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A conversation late last night / early this morning with Big Boy and LR over ice cream, cheese rings and coke brought about this nugget of wisdom / crap: "Between love and hate, hate is easier. The very nature of love requires reciprocation and no matter how much you shower love on anyone, it never guarantees that it will be returned. Hate, one the other hand, does not require equal feelings. It is quite possible, and very easy, to hate someone who does not hate you back. And yes, when you heap hate on someone, it's entirely possible that they would learn to hate you right back -- but that hardly matters as hate does not require to be returned." (Sleep deprivation x the time of the day or night) + (weirdoks) + (sugar) = random pieces of brilliance. Or statements I feel will bite me in the ass at some point. Tags: demented doses, good days, number 42 theories, tripping away
coordinates: changi airport
state of mind: impatient
background noise: people waiting to board planes
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Tagged by ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) maragtas. 1. What worries you?
Lately, everything. But mostly the phone ringing.
2. Are you confused as to what lies ahead?
You mean, there's more? Fuck.
3. Is there anything that made you unhappy recently?
The better question is, what has not made me unhappy recently.
4. What did you last cry over?
The crapiness of the latest Bleach episodes.
5. Have you ever dated someone?
That's all I've seemed to do lately.
6. Which is more blessed: loving someone or being loved by someone?
Neither. Loving the fact that you're alone is best.
7. If the person you like doesn't accept you, would you continue to wait for them to change their feelings?
No. Ano sya sineswerte?
8. If the person you like is secretly attached, what would you do?
"Wishing and hoping and praying..." Or however that song goes.
9. What do you want most in life?
Right now, a bakery in Batanes.
10. What's the most important thing you look for in a significant other?
Funny.
11. Have you ever had your heart broken?
Did the Grand Hitad ever exist?
12. Would you rather be single and rich or married and poor?
Single and rich. Anyone who chooses the latter is an idiot.
13. Do you like someone right now?
Trying very hard not to.
14. Do they like you too?
I'd pay good money to know the answer to that... No wait! I'm trying not to like anyone... so I don't care!
15. If you fall in love with two persons simultaneously, who would you pick?
The taller one.
16. What type of friends do you like?
The ones I have now, thank you very much.
17. If you played a prank on someone, and she/he fell for the trick, what would you do?
Document it and gloat for life.
18. If you were betrayed by someone, what would you say to that person?
Humanda ka sa akin.
19. If the person tagging you likes/loves you, what will you do/say?
Awww. Lagot ka kay Marby!
20. What do you think of the person who tagged you?
One of the funniest, funnest people in the world. One of the weirdest, too. Peace, pao!
Tagging: jhybeturtle , binsoup , fairlycloudy on LJ. Tagging: Tin, Leng, Dang, Patrick on Multiply. Tags: demented doses, life in manila, pointless posts, pop culture
coordinates: dining table, my place
state of mind:  anxious
background noise: lucia's conversations
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 I nicked myself the other day, A unique injury, barely Exposing soft flesh without blood. The knife was sharp, But not enough to scar. I secured the area, Cleaned up the flesh, Cut off the ragged edges, Found the perfect bandage, Contained the damage. So now I wait, It will take a while, But the nail will grow, Over exposed flesh, 'til it looks brand new, The injury healed, hidden. A secret between me and my finger. Tags: demented doses, pointless posts
coordinates: the weirdok apprentice's house (singapore)
state of mind:  awake
background noise: bonnie raitt -- I Can't Make You Love Me
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Malu Fernandez does it again. Sometime in June 2007, she wrote an article on the magazine People Asia called, "From Boracay to Greece". The article was about her trip to Greece. As if the article's tacky name-dropping and brand-whoring was not obnoxious enough, the silly woman proceeds to bash Overseas Filipino Workers in the more below-the-belt way. She talks about hating being mistaken for a maid. She talks about how bad it was to be in economy class because her authentic expensive perfume was being overpowered by the cheap ones that the OFWs were wearing. She wrote that she wanted to slash her wrists because she was trapped in economy class with the OFWs.It was elitism at its worst. At its tacky, cringing I-can't-believe-all-the-money-you-claim-t o-have-didn't-buy-you-some-actual-class worst. Needless to say, the OFW community (and they are a force to be reckoned