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IT WAS NEVER my intention to say it, but I uttered it out of nowhere like some paranormal, sinister spirit corrupted myself. My entire body was shaking, profusely sweating, eyes dilating, and then I was shouting Ben! Ben! Oh, Ben! in this spontaneous, sexually-driven way and the mattress was croaking from the intensity with its bare metal-to-metal scratching like live springs orchestrated by making love.

It was almost eleven in the morning and my boyfriend and I did it again for the fifth time, non-stop, after drinking shots of left-over vodka from last night’s birthday celebration. He passed the Nursing Licensure Exam and of course, the entire clan left their bank accounts in a state of destitution and the sum of it was used to launch some grand congratulatory bash for him as if he was debutante. Only did the guests wear comfortable clothes instead of itchy gowns and suits, and all of us (most of the visitors are common friends) had fun with three vodka bottles given by his fifty-something uncle who has this phony-looking silver beard and a month of stubble. If there’s someone who’s really happy with the results, it’s his phony cardiologist-uncle and his varnished wooden cane. I could almost think of him jumping secretly in his bathroom the way old people do after knowing the results, as if it was something miraculous. I have to admit the news was something unexpected since he was never serious about Nursing. Of course he’s no douche bag who chases after drunk tattooed men at around midnight. He’s pretty decent, not really spiffy-looking but moderately okay for me.

The celebration had to end at 11 pm after someone puked spaghetti all over the dining table. The rest of our friends, including archbitch Jinky who once was my boyfriend’s ex (and probably the lamest of all the girlfriends he tucked in bed), reacted with all the known puking sounds known to man. The next thing that I could remember, the transparent glass table became a wretched field of belched spaghetti and spewed intestinal colors of reddish white and foams of saliva and the gastric smell of an overloaded celebration and the stench of vodka. I can’t imagine how their maid cleaned it up but it has to be the worst part of her job.

Then we did it at the bathroom. It wasn’t really spacious there but we did the kissing soon after we smoked the cigarette sticks left on his shelf - he rarely smokes, by the way - and after we brushed our teeth and bathe ourselves with water and the hot kissing. We were very much of a hygienic couple, believe it or not, but at desperate times we just forget about the germs and all and just do it. It’s part of the thrill anyway. But with the puking scenes we have seen downstairs at the dining table and the pool of spit and spew, I don’t think we can stomach it. Maybe we secretly wished to brush our teeth.

It was really tiring doing it but the clitoral bouts of hunger and my indefinite sexual desire which I got ever since fourth grade, after one of my elder playmates and I did it, was something impossible to miss. It’s something elusive, something that’s very much ephemeral that I can’t help but grasp it and do it with the fear of not experiencing it ever again. I don’t know why I think of sex as if it wouldn’t happen ever again; not that it’s in my genes or that I look fugly enough not to get my own dose of carnal satisfaction, but it’s something that troubles me a lot. My boyfriend once commented on how abnormally gigantic my sexual appetite was, but I just can’t help it. Everything else seemed quite obvious that I’m a nymphomaniac, or at least to him, but I can’t seem to open up the topic to him. He’s oftentimes touchy, so I have to confess this to him at the right time, the right day, the right occasion. Heck, why do I even have to confess it to him: he should know that quite a lot since he’s a freaking nurse.

In High School I was nothing but a girl with a meek disposition, mainly because I don’t really blend myself a lot with my classmates except for a few who had had the same experience, the same penetration, the same virginal rupture. But no, I don’t talk about it and they don’t really need to know. I just study a bit the way normal students do. I’m not really that kind of exceptional, though I once was elected as the president of the Dance Club - the god-awful Dance Club and their interpretative folk dances. Anyway. I’ve only had two sexual partners in High School and we would always do that either at the school’s bathroom or at their respective houses: one’s a complete pervert and his untrimmed nails (and don’t even wonder where he’s using those nails, it’s horrible) and another one’s a once-inexperienced shy-type of a guy who’s a real chess grandmaster. If I were to rate them from one to ten in terms of their sexual performances, the grandmaster would have all the tens in the world. In comparison to that one-of-a-kind pervert who’s really sick and demented and the missionary he was doing for the love of the world, the grandmaster simply is a grandmaster. He’s too much of an experimental guy - maybe out of applying Queen’s Gambit or Pirc Defense in sex - who would really dare himself to try anything just to satisfy his partner, like the sex should be mutual (and it should be), and it was - excuse me for the term - fucking great. That’s why I make it to a point of finding a chess grandmaster at my age, just so to conclude that those geeks play really good in bed.

