A step-by-step guide on how to ruin your life if you’re me

1. Go on the internet, read random articles about movies and music and what have you
2. Find an interesting-looking movie that you know nothing about
3. Read about the hype, if any. If none, read the barest minimum of plot summaries, production notes and cast interviews. Do NOT watch trailers
4. Forget about it for a few months
5. See its title written on some scratch paper you kept in your wallet
6. Download it for shits and giggles
7. Watch it
8. Get absolutely wrecked by it, and cry about it, rave about its artistic merits, and recommend it to people even though you know they won’t watch it because they know you’ve got a thing for weird stuff
9. Do intensive research on the movie, its director/s and writers and cinematographers, its cast, and its soundtrack
10. Zoom in on a character/actor
11. Obsessively do some career-spanning research involving Google, uTorrent and YouTube (and in some cases, Spotify); for rarer items, risk giving your device AIDS by perusing the occasional Russian website
12. Watch all their material you could get your hands on, and start expanding your research into whatever is the subject matter of their movie/s
13. Begin learning about mental illnesses of musicians from the 60s, pedophiles and “grooming”, American Lo-Fi, Russia in the 19th century, Wall Of Sound, etc
14. Have your life taken over, have no one to talk to about it, and cry
16. Watch it again
17. Repeat steps 8 through 16
18. Finally get so emotionally worn out by it by the 10th runthrough that you decide to stop watching it
19. Don’t watch or listen to anything new for a while, avoid attachments
20. Get bored about not being emotionally moved by anything
21. Repeat step 1
Made this post because I am currently caught in the gentling slope of a Blur addiction and the rapid downward spiral of a Swiss Army Man and  Paul Dano bender, and thought to chronicle the various steps of my media addictions.

I Missed This Place.

and now you spend your evenings
searching for another life
— King Krule, “Easy Easy”

Let’s begin with the big rocks.

I now have a full-time job as a call center agent. I flunked out of school, like I feared would finally happen a few months ago. There is now a baby in the house, though it is not mine. There are also other people in the house; the total headcount comes to 13. The house right now is a very crowded place. I am pitching in to buy a new TV that I don’t think we should get, but we will be getting anyway. My sister currently has chicken pox. I am currently sick with a viral infection, and am on a five-day sick leave. I feel like I’ve already forgotten how to do my job. As early as now, actually, I already want out. I have taken up smoking as a daily habit, except on weekdays. I smoke ice menthols. My hair is now back to plain old black. Oh, and I am still a single virgin.

Okay. Now. Pebbles.

I have long nails now. It’s very hard to maintain them. I scrub myself with lemons when I bathe. I tie back what I can of my hair and I pin the rest back with a zoo of hairclips. I own dresses and heels now, and I wear them quite often to work. I have a canister of candies for when I feel like shit, and nowadays I notice my teeth always hurt because I grab a couple of caramels every few minutes (and doesn’t that say a lot about how I feel at any given moment in time). I eat a single chocolate for  breakfast every morning. My officemate picks me up every morning on the way to work. He’s a very nice person. I hang out with exactly two people outside of my work circle. Within my work circle, I hang out with exactly two people as well (not the same people as the ones outside, of course.) I just cleaned my room today. I also wrote a bit.

What my desk looks like after I clean the fuck out of it

What my desk looks like after I clean the fuck out of it

In case you’re wondering what the substance of this post is, I am not going to lie to you: there isn’t any. It’s another one of those life updates I used to be so fond of, back when I had the time to just sit around in my bed and talk about things endlessly to a nonexisting audience. Life updates which are just that: updates on my life, the goings-on, what-have-yous. No deep existential shit whatsoever. Besides, I haven’t been doing much thinking lately, anyway. Currently I have a lot going on in my mind (because of some ill developments in certain situations, and my own sour-graper ego), but hell I am tired of complaining; I wanna shut up about the bitchiness of life for once. I don’t want to be angry about anything right now; I just want to talk, to get shit off of my chest without having to be responsible for consequences talking out loud might have in the real world. So here I am, in my old comfort place. This is how my own room felt like when I came home from Baguio with the knowledge that I wasn’t going back. Smells a bit different, but not much has changed.