with, believe me you) did not let her get away with it. By August 2007, the poor, stupid woman had been lambasted for everything -- from her elitism to her looks. The outrage from the OFW community was so strong that she was forced to write a public apology and quit her job. You'd think she would have learned her lesson by now. Oh well. You can train an old dog new tricks, so they say. I say, no amount of money in the world can buy a stupid person a brain. This time, she's gunning after bloggers. In her recent article in the Manila Standard, " The Problem with Blogging...", she applies her elitist standards to blogging. She basically says that bloggers (the regular ones, not the ones who are popular enough to feed themselves through their blogs) are slackers and losers who do not understand the 'code of ethics that govern freedom of speech'. It's pretty hilarious to read someone who uses her mighty journalist pen simply to show everyone how famous and rich she is talk about journalism ethics. This is a 'journalist' who talks of nothing else but herself -- her fabulous life, her super sosyal friends, her high fashion items, and just how wonderfully elite she is. It's extra funny that she attacks a medium that allows regular people (who don't have newspaper columns or the connections to have one) to be as self-centred as she is. She talks about how anonymity affords bloggers freedom from accountability -- which is true enough. But tell that to the bloggers in Egypt and Malaysia who have been arrested by their own governments because of their blogs. (Yeah, and my Inner Bitch reckons that all that talk about 'code of ethics' really is just about Anonymous Blogger Envy. I bet she wished she was anonymous when the OFWs wrote letters and petitions against her and campaigned to boycott her clothing brand, Tubby.) And then, she goes much, much further than that. In that recent article, she goes on to say that blogging reflects the Filipino culture of back-stabbing. She tries to be smart by connecting that attitude to Spanish colonisation, which she critcises. But then she turns around and attacks someone for looking like an Indio* -- in the same freaking paragraph! Then she shifts gears and rants against anyone involved in ousting the current Philippine President. She compares that particular movement to someone who bought a green Hermes bag and wished they got the black on instead. And then she ends with anonymous blogging again (which really proves my Anonymous Blogger Envy Theory). She ends, of course, with herself and how great she is that she's the kind of person who refuses to start World War 3 (man, Global Warming, religious fundamentalism and conservative politics will start WW3, not someone whose only talent in life is constructing grammatically-correct sentences. Talk about thinking highly of one's self), and that she would rather be in-your-face when she's being brutal. My question really is: Why is someone like that being paid to actually publish her thoughts? I'm all for freedom of speech but does she really need to get paid to exercise hers? ________ Indio is the derogatory term used by the Spanish colonisers for the non-caucasian people in the country. It's a racist term to the Nth degree. Tags: demented doses, geekery, life in manila, pop culture
coordinates: somewhere in the Philippines
state of mind:  bitchy
background noise: Olga skypeing in Spanish
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So I was sneaking into a steel and concrete building which turned out to be a military facility that looked very much like The Pit and / or The Rock*. I was pretty fit, which was nice. I particularly enjoyed jumping on the ceiling and staying there by extending my arms and legs to the wall when a bunch of security guards came my way. I had pretty long legs, too. Though I couldn't understand why I just didn't hide in one of the empty rooms along the corridor. Oh well. If you're fit, must use your body creatively, I suppose.
Then I headed for a particular room, where someone wearing a surgical mask was waiting for me by a bed. I can't remember if the person was male or female. Though s/he did have pretty soft hands as s/he was giving me a facial.
I fell asleep at some point.
I woke up to a phone call. One of my aunts was asking me where I was and why I was missing Christmas Eve and that everyone was waiting for my gifts.
So I was like "But Christmas is over! That was yesterday!".
And she was like, "No, that was last year! Xmas is today!"
So I cartwheeled off the bed and then realised that all the malls must be closed by that time. So I used my uber fit body to sneak into different rooms in the facility I was in to forage for last minute gifts. I got both my Aunts cross bows. And I think I took a star knife for Pa3k. Definitely a two-way radio for Ate and Grace. And then I drove away in a tank (no clue how I knew how to drive one), which I was going to give to Cirio.
