s the champagne?


As you’ve noticed, I still call him Great Love. I’d probably still call him that after five or ten years. He will always be Great Love... and I hope someday it wouldn’t feel like he’s “the great love that got away and I want to kick myself for it,” but instead “the great love that got away and I have no regrets about it.” I hope when the time comes for my love for him vanishes for good, it would leave in its wake memories I’d cherish instead of cry over, a friendship I’d treasure instead of abhor, a heart that’s whole and beating instead of broken and miserable.


I should stop doing this. The cheese is drowning me.

They say it doesn’t matter if you get good grades or not in school; what’s important is that you learn something. Getting recognition for your stellar academic performance is just a consolation. I wanted to believe this, that it’s fine if I don’t ace every test and not get a star on term papers. But who are we kidding? That’s bullshit. Getting good – if not high – grades is important. It may make or break your future career. When applying for a job, first they check whether or not you came from a prestigious college. If not, they go to your transcript. If both areas are not impressive, more or less they give you that “we will give you a call” shit, a call that will probably never happen.

I don’t go to a “prestigious” school. I’m not embarrassed by it; I chose it anyway. I like my college because of the trees (yes, why). But let’s not be hypocrites here: my college is not that popular. It’s not that kind of private school with a tennis court or a soccer field and a ridiculous tuition fee; it’s not a Catholic university with flipping gorgeous buildings; it’s not a state university with, well, with opinionated student prodigies. It’s not the best there is, but it’s not the worst either. That’s why I have to put an extra amount of effort in my academics. When I apply for a job, I’m not relying on where I come from, but on what I got from where I come from. My transcript and my skills will be my leverage. Yes, this is the reason why I work my ass off every day. Not merely because I want to be superior over everyone else, but because I’m hoping that the grades will be enough for me to land a job. It’s not so hard to understand, is it?


That’s why I am so sad right now. This morning I got my grade slip and flippin’ heavens, my heart dropped to the floor you can hear it shatter like glass. I not only lost my spot in the President’s List, my general average didn’t even make it to the Dean’s List! My emotions were all over my system that it took me everything not to cry on the spot. I couldn’t believe that I was looking at the grades that weren’t much different back on my first semester in that college, back when I didn’t know anybody and I was too shy to show everyone my full knowledge-hungry self. Impressing others didn’t make me feel comfortable back then, but as another semester came, I loosened up and blew everyone’s mind. Now I’m not sure. They say the only way to go is up, my friend, but right now it looks like we can always make a detour.

It’s ridiculous. This shouldn’t make me sad because I still have one more semester as a college student (hopefully we all graduate), thus one more chance to prove that I can dust myself off from the rubble. This shouldn’t be such a big deal, but for me, it is. (Believe me, I want to bludgeon myself for thinking this way.) I could lose my scholarship and make my mother’s burden heavier. This morning, when the school people learned about the downfall of my grades, they gave me this disappointed look and asked me what happened. In my mind I was, like, “well, shit happened.” In the next weeks I will be wrapped up in this dark aura filled with failures and disappointments. When I got home, I prepared my lunch while I cried; I was still crying when I finished eating. My food was salty. It’s like a really bad break up, and it’s bullshit because I don’t even like anyone right now (not even Great Love – don’t ask).

But the worst thing that is happening is losing myself. Others may think that I’m being melodramatic and too uptight, but for such a long time, I only defined myself as that weird, booknerd student with excellent grades. I was always that smart girl; I’m a self-proclaimed Ravenclaw, for goodness’ sake! I may suck at sports; I may not be able to draw a straight line to save my life; I may not have tons of friends that understand my awkward wit, but at least I have an undying passion for knowledge (belch). Most of the time, I feel like people are making fun of me behind my back, because of my awkwardness and inability to interact with fellow earthlings. I feel like they think I’m an alien. I feel out of place all the time. I feel like a moron, but I know in my heart that I am not. Without my glasses, it feels like people regard me as dim-witted. Maybe it’s my face. Or my posture. It pains the fuck out of me. But what makes me move on and hold back my tears is the reality that I’m brewing a nice transcript in school (and that my Goodreads account is very much active). My being smart gives me self-respect. It’s the only thing I can be proud of. It’s me. It’s my trusty adjective. Until today. A major slip and I lost my definition.

