Why the Square-Off Ad makes me want to have sex

The past days have been a gift to me. I had time to sleep and eat to my heart’s content. Prior to the workshop, I had to skip sleeping to finish all my requirements. I just hope and pray, the vigil and hunger strikes were all worth it. But, until the calendar strikes November 10, I will have all the hours to enjoy my Semestral Break.

For almost a month, I have been back to my old ways of outright lying and deceit through sms. Jannini has warned me that it was due to this sinful habit that my phones get lost, that it was sort of a divine way of telling me that liars do go to hell, but I chose not to listen. So it turns out that the usual ways do make me happy. Really.

I think I have been juggling identities for two to five persons and it makes the wait for the UNLITXT verification message all the more exciting and the hour of expiration more dreadful. When you’re in the height of virtual, er, mobile pleasure, you just wish there was UNLI for forever. To some extent, it keeps the boring blues away save for a toxic dose of Iisa Pa Lamang. This game puts me to sleep at four in the morning until the Square-Off ad began airing on TV.

Whenever, I see that ad, it makes me want to have sex. No, not because it is all too-stimulating or what (imagine Drilon making you horny) but the pressure it pounds on me is simply unbearable. Unbearable is such a weak word. What the hell am I putting myself into? National humiliation via ANC? Where is sex when you need it. Not a ton of chocolate or a sweet lingering kiss from G. could halt me from diving into the abyss of anxiety.  

When the ad’s frame highlights Mindanao and directly beneath it is Ateneo de Zamboanga University, I want to go into hiding or just get a vase and bang it on my brother who claps at the sight. Any moment from now, we’ll be receiving a call for us to fly to Manila and shine as the best provincial debaters or make a total wreck out of ourselves on TV.It may sound corny but this texting-induced psychosis is equivalent to any brat’s comfort food or to any wannabe’s stick of cigarette; for the meantime since sex is not yet available.

I will be with Myser and hopefully, anyone but Paulo. The horror of the thought of being with him exacerbates my appendicitis. The thought of being with Myser makes me blush. Pathetic talaga.

All I thought after that three grueling nights of tryouts and moi emerging as No. 1, it was going to be as easy as that –as easy as going to Manila to flirt and shop and be at Wowowee. I was dead wrong. I got chocked with hype and ambition that I almost forgot that I haven’t totally swallowed the reality of this burden and that I was not ready yet! What have I done as preparations? Write poetry. Wow.

I need help. I cannot expect help from Myser, I’ll just get distracted (enter Jonas Brothers’ Lovebug). I cannot expect help from Paulo (because he won’t help me at all).

Will Henri help me? Help me what? I haven’t identified what really my problem is. This is not a Humorous Public Speaking competition. No time to make jokes here. Or will I end up a joke? Please, no.

There’s still time, I guess. What am I going to do? Tomorrow or later the ad’s going to pop out of tv and I’ll be looking for sex again. ugh. I’ll write poems? Do the texting scam?

I’m lost.

the M word

i was about to write a post on something, er someone… his stench stuck to my mind, i tried to rid it with a full bath but it didn’t work at all…

i was about to write a post on something, er someone… he doesn’t care a bit and i adored every moment i writhe in annoyance at his display of charming coldness…

i was about to write a post on something, er someone… he wanted everything i thought i was giving him but it wasn’t enough…

i was about to write a post on something, er someone… his quirky smile is all i think about and it burns every creativity and intelligence i used to have…

i hate the idea of  writing a post for someone who doesn’t want to hate me… when that would be the best consolation…

good morning disturbia

I just had my first week of stupid acting a.k.a  observation of English Grammar and Composition class at Ateneo High. I have never felt so unproductive and useless before. (save for the walking cotton candy-cuties, there was nothing to look forward in our 7.30 am-3.00 pm stint) And i still have to attend soul-draining classes afterwards. but anyway, that’s not enough to drive me to the abyss of insanity. really.
what bothers me is the thought of being in a 3-day acting workshop (otherwise known as retreat) with that thief Noel! and it’s going to be on Monday!and we all pretty know the nature of this Ateneo crap : "we play with people, make them close their eyes, play church music and ask them to forgive everyone."
i’m not ready and i don’t think i’ll be in three days time, no matter what amount of drama and threats you give me, i just can’t do it. and please, don’t cite the Bible against me. and no "Lead Me, Lord" background soundtrack.

i just pray the acting workshop won’t end with a trophy for Best Actress in A Supporting Plastic Role.

from the memories of the Fragrance Headmistress

Once upon a time or so they say there was a cliché worth
loving.