I admit, I committed a lot of lies with my current relationship but that’s just because my boyfriend wouldn’t grant me the sex I was craving for. I think it’s reasonable, though, to seduce someone else by phone and make him come over your house and do it until death. Okay, I’ve had some steamy nights with some guy - my ex-boyfriend, actually - and the latest was like, three days ago. I can’t seem to put it in words: I don’t really love him, but I just really crave for the idea of him thrusting and I can see the bulging nerves on his slender biceps and his abs and all. It feels great. Every time I think of the scene, I’m half-wishing my boyfriend to be dead by now.

Then I was probably having a hang-over or something but I got sort-of delirious while my boyfriend and I were doing it for the fifth time. I was probably hallucinating over the vodka or maybe my consciousness was fading. He was boringly on top of me as usual and I just shouted Ben! Ben! Oh Ben, fuck me hard! for like ten times in this hushed, voodoo-ish manner like I’m some witch cursing my boyfriend. I really did. I really told myself to just behave while saying it since his parents are sleeping downstairs on the master’s bedroom and we were tugging ourselves, though I’m quite sure his drunkard Dad wouldn’t even give a damn about it.

Shoot, my boyfriend wasn’t Ben.

I know it’s pretty lousy to reason out that I shouted the wrong name.

I was laughing in my most boisterous when those doctors were trying to revive Superman. They’ve used needles but it bent, defibrillators but it exploded. It was an ironic situation - imagine the Superman lying at a hospital bed, weak and powerless. Don’t they have anti-kryptonite oral supplements? Tablets, perhaps?

And then I thought of how much gel the production spent for Superman. The curl itself seemed petrified with all the pomade and the gel. It’s probably a thousand dollars and yet it wasn’t even waterproof (remember the scene where Superman was stabbed with a sharpened raw kryptonite: his entire body was wet and his bangs were a complete failure). Really, it goes to show that even the Superman also gets his own spoonful of a bad hair day.

While watching, my nephew asked why Superman wasn’t visiting the Philippines, or rather, why was The Philippines not included in the film (he meant why Superman wasn’t doing his heroic deeds here in our country). Well, for one, he’d probably lose all his powers flying here and there saving every villager from those MILF rebels or capture every corrupt politician or even prevent rape from happening. It’s virtually impossible and even with superhuman powers, he can’t just augment the madness that’s going on here. And besides, I told him, I don’t have his cellphone number or his e-mail add. Why bother?

_{I never thought it was shown two years ago. I thought it was one of the latest. Darn it.}

I was able to watch Superman Returns last Saturday, 9 PM (Manila time) on HBO, and that’s after sacrificing my cravings to play DoTA with the entire teenage population of the subdivision. It was a crucial moment for me, really. My friends felt ignored just because of some popular movie.

My Dad knew me very well in terms of my preferences with movies and he was intently wondering on why I got myself watching a comic-based movie (no derogatory intentions). Okay, I liked the Spiderman series but that’s just that. I enjoyed it as leisurely as how a typical audience would react without any bias or fanaticism over Spiderman. That being said, I also liked Superman Returns (without even watching the prequel, dammit). Yes, the superhero concept was far from the natural and the reality but eventually, as you dig the movie deeper, you’ll get to see that even this concept has its own flaw/s. Superman’s weakness had to be kryptonite.

So no matter how powerful, how immortal a superhero can be, they still have their soft spots.

Wait, what am I talking about again?

I suddenly hated Lex Luthor all the more. He was the greediest antagonist I have ever seen, far more greedy than that of Dr. Octavius (if I am not mistaken) of Spiderman. Even far more greedy than Emperor Gross of Blue Blink. LOL.