Now I don’t know who I am anymore. Now people may think I’m a moron or an alien or someone whose social life is pitiful, and I wouldn’t even feel like correcting them. Because it’s probably true. For two (not consecutive) semesters, I was number one in the school’s Honors List. I was the smartest student – twice! Now I won’t even get a certificate for my brain. I don’t know what’s happening to me. In the last years, I didn’t win any writing award, so I lost my Essayist of the Year self (yes, I legitimately received that distinction back in high school). Today my grades hit rock bottom, so I willl probably lose that Smart Student self, too. Who am I now? The only thing I’m good at are reading, practicing the art of being a fangirl, and not socializing. Does that mean I should take pride in my reading? In my being a band freak? In my being antisocial? Pop the champagne, we’re having a pity party.


I’m not sure what to think of myself and of this unfortunate event right now. Maybe I am being melodramatic. But you have to understand: being a drama queen is the only thing I can afford to be right now.



Right now I will be sharing to you a dream I had involving The Summer Set. I’m doing this because I’m deeply uninspired to write something more relevant, and because the dream was funny and weird and I love it.

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21 September 2014

This morning I dreamed of The Summer Set, but the main character really was Stephen James Gomez, the band’s bad-ass, never-smiling, but gloriously good-looking bassist.

So I was in a mall with my mother, brother and niece Reevien. It was lunchtime so we went inside a small brightly-lit restaurant/cafe. Before I even thought of what to get, I saw Brian Dales (the sassiest vocalist in the world) in the mall. Brian Dales in the mall. In Manila! He was just walking around, and was even wearing the same Uncool sweatshirt I saw him in back in August 29. Apparently he wasn’t thronged by fans. I pointed at him and told Reevien who he was. He saw me pointing and just smiled. He took the escalator. The strange thing was I didn’t even bother running after him to have a photo or something. Hello, that was Brian we’re talking about!

While I was taking my niece and Rihanna’s picture, Stephen Gomez walked by. He was also wearing the same shirt (red stripes) he wore when I saw him in person. They didn’t change clothes, Brian and him. That was the time I fangirled so hard and scrambled to have a photo with him. I stood beside Stephen while my brother took the photo. But suddenly Stephen put his arms around me and hugged me so tight like we were friends. He was definitely very touchy. It was weird but I liked it (duh). After the photo op, I left with him. With him. I discarded my family and walked away with Stephen, going God knows where. We talked about his bandmates and I told him I saw Brian earlier walking with a dog (where did the dog come from though). I also noted that they were both wearing clothes I’ve seen before. He just laughed. Damn, he had the nicest laughing face.

We kept walking until we arrived to a grand staircase that led down to a large area. The area looked like a ballroom. There were three skinny girls roaming around, and Stephen wanted them to leave. Of course he didn’t actually holler at the girls. A guard came and escorted the girls out. Suddenly there was an old woman and she started dancing (can’t remember if there was music), and the guard also danced with her. They looked adorable. I went down a few steps and just watched the dancing duo. They started clapping to the music’s beat, and I did the same. I looked at Stephen. He smiled as he went beside me. He said something about fears which for the life of me I can’t remember. But before he could finish what he was saying, I kissed him. I put my hand on his face and kissed him. Wow, the guts I had.

The strange thing was the kiss didn’t feel special for me. It wasn’t exactly romantic and fireworks-inducing; just a normal, every day kiss lovers give each other. A spur-of-the-moment smooch. He kissed me back anyway so I guess it was okay. We smiled at each other. His smiles were dazzling, like you can hear shiny ding sound effects every time.

