Since last night, I have been wanting to write something, anything, just for the sake of having something to post in this blog. I grabbed my laptop at around 11:00 in the evening and thought of something to write. So many things crossed my mind like my shaking faith, a movie review on Ma Vie En Rose, my latest hoop-up, my crush who is just a neighbor whose name I still have to know, and even the death of Cory. But nothing came into writing. I gave it a rest that night hoping that some ideas would pop out the following day.
Disappointed about last night’s mental block, today at exactly 3:00 in the afternoon, I stopped working for a moment. I sat comfortably and stared out at the window looking far ahead waiting that some magical creature would display “Write something about sex!” in the sky like fireworks. Although it could be a great idea to write about but it just didn’t work out. I am still clueless. I still don’t have that urge, that burning desire, that inspiration.
I continued staring out at the window but not looking far ahead. I looked down this time at people passing by the street which is just five meters away from the building I was in. People-watching has always been my favorite way of wasting time. It is best when you have a friend who can laugh with you every time you make crazy and hilarious descriptions of the people passing by. Sometimes, it makes me sad when I see a child crying helplessly, with one hand gripping firmly on his mother’s skirt and the other with a piece of bread. I turn dark green in envy whenever I see lovers, ‘gay lovers’ that is, holding hands openly without having to worry about what people might say. I open my eyes wide and cleanse my glasses striving to have a clearer view whenever I see some cute guys approaching. You see, people-watching is not really a waste of time at all. It is fun!
My music has stopped. All the songs in my playlist have been played already. Josh Groban, Mariah Carey, Martina MacBride and Nickelback might have sore throats by now but still nothing came up. Now the rain has made it worse. Its sounds are so like a mother’s lullaby that you can’t help but to feel sleepy making you write off the idea of trying to have something to write about. It’s 4:45. It’s time to go home already but still my brain isn’t working. It’s blank. It’s void. I will wait again for tomorrow and tomorrows after that until I have that itch again.
It’s funny though that I just made a post with this.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My place...
I found this in a forum when I was searching for nice Youngblood articles in the web. This great piece of literature is about innocent love that metamorphosed into something deep. It's about friendship, hate, sorrow, and later on acceptance. As I was reading, I actually somehow felt the pains and frustrations that the author went through. And the way this was written was just perfect.
Please read on....
MY PLACE
By SC
September 13, 2001
TODAY, I will attend an execution: my own. I will watch it with both eyes open and I will not cry. I will not break down just because the man I have loved since forever will marry someone else. I will watch him promise himself to a woman who will never love him like I have. I will watch them bind themselves to a vow I should have taken.
I have loved Oliver almost all my life. I have known him since I saved his six-year-old hide from a bully named Ricardo who wanted to rid him of his two yellowed front teeth. I was five at the time, but having grown with five older brothers and a hellion of a sister, "Totoy Cardo" was a piece of cake. Oliver was so overcome with embarrassment at having a girl to protect his scrawny neck that from that time on he made it a point to be the rescuer, not the rescued. As time passed, muscles filled out this lanky frame and those two front teeth began to sparkle. He combs his hair, and he takes a bath daily now. In short, he has become a fine specimen of manhood.
The best part is, he lived up to his promise: he became my self-appointed guardian (well, I don't know if that's the best or the worst part). He was just always there, sticking to me like glue. It used to drive me nuts that he never let me out of his sight.
When I was 12, I ran from the infirmary on my way home. I had found out in the most humiliating way that I had become a woman: there was a big red stain on the back portion of my skirt. The jeers and the taunts followed me through the school corridors. Oliver dashed after me and offered to accompany me home. I declined, of course. He seemed to understand my discomfiture and promised to drop later with the things left in school. When I reached home I was told that I needed to jump three times on the stairs (which I did) and to wash my face with my blood (which I didn't do). Oliver dropped by in the afternoon, sporting a black eye and a bruise on his arm. When I asked him what happened, he said he had walked into a closed door. I believed him. But a few days later, minus the dysmennorhea, I found out that Oliver got into fisticuffs because some guy made a disgusting remark about me. Nobody had ever fought for me before that. And when you're 12 and discussing in class how King Arthur and fairest of them all, Lancelot, fought for Guinevere's love, you tend to get ideas. I loved Oliver then.