But I once watched Smallville when I was young. I did. *sings somebody saaaaaaave me*

“…the transformation of a teenager to a beautiful, charming lady [ready to be devirginized, legal and eighteen enough to control her alcoholic and shopping sprees].”

It sounds awful but it’s the usual regal statements delivered by debutantes to their guests through their letters lined with gold and sequins and the whatnots, except the bracketed lines. Since most of my batchmates way back High School are celebrating their eighteenth birthday this year, I shall be invited. That’s aside from the fact that I’m so fucking popular back then, LOL. No, I’m just kidding. I’m regularly assigned by the faculty as an emcee or as a Bible reader during…

Anyways, someone would be having her transformation rites this coming September and she was inviting me to be a part of her ugly-duckling-turned-beautiful-swan event (I have to admit, she’s unbelievably beautiful in every sense of the word). We were phone pals way back Grade 6 and we used to talk about his scandalous brother and our household and her crush, Dale, and my Dad and my underwear’s color and everything under the sun, and I never thought those days would give me a one-way ticket to some glorious debut.

Not that I’m making a big deal out of her debut, but we weren’t that close in High School. She used to dance a lot with all those gemmed headdresses and I used to sing at the choir (what a loser - I know, but we used to sing at Hyatt so beat that!) so our social circles don’t match that much except for a handful of common friends. We’re distant friends, that’s all. We’re friends, yes, and we’re the kind of friends who would just talk to each other when everyone else would be leaving the campus to go home - and we would have terrible bouts of loneliness sitting opposite to each other at the amphitheatre waiting for our never-punctual service rides.

Oh well, the thing is I haven’t replied to her text message since yesterday since I’m not in the mood to text anybody. I forced myself to finish Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and played around five to six rounds of DoTA and my eyes almost gouged out from its sockets.

With Twitter, even if its GUI is just nothing but primitive, it’s still okay for losers like me.

And then I miss my chatmates at Yahoo! Messenger. Especially my blogger friends, my Mom and my sisters, Internet friends and everyone in between. I also miss my Deviantart account and my Flickr account as well, though my DA’s the one who suffered a lot since I swore to myself not to update it that much. (My Friendster account’s bullshit. I don’t even give a damn about it for no valid reason or whatsoever.)

I don’t know why but I keep on switching themes since I can’t find a neat and masculine two-column Wordpress theme. Argh. This theme requires you a 593×225 and a 293×150 photo for each post, and the fact that I post blogposts almost daily - that’s just a grueling task for me. I can’t just dig my folders to find a suitable picture for my posts!

Though I think it’s worth it since it completes the look of the entire blog. It adds color and gives life to it.

When you don’t know what you want to do in your life, you’ll end up living with a lot of things you hate.

Ah, I have to watch Superman Returns around 9.

I think I’m buying their CD next week. Oh wait, I’ll buy Paramita’s new album first!

By the way, this has to be my first time to insert a Youtube video in any of my blog posts - ever.

What’s with the primary colors nowadays? I’ve seen ten people yesterday wearing red hoodies, yellow leggings (is it called leggings or stockings?) and blue skirts. It looked neat, yes, and I have nothing against the use of those colors but it’s becoming more of an icon/stereotype than a fashion statement or preference. Like you really have to force yourself to wear those colors just to get the attention. Great.

And yes, the video exhibited that kind of fashion. What’s up, Penshoppe and their big, big billboards?

YOU’RE PROBABLY WONDERING why I was using a Kubrick theme for my Wordpress rather than the stylish-looking The Unstandard by Derek Punsalan, well… let’s just say I’m lacking the time to crop photos and upload them on Flickr. I’m not really running out of photos (though I’m running out of good photos - I’m such a pretentious amateur-sounding photographer but yes, I don’t have any photos to share as of the moment).

I’m really bored. I’m still reading Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and my camera’s manual. Believe it or not, it’s only today that I’ve learned how to use its Image Stabilizer capability. I hate reading instructions and manuals and I’m terribly sorry if it sounded so dumb but it just gets on my nerves. I’ve been using the camera for four months and it’s only TODAY that I’ve enabled its Image Stabilizer. HOW STUPID.