Then I woke up. Well, I should have expected that. A dream of surreal proportions that would reflect the present. My subconscious is so predictable. I've been obsessing about G.I. Joe again (mostly because Sriber told me that the series was pretty good), and I've been getting plenty of facials lately. The panic over Xmas gift may have been due to the trauma of arriving home with barely time to Xmas shop for the family. And my uber fit, cartwheeling body? Who knows where that came from. __________ *The Pit, the original head quarters of G.I. Joe. The Rock, the new one. Tags: demented doses, pointless posts, pop culture
coordinates: manila
state of mind:  giddy
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It's Velma's birthday tomorrow -- and we're going to fill up the day with food and activities. It all starts at 6:30 am with a mass (the only times I willingly go to Church are on Velma's birthday and her death anniversary -- I can pay respect to her religion on her days), followed by breakfast, then a trip to the cemetary for more praying, then lunch at the old house, then maybe a mahjong session with the aunts. Or a karaoke fest. Or shopping. Any activity will do. Anything that will fill up the day and not severely remind us that the Birthday Girl is not present. Sometimes I find it hilarious how Velma, six-feet underground, living it up in the afterlife and all that, still manages to influence the family. The residue of her clout, her power over everyone, her bossiness, her fabulousness, still affect us. A few months back, Mana G., the old housekeeper, prepared a dish with the itty bitty fishes that Velma used to love -- and everyone hated. So my brother asks her, "why are we having this for dinner?". She responds with "That's your mom's favourite." And we were like "But she's dead." Mana G. still serves that same fish dish to date and still uses the same reason for serving it. Everyone still talks about her in the present tense -- as if she was going to walk in any moment with her high-heeled shoes, perfectly coiffed hair and bossy opinions. When the family was discussing who will inherit the old house (my aunts and uncles finally coming to terms with the fact that they were not going to live forever), the question in their heads was "What does Velma want?". Not what would Velma have wanted. Not what Velma would have said. But what does she want. As if she could still want things. As if she were alive. Weird. I do the same, of course. I still sometimes find myself eager to share something with Velma -- a nice pair of shoes I'd just seen, a movie that she would have liked to see, funny jokes that would have had her laughing her ass off. It happens more when I'm away from home though -- at home, I'm very aware of her non-presence. I'd be in the middle of a market in some other place and I still have to remind myself that there's no reason to go around looking for green vases, clothes for short, tiny women and other trinkets that my mom would love. And it still jars me whenever I have to remind myself. And it still takes a bit of the shine away from the day. And I never want to ever let that feeling go away. I never want to get used to her not being home doing her crossword puzzles and watching her detective tv shows whenever I go home from a trip. I never want to see a fabulous green vase and not think about buying it for her. I never want to watch a Sean Connery film and think about the snarky things I'd say about him just to piss her off. I never want to stop missing her. Tags: demented doses, pointless posts, velma-ism
state of mind:  calm
background noise: the donnas
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Damn these bugs that plague the brain. It's almost 2am and there's going to be an earthquake-preparedness drill thingie at my building at 8am -- in which I will have to go down 7 flights of stairs to a park near my building and stand in the rain and wind while firemen lecture us about safety procedures in the event of an earthquake. I should be sleeping, but I couldn't pop a pill tonight because I have to be sure that the fire alarm at 8am will wake me up. So I've been tossing and turning for the past 3 hours, replaying in my head a conversation with a friend and colleague that happened about a month ago. She said, " c5, you're going to have to learn to be more comfortable with your power. You have to learn to deal with it in order to be able to wield it for good." And I answered, " Yeah, sure." Because to be honest, I am aware of my own power and its privileges as well as my own disempowerment and whatever it is that's the opposite of privileges. But power and privilege don't sit nice and happy in my stomach. I'd like to believe that I'm a Loser -- that in a world of truly powerful people, I am Nothing. That notion sits nice and happy in my head and tummy. That notion doesn't put bugs in my brain or butterflies in my stomach. That notion allows me to be what I've always wanted to be (if I couldn't be a physicist): A Professional Heckler. Now Professional Heckling is a cushy job. Professional Hecklers are cool because they're always so goddamn witty and critical and hilarious (unless of course you're the day's target). Professional Heckling rests on the idea that a Professional Heckler is ultimately insignificant