I missed this place. I missed it so very, very much.

Oh, and would you look at that. Almost exactly a year since my last post. Happy new year, my dear.

Hello, my universe. It’s good to be back, even for a little while.


On the bus to Cubao earlier this afternoon, I was worried about two men who were talking about how easy it was to pick pockets in buses–they were even making loose demonstrations among themselves. I was terrified; my insides turned cold, like a shroud of ice settled over my guts. I was sure that at a certain point in the trip they’d stand up with guns held out and by the end of the ride I’d be stranded in Cubao without even a bag that would at least make me look like I hadn’t just been robbed.

Now that I look back on it, though, after scrutinizing their clothing, I’m starting to think they were the exact opposite of what I thought they were: instead of robbers, they were probably cops.

Although, in hindsight, nowadays you’d be hard-pushed to tell the difference between the two.

Is There Anything To Be Said?

Of course I am in a crisis. I always am. The contention stems from the arising doubt of whether this crisis is anything worth writing about, or if I can even put it into words at all.

I don’t have anything to say. In all honesty, I’m just testing out my lordship over this blog. Funny how it’s been almost half a year since I began writing/posting/rambling here and while it has felt like home I never truly felt it to be within my command. The fear of judgement has always been there–the ghost of a prejudice from imaginary critics. This place runs under a dictatorship, like a kid pushed through a waterfall into the cave beyond—he does it and does it fast only because he is afraid of getting hurt. The odd thing is, the dictatorship is not mine, but the outside’s.. But the odder thing is, the outside does not give a rat’s ass about whatever is going on in my universe. And yet I am crippled by it. Imagined things can be as damaging as real ones.

Odder. I like that word; it lives up to its meaning. The magic of semantics is in that you don’t really know what semantics is but you can sort of feel around its edges and say confidently that this thing is a semantic thing.

I am mopping up the writing style of whoever author—and, more recently and alarmingly, whatever book—I am currently reading. The first time it was Jessica Zafra, in high school it was Bob Ong, and then there was the entire intellectual activist spirit of the Philippine Collegian. I even had a Murakami/King phase—yes, combined. Now the flower and seeming distended-ness of narrative of Arundhati Roy’s ‘The God Of Small Things’ is creeping into my open-mouthed beta-state rambling—or more like, my prose dips into this well from time to time, and it emerges with striped patterns of mundane and flower, of followable trails into materialistic concerns of aesthetics and untraceable, carefully aesthetic crooning about materialistic concerns. What.

I am painfully aware of how weird my non-Standard English must look like to its native speakers. I comfort myself by thinking of how Jose Garcia Villa bastardized the language and made it into a thing of incomparable beauty in the process. Of course the only thing that I could lay claim to as something which Villa and I share is the God complex that persists in his work (and even in his mighty pen name: Doveglion standing for dove, eagle & lion) (and even then I’m not entirely sure our sentiments about the matter are similar) and so I may have no right to assume that because He does it then I can, but yes I like excuses when I can have them.

My prose oscillates between hot honey spilling into cracks in concrete on a tar black day to bland rattattating that scrapes the ear like a fork being dragged across the surface of your brain.

(There is no narrative. There is only too much Arundhati Roy. And I don’t even like the book all that much so far.)

I do not know what I am saying. I do not know if I am saying.

I am not cute I am not friendly I don’t have an org I don’t have a church I don’t believe in anyone I don’t believe in anything & my life is full of no’s & don’ts & not’s & nothings

But unfortunately I feel things
And unfortunately this is all I have in my life to feel about

Can you imagine what it’s like?

Ayoko nang bumalik ng Baguio. Ayoko nang makita ulit ang UPB ng siguro dalawang taon. Ayoko nang makakita ng mga mukha na kailangan kong ngitian at kausapin ng ilang oras. Ayoko nang bumiyahe ng madaling araw para makaabot sa isang klase kung saan makikipagkwentuhan lang sa’yo ang prof. Ayoko nang maghilamos ng malamig na tubig. Ayoko nang tumunganga ng ilang oras sa kwarto, iniisip kung paano ba nangyaring natambakan ako ng gagawin at naubusan ako ng utak (at pera). Ayoko nang gumising ng maaga para lang mawalan ng gana pumasok sa loob ng ilang minuto. Ayoko nang kabahan sa pagdilat kada umaga.