And another stupid thing: Dad sliced frankfurters and simmered it for our Menudo instead of the usual chorizos. Depressing. Frankfurters are for sauerkrauts and hotdog buns, not for menudo. Geez.

• Green Leafy Vegetable
• Rise over run
• Tomboy with No Hint of Girl
• Meet me in Outer Space
• Cram before the Exam
• Keep away from High Voltage

There’s something cool about random phrases. That “Green Leafy Vegetable” was once mentioned by Winnie Cordero on some radio station. “Rise over run” means the slope of the line (or its equation or whatever): talk about Math. We also heard the phrase “Tomboy with No Hint of Girl” when Michi was watching some make-over-related show on TV. “Meet me in Outer Space” was my idea; it was the first phrase of the song ‘Stellar’ by Incubus. “Cram before the Exam” and “Keep Away from High Voltage” were - of course - famous slogans.

Oh yes, I’m having a band for the first time in years.

It’s about living life as if it’s your last. Sure, I may sound naive but that’s how I look at it. I know it’s horrifyingly bitter to think about living a life and knowing that in such an unknowable time we are to die, that the curtain will fall on some time unannounced, but in my belief, it’s bound to happen. It’s one of my well-guarded yet-unproclaimed philosophies in life and I’m slowly learning to chew that fact.

But of course I rarely think about my death. Rarely, like once in three years. I wouldn’t like to figure out something that’s predestined since my efforts would surely be futile, even if I confer to some death calculator on the Internet (c’mon, it’s nonsense). It’s just a spoiler, really; it would spoil everything the way spoilers ruin our mood to watch a certain blockbuster movie. It would murder all the suspense, the uncertainties, the surprises and the thrills: acquiring certain knowledge that in one way spoils something will oftentimes prove itself to be unhealthy. The suspense gets rid of all the onerous preparations of dying, and oftentimes it has its numerous advantages (like writing last will and testaments, settling bank accounts, the works) but it still has one basic disadvantage: knowing when or what it is to happen.

I’d probably eviscerate the doctor who would tell me that I have this lung cancer at its worst stage and that I would have few weeks remaining in my life. C’mon, just tell me I’m dying. That’s just it - no numbers, no weeks, no anything.

“In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word, I know we’re all dying.” - Fight Club, the movie.

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I had fun playing Frisbee a while ago in my PE class (or Outdoor Recreation, and so far we: traversed, rapelled, trekked on creeks and rivers, played kickball and patintero and everything we liked and I’m enjoying every inch of it).

If there’s one thing I’d like to be, I’d like to be a Frisbee - like one of those Pepsi-labeled Frisbees you can see at the park during humid afternoons. I don’t know why but there’s something in Frisbees I like the most. It flies and spins around like a flying saucer, and oftentimes it is taken care of - not like tennis balls quickly replaced after it dives on a muddy patch of grass, not like golf balls easily abandoned after a quick assessment of where it landed. It cuts through the air, glides and sways itself with the wind and its flight - its gravity-defying flight is just stunning. Like, wow. Just fascinating enough to make you think of Frisbees as simple toys that could relieve stress in its simplest way.

Of course we all have our own parameters in terms of how to enjoy life. Some indulge themselves in studying; others take pleasure in playing computer games or computing problem sets or anything else under the sun. But I think all of those things are nothing but small-mindedness. Life is unbelievably huge and we must expose ourselves to every aspect, every part, every place it has to offer.

Okay, this might sound didactic or preachy or whatever, but I’m just sharing my thoughts about life and how people sort of overlook upon it.

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Meh, lacking creative juices. Lame, lame.

See, my daily READS aren’t really updating THAT MUCH already. Does that make sense? C’mon, I’m running out of blogs to read.

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IF YOU’RE GONNA DIE, where are you planning to go?

I have no idea, dude. If the existence of paranormal thingamajigs are true, then maybe I should become a ghost. So I’m invisible. I’d go ride from one airplane to another, travelling Greece and Rome and Egypt and Argentina and every place in the world.