The Sun King was in the midst of a fierce battle to win the
throne of the Kingdom of The Dying Light against self-proclaimed Emperor
Bloviathon. This lowly baron once challenged the might of the Fragrance Headmistress
of the Perfumed Nightmares. Emerging victory-less, he gathered his Armed Forces
of Charlatans to battle the stoic Sun King.

For the Uneventful Wars, the Sun King chose the Her
Stainfulness the Whore Fairy to ride with him to his anticipated victory. Troops and battalions of Charlatan warriors
threw a bevy of mud and hale against the Emerald Couple. Day and night, the Emerald Couple fought hard
but the Sun King noticed the Whore Fairy’s bruises. She was getting weaker and
weaker by the hour, draining the brilliance off her wings.

The Kingdom of the Dying Light was in greater danger as
Emperor Bloviathon and his Charlatan troops pounded on the Emerald Couple’s
entourage, pelting Whisper Cannons to the Whore Fairy’s carriage. This artillery
screeched the Whore Fairy’s secrets and the citizens were awakened with heralds
of the embarrassment she caused to the Disgraced Demigod, once the kingdom’s
grand vizier.

The Sun King could not feel more pity. Without the knowledge
of the entire kingdom, the Emerald Couple swore to love each other and fight
till the end.

As the war was drawing to its end, the Emperor Bloviathon
accepted his obvious defeat. He offered a peace accord with the Sun King: he
was willing to be a subservient devotee of the Fragrance Headmistress in
exchange for the Sun King’s denial of the Whore Fairy. With a bleeding heart,
the Sun King made a triumphal entry into the Kingdom of the Dying Light without
the Whore Fairy by his side.

He had to say his emotionless goodbyes and leave her at the outskirts
of the city, at one last effort he persuaded her to be his Alta Scriba but she
declined.

And so the Sun King never gained the smile he never had.

The Whore Fairy humbly went back to her old simple ways of
whoring.

How sad.

the workshop virgin remembers

            Last week, I had my first ever writers workshop. The
eleven-hour ride to Iligan had me going through layers of dust and even almost-zero
visibility due to the fog. Starving and haggard, I waited for three hours at
the MSU-IIT hostel only to find out it wasn’t our billeting venue. I almost
cried like a kindergarten tot, but who cares IT was my FIRST (my tears had to
make way for my grin of excitement). Dear old Ateneo did not have one (that’s
no surprise since it did not offer Creative Writing or AB Lit English as a
major). It has been almost five days, but I couldn’t thoroughly digest the fact
that I was part of it. It was a National Writers Workshop, mind you. For five
days, we dissected every fiber, every nerve and every marrow of poems and short
stories to extract its value and the process was heartbreaking for a “workshop
virgin” like me.

 I
could not muster the strength of my larynx to utter a single word (for five
straight days!) not because the air-conditioning was a natural sadist but by
the fact that I do not know what to say. Really! What in the universe is
Formalism, metafiction or Nagmalitung
Yawa?! I’d rather keep my mouth shut than sound like a blabbering baboon.
Good thing, I reminded my self of a Miss Universe must –smile.

 I
felt so small, like a solitary helium molecule in the atmosphere. My co-fellows
were carving their places in the sun, while I was searching for the sunshine
between nimbus clouds. Poor Oh Marion, the most virgin, wallowed in awe and
envy at the sight and sound of these pre-destined genetically-selected writers.
All these, while the gods (the sweet-tempered panelist) lash out at the mortals
who dare challenge their Palanca-given immortality. Que se vaya, basta yo hay merienda.

 The succeeding parts will reveal the “fan” in me.