When we were in high school and I found out that the school's heartthrob and one of my most ardent suitors, Richard, was involved with a bustier girl, it was to Oliver that I ran. When I didn't graduate as valedictorian and I got so drunk, it was Oliver who took me home. He didn't even mind that I barfed all over his dad's car (which he borrowed without permission). When I decided to go to UP and he went to Ateneo, we celebrated by partying. When I lost my mom in a car accident, he took care of everything. When my dad followed my mom less than a year later after a heart attack, he was there again.
By this time he was an appendage of my life. He used to check out the guys I came to know. Nobody dared to get serious with me-not when Oliver had a black belt. I didn't know how to define our relationship. I didn't know what we were. We definitely were more than friends, better even than best friends. It was like we were a couple, but formally not one. We did all the things that couples did like hang out and neck but always stopped when things got too hot. Since we never defined what we meant to each other, we never said "I love you" or whatever serious couple told each other. As a result, I remained a chaste princess while my prince caroused and sowed wild oats, but still had the energy to monitor my movements.
I didn't mind. After all, I was so sure we'd end up together. I always thought that in the end, it would be us. I loved him. I managed to convince myself that he loved me (what else could it be?). Little did I know that love doesn't conquer all, it only conquers the weak. I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to get a girl pregnant on the same night they met at a party. I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to forget to use some form of contraception. After all, he had given me a lecture on safe sex. And I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to marry the girl.
But maybe I forgot that after all he was a man, and men have been known to be stupid about these things. Their brain is located in a region other than between the ears.
What could I do? Kicking him in the groin and punching him in the eye seemed like a good idea then. Don't blame me; he was the one who enrolled me in a self-defense course. But I did not feel better. Seeing him bent over in pain only made me angrier. I wasted my life for this lousy excuse of a man? I could not believe it!
I wanted nothing more than to run to him and beg him to wake me up from the stupid dream. I wanted him to take me some place where we didn't know anybody. No pain, no memory, no humiliation. I wanted to just forget it ever happened but since I flunked in the School for Martyrs, I couldn't, for the life of me pretend, it didn't happen. I couldn't pretend he didn't hurt me. I couldn't pretend everything was fine and dandy and exactly the way it was before.
We didn't talk for a month. For both of us who were practically inseparable, that was like an eternity. I ducked into corners whenever I would see him. I wouldn't take his calls. I wouldn't see him. And for some time hate was my reason for getting up in the morning, for breathing, for living. Hate and I became good friends. "God brings men into deep waters, not to drown them but to cleanse them," somebody once wrote. I didn't want to be cleansed. I just wanted to drown in pain and misery and utter desolation. I wanted to wallow in the dark and deep pit of despair. I know a thousand and one cliches that say this can be a blessing and that I should be thankful. But thankful is the last thing I'm feeling right now. I've always thought that there are three kinds of women: those who break, those who mend and those who are broken themselves. Before this hit me, I assumed that I belonged to the first or second category. Now I know I'm in the third-so hurt and broken up inside.
My grandmother used to say that there is nothing you can do about pain when it give you a silly grin except grin right back. All I could manage was a wry smile, a killer headache and the worst hangover the day before his wedding. Evidence of that is the disgusting sight of mashed potatoes and barbecue, thrown up not three meters away from where I was lying prostrate on the floor and the awful stench of cigarette on my hair.
Frankly I don't want to go. I want to wallow in misery in my messy room, crying, retching and stinking, surrounded with Michael Learns to Rock (whose songs are dedicated to the broken-hearted) CDs. But I have to go and attend the wedding. I have to bathe and prepare and put on that atrocious peach (it's not even my color!) gown. I'm not doing it for the groom, my one true friend and love, Oliver. Neither am I doing it for the bride, my younger sister, Sandra, who needs me. I'm doing it for my unborn niece who has the great fortune of having me as her aunt. Call me stupid, but I've always known my place. If it isn't beside the man I was destined to marry, if it isn't behind my sister, who will take his name, wear his ring and bear him a child, then it must be with my niece, cradled close to my heart so that she will know both of our love.