But if you’re invisible, you’ll also be able to go through walls, right?

Yes.

Then you’re gonna fall from the airplane?

Why’s that? Well, I’ll be an invisible ghost who can still manage to sit in an airplane (if there are vacant seats) and be solid for the entire flight.

Oh. But if you’re solid, you can be felt by the stewards, right?

No, I’ll hide.

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JUST FOR THE RECORD, I’ll plug my Flickr photos here.

Dad’s wondering why I made fruit salad last Sunday. Traditionally, fruit salads are made during Christmas or special occasions. According to my previous post, “it’s my Marketing professor who insinuated that tempting idea to make a fruit salad since I haven’t had one myself since time immemorial.”

This one’s my GREEEEASY beef stew. The beef’s so tender, it melts in your mouth. Seriously. But it was intended for old people like my Dad who chews food as if everything edible’s an M&M, for chrissake.

Cracked Dell. He’s one and a half years old and he got this crack. As if it’s split into two. Oh well. Time to buy another one (after three years, that is). Wait, what’s the usual lifespan of a laptop? Beyond its warranty, perhaps? Five years maximum?

This is how we do it. Rappelling. It’s my Physical Education (PE2) class this semester. See THIS POST for more details. At Baker Hall, UPLB. We have to climb up that goddam water tank and rappell all our way down.

And then we’ll sign the attendance on top of the water tank with the professor. Nauseating!

My dorm. It’s unusually clean (well, my standards for cleanliness are below average, sorry) just because some janitor/janitress cleaned the whole place up. Talk about privacy. But it’s okay, since it’s clean enough and she’s kind-hearted enough to provide two door carpets or whatever you call it: one for my bathroom and one for the main door.

And yes, I sleep on a naked mattress. It’s pretty neat, anyway.

The sunshine’s just great in this picture. It’s actually my natural alarm clock (besides my body clock’s tendency to wake me up at exactly 6 AM for some numerous instances) since it’s too bright for a morning.

So I bought two books today. Graham Greene’s ‘The Power and the Glory’ (an all-time extraordinary classic) and Anthony Lawrence’s ‘In the Half Light.’ I’m finished with Haslett so I’m thinking about reading Lawrence’s, or probably Greene’s or Le Carre’s ‘The Drummer Girl’ or Updike’s ‘Rabbit at Rest’. Hmmm.

And then there’s this book, ‘Is kissing a girl who smokes like licking an ashtray?’ That made me smile for a while. Some Andy Powell wrote it and it seemed pretty interesting, slightly teeny-bopperish but somewhat fresh if closely inspected (regrettably, I forgot the book’s plot). Licking an ashtray, for chrissake.

Another book caught my attention, ‘Je Hais Les Acteurs’ by Ben Hecht. Why it was sold for ten pesos: it was all written in French (or so I assume).

Also there was this book, ‘We’ve got blog’. It costs around 120 pesos (pretty expensive compared to the bestsellers and the paperbacks since this one’s a hardbound) and it talks about blogging, but it was pretty much outdated and obsolete.

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Anyway, I cooked beef stew and made fruit salad just for the heck of it (no, wait: it’s my Marketing professor who insinuated that tempting idea to make a fruit salad since I haven’t had one myself since time immemorial. She mentioned fruits for fruit salad and the transportation costs involved and the processing - nevermind.)

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Oh, Sundays are just great. Except for the fact that I can’t help but notice people glance when I was walking at the mall with my four year-old nephew. Is my presence besides him something fatherly? Something eyebrow-curling? Something opposite from their no-sex-till-marriage philosophy? But - but I’ve just trimmed my goddam facial hair. I dunno - even the manager at a certain restaurant even asked my confirmation with regard to that. I also met, visually, a High School batchmate and to my surprise, she straightforwardly asked my son’s name.

“Excuse me, he’s my nephew. Wassyer name again?” If only I was brave enough to tell her that. But we weren’t that close: we don’t even give a damn about ourselves since we have different social circles. Joking around won’t do anything.