     The
workshop also granted a rare opportunity (for someone who’s from La Isla
Bonita- Basilan) to work with two Iskolars ng Bayan. Fine, laugh, but I’m
just being honest. I have never worked with students from UP Diliman before. Sarah
and Erick –the best. period. (their pieces were praised as the workshop’s crown
jewels).

 Sam
and Eva gave me insights on how is it to work with Summit Publications and the
Inquirer, making me daydream with pictures of Andrea and Miranda. (Sam used to have
a boss who was a rip-off) From Davao is friendly friend Kris, the teen-bopper
hard-drinker, who amazingly managed to maintain a hangover-less poise during
sessions. And our dear “workshop boys” –Yas, Phillip, John and JL, showed me
the inconvenient truth: this world is not safe for asthmatics. :p

I wished I didn’t find it awkward
to strike up with Leonilo, Leoncio, Niño and Elena.

 The
LSS I’m suffering now from Ashlee Simpson’s Outta My Head (Ay Ya Ya) is Efmer’s
fault. Hmph.

  I wrote this entry because I don’t have anyone
to share how I miss my co-fellows. Sheryl said it right, “the first cut’s the
deepest”.

“See you all soon. Hopefully.”

 -Fred
Jordan Carnice

PS

I just quoted my crush. :p

If gossips kill.

If they really do, I might be hailed in penal
colonies as their ultimate Madame (Mad-damn). Majestic mass-murderer. Well, how
is that for a title? But unfortunately they don’t although they do bite hard.
(do I hear an ‘ouch!’?)

Weeks ago, after dying from rubella, my inbox got
frantic over terse sms that threaten bravura of this and that. It was of how poor virgin me has yet again
been naughty (while in the hospital bed??), I mean accused of misbehavior –spreading
rumors. (Somewhere in Miami, Lindsay might frown on this infringement on
copyright laws. Whatever.)

God knows how I miss being talked about, as the
soon-to-be heretic Keeshia says, “Why should it always be about you?” well,
defender of the faith moi says, “Why not?” Whether in adulation or revulsion,
fact is their larynges made an effort to mention every damn phoneme of your
name. (A dose of mild megalomania sometimes helps in keeping one’s sanity. Trust
me)

Now seriously, I really got nervous (who wouldn’t
if you have antibiotics for breakfast?). I have never dared challenge faculty
members on a fight of blackmails and same font colored propagandas. Most of
all, an office call or worse, summons from the board of discipline (ala The
Other Boleyn Girl) is never a nice back-to-school treat. I couldn’t sleep much
less erase the thought from my mind, so I made the sincerest efforts to appease
the Digital Demigod. It didn’t work apparently. (bad Oracle. tsk)

Now for a rare moment, I’m going to be honest. Yes,
got it right. I’m going to be honest. Really. (Why do I have such a hard time
convincing people about this?)

I personally enjoyed discussing
the rumors and stories about the Digital Demigod and his mortal friend. To some
extent, I wanted them both killed for bursting the bile in my stomach. But this
was ages ago! I swear on Paris Hilton’s grave that I haven’t talked about this
since like Britney was still unshaved!

Honestly, you actually reminded
me of that fact or story or rumor or university secret or publicity stunt or
whatever you call it. I’m done with it. Next please. Oh before I forgot, the
Digital Demigod also produced China-manufactured witnesses, to claim that they
heard me make it a public announcement. Apparently, I know them just like how I
know Einstein’s first cousin on the mother’s side. (Somewhere in Culianan,
Kenneth is frowning over a second-rate trying-hard copycat.)

So I guess I’m done with you
unless you still want an encore?

A month ago, a friend (once
described by another friend as a “total wreck”) sent me quote about how rumor-mongers
and gossipers are parasites that feed on people’s lives. It turned out to be an
innuendo (I love the attempt.) for me since she learned I was spreading rumors
about her.  Uhmm… do I need to spread
rumors about her when her glamorized ADHD tantrums in hallways make her a Prozac-incarnate?

I simply had this reply: “Rumors
make stars. So I guess I found the answer why you’re not.”

If gossips could really kill.