---------
SC, 22, teaches at a private school in Cagayan de Oro City while taking up postgraduate studies.
Please read on....
MY PLACE
By SC
September 13, 2001
TODAY, I will attend an execution: my own. I will watch it with both eyes open and I will not cry. I will not break down just because the man I have loved since forever will marry someone else. I will watch him promise himself to a woman who will never love him like I have. I will watch them bind themselves to a vow I should have taken.
I have loved Oliver almost all my life. I have known him since I saved his six-year-old hide from a bully named Ricardo who wanted to rid him of his two yellowed front teeth. I was five at the time, but having grown with five older brothers and a hellion of a sister, "Totoy Cardo" was a piece of cake. Oliver was so overcome with embarrassment at having a girl to protect his scrawny neck that from that time on he made it a point to be the rescuer, not the rescued. As time passed, muscles filled out this lanky frame and those two front teeth began to sparkle. He combs his hair, and he takes a bath daily now. In short, he has become a fine specimen of manhood.
The best part is, he lived up to his promise: he became my self-appointed guardian (well, I don't know if that's the best or the worst part). He was just always there, sticking to me like glue. It used to drive me nuts that he never let me out of his sight.
When I was 12, I ran from the infirmary on my way home. I had found out in the most humiliating way that I had become a woman: there was a big red stain on the back portion of my skirt. The jeers and the taunts followed me through the school corridors. Oliver dashed after me and offered to accompany me home. I declined, of course. He seemed to understand my discomfiture and promised to drop later with the things left in school. When I reached home I was told that I needed to jump three times on the stairs (which I did) and to wash my face with my blood (which I didn't do). Oliver dropped by in the afternoon, sporting a black eye and a bruise on his arm. When I asked him what happened, he said he had walked into a closed door. I believed him. But a few days later, minus the dysmennorhea, I found out that Oliver got into fisticuffs because some guy made a disgusting remark about me. Nobody had ever fought for me before that. And when you're 12 and discussing in class how King Arthur and fairest of them all, Lancelot, fought for Guinevere's love, you tend to get ideas. I loved Oliver then.
When we were in high school and I found out that the school's heartthrob and one of my most ardent suitors, Richard, was involved with a bustier girl, it was to Oliver that I ran. When I didn't graduate as valedictorian and I got so drunk, it was Oliver who took me home. He didn't even mind that I barfed all over his dad's car (which he borrowed without permission). When I decided to go to UP and he went to Ateneo, we celebrated by partying. When I lost my mom in a car accident, he took care of everything. When my dad followed my mom less than a year later after a heart attack, he was there again.
By this time he was an appendage of my life. He used to check out the guys I came to know. Nobody dared to get serious with me-not when Oliver had a black belt. I didn't know how to define our relationship. I didn't know what we were. We definitely were more than friends, better even than best friends. It was like we were a couple, but formally not one. We did all the things that couples did like hang out and neck but always stopped when things got too hot. Since we never defined what we meant to each other, we never said "I love you" or whatever serious couple told each other. As a result, I remained a chaste princess while my prince caroused and sowed wild oats, but still had the energy to monitor my movements.
I didn't mind. After all, I was so sure we'd end up together. I always thought that in the end, it would be us. I loved him. I managed to convince myself that he loved me (what else could it be?). Little did I know that love doesn't conquer all, it only conquers the weak. I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to get a girl pregnant on the same night they met at a party. I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to forget to use some form of contraception. After all, he had given me a lecture on safe sex. And I didn't think he'd be so stupid as to marry the girl.
But maybe I forgot that after all he was a man, and men have been known to be stupid about these things. Their brain is located in a region other than between the ears.