The three skinny girls came back. They were talking about John Gomez (the band’s super sexy lead guitarist) and Stephen, and said something about hooking up with them. Gosh, eww. They sounded like typical, ambitious, in-your-face flirts. I rolled my eyes. Stephen took it in stride. I wondered where John was.

After that we found ourselves in a room with a long pool. There was an excessive amount of water and too much artificial waves. I reckoned the band was shooting a music video that involved water. (Kinda cheesy.) I started playing around like I owned the place. I was soaking wet. Stephen looked dapper in his suit, but he wasn’t very dry either. When we both reached the other end of the pool, we challenged each other to a race. Whoever gets to the other end first shall win (duh). But this was the weirdest thing: instead of diving to the water and swimming to the end, we could apparently run. Over water. We could run over water. Like Jesus. And we did just that. We ran over water and we reached the other side at the same time. So I guess we both win. (Such cheeseballs.)

Suddenly my friend (can’t remember her name) and I needed to leave. The band also needed to leave – for good. That meant flying back to LA or Arizona. It was sad. I told my friend to tell my mother that I’d stay till midnight. I wanted more time with Stephen. (So many cheese.) Everyone left. Stephen and I stayed, hugging each other, me wearing pants and a crisp white shirt, him wearing his suit, both of us soaking down to our underwear. (I died of cheese.)

P.S.: While we were walking in the mall, I would like to note that Stephen and I were holding each other. His right arm was around me and my left arm was around his torso. We can safely conclude that we were a couple, or an almost-there couple. He also said something about facial wash that has almonds – real, solid, not-crushed almonds – on it. He said he used it on his face and that I should try it, too. I must have given him a bewildered look (hello, almonds on your face) because he laughed and said, “of course I was just kidding.” What the heck. He had bad jokes but man was he gorgeous.

Here I am again: writing about Great Love, or more like I-wanna-forget-about Great Love. Damn, I am not going anywhere with this. Trust me, I’m doing my hardest to leave him in the past and get over something I never even had. But I just can’t seem to do it. I miss him every day; I think about him all the time. Every time I see something awesome, I’d be like, “I wonder what he’d think of this.” He’s always in the equation. I even didn’t blog for almost two months because all I can think of writing about is him. But now here I am, surrendering to the whims of my heart. Fuck this.

I haven’t talked to him ever since that eventful short meeting that he probably doesn’t remember. I deleted our thread in my phone; I haven’t said a word to him online. Okay, maybe I do leave a comment on his Instagram posts once a month, but that’s how far I got. And it pains me. I’m damn proud of my self-control but it pains me. I’m bursting of things I wanna say to him. I wanna tell him that I am happy for his achievements lately and ask him how his trip to Washington went. I wanna recommend new music to him because that’s what we do. I wanna tell him to see The Maze Runner movie because I know he’ll like it. I am dying to tell him that I saw The Summer Set in person even if my Bazooka Rocks dream went unfulfilled, that the members are all good-looking and that it was one of the awesomest days of my life; I’m sure he’d say that he’s happy for me and we’d go on talking about more bands. I wanna share stories about school and books and music and Japan and everything else that we can geek out over. I want us to have those conversations again, those conversations that take forever to end and that don’t make sense to anyone else but the both of us. I want to have that friendship again, but because of my feelings and my decision, I’m losing that connection to him. He doesn’t and maybe will never know about it. It’s very hard: it’s like trying to forget someone without taking his photo down the wall or the nightstand. It’s like trying to erase someone from your memory when every little thing reminds you of him. We both are losing this friendship formed over innocent love for Harry Potter; the only difference is that I know about it and it hurts, and he’s unaware so he’s spared from the pain. Fuck, I don’t even think he’d care if I just vanish from his life.