Live from Room 454

I have rubella. That’s German measles. And I’ve got the spots to prove them, i just wanted to have a Grey’s Anatomy-sounding illness to merit a room that costs roughly $30 per night.
I think I’ll be a week late in my Summer classes.

It started last Tuesday when I
went to school to do some stuff and catch a glimpse of Glenn who was coming
over for a debate drill.
Henri, in his usual mysterious and oftentimes surreal insinuations, asked
me to stay for a day of debate and “more”. I would have wanted to stay, I was
dying to stay. But the usual reasons of my trips across the strait pervaded. I had
no choice, so to speak.

That night at home, I almost died from fever. Goodness gracious! It was
the first time I never left my bed unwillingly. By Thursday, I checked in at my
favorite hotel –Ciudad Medical Zamboanga.

And once again, it’s summer and a week before the start of my yearly
scholarship-less study in Ateneo.

This time, he didn’t just ask me whether I know our good high school
valedictorian, our dear beaker-throwing screeching “General’s daughter”. We talked.
God knows how his visit is better than any dose of paracetamol they give me. Haayyy…
I almost forgot the 6 testube-full amount of blood they drain from me every
dawn of my stay.

Glenn is everything. We had a debate practice and I was in their team
(with the Henri) and to hell with Tibet. I just wanted to be near this person
who has been the subject of quite a few rumors before (imported from
Dumaguete). He’s shy, although the picture I had for moths since the last time
we “met” tell otherwise, but then again Henri would insist he was shy. Trust him
on this. Henri is an authority on Glennology.

Glenn spent all his fun days, even delaying his return to Silliman, with
the debate varsity, with coffee here and there and on the eve had karaoke at
home with all of them –without me. And as Henri says it, “nah… sayang…” Well I had a “royal visit” anyway, why complain? As much
as I want to whimper and cry on the floor on why I wasn’t there in Sta. Maria
eating pancit canton with Glenn, I can’t foolishly act that now… duh… the
rubella would slap me hard enough to make me realize that I was sick.

Maybe PCSO would be proud if I consider as a fitting consolation the fact
that at least Glenn does reply to the sms I send him, no matter how silly I need
to make myself appear to merit one.

I need Glenn.

Even if the Coffee Gang frowns upon it.  

look who’s coming…

i’m so excited. really. i mean it. the last time i got this excited was when i was hospitalized exactly a year ago (it was also during Holy Week –Holy Wednesday to be exact) in Ciudad Medical when an angel in highlights made an apparition in my room. well, i heard the angel’s back in town. gahd… should the heavens distract me during finals week? hahaha.. i so love him… really… (this time i’m sure it isn’t lust)

gee… i feel like a PowerPuff Girl (???)… kidding aside, the feeling’s kinda damdamin though…

writing this on a Good Friday… sorry Lord…

but i really can’t help it…. ",)

for once and for all…

His Most Serene Ingrateness

Associate Justice Kenneth Vincent
Beldua was sophomore BSLM nobody who made scene last year at my own expense to
propel his ambition to be SMAdZU president when his first goal of becoming
Chief Justice busted like a pricked balloon.

  When the then Pepito administration
was just starting, this Beldua sent a letter with the intent of asking Mellun
Pepito to name him as either Ombudsman or Associate Justice, something unheard
of in the history of Ateneo. But Mellun had reservations about him and was suggesting
Lordhance Cruz instead, I personally insisted on my wish. Now I remember, “Be
careful what you wish for, it might come true.”

 Fast
forward, Kenneth amazed the entire Office with his plagiarized knowledge of
political science and the arts of law and drafting resolutions that would put
to shame court documents. I honestly felt he was going to eclipse me with his
sashay of Culianan aristocracy. He never denied that he wanted to be Chief
Justice but I never expected he wanted it while I’m still here!