What could I do? Kicking him in the groin and punching him in the eye seemed like a good idea then. Don't blame me; he was the one who enrolled me in a self-defense course. But I did not feel better. Seeing him bent over in pain only made me angrier. I wasted my life for this lousy excuse of a man? I could not believe it!
I wanted nothing more than to run to him and beg him to wake me up from the stupid dream. I wanted him to take me some place where we didn't know anybody. No pain, no memory, no humiliation. I wanted to just forget it ever happened but since I flunked in the School for Martyrs, I couldn't, for the life of me pretend, it didn't happen. I couldn't pretend he didn't hurt me. I couldn't pretend everything was fine and dandy and exactly the way it was before.
We didn't talk for a month. For both of us who were practically inseparable, that was like an eternity. I ducked into corners whenever I would see him. I wouldn't take his calls. I wouldn't see him. And for some time hate was my reason for getting up in the morning, for breathing, for living. Hate and I became good friends. "God brings men into deep waters, not to drown them but to cleanse them," somebody once wrote. I didn't want to be cleansed. I just wanted to drown in pain and misery and utter desolation. I wanted to wallow in the dark and deep pit of despair. I know a thousand and one cliches that say this can be a blessing and that I should be thankful. But thankful is the last thing I'm feeling right now. I've always thought that there are three kinds of women: those who break, those who mend and those who are broken themselves. Before this hit me, I assumed that I belonged to the first or second category. Now I know I'm in the third-so hurt and broken up inside.
My grandmother used to say that there is nothing you can do about pain when it give you a silly grin except grin right back. All I could manage was a wry smile, a killer headache and the worst hangover the day before his wedding. Evidence of that is the disgusting sight of mashed potatoes and barbecue, thrown up not three meters away from where I was lying prostrate on the floor and the awful stench of cigarette on my hair.
Frankly I don't want to go. I want to wallow in misery in my messy room, crying, retching and stinking, surrounded with Michael Learns to Rock (whose songs are dedicated to the broken-hearted) CDs. But I have to go and attend the wedding. I have to bathe and prepare and put on that atrocious peach (it's not even my color!) gown. I'm not doing it for the groom, my one true friend and love, Oliver. Neither am I doing it for the bride, my younger sister, Sandra, who needs me. I'm doing it for my unborn niece who has the great fortune of having me as her aunt. Call me stupid, but I've always known my place. If it isn't beside the man I was destined to marry, if it isn't behind my sister, who will take his name, wear his ring and bear him a child, then it must be with my niece, cradled close to my heart so that she will know both of our love.
---------
SC, 22, teaches at a private school in Cagayan de Oro City while taking up postgraduate studies.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Did I spell it right?
A couple of months ago, I happened to see the 2008 SCRIPPS National Spelling Bee on TV at a hotel where my friend was staying. This was when Sameer Mishra was hailed the national champion with the word “guerdon”.
As we were watching, Noel and I, spelling contestants in our high school (although I was just an alternative), could not contain how possibly these kids learn to spell, know the definition, the alternative pronunciations and even the languages of origin at such a young age? I was totally amazed at how they were able to spell out words I did not even know existed. The SCRIPPS format was different from ours. There, each word is intended for each contestant. And in our case, each word is intended for all the participants. Theirs is a bit tougher because once you cannot spell the word right, you will automatically be eliminated. (That’s what I know so far) Unlike ours, the scores are summed up at the end of each round, and that’s when the judges determine who will proceed to the next round. Unfortunately, we did not win in the contest.
Let’s play some games here. Test ten people you know, maybe in school or at the office to spell out the following words and see if they can pull off.
…demitasse, quadrat, diener, hyssop, macedoine, basenji, numnah, chorion, nacarat, sinicize, hyphaeresis, taleggio and esclandre. (For the correct pronunciations though, please refer to www.dictionary.com)
I’d be hoity-toity if I say I spelled at least one word from that list because I really did not. They were way too out-of-this-world for me. Maybe Noel did one or two.
Now, I am becoming crazy over the winning words for the past years of SCRIPPS and I am forcing my friend Johanna to spell them out. I tried to be the best pronouncer and like me, she also failed.
