another bottle to smash

deciding to fall in love is, in every sense, picking up another beer bottle to smash on your head- wild west-style.

my feet is now officially a plantation of amoebas and whatever else my MedTech sister studies under the microscope.

oh ghod. having my fingers tap-dance on the keyboard again is like reaching the hundredth orgasm. it feels so darn good.

it has been forty-three years since i've logged in and put a few brain-tossed matters in here. nah. jsut over reacting. but still, it has taken me that long to have a bit of sense knocked in. yeah, i've been busy parading honda vehicles on sale and having my butt kicked in with some corporate ideals and all that mush. making money's been a bit of a hobby and it has taken a good chunk off my skull.

part of me's praying to have the luxury of having all the time in the world doing nothing but typing the few good grammars i still have. but that won't pay for the financial adjustments i'll have to face come that fatefull day.

enough money talk. how about we tackle mush?

Cannibalism


Your smile once painted rainbows to my day
and every crinkle on each of your rainbow-ed eye
created dancing cocoons in my stomach.

Hear my intestines rumble for the butterflies
that flew, got flushed, and are now washed out
along with whirling fragrant blue water
down the pipes.

Bowel movements like these make me hungry,

so prepare. Take a two-hour bath
and scrub your skin off.
I will fry all five feet four inches of it, put six cloves of chopped
garlic and mince it with your fingers that once ran freely
on and inside me.

Oh what a feast we will both have!
You would not have to do the cooking, just sit still
and watch me slave over the hot stove
under you.
No cooking oil needed here. Let’s keep the dish healthy.
Your own body fat would do.
I will just have to turn the flame on to extract fluids from your nerves.

A little basting is needed to soften your face.
So while you sit there in the broiler,
I will have to scoop your broth and wash it over your head.

I must be careful not to burn your hair, though.
Else, you’ll smell more rotten.

Sshh. Here’s an apple to stifle your screams.
Open your mouth wide.
I promise I will loosen the ropes around your arms
and feet after I eat

so you can wash the dishes.

Dancing Different Partners


Even the nineteenth stick of the second Marlboro menthol pack cannot promise its stay. Its smoke slithered to mate with the blinking yellow light of the dresser, swirled to envelop the already-dim light, and fogged the mirror where Klaren watched herself talk to each cigarette butte that has left her slumped. She tried to keep her position comfortable, tucked her ankles under her thighs, and fixed her elbows on the dresser table to catch her dropping head. She ran her hand through her black hair, reached for the matchbox and jigged the cigarette pack for her last stick.

Striking matches was her favorite fad for the night. She bit the cigarette stick with her lips and pulled the eight lighted match to light it, dragged a breath through the menthol pipe, puffed, and blew the ashy cloud to fuddle her reflection. Mirror stains did not hide the dark rings around her eyes. She stared through the melting smoke and watched her blankets stir from behind her. She cupped her hand to suppress a cough, not wanting to wake her boyfriend for the night. She had wanted him to stay longer, to spend the last three hours with him before the sun rises and he had to leave for work, or to get home to a family she supposed she would never meet. Through the dresser mirror, she traced the blades of his shoulders, the slope of his arms, and his ruffled curls and knew that his image must soon be forgotten.

Klaren stared back to her face and drew the rings around her reflection’s eyes. Someone once told her how deep they were. How mysterious her eyes seem. And all she can see were the many times her deep black eyes have turned bloodshot.

“You are Klaren Javier. You are smart and strong. You will get over me sooner than you think.” Ryan said.
“That’s it? After all these, that’s what you’re going to tell me? Ha! I’ve stopped being smart the moment you called my name.”
“So slap me if that will make you stop crying. Kick me like what your father did. You did not even stand up when he hit me.”
“Listen to what you’ve just said! He’s my father, damn it. And ghod! I did stand up for you, you inconsiderate git! And it has been what, three years? And look where standing up for you got me- after three years, I am still begging for your attention.”
“You have just had five hours of my full effing attention.” Ryan said before slamming the door and stepping out of her life for good.

Her cigarette lit red as Klaren took another drag of nicotine. The chipped mirror stared back at her with disgust. And why would that be, she thought. Were her cheeks still too round, her eye brows still too thick? Or was it because of the new creature wrinkling her sheets behind her? The mirror does not know the man too well, so were the other six that came and went without so much of a goodbye.

“Let’s just say your brain is too big for mine, Klaren. I cannot handle complexities as well as you can.” Jeff said in his last letter. “You will be better off without me. Or maybe, It will be better if we stay friends.”

Another drag of breath from her menthol stick made Klaren feel relieved that she has already burned that letter a month ago. She does not have to open her drawer and reread it again. Only snapshots of the white stationery and its blue ink remained clear. No solid evidence of blotched paper was left. Only sight of ashes flushed in the toilet.

The creature from behind her reflection sat up and cooed for another cuddling session. Klaren took another look at the empty mirror, puffed her cig and went under her sheets. She half-wished him to embrace her tightly on his chest and not let go. But Klaren knew better. She sat on his thighs, put his hands on her chest and rode him until he is too tired again to even kiss her thank you.

