Dear Al,
How are things there? I know you’re busy and I know you have a lot in your hands right now but I just wanted to know—how many blows do I have to take before you’ll consider my debts paid? I know my mother owes you as well (big time) but is it fair that I should pay for them too? Naaaahhh, delete that last comment…I want to pay for them anyhow, You (amongst everyone else) know how much my family means to me…I just don’t understand why I have to go through all these after going through them so many times in the past…I also don’t appreciate things being shown to me, offered to me which then gave me the impression that they were “to be mine” when they simply were (just) for a show…a little spectacle, a little taste, a little whiff — that is all? I don’t know how much I can take…Just a little request, if those blows will still keep on coming, can you put on gloves? I’ll appreciate it very much. Thank you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Happy New Year
what do you do with dead arms? nothing…absolutely nothing.
January 1, 2009 — my sister and i celebrated the New Year with a screaming match…she, sitting on the small dining table and peeling the soft shells of the poor shrimps that my mother carefully prepared for her while i, was standing (with my unkempt hair and unbrushed teeth) ready to wring her neck and knock some sense into her rotting brain…
4:05 AM, she woke us up with a text message where she was begging to be picked up…my mother, despite of her lack of sleep, stood up and tried to drag me in picking up my supposed “older” sister… i then called my sister where she then greeted me hysterically crying, specifically asking for my mother (as she refused to talk to me)…
FAST FORWARD…she arrived at my mother’s house two hours after (with eyes which looked like she had periorbital edema and dirty, dirty feet)…we found out later that her husband “unknowingly” made a punch bag out of her after she raised the issue of a possible third party that the as*hole strongly denied…we, then again, discovered much, much later that they started throwing beer bottles at each other (in front of their only son) and my sister, in her crazed rage, stabbed her husband (FINALLY!)…try not to worry—he is still alive with only a few stitches as proof.
you might be wondering “errr, Den, what caused the screaming match again?”…well, the usual issue…she gets into trouble, we help her…she needed support, we help her…she needed money, we help her…ets, etc…by the way, lately i have not been of great help to her so i guess the “we” here only refer to our parents…but then, she always forgives him and goes running back despite of our objections…we always had to take the back seat and it was getting tiring…hence, explaining the screaming match…
it’s done…she has to grow up and start thinking (as she has not been using her brain for the past 11 years)…as they say: FLUSH YOUR OWN SHIT!
what you do with dead arms again???nothing.
January 1, 2009 — my sister and i celebrated the New Year with a screaming match…she, sitting on the small dining table and peeling the soft shells of the poor shrimps that my mother carefully prepared for her while i, was standing (with my unkempt hair and unbrushed teeth) ready to wring her neck and knock some sense into her rotting brain…
4:05 AM, she woke us up with a text message where she was begging to be picked up…my mother, despite of her lack of sleep, stood up and tried to drag me in picking up my supposed “older” sister… i then called my sister where she then greeted me hysterically crying, specifically asking for my mother (as she refused to talk to me)…
FAST FORWARD…she arrived at my mother’s house two hours after (with eyes which looked like she had periorbital edema and dirty, dirty feet)…we found out later that her husband “unknowingly” made a punch bag out of her after she raised the issue of a possible third party that the as*hole strongly denied…we, then again, discovered much, much later that they started throwing beer bottles at each other (in front of their only son) and my sister, in her crazed rage, stabbed her husband (FINALLY!)…try not to worry—he is still alive with only a few stitches as proof.
you might be wondering “errr, Den, what caused the screaming match again?”…well, the usual issue…she gets into trouble, we help her…she needed support, we help her…she needed money, we help her…ets, etc…by the way, lately i have not been of great help to her so i guess the “we” here only refer to our parents…but then, she always forgives him and goes running back despite of our objections…we always had to take the back seat and it was getting tiring…hence, explaining the screaming match…
it’s done…she has to grow up and start thinking (as she has not been using her brain for the past 11 years)…as they say: FLUSH YOUR OWN SHIT!
what you do with dead arms again???nothing.