so that no matter how cutting or biting a Professional Hecklers words are, they don't matter. Because their effect is momentary and if one's heckling does have long-term effect, it's purely a by luck and not in any way related to the social and political relevance of the Heckler. A Professional Heckler has no responsibility or any real accountability. All that is expected of her is to heckle and if she fails to do that, no one is going to die. Professional Hecklers are powerless -- that is the justification for their heckling and that is their ultimate state. It's a self-perpetuating state of being. It's funky. But see, there's this tiny part of me. This nerdy, ambitious part of me that wants to be more than a Professional Heckler. That tiny little rottweiler in my brain that wants to be more significant and to have long-term impact on the world. An earnest little go-getter who believes that what she says and does affects others in a major way. A conceited little bugger who thinks that the world will be a better place because she exists. An Inner Superhero Wannabe. A tiny little Megalomaniac with a Messianic Complex. Most days, I can ignore that little bitch and pretend she doesn't exist. But today, I couldn't. And tonight, this early Friday morning, she was replaying that conversation that happened over a month ago in my head in a voice I couldn't ignore (and couldn't let me sleep). And so my brain itches. So I scratch. ****** Dr. Alfredo Robles, the most brilliant Political Science professor in my known universe, once succintly and simplistically described Power as " the ability of A to make B do what A wants B to do." It's simple and vague enough as description of power, but at its core, it's similar enough to the concept of Power in Physics. Power moves things -- through active, blatant force (coercion, threat), through charisma (trust), through manipulation (paraphrasing some of Machiavelli's types of power). It makes me feel uncomfortable, the idea that I can, in some situations, make another person (or a group of people) do something simply because I said so. It makes me feel icky -- and accountable. Like I have to be all grown up and mature. I'd really rather be the perennial slacker, The Loser, who moves slowly and jelly-like among people. Not exerting any force on anyone. Never displacing anyone. Never causing harm. Shapeless and malleable Jell-O that takes the shape of its vessel and environment. Absolutely ineffectual and perenially at rest. The only thing Jell-O is good at is decreasing friction and it only causes harm when somebody accidentally steps on it and slips. Yeah, being Jell-O would be groovy. But I think it's too late for that. A series of events, my own inner rottweiler, my obsessive compulsive twitch, my inner ambitions of relevance have put me in a place where I do have power and privileges. Without exactly knowing what the fuck I had gotten myself into, I have worked hard to be where I am. So I must deal with the consequences and I must learn to live with whatever power I do have over others. That means acknowledging the disempowerment of other people in relation to me -- from their hurt feelings to their potshots. (I'm trying to keep from quoting Spider-man's Uncle Ben: ' With great power comes great responsibilty". Because that's way too overdone and I wanted to have an entry that didn't refer to comic books like they were the Source of All Knowledge -- which they are, really.) It's not going to be easy. I have a sinking feeling that I will toss and turn some more tonight after I've posted this entry. This time to the whine-y tune of the Inner Brat screaming " But I want Jell-O!" ***** But here's my caveat (I need them so I can sleep tonight). I refuse to buy that anyone is completely powerless because there is power and privilege in disempowerment. Why else would a Victim Complex be the easiest way to cede accountability for any situation? The world romanticises The Disempowered (I just did less than an hour ago as I waxed lyrical about Professional Hecklers) and in so doing provides that state of being privilege. And here's another. Anyone who refuses to acknowledge their own power over other people, their capacity to exert force on a situation, is delusional and must never be trusted. We all exert power over someone -- and when we can't, we buy dogs (so said Camus -- he also said "or get wives". What a bastard). So unless a person is using her power to kill babies or cheat on elections or bomb countries, people who have power are not necessarily the spawn of Satan. Otherwise, we're all Satan's Kids. Right. I've scratched that itch enough and I'm getting head rush from too much nicotine. I need to sleep. Tags: demented doses, number 42 theories
state of mind:  cold
background noise: the whirl of the ceiling fan above me
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staler
! I had a dream about you lastnight. In my dream, you showed up unexpectedly while I was busy stalking some dude (whose face I can't recall). First, you were a giant. Then you became a robot -- kind of like Robin Williams in that silly robot flim he did (Bicentennial Man, I think). But you still looked like you... You gave me tips on dude-stalking then we found out that the dude wanted you. Fucking lost to a robot! How pathetic is that.
