oh lord.

we went to the sandwich 10th anniversary bash at the sunken garden, and i nearly died. what is up with all those destroyed children of the corn? for one, they must have missed out on the invention of deodorant. they smell so baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. i know a lot of hardcore rock fans, and they smell nice. well, on the bright side, the stench can serve as a warning.

it was supposed to be fun. it still was, because marc abaya dropped by the sandwich stage and had a mini reunion of some sort. but almost getting trampled to death spoiled the night. how miserable that could have been, with me being a fair virgin.

so a friendly reminder to all fangirls trooping the next fair nights to come: bring a sturdy man along. Better yet, bring your man and all his gym buddies. you need all the protection you can get. and do not, for the love of god, attempt to come in ballet flats. wear rubber shoes, a good night of rocking out can justify a small fashion disaster. lastly, wear happy colors to ward off negative vibes.

voodoo dolls aside, it was a night of pretty much good old fashioned fun, with me, yssa and karen having the headache of our lives after pretending to be delirious punk rockers and doing their frenzied disco dancing (plus the erratic head bang). needless to say, we were destroyed.

in the words of the great lourd de veyra, wasak na wasak.

Helsinki is looooooove. I had no idea that people in Finland are so stylish until I stumbled upon Hel-looks.com!

Everyone's so fasyon, and they can all get away with it because of the weather, I suppose. Anyway, let's all drool over wickedly snobby Helsinki street fashion.


Supervillains on their way to a kinky memorial service.


Colour is powerrrrrrr!


Don't ask me what happened. This is legal in Helsinki.


Really wicked Helsinki teens


Sexed-up Goth

Let's go to Helsinki!!!!!! Gaaaaaaad. Finnish people are geniuses.

Hong Kong is the nearest thing to ultimate urban loneliness. I miss HK! I miss getting lost. I miss the crazy cheap shopping. I miss the distinct street smell. I miss asking for directions and failing miserably. I miss the morose Hotel lifestyle. I miss the cheap breakfast meals. I miss the train ride to China. I miss singing along to F4 songs in the night market. I miss the chaos. I miss the pollution. I miss the shoes they sell in convenience stores. Oh, and did I mention that I miss the shopping?

Hey you! If you don't have anything better to do around my birthday time, how about we spend a week in urban loneliness? Let's go to Disneyland, and eat those scary octopus things they sell in night stalls! It's gonna be fun (and urban lonely)!

I've been sick for the past few days (as if you care) mainly because of my lack of sleep in an attempt to study for a parade of exams. Everything is bleak and dreary in my world which has been confined to the academic realm and this nearly-squalid room.

Thank God for Elijah Wood! In the climax of my sickness last Saturday, I decided to uplift my spirit by watching his film "Everything is Illuminated". He was soooo good and awkwardly devious in that film. God, I'm beginning to feel sorry I never watched any LOTR movie. I wish the world was filled with more Elijah-looking men. He's so pretty. He looks like a porcelain doll. And yes, he really looks elvish. I wish garden gnomes were fashioned in his image.

He looks like a bite-sized treat. Oh lord. Hahahahaha. (Disclaimer: This is  my medicine talking.) I want my own girly elf with a suspicious penchant for hugging other men.

Elijah Wood, you are gap-toothed love.

P.S. I can't believe I've seen another Elijah film after the Radio Flyer wonder years! I remember watching "Try Seventeen" (the one with Mandy Moore). It was one of the most horrible movie dates I've ever gone to.

P.P.S. I think I'm too old for fan girl-dom. Especially Elijah Wood fangirl-dom.

Birthday-dom is fast approaching and I have no plans at all! Worse, nobody seems to mind. Worst, nobody's thinking of it at all. Why can't the world just give me one day to be totally selfish. Just one frigging day where everyone's required to be nice to me!

Nobody seems to have the time. Hello, Hong Kong! Hello, urban loneliness! Hello, dying of fright in an aircraft!

for the first time in many years, i've decided that i really want to learn to be truly happy. (say hello to my readings on ahimsa! :) )

yesterday, a first in many years, we managed to talk without feeling too miserable. i'm happy for you and i hope you're happy for me as well. it's nice to know you're doing well. you've been a good kid, cheers to you!

everyone, let's all be happy.

i know that getting drunk on a school night isn't Zen at all, but hey i just want to spread the love around.

Some people have all the luck, the rest get thrown into mundane existence characterized by constant trips to the library and no fame whatsoever. What have I done to deserve this?

Dear Buddha, I know the following are all temporal, worldly things but when you're young you'd rather have a dslr, a boyfriend and a car above nirvana and that elusive spiritual release.

Mother, get on that first plane to Rome and save my soul fast!

Dear World, it's another Sunday afternoon and my nerves are beginning to shut down. You haven't heard from me in awhile  mainly because  I spent  the past few weeks  sleeping in and thinking made-up happy thoughts.

Tomorrow will be another opportunity for my history prof to try and convert us all into Jainism or Buddhism, whichever suits your fancy and/or dietary needs. Tomorrow will be another chance to get lost and get sweaty in the process. Mondays are a drag but so are Sundays, and yes, Wednesdays too.

My life, as of this moment, may very well be a big disappointment. I am one play-safe school marm. I've never been good, but I've never been bad -- which sucks because I haven't lived up to anyone's expectations.