That’s it, right? No matter what I do, no matter what I feel, in the end, it’s only me who’d be affected. I’d be the only one who’d feel the pain. He doesn’t care. It’s all one sided. It’s so screwed up. I don’t think he cares about me at all; I can’t feel it. I’m giving him the semi-silent treatment with the hope that he’d miss me. Well, fuck that plan. All the signs are pointing to this: we are just friends.

I know it’s shallow and I don’t have the right, but sometimes I just want him to notice me first, to make the move first. I haven’t told him about The Summer Set because I want him to discover about it. I posted tons of photos online and I basically can’t stop raving about them, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I want him to know about my lucky day and ask me how it went. But so far, nothing at all. It’s a blow to my heart. I want him to know about it because he has become part of it in a way. But maybe he’s busy; he has more things to worry about and other people to talk to, people who occupy more space in his life. Huh, maybe I’m just a speck of dust in his life, a speck he wouldn’t even see if he wouldn’t bother looking. I’m vying for his attention as if I have the right; I’m jealous of others as if I’m someone special; I’m asking for a little amount of his time as if I’m a beggar and he hogs the food. And it’s not his fault if he’s stronger and has bigger hands [to carry all the food] (what is this metaphor).

Loving him is painful, I must admit. Having feelings for someone who wouldn’t reciprocate it is a recipe for disaster. Any sane and rational person would forget and move on, but the problem is I can’t forget and move on. Maybe that means I’m insane and irrational. My love for him is so big that I can’t take it; it’s so big it makes my heart ache; it’s so big it tears me apart. I cannot unlove him to save my life. What should I do? Meet other guys? Replacing him with someone new seems like a good idea, but the problem is I’m not even interested. I don’t think some other guy, this time, can dig deep enough to take his place in my heart (and trust me, Great Love’s hole is as deep as a well). I’m not ready to forget him yet because I don’t want to. Maybe someday; I’m sure someday I’d wake up without feeling like someone’s punching my heart, without missing him and thinking about him every single minute. Gosh, these feelings will be the death of me.

I still love him. A lot. It’s weird because I’m still young, and now I’m talking like I jumped out of a sad Nicholas Sparks romance.

On the 15th day of August, I was struck by a depressing feeling, and so I wrote about it in my ratty notebook. I am sharing excerpts from what I wrote so I won’t forget and so that you’d think I’m a lunatic.

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I like taking care of others, but sometimes I just want to be the one taken care of. I just want people to see me and not think that they can use me for something that would benefit them. I want them to see me and realize that I need something; that I am broken and fragile despite my tough exterior; that I am not always strong; that I need fixing, too; that most of the time I fall and I need them to catch me; that I just need a hug and someone sensible to talk to.

Once – okay, most of the time – I think I’m depressed, but I’ve read several stories about psychological problems and I realized my reasons are too shallow to lead to depression. Maybe sad is more appropriate. I am sad, so fucking sad.

I have it in my head that when we’re born, God writes things down on our hearts. See, on some people’s hearts he writes happy and on some people’s hearts he writes sad and on some people’s hearts he writes crazy and on some people’s hearts he writes genius and on some people’s hearts he writes angry and on some people’s hearts he writes winner and on some people’s hearts he writes loser.

Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Last Night I Sang to the Monster

God wrote sad and weird and complicated and broken on my heart. My life is a routine. I am boring. I always play that 2048 tile game like my life depends on it. I always sleep. I always plug my earphones on and listen to music just so the sad thoughts would stop until the songs end. When I listen to music, I don’t think of anything else except for the song itself or the artist or imagining myself singing in such an epic way that others’ brains would explode. So I guess God also wrote ambitious on my heart.

I am probably not depressed. I don’t think of suicide or cutting or dying. I still want to live and go to Greece and write a book and direct Kristen Stewart. Maybe I just want to be lost... and eventually be found for all the right reasons.

