“I couldn’t live up

to Mom’s standards and it’s a royal

pain in the ass for both camps.

It’s really hard but I’m

trying. I’m really trying.

I’m sorry if I’m

such a burden. Really.”

I cried.

I’m quite sleepy.

I acknowledge these kinds of things when I’m quite tipsy:

1. I’m an introvert no matter how I deal with people. Even the personality test we took in my Psychology class told me I am an introvert.
2. I think of stories to write, but what sucks is that the morning after, I completely forget about that something (which I would always believe is something magnificent).
3. I think of how unintellectual my mind goes when it comes to handling I-don’t-really-know-what, specifically. Critical papers? Rewriting stories? Tolerating the mush of people? Korean fucked-ups throwing garbage across you as if you’re a streetlamp?
4. With Koreans I have empirical bases. Some Korean guys here in the university play soccer and these boys are just fucking braggarts. They threw garbage as if Filipinos were vassals or something. It’s disgusting, these chinks of a nation (and I’m sorry for Super Junior fans–really, I’m not generalizing). There’s another instance at Jolibee when two Korean guys were hissing at the waiter like it was fine fucking dining. It was absolutely unnerving the way these Korean guys (what Asians!) get around Filipinos like we’re filth.
5. I guess I’m quite incoherent when I wrote “chinks of a nation” but I guess you guys understand that?
6. When I reread number four I thought I misspelled Jolibee.
7. It’s funny how people make an effort to say goodbye to people who says they’re about to go because they want people to say goodbye to them. Do they really have to say they’re going to get something decent before they go? It’s better if you–nah, it’s too mushy.
8. I have this hunch I’ll be late tomorrow for my interview at the U.S. Embassy for my VISA renewal. This hunch is getting more solid with my tardy records for the past, uhh, ten years. (I started getting late when I was in fourth grade; I even bribed my teacher that my sister would make a cake for her; I lied to her and told her we have this bakeshop named Blue Ribbon.)
9. Sarcastic smiles and fake hellos. Oh my god, Hale.
10. I haven’t written my critical paper due Wednesday, entitled “A Critical Analysis of Haruki Murakami’s Tony Takitani (in both text and film media): Post-Colonialism Hybridity”. How cool does that sound.

I’m trying my very best to find the Publish button.

“Girlfriend calling.” I was leaning against the door frame, my hand holding the vibrating cellphone (and its loud Daft Punk-ish ringtone) like a bone for a dog.

“Mmm?” The foam sticks out of his mouth you could barely understand him.

All I could hear is his techno stuff playing in his room–he’s a good DJ; he’s been earning loads from it. “Hahy? Hooo. Way.” He could hardly speak with the foam in his mouth. I was trying to continue a sketch for a T-shirt design contest; it’s for a local skateboarding company of some sort.

“Baby? What’s happening?” Saturday: I have to return the DVD rentals and pay for the Internet bill. Also, laundry. Cook something for lunch–the perks of being single. A recent robbery next door should serve as a warning for my laptop. Should back-up data for–”Hello?”–safety. I’ve been getting my inspiration from a skateboarding–”C’mon, say something!”–magazine and–”Baby, where the hell are you!?”

My roommate rushed to his bed and tugged his pants beneath the sheets and wore it with his only pair of slippers instead of his shoes and he banged himself accidentally against the door and fell and yelped in pain and I stood up to see what happened and his forehead was bleeding, though I couldn’t see any clear cut of some sort.

“What happened? Biff?” His face was becoming pale and I don’t know what to do–why didn’t I take some First Aid lessons? why don’t we have an emergency kit or something? where could I get some–and then I took off my white shirt (it has paint on it; I used to do some–) and oh fuck, the blood was erupting from his forehead so I wrapped it around his head mean and hard and “Say something! Fuck!” it was quite hopeless so I got his cellphone and was going to call the police and all when from the phone I heard a moan–or is it a cry? or is the cry from Biff?–from the silence.