He woke up with the sun, packed his polo shirt and left telling Klaren he would call as soon as possible.

Klaren threw her sim card out the window.

What I Got from Never Land


My most recent ex-boyfriend has just posted full-body pictures of him and his “friend” in one of those popular internet friend-network pages. By “friend” I meant to go with that mindless excuse he gave me when he said he’s got a major infection of the Peter Pan Syndrome and his friends need him more than I do. As it turned out, Peter Pan just decided to fly to Never-Never Land with the Indian Princess instead of coming to earth to have an actual life with Wendy.

I got devastated having seen those pictures. Who wouldn’t, if you have been promised a bagful of fairy dusts and suddenly you find yourself hovering on thin air alone? And just a minute glimpse at those pictures makes you realize how useless it was to wish to fly to Never Land when you have got lots of more important things to do on earth. I clutched my stomach to stop me from puking all over the keyboard.

Yes, having looked at how Peter’s smile was still serene made me feel the need to take dozes of sedatives and anti-depressants. Not the kind of drugs that one could buy in any drugstore, but those that will make you feel you are oh-so-pretty and your humor is so very much admired.
Luckily, my wits got me published in Women’s Journal early November with my cell phone number announced to the whole reading community of the Philippines. I have had texters coming from Cebu, Davao, and even Batanes. Weird though, most of my interesting texters were guys who read a women’s magazine. And the girls were disappointingly under wit. What to do when what all your girl texters have to say were “You helped my heart mend” and “Hi. Can we be friends because I think you’ll care?” Of course, blow them off. It’s not like I have anything else to tell them. I was not even sure if I am helping myself enough. So I got stuck with the witty texters who I assumed were gay and agreed to have coffee with one of them just recently. It occurred to me that even though they might be prone to same-sex tendencies because of their hobby of reading girly magazines, maybe I could get along well with their brains. Besides, Rustom Padilla sure is mind- tingling.

So I agreed to meet this writer guy in Figaro. I was waiting for him outside the café when he texted: I can’t meet you, you look too young for me. And so I left, thankful that I do not have to meet a person who cannot show his face. I went to my favorite coffee shop nearby and by hell, he followed. I was shocked to see chunks of gray hair smiling at me. It was good that my parents taught me to treat elders with respect and so I pulled every nerve I have to put on a polite smile and tried to talk in a business-like manner. You could just imagine how I strained myself from laughing. Not because the man was old enough to be my uncle but because he is another one of those unlucky people who refused to grow up. When he asked me what I thought of him, I said, “Maybe you should start acting your age. By the looks of it, you’re still stuck in high school...po.”
Running across streets, through malls and escalators to get as far away from that experience woke me up. I did not even understand what this hunky Brit told me as I passed on the rush. While running, I felt my brain cells were coming back and are working as it should again. I hurried to a nearby computer shop and typed my story.

Waking up from dreams of Never Land was like being thrown a bucketful of cold water. And it felt really good. It made me realize that Wendy does not need fairy dusts to fly after all. She can tell good stories even before Peter Pan came barging in her bedroom window. In fact, it was Peter who needed her in the first place. It was him who needed to hear Wendy’s stories of love and adventures. It was him who needed her help at sewing his shadow back on.

While Peter floats outside her window, Wendy can go to Law School, write for top magazines and find a prince charming who would gladly put her to bed at the end of the day. Fairy tales are heart-warming, yes. But happy ever-afters come only if we start waking up and decide what happy ending we would work on. This is not Disney. This is life. Face it.

What I Got for Looking

hear ye! hear ye!

my most recent ex-botfriend has just announced to the world how exotic his type was. full-body pictures of him and his "friend" (if you've been reading me, you might have read that his excuse for breaking up with me was "mas kailangan ako ng kaibigan ko") snogging were banner-ed all over his page. why do i still care?...hmmm... same question i asked myself. i nearly puked. luckily i didn't else, i'll be paying thousands to netopia for crashed computers.

for conceited little bratts like me, seeing those awful pictures will make intestines tangle and security blankets crease. mine surely did. and what do i do when i get insecure??? i go out and gather as much security i could muster. that vicious hobby where you swim in other people's admiration of your wit and oh-so-prettiness crept on me. why in hell's name did i let that happen? why?!

oh, same old reason why hitler and hussein are dead.

so there, i agreed to get coffe with this witty guy who has been admiring my blog entries. turned out, i was too slow to run away.

lucky he didn't ask to have pictures with me. if ever my ex gets hold of it, im good as dead.

my ultra-intelligent, uber pretty math teacher, Sir James Duavit said (or rather, texted) "wag ka kaya maghanap, no. baka sa career ka swerte." ... so, baka nga.

now, now i'll really focus on getting myself into law school, get some way of helping with the bills, and ghad, have a little life without penises up my ass (nothing green here. just pure, unadulterated wit).

xxx