It’s weird: I think I’m sad but I can’t find the right happiness. I keep on searching for the happiness that will gradually eradicate the sadness in my heart, but I can't seem to find it. The happiness is always temporary, like trying to catch water in your hands: you thought you have it now, but then you blink and it’s gone. The happiness is also undependable and flimsy, like holding on to cobwebs: it’s not strong enough to keep you going or to hold you up.

I cannot find a permanent happiness. I am trying to find it in God and faith – I am getting there. I am trying to find it in other people – most of the time, they fail me in the end. I have another realization, and it’s sad because it’s true: I realized that maybe I keep holding on to Great Love because he gives me euphoria, even if it’s temporary. When I’m sad, I think about him and I smile, and then I’d end up crying because what I think every time I close my eyes is impossible to happen. I am taking Great Love for granted, and that is just so screwed up. I find happiness in books, but I don’t think imagining you’re friends with Luna Lovegood or Jay Gatsby is healthy. I want to be not sad anymore. I want someone who would care.

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I read this and I have another realization (I have tons of realizations lately): finding happiness won’t be successful if I always have standards. And happiness cannot be found if my heart isn’t open to pain. I’m not saying I’m not sad anymore, but I guess being eternally happy requires lots and lots of patience, suffering, disappointments and tears. And it’s up to us if we’re willing to go through all that.

26 August 2014, Tuesday


My best friend and I had a short date this afternoon before I headed to the media ministry meeting. We ate breads with fruits and nuts and glaze like we were super fabulous people. We talked about his stressful life when he had a job and his depressing life now that he’s unemployed; my complicated feelings for Great Love and my so-called “heartache”; Flowers In The Attic and the ridiculous life of the Dresden dolls.

In the public transportation, we talked about the most uncomfortable thing people can talk about around strangers: pornography. I realized that we must have sounded like sex maniacs and juveniles. We came to the pornography subject when Zandro said that if I went into making films and not succeed in that area, I would be so broke that I’d resort to directing porns for the adventurous couples. And I said, “at least there’s money in porn.” I further added that making sexy films is actually hard because directors need to show something that is classy but still erotic. Yes, we used those words, and we were the only ones talking that time. We really threw in that awkward cloud.


28 August 2014, Thursday

This night I saw Echosmith perform live at the Venice Piazza, McKinley Hill. They were awesome! Some artists sound awful live, but Echosmith did and does not. Plus, the Sierota siblings have really nice genes. They are all attractive, and Sydney is just a bottle of cuteness and beauty. I want to have her hair and underarms. Yes, I just said underarms.


29 August 2014, Friday

Tonight was one of the best nights of my life. Hold on to your seats: I saw my favorite band and baes in the world, The Summer Set! In their fucking glorious flesh! I went online when I got home from my hosting gig (meh) for a school program, and would you look at that: there’s a fan party with the bands of Bazooka Rocks Festival 3! My brain basically went nuts and I rushed to the venue eventhough I wasn’t sure how to get there. I sat in the bus with nerves all over me, and when I got to my stop, my legs went jelly. I was so excited I almost cried.

I came late, though (even TSS was late). Meet and greet stubs were only available to the first fifty persons, and I basically was, like, 148th. That was sad. But I just needed to see the band. And damn dog, I did! And very, very up close! (I also saw We Are The In Crowd and Echosmith again.)

Points:

• Brian Dales’ facial hair gave me weird feelings.
• Brian’s uncool shirt was much cool, like I wanna rip it off his back and take it home... or take HIM home.
• Brian doesn’t smile a lot, and the way he walks is so cocky, like he’s lord or the president or something. BUT DAMN HE IS GORGEOUS.
• Brian is very eloquent.
• Jess Bowen was the fan favorite, hands down. She’s half-Filipina, gay and beautiful. She is basically the epitome of awesome.
• Josh Montgomery’s thinking-look is so cute. I wanna cradle him and sing to him till he falls asleep.
• Josh also has really striking features; it made my ovaries do crazy shit.
• Stephen Gomez is as adorable as ever. He didn’t talk a lot during the Q&A, but OMG I WANNA RUB HIS FACE ON MY FACE. And he has nice tattoos.
• John Gomez loves everyone basically. I love that he wears Half Moon Kids merch and that he’s so friendly.
• John talks animatedly.
• I had a millisecond moment when I was literally a hair away from John. Darn it he has the perfect face.
• I saw the guys from WATIC up close by the rest rooms. What is awkward.
• Echosmith has really nice genes.
• Jamie Sierota is like Echosmith’s version of Stephen Gomez.
• Noah Sierota looks weird in pictures but he’s actually good-looking. And his hair is heavenly.
• Graham Sierota is adorable. He would like to marry a model with brown hair.
• Sydney Sierota is perfect.
• When the siblings said “boom panes” and Sydney said “awtsu,” man I swear I died of cute.

This experience was awesome. I already accepted my fate of not being able to go to BRF3, and as consolation for my broken heart, I only wished to see my favorite band in person. And it happened. I am so happy. But I am not giving up on the hope that I would see The Summer Set perform live again (I first saw them in 2012 but I didn’t even know who they were, so I wasn’t that engaged and interested.)


30 August 2014, Saturday


As a pre-birthday celebration, I met Diane today. It’s been a long time since we last saw each other, and nothing much has changed except she’s now unemployed and I’m still a student. I hope she gets hired anytime soon and be able to wear the clothes we bought to office. I missed my parabatai, and I really hope we’d meet again and attend this year’s Candy Fair because we both need some partying and beautiful faces in our lives.


PS: This entry’s title isn’t even appropriate.

11 July 2014, Friday

Great Love,

Hi, Great Love. I met you today, my Great Love. I’m not sure what to think about our short meeting. It makes me happy, and it makes me sad. I think about that barely ten minutes of seating beside each other, and I remember this metaphor I've read in a 1980’s book series. The metaphor is about a coin – a coin which shines but, once looked upon closely, also has rust. It’s like being optimistic but still skeptical; looking at the minor details instead of the whole picture; being dauntless yet still cautious. That’s what it felt like. I want to be euphoric about about our meeting and our conversation and your eyes and the sound of your laughter, but I can’t. I can’t stop myself from looking for the rust... and damn dog, I found a lot! I found a lot that they stained my fingers.


But let’s see. I will try to tell you the shiny parts first. What I like about our meeting is the mere idea of us meeting. Finally, after two long years, I get to bear witness to your eyes again, to your radiant smile again, to all the little things I love about you. I like that you waved and waved at me while the escalator took you up. I like that you texted me where the escalator was taking you to. I like that you half-ran to come sit next to me; you looked so cute and weird with your nice bag and regulation uniform. I like that you offered your hand for a shake (always so formal, my Great Love), in which my awkward hormones kicked in and I just touced it lightly. (You have to understand: my palms were sweaty, and it wasn’t because of the building's poor ventilation.) I like that your hand was soft, like a girl’s.

I like that you asked me about Bazooka Rocks, hitting our comfort zone spot on. I love the sound of your laughter. I love the sound of your voice; you sounded so demure and soft, and it made me question why the heck mine sounded like a pitchy, whinny brat’s. I love that you always smiled. I love that you thought I was funny and that you didn’t comment whenever I got the wrong punch lines. I love your eyes; they take me to new places. I am very much in love with your face; I love that you’re so good-looking it makes my heart cry. I love that you just smiled when you caught me staring at you like a stupid, lovesick slug. I love and am thankful that you let me stare at you for a few seconds. I like your gentle manners. I like that you share stories and details with me even though I didn’t ask for it. I love that you called me how you call me in our messages. We have personal nicknames, for heaven’s sake! I love everything about you. I’m even in love with you, you know. But just like the skeptic and cautious person that I am, all the beautiful things just pushed me to go looking for the rust. (Hooray.)