Monday, December 8, 2008
27 Happy Thoughts
1. my dysfunctional family (but a family still)
2. dearest, dearest Rez
3. work: 5 days a week (2 days weekend off) and get paid well
4. friends
5. food in the refrigerator
6. Charity, always my Charity
7. money in the wallet
8. believing in God
9. plans and dreams
10. Joshua
11. finished college without any complaints from my papa
12. I am Salome when I dance (I can ask for anybody’s head)
13. a home in CDO (almost finish, almost…)
14. travels (discovering new places and meeting people)
15. books
16. savings account
17. soduko
18. clean and pressed sheets
19. old houses
20. garage sale
21. ‘tsokalate-de-batirol’ on gloomy, rainy days
22. passport
23. 8 year-old journal filled with secrets and non-secrets and then more secrets
24. photos
25. christmas tree
26. rehearsals
27. housekeeping (shhhhhh—zip it)
2. dearest, dearest Rez
3. work: 5 days a week (2 days weekend off) and get paid well
4. friends
5. food in the refrigerator
6. Charity, always my Charity
7. money in the wallet
8. believing in God
9. plans and dreams
10. Joshua
11. finished college without any complaints from my papa
12. I am Salome when I dance (I can ask for anybody’s head)
13. a home in CDO (almost finish, almost…)
14. travels (discovering new places and meeting people)
15. books
16. savings account
17. soduko
18. clean and pressed sheets
19. old houses
20. garage sale
21. ‘tsokalate-de-batirol’ on gloomy, rainy days
22. passport
23. 8 year-old journal filled with secrets and non-secrets and then more secrets
24. photos
25. christmas tree
26. rehearsals
27. housekeeping (shhhhhh—zip it)
I Have Graduated
after waking up with the worst headache and a bump on my forehead for falling off the bed 3x three (or 4) years back (with a friend’s horror story of carrying buckets of salt water — from sea to the cottage and then back again and again as there was no running water in the bathroom when i decided to throw up all over the place), i have decided to clean up my act and stop making a bigger fool out of my already foolish self…back then i made a promise not to drink (and party) until i am mature enough to say ’stop’ when the red light starts blinking…last saturday, i am proud to tell you that i fulfilled my promise and graduated from an irresponsible party freak to a responsible but still a party freak…i guess all those years of saying ’no’ to friends when they invite me for a drink or all those instances of saying ‘maybe later’ were all worth it…and the best part was, i still knew how to have fun after all…
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Paulo's Pencil
1. the pencil cannot just simply function on its own, it is guided by a hand and we like to believe that THAT HAND is God.
2. sometimes the hand has to stop writing and sharpen the pencil…therefore, it is alright to feel a little pain, a little disappointment (all are ’little’ regardless of what we claim) and suffer for a while; if, in replacement, the act would sharpen us anyhow and make us function better.
3. the wooden exterior holds little siginificance…it’s what is inside that counts…thus, that so-called lead is all that matters (since it is the main reason why a pencil exists in the first place).
4. sometimes we make errors (being humans we are prone to such) and that is why a pencil is packed with an eraser, which will allow us to correct whatever wrong things we have done.
5. we have to remember that although we have erased the error, we will always leave a mark…just like all actions always do.
2. sometimes the hand has to stop writing and sharpen the pencil…therefore, it is alright to feel a little pain, a little disappointment (all are ’little’ regardless of what we claim) and suffer for a while; if, in replacement, the act would sharpen us anyhow and make us function better.
3. the wooden exterior holds little siginificance…it’s what is inside that counts…thus, that so-called lead is all that matters (since it is the main reason why a pencil exists in the first place).
4. sometimes we make errors (being humans we are prone to such) and that is why a pencil is packed with an eraser, which will allow us to correct whatever wrong things we have done.
5. we have to remember that although we have erased the error, we will always leave a mark…just like all actions always do.
Monday, October 6, 2008
How the world was once a perfect Rubik’s Cube.
While on my way to work…i have observed that a lot of street vendors are including Rubik’s Cubes-slash-”Stress Balls” in their merchandise…and i watched how people fancied themselved with enthusiastically twisting the darned things here and there, only to scratch their heads later after realizing that putting them back to their original form was even more difficult as perceived. And it dawned that they were not as smart as they thought they were, they end up shrugging off and making Stress Balls out of the Rubik’s Cubes (if they were made of rubber) but if not, they end up stacking them somewhere. How typical. How very obvious. You see, it is our nature to experiment…to try all sorts of things…to do and undo everything that we can get our filthy hands on…to change but restore later…to blind ourselves that we can ultimately copy what God can do…to destroy and fix again what we have destroyed…we just can’t help being curious…and of course, the end product would be—the death of us all.
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