Ayoko nang magpanggap na gusto ko pa ang buhay kahit paulit-ulit lang ang lahat.



Post bilang pag-alala sa huling akyat ko pa-Baguio mula Manila ngayong semestre, at sa panahon ng matinding pag-aasam ng pahinga.

Thoughts & Events, As If There’s Anything Else To Talk About

I feel like I should get back to this blog more. It’s been difficult not being able to post things when I want to due to the damn internet connection at the boarding house—honestly, I’d have been better off if they cut off the wifi altogether rather than have it sit there like an ugly trinket taunting me with its uselessness—and I had noticed that Facebook was once again becoming my go-to outlet for ideas and interesting finds, though nowhere near my old Facebook addiction. It’s actually a lot healthier now, and my Tumblring has been a good thing too. These social media serve to add to my knowledge because of the info they bring within my reach, plus a little social interaction to strengthen real-world friendships and connections. They’re great, honestly. I just feel that this blog should still be my priority, and that if I have things to say, it really ought to go here and not anywhere else, because this is the designated place for those things. Information gathering is to be done on those sites, and information translation or output is to be placed here supposedly. This site is a little difficult to navigate—especially if you want to make a multimedia post that expresses feelings and states of mind accurately—when the internet connection is so flimsy it can only hold up to about 3 minutes of scrolling before it breaks down completely for the next few days.


My mom saw my cuts the other day. She didn’t yell, or lose her head. Not at all. She sounded more irritated than anything, like she couldn’t believe the sort of immature thing I had done. She did tell me how crazy it is, though, and how I’m not, and that the only one who can make me better is myself, and that I have total control of what my brain does.

This is one of those times when my mom becomes a part of the human populace in general, and is a perfect example of why I don’t like talking to people too much: what they say almost always makes little to no sense to me, and it gets me frustrated.



I don’t think I have told this blog that the reason I became obsessed with skies for a time was you. It’s probably an omen of something good that I have been taking less and less photos of skies—though that’s not to say that I don’t love skies truly, because I do. It’s just that now I know which skies to treasure and which ones to let slip and eventually forget.


My brain is truly determined to cram every single academic requirement I need to finish this sem into the last milliseconds of their deadlines. I don’t know what stimulates this kind of thinking, that I don’t have to hurry even if the deadline’s in a couple of days because I don’t need a lot of time anyway, cramming has always gotten the shit done so there’s no need to panic, my work often turns out good even if it was done in less than a few hours. Excessive overconfidence? A sort of loosely-masked panic paralysis? Last night I remember having said something about needing to definitely get my shit together today, and I swear to god when I said that I was not expecting to say it again today, but here I go: I need to get this thing over and done with tomorrow, because tomorrow’s Monday and there’s seriously no time for me to go on believing that some miracle will happen in the last few seconds before all my deadlines. It’s just not gonna happen. So maybe this time, I’m serious.


I also saw Love In The Time Of Cholera last week, around a few days before watching The Hobbit. I had been reading Villa’s Selected Stories prior, and was so deeply moved by the stories’ restrained romance and depictions of the solitude of humanity that I felt I had to make the feeling last somehow. I remembered that I haven’t finished the movie since the last time I attempted to view it (I fell asleep at some point) so I pressed play and let myself be drowned in it. Unax Ugalde and Giovanna Mezzogiorno were beautiful and perfect, but what really made my heart leap and do backflips and cry in a corner was Javier Bardem and his goddamn eyelashes and RDJ-ish face. The story itself was heartbreakingly beautiful (syempre Gabriel Garcia Marquez ba naman e) and I am not ashamed to say that I laughed and cried my heart out to this movie more than any others I have seen in a while. The images were beautiful, and I didn’t even mind the three hour runtime, because it was worth every second.


Nearly 20 minutes to 1AM and I’m still up rambling. Maybe I should do this for a living.