The things I love about you were proven to me in our short, sweet meeting. But the weird thing was, even though my feels were all over the place while I was waiting for you, the moment I laid my eyes on you the feels didn’t spill all over me. The feelings were there, but with your presence, they should’ve multiplied. They didn’t. The feels didn’t overwhelm me, my Great Love. Why? I’m guessing it was because I’ve been communicating with you constantly and our texts brought us to another level of friendship, so actually seeing you in person wasn’t a big deal anymore. Of course, I was ecstatic (everything about you makes me ecstatic), but it didn’t feel very epic for me. I was actually surprised that I didn’t go freakshow on you when we were talking. I was both sad and relieved.

I hate that it didn’t feel so special for me, that it felt as if any other meeting with a platonic friend, not someone who I’ve been yearning for for two years. I hate that we were only given a short amount of time and I didn’t make the most out of it. I hate that we didn’t have a steady flow of conversation, and the things we did talk about were so shallow even ants wouldn't drown. I realized that you and I, despite our nicknames and secret jokes, will never be that kind of friends who talk about weird, important and philosophical matters. (I know you’re a conversationalist and I know I’m a very opinionated person, so what happened?) I hate our dead air moments. I hate myself for not preventing those dead air moments. I hate that when we talked, we didn’t always keep eye contact. I didn’t like that your keep looking at your phone and that I always averted my eyes. You look at your phone while I stare into nothingness. Huh. That’s a great way to start a conversation. I didn’t like that we talked about other people instead of something that interest us both. I washed my hair thoroughly this morning and used a generous amount of conditioner, and yet you probably didn’t notice or smell it because we didn’t hug. Why didn’t we hug, my Great Love, why? It was probably my fault. You looked like you were ready for a hug, but I didn’t stand up and take you in my arms because I didn’t trust myself to make the best move. I regret that I didn’t hug you, so much that I can still feel the wretchedness.

When you left for your class, I sighed the deepest sigh. I leaned my head on the couch like what they do in movies after surviving something intense or after hearing bad news. I wasn’t sure which my sigh was for. I sighed relief, tension, regrets, yearning, all the feelings that were boiling all over my system. I sighed my decision. I sighed to resignation: I resigned to what I’ve been stupidly holding and keeping for a long time.

It was probably the last time we’ll ever see each other again... and there, my love, you took my damn heart away with you. Fuck you. I love you.


Maybe I’m making a wrong decision. Maybe tomorrow I will take it back and resume to my usual yearning for you. But I guess I’m letting you go. I just needed to see you to confirm my emotions, to seal the deal, to kiss your shadow goodbye. I am letting you go, even though you’re not aware of my claiming of you. It’s weird: you were never mine but here I am, letting you go, as if that counted for something. But it’s for my sake, and maybe yours, too. Because if I don’t and continue loving you like a sick puppy, I will succumb to the sadness and the lack of your presence, and someday you would find me annoying. I find myself annoying already.

I am letting you go. I still love you, of course. I love you with all my heart. It will be impossible to unlove you, but I’ll try my best to not love you more. Meeting you just proved to me that we’re not compatible, that we’re not for each other, that we live in different worlds. Some cliches for you: 1) there will never be an us, and 2) it’s not you, it’s not me; it’s the both of us. (I can’t understand what I just wrote.)

Whatever happens, you’re still the best crush I’ve ever had. You’re the best guy I fell in love with, and it’s entirely sad because you didn’t like me even a little. You are and will always be the great love my young self had – the first real love, the first lovesickness, the first heartbreak. I love you; you aren’t aware, but you broke my heart anyway. And it’s not your fault. I understand. I completely understand.

So I guess I’d have to call you “Once Great Love” or “Ex Great Love” now?


P.S.: I’ve deleted the thread I saved on my phone of around 230 combined text messages we’ve sent each other in the last fourteen months. I’m moving on. It sucks and it’s painful and I want to kick myself, but I’m moving on. Good bye, my love.

