Jun 30, 2009 4
Paradise bombings
BIG NIGHT (Jordan Herrera, Jaycee Parker)
“Punta kang Big Night namin ha.”
Jun 26, 2009 9
Coffee and shitheads
I’m stuck in a coffee shop with brats laughing their mouths off like they own the goddamn place. What’s more: when they laugh, they lean backwards to the point that it shakes our goddamn table. They’re just really loud that they totally destroy the supposed-to-be atmosphere of a coffee shop. I think they’re rude, especially the loudmouthed girl and all. Like Lindsay Lohan on coffee and coke, twice the bulk, yet just as uncivilized.
These guys are so insensitive. You get a coffee to relax. But with these kind of guys in a coffee shop sitting near you, it’s stressful. I really mean it.
Anyway, it’s June and I’m busy. I’m jogging lately. I’ll probably hit the gym–as what Mom advised me to do, which was also rude beyond measure (but I think she just gives a damn with me, being the Pilates expert and all)–but that I’ll do that sometime in the future. Not today, no.
I’ve junked everything from movie-watching to book-reading. I’m halfway with a Norman Mailer book entitled An American Dream, and though the book’s just promising enough, I still can’t buy a time for it.
I don’t have any love life right now (but a prospect which leaves me giggling and smiling for a night) and I’m quite inactive with my organization.
I’ll probably leave this blog for a few more days until I find my urge to write.
Jun 22, 2009 5
Phased-out prototypes
An uncle once told me, probably out of shock for five, six long interminable years of longing, with the familial head-to-toe scan, that it took him a while to remember that it was me–not Dad–who’s visiting to review his eldest (my cousin) for the UPCAT.
“Man, you’re just like your Dad. You look exactly–and I mean exactly–like your Dad thirty-five years ago!” I winced out of embarrassment for my uncle and Dad had a massive dispute two years ago, and that meant that if he were to have a gun right now he’d pick a revolver and lock it under my jaw.
It was funny that ever since I was born, I consider stray remarks regarding my resemblance to Dad an insult. A very personal insult. “No, I look like Mom! Right, Mom? I look like you!” Mom would nod and smile, and her dimples would show, and goddamnit I didn’t have her dimples.
In this blog I’ve been very careful not to disclose anything about Dad, though a couple of mentions can be searched but anything close to personal can be considered vague, if not pointless. Backed up with reasons, my mind tells me I should leave Dad. Nest in my dorm, probably work at the coffee shop–the typical teenage runaway scenes where the protagonist embarks on a bus, smokes non-stop, chit-chats some random seatmate, just like old Holden. Catcher in the Rye.