Here is a peek of the 2009 SCRIPPS National Spelling which I missed. This girl is amazing!
As we were watching, Noel and I, spelling contestants in our high school (although I was just an alternative), could not contain how possibly these kids learn to spell, know the definition, the alternative pronunciations and even the languages of origin at such a young age? I was totally amazed at how they were able to spell out words I did not even know existed. The SCRIPPS format was different from ours. There, each word is intended for each contestant. And in our case, each word is intended for all the participants. Theirs is a bit tougher because once you cannot spell the word right, you will automatically be eliminated. (That’s what I know so far) Unlike ours, the scores are summed up at the end of each round, and that’s when the judges determine who will proceed to the next round. Unfortunately, we did not win in the contest.
Let’s play some games here. Test ten people you know, maybe in school or at the office to spell out the following words and see if they can pull off.
…demitasse, quadrat, diener, hyssop, macedoine, basenji, numnah, chorion, nacarat, sinicize, hyphaeresis, taleggio and esclandre. (For the correct pronunciations though, please refer to www.dictionary.com)
I’d be hoity-toity if I say I spelled at least one word from that list because I really did not. They were way too out-of-this-world for me. Maybe Noel did one or two.
Now, I am becoming crazy over the winning words for the past years of SCRIPPS and I am forcing my friend Johanna to spell them out. I tried to be the best pronouncer and like me, she also failed.
Here is a peek of the 2009 SCRIPPS National Spelling which I missed. This girl is amazing!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Not an apology
I was on self-exile from the blogworld for more than half a year now. I think I lost my interest in inscribing the remarkable circumstances that happened in my life in all those times. I think I was so preoccupied by the pressures and problems brought about by the nature of my work. I think I wasn’t wise enough to take advantage of my time in reading and writing but rather wasting it through streaming videos of insignificant people and events, and porn.
This is not actually the first entry after that long hiatus. I did make some post a week ago where I talked about my resignation from the company I used to work for and my sentiments from the not-so-good experiences and finally my decision to just move on. I must have been at the zenith of my emotion that time that I chose words, due to my imprudence, which have allured varied reactions from the readers and creating quite a trouble in the office of the man I talked about in that article.
I am not really sorry for what I have said in that article but I decided to take it out from here to protect some innocent people who, in a way, have been affected by my comments and more importantly to protect myself from further harm as I am not anymore sure if some people I know would still take the same path as I do. I think I have had my fill of resentments and disappointments already and to get involved in any way with them again is like sitting on air for twelve hours. Now, how excruciating can that be?
I’d rather look forward and focus on improving myself to be the best in manning the task at hand. I’d rather read a book on geology and learn some Czech words and expressions. I’d rather unclutter our house and look after dogs, Shane and Matt. I would rather make, as many as I can, articles that I can post in here.
And if there’s still time, I might even revert back to watching porn again.
Hehehe….
This is not actually the first entry after that long hiatus. I did make some post a week ago where I talked about my resignation from the company I used to work for and my sentiments from the not-so-good experiences and finally my decision to just move on. I must have been at the zenith of my emotion that time that I chose words, due to my imprudence, which have allured varied reactions from the readers and creating quite a trouble in the office of the man I talked about in that article.
I am not really sorry for what I have said in that article but I decided to take it out from here to protect some innocent people who, in a way, have been affected by my comments and more importantly to protect myself from further harm as I am not anymore sure if some people I know would still take the same path as I do. I think I have had my fill of resentments and disappointments already and to get involved in any way with them again is like sitting on air for twelve hours. Now, how excruciating can that be?
I’d rather look forward and focus on improving myself to be the best in manning the task at hand. I’d rather read a book on geology and learn some Czech words and expressions. I’d rather unclutter our house and look after dogs, Shane and Matt. I would rather make, as many as I can, articles that I can post in here.
And if there’s still time, I might even revert back to watching porn again.
Hehehe….
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Unsent letter...