For the first time in my life, I got wasted. I got so wasted all my memories from the night were hazy.

For the record: I’m not alcoholic. I drink occasionally. I don’t drink every night or whenever I have a problem. I drink lightly and maybe get tipsy. But that’s just how far I go – tipsiness. But this last weekend, I seem to have bended my rules and forgotten what prudence is and all hell broke loose.

For the record, again: I didn’t lose my virginity or made out with someone or did something I would regret and would scar me forever. What I realized from this wasted episode was that I am the best well-functioning drunk ever. I was perfectly capable of handling myself. Maybe I wasn’t totally wasted. Maybe I was just hovering in between. But for the life of me, I have no idea what it feels like to be totally wasted. So I’m guessing not remembering things in the morning is considered part of it. I got drunk. I got wasted. And it feels so fucking great.


I know he wouldn’t like me broadcasting what happened, but it was actually my best friend who got very, very much wasted. He got too drunk he threw up and passed out. From what I’ve accumulated from the witnesses, the puking episode was scary and funny and very epic. I swear I can’t remember anything from that point on. The bits I can get were that of my best friend being carried off and myself wiping him clean while he was half naked. The taking-care-of-best-friend part was the reason why I think I’m the “best well-functioning drunk ever”. I can’t recall everything, but from what others have told me, I basically transformed into a mother dotting on a very messed up son. I cleaned him up; scolded him even though he’s unconscious; got rid of what came out his mouth when under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dare do such thing (I can’t remember the smell or even the disgust I must have felt – and for that I am eternally grateful); and washed the dirty clothes clean. The most amazing thing was that, despite feeling like my body was flying off somewhere, I still was able to remember what proper hygiene was. I woke up the next morning with a funny taste in my mouth, a funny taste that will only be relieved by a good tooth brushing. But I couldn’t find my toothbrush to save my life. I was so upset that I left it at home or lost it somewhere. It was sad that I’d spend the whole day with tartar and a bad breath. I went back to where we slept and there I found what I was looking for! And it was wet! So that meant I was able to brush my teeth last night. Can you believe that?! I didn’t forget to brush my teeth! I don’t have memories of me brushing my teeth, but that must be a feat considering I was probably dizzy and tired from all the commotion. I am so proud of myself.

When I heard all of these the next morning, I came into the conclusion that I was more or less possessed during my best friend’s puking scene. Maybe that’s why I can’t recall any memory or sensation. The only bit I can get was me finally lying down and letting sleep take over. It’s so awesome. Most of the time, when I go to sleep really tired, I’m having a hard time settling down; my brain just wouldn’t calm its horses. But that night, man, I can remember the moment my head hit the pillow, I automatically passed out. Yes, I was probably possessed.


It was a very epic experience. It was the first time I got really drunk and I didn’t cry or throw tantrums or make a scene. I learned that when I’m drunk, I become really opinionated and involve myself in heated arguments. I say whatever pops out off my head unfiltered. And I would say, “Is this a dream? It feels like I’m in a dream.” I felt so detached from the world, like I wasn’t a person anymore but one of the many stars that night, watching everything from above (okay, okay, this has got to be the shittiest thing I’ve ever written). From what I’ve heard, I was still able to play the 2048 Tile game on someone’s phone. And my drunk-debate buddy, Jerome, said “I’m smarter than you when drunk! You’re so stupid when drunk!” when I couldn’t get past a 2Fuse level. I would say I’m a much better drunk than others. I am so damn proud of myself for that. It’s weird. I don’t remember every single thing, but I love this memory.

You know what I also learned? Hangover’s a bitch. (I swear someone was bludgeoning my head nonstop.) And you know what, again? I was probably the first person to get up the next day. Sometimes I just can’t understand myself.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409

∞ Loser
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∞ Graduation Speech
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∞ Just Stuff, Maybe
∞ Hopes and Great Love



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