 While I
was in Davao for an ACCESS activity (it was sembreak), Kenneth was already
drawing up the plans to oust me. Basing from
the complaints of the volunteers, Paulo’s petty issue and the Ateneo Idol
controversy, he lobbied, authored and later on presided over the trial he so
wished to have. And the ever-on-a-recess House of Representatives granted him
one of only three quorums they had for that year to verify what my case. Later on
they thought that it was just going to be a committee hearing, not really an
impeachment. Coming from the people which include: Raisa Ponce (graduating cum
laude), Al-Zhoheir Hajim (cum laude and champion debater), Emann Ascano
(debater and ADU Presidentiable), Kishra Dawabi (defender of SACSI) and Mark
Harun (current SMAdZU President), one can imagine how a sophomore BSLM allergen
made them a heap of crap.

 Unfortunately
for him I had erstwhile debate demigod Henry Segovia as my counsel and we
pricked Kenneth’s balloon of a dream. But the chauvinist megalomaniac had the
temerity to run for the presidency with the false assumption that he will win.
(Actually he did, among Management students alone and to Keeshia, of course)
Honestly, I also surfaced my name as one of the possible nominees just to test
the waters and you know what that Beldua brazenly told me to stop me from
running? : “I don’t want you to experience defeat ba Madame.” So Kenneth, how
was the experience?

 But he’s
not yet done, I don’t know what diabolical power he used to enchant Sheena
Tajala to vote for Neanderthal Robie Jone Lim as House Speaker (imagine the
minority party winning it). The worst is yet to come. But I’m ready, once is
enough, twice is too much.

 What a shriveled psoriatic bitter old pill you
are.

The thief with the
blonde highlights

 Disgraced former Education
Academic Organization president, Noel Mark Torralba received a gold medal for
service this year. I received a certificate. Three years of service ditched for
a year of pretentious attention-calling “service” of a transferee. I’m not
bitter, I am revolting! Fine, why cry over spilt milk.

 Rewind,
he stole my mobile phone last February 13 (Valentine’s Eve). Actually, Espie
and I had already doubts that he was the culprit. He was the only person left
in the Office the day my phone was gone. He helped to look for, appeared
genuinely concerned about me. He never opened his bag and he was clutching it
for dear life. I was at a lost, I never thought of asking him to open it. (hmmm…
what if I did ask him? And I found it there? I might have slapped so strong,
his dentures would surely fall off)

 I admire
the nerves of this STD-stricken Noel, the days following the “loss” of my
phone, we would have our lunch meals together and even snacks. He even became a
common feature of the Office, feeling like it was his own. I noticed the this cell phone-snatcher in
Ateneo uniform increasingly became conceited when he criticized SMAdZU when he
had access to glues, stapler, cartolina, bond paper and the telephone just like
any other officer. In some occasions, he would let advertise the Office as the “place
where you can find him” and he even made my desk his “baggage counter”. Just imagine
that.

 All the
while he was enjoying my N7610.

 I tried
asking over and over again to categorically know why he stole my phone, Espie
trying to explain in his ADU-acquired English made things more cryptic. He simply
said Noel had a “blackout”. Can I hear something better from that thief?

 Is “blackout”
telling me (after I was discharged from the hospital where I was confined for hypertension
stage 1) that it was karma that I lost it since I was fooling people to be my
textmates? And reply to my textmates the very night he stole it? And get their
phone numbers? And keeping my ATM # and Pin code in his contacts? Is “blackout” texting me using my own phone?

 Spare his
family, he said. Noel let me remind you what you said to me when I asked you
why my phone was in your bag: “Muri pa
myo nana pati dimiyo nana Mar, hinde yo guilty.” I am sure that once they
found out about their thief of a son, they’ll wish to see you dead. And you can
manage to laugh with our classmates like nothing happened? Sorry but I’m not
done yet.

 To Henry
(akala n’yo ang linis n’yo), Espie (Mar, your promise), Lei (I hope Mar you can forgive him) and to
the Dean (We’ll make it fair for you), I
pray this would not happen to you because if it will, these words will end up
at the mouths where it came from.

 Noel, I
don’t get mad. I don’t cry. I get even.

 And
what was it you always say, con su
poniendo.

 Just die,
will you, please?

the devirginized fool

it’s a weird feeling to be fooled. it’s like a reminder that you’re no demigod who’s immune from the stupidity of trusting too much. jeez… damn… they got me homicidal…
death to thieves and paupers!