I think I should address this to the manager through their available feedback forms: “Hi. I’m Kevin. I’m this twenty-something guy who accidentally forgot to wear the rubber helmet with his girlfriend (or in some cases, dumb enough to do coitus interruptus).” Oh well, who cares.

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What else. Movie marathon!

See No Evil: Kane, Christina Vidal. Downright boring but pretty much of a suspense-slash-horror film. It’s about this killer who got psyched up and gone insane after his mother treated him like a dog (I could only remember a scene where he lived in a dog cage) when he was young. So he kills and steals people’s eyeballs and put them in glass bottles and jars. Nevertheless, it was a good film to watch especially when you’re alone. Spooky.

Chaos: Jason Statham, Ryan Philippe, Wesley Snipes. All about the Chaos Theory, who-killed-who and the play of evidences. It’s a cop thriller like CSI but the twist was masterfully planned: you won’t even dare to think that the protagonist-looking character happens to be the antagonist. It’s that sort-of-film you want to watch before a shock treatment. Really.

Trust the Man: Oh c’mon, Maggie Gyllenhaal! Sexy. Very sexy. Anyway, this dramedy is about rich New Yorkers (Julianne Moore, David Duchovny, Billy Crudup) who fell in and out of love with their eight-year partners and wives and husbands and had affairs and made numerous lies. The ending killed me, though. I don’t think it’s a good thing to disrupt a Broadway show or a play just because you want to make it up with your wife. Who would do such a thing? No one. But since Maggie’s there, it’s a must-watch.

Poseidon: Josh Lucas, Kurt Russell. It’s the kind of film you might want to watch with your Saturday friends with nachos and dip and dried mangoes on the side. It’s boring to the point that you can eat ten platefuls of popcorn while watching the entire film! Seriously. It’s a weaker relative of Titanic in terms of its Greek etymology (or is it?) and its performance in the cinema. It’s a must-watch for the bored and the boring.

What Happens in Vegas: Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz in one film? I hadn’t thought of that. This movie’s creative enough to include legal stuff in its romance-and-comedy package. It’s about this unlikely couple who got married just after they met, which was five hours earlier, in Las Vegas. Cameron recently got dumped by her fiancee while Ashton got fired by his father on some construction-related job, so they both planned to go Vegas, have sex and party all night long. But the jackpot they won on the casino wasn’t really on the plan. Anyway, it’s really a funny movie to watch with all the misdemeanors of Ashton Kutcher’s character and the flair of Cameron’s character. Never thought it could be possible.

The Frighteners: Michael J. Fox is just so last decade but I’m still buying his movies, for sentimentality’s sake. I like the heaven-hell concept of this film where you get to be eaten by worm-like creatures in hell. Anyway, the ghost scenes are funny since the technology used to create those ghost figures are pretty much ancient, but it felt good to remember the film and commemorate Fox’s stardom.

Fracture: Ryan Gosling acted in this sleek-looking public lawyer and I hated Anthony Hopkins for being such a murderer and a ruthless defendant on court (and a formidable antagonist, if it’s not really a spoiler). The cinematography almost reached perfection: the scene where Gosling was standing near the pool, the late-night party, every scene was vivid, clear and with purpose. Honestly, it’s way too awesome to be reviewed here. But anyway, it’s just one of the GREATEST MOVIES I’ve ever watched - set aside Fight Club or Friends with Money or any other film (except Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, of course). The plot’s a genius, everything was detailed and elegant and I’m losing words. Just watch it.

The Prestige: The movie should’ve included a narrator or something since I lost track of the story. Okay, I get the story itself but the ending’s a twist of a twist of a twist of a twist to the point that you can’t even understand the point of the film except magic-making and one-man competition. Though the actors and actresses were good (and Scarlett Johansson, omfg, oozing with everything delicious), the whole movie was confusing: was the real Mr. Angier (Hugh Jackman) drowned on that goddam glass chamber or was he the guy who was shot by Alfred (Christian Bale)? With all the dualities happening, you can’t even track whether the real Alfred was in prison or the one who killed Mr. Angier. Watch this while having a bus ride and you’ll puke after ten minutes. Seriously. All’s a blur. But it’s still good and it’s worth the puke.