In other news, Mutti is planning a trip to Rome with her hardcore Catholic friends for a conference on salvation (and other practical life-skills). She mentioned a side trip to Amsterdam , which is hilarious because we all know what salvation means in Amsterdam. Noticing my excitement on the Amsterdam side-trip, Mutti was quick to ask, "Have you ever done drugs, ever?"

To which I answered, "I wish I have. But sorry to burst your bubble, I really haven't...yet".

Mothers are crazy like that. I wish she goes to that trip soon and buy me two more years worth of salvation. I badly need it.

On the bright side, Mr. Brightside, because according to Buddha everything , Wednesdays included, is temporal , I shall not worry anymore. (Note excessive and annoying use of commas.)

Maybe Mike the Moping Musician (my cousin) is a practicing Buddhist or a Sadhu even. The last time he came over he looked like he badly needed a shower.

And with that piece of profound wisdom, I bid you all aummmmmmmmmm.......

One minute I was ranting about the impossibility of the whole "Cool" situation, the next minute I am here doing someone's hair.





















This all means I am gaining wisdom. Cheers to that!

Oh wow. I never knew I was such a troubled young adult, until I found this.

Wednesdays were meant to be fun. It's the one day in a week when I can chill and sleep longer and play an intensely ridiculous game of duckpin bowling. But no, Wednesdays are beginning to drain the life out of me.

Mind you, it's not exactly because it's the official Bring-a-Friend-Day. Well, maybe a bit because it is Bring-a-Friend-Day, among other reasons.

What the fozz. I just hate Wednesdays. Especially, when I can't harness enough energy to pretend I'm chipper. Aaack. Next Wednesday will be strictly a "Hey-I'm-Single-Let's-Mingle" Day. No couples. No unnecessary carbs please.

It's not what you think. I just hate Wednesdays cos I usually run out of decent clothes by Wednesdays. The Laundry Institute is beginning to get faulty.








                                                                   

Young ones always think they were born nocturnal. Something about the random comfort of late nights has given birth to so many young, restless insomniacs who find the meaning of their lonely existence from eating tuna straight from the can, this being done with stealth under the faint glow of the refrigerator light.

She decided that it's always better to eat hot and spicy tuna flakes straight from the can while sitting on the beat-up couch, instead of squatting in front of the fridge. Tonight, she realized that she's too old to be sneaky.

Sitcom reruns are always welcome company, especially when it's past eleven at night. The rest of this place she dares call her home (or house, depending on which day it is) is a sea of shadows, save for the living room where the TV has created a scared sphere of bluish light. Tuna can in left hand, propped in the hollow between her legs as she compressed herself into the zebra-print couch, and Hello Kitty teaspoon in the right.

Everything in this house - furniture, utensils and all- are too small for her clumsy long limbs.

On the highly saturated screen, the doting wife tries to make her husband notice her new haircut, but fails miserably . It's football night.

Her fingers, the only thing that had grace in this house, groped for the remote control. It was always buried somewhere deep in the couch - along with years worth of cigarette packs, gum wrappers and moldy orange peels under the crumbling foam.

Her fingers found its familiar shape and felt the three rubber bands that held the poor thing together. The first time it cracked open was on her birthday (She can't remember which one.) several years ago. She had been wanting t get drunk for weeks, but she had to wait. There was work - or school to deal with, and she thought that getting piss drunk would only be reasonable on her birthday.

The 22nd came, and she found herself sprawled on the floor with other familiar faces -- friends, or so they all thought. Everyone was drunk and everyone was miserable. The same sitcom was on. This time, the wife was on the verge of menopause.

She can handle the alcohol, but not the crowd-- all having their own versions of delirious drunkenness. She was suddenly sick of them all. It was after all, the 22nd. It was her license to make a mess. With another swig of god-knows-what and Coke, all the faces on the floor melted into puddles of strangers--all indifferent to the fact that she was there.

Meanwhile, the wife was having hot flushes. Someone was throwing up on the couch. Someone was cursing in Latin. She got sick of it all and then there were bits of plastic on the floor, a couple of batteries, the motherboard or something that looked like a motherboard.

A Mueslix commercial came up. The eight-year old digital watch bolted to life and said it was midnight. It's the 22nd again.

Wednesdays mean Show-and-Tell for the fabulous people of Sunrise Land. This is the day when everyone (except me) brings along their significant other and act like primates on NatGeo.  (What? Who? Me? Bitter?)

This is crazy. I can't believe that we're actually at this point where friends turn into couples headed out for mating season. It's shitty scary. So, for the painfully single person like me, Wednesdays are a total bummer. Why can't we all just do all the fun single-y stuff that we used to do? Why can't four people exist on one bed without unnecessary nuzzling and touching?

Maybe the substantial question is, "Why can't I just shut up and be my miserably single self?"

This is pathetic rhetoric.

I don't need to answer mating calls. (Sadly, there hasn't been any inquiries in the mating department as of recent.)

Dear parents and former guidance counselors, this is not to say that you have failed in your attempts in raising a self-actualized young woman. This is simply me, succumbing to media pressures and the eternal feeling of being broke (as I have no one to treat me to dinners and such).

Thank you for your kind consideration.