I woke up this morning with a great feeling. I dreamed of my special friend who owns a very significant part of my heart. Why am I dreaming about him again? Could he be thinking about me too? I could only wish! To savor that magical moment, I went through my memory bag, this is where I stored all the, as the name suggests, memorabilia. Here, I keep old pictures, birthday cards, letters, tags of the gifts my friends gave me on my birthdays, and many other things which hold special meaning to me. And I found this unsent letter, supposedly for this special friend I just dreamed about. I can’t help but smile at how I was so into him before as I read the letter. I think I wrote this sometime in May of 2002. I am sharing this letter here not hoping that he would actually be able to read this sometime but because I just want to. It has been more than half a decade and absolutely, the intensity has gone a little dreary. I did not send this before for fear of being ridiculed or worse, rejected. Now, I don’t care if he knows about how I felt for him during those times. Here it goes.
Dear J,
When I left Cebu for Surigao, I promised I am not going to write letters to the people I loved there. Nor I would know any information regarding their lives. All I know is that I am going to meet all of you after five years. Wouldn’t that be very surprising? But I realized how painful would that be for me when one day, I only wake up losing all of you. That is why in a moment, I feel like breaking that promise.
My batchmates (5th batch in SOM) have already graduated in college. I am left behind because of the two years I spent with my interest in earning money. But never had it crossed my mind to regret those two years because that was the most beautiful time that ever happened to my life. I learned to value work, conquer fear, possess self-confidence and most especially, I have learned to love. Somehow, I also felt I was loved and this always makes me long for Cebu just to be with all of you. I really, really missed the days we had fun together. I missed my work though monotonous and the laughter I had with Ate Rowena, Ate Jean and of course with you and Efren. Those ecstatic memories have always been registered in my mind and in my heart. I do really hope I can come again to attend the alumni homecoming because I really yearn to see the school and the people there.
May the best of luck be with you always as you pursue your ambition in life. I firmly believe in your capacity that you can surpass all the trials and you can survive that pursuit of attaining success. In your school, make the best that you can. Show to your mates that you are excellent because I believe you are. And don’t ever forget that you have someone who is always praying for your success and happiness. As they say, life is never easy. You have to be wrong to learn what is right; struggle to persevere, hurt to be stronger, fall to rise again, lose to try harder and to love to conquer them all.
June 2, 2002 is a very special day for you. This is the time when you will bid goodbye to the teenage years and say welcome to adulthood. In your 20th birthday, all I wish is good health and a happier life or should I say happier love life. You only have one more year to go to be called a full-fledged man. The future may seem unclear and indeterminable but one thing is for sure, this time and forever, you are always loved.
Until then! Reply me asap.
Always,
Vinx
Of course, there was no reply as this is in the first place unsent. J is just his initial. I still want to keep him anonymous here because I don’t want to stir other people’s lives he may have connected with now. The letter is so corny and gay, I know, but I don’t actually give a damn. Now, he remains to be a good friend and I am so happy and contented about that. Some things are not meant to be, maybe in another lifetime.
Dear J,
When I left Cebu for Surigao, I promised I am not going to write letters to the people I loved there. Nor I would know any information regarding their lives. All I know is that I am going to meet all of you after five years. Wouldn’t that be very surprising? But I realized how painful would that be for me when one day, I only wake up losing all of you. That is why in a moment, I feel like breaking that promise.
My batchmates (5th batch in SOM) have already graduated in college. I am left behind because of the two years I spent with my interest in earning money. But never had it crossed my mind to regret those two years because that was the most beautiful time that ever happened to my life. I learned to value work, conquer fear, possess self-confidence and most especially, I have learned to love. Somehow, I also felt I was loved and this always makes me long for Cebu just to be with all of you. I really, really missed the days we had fun together. I missed my work though monotonous and the laughter I had with Ate Rowena, Ate Jean and of course with you and Efren. Those ecstatic memories have always been registered in my mind and in my heart. I do really hope I can come again to attend the alumni homecoming because I really yearn to see the school and the people there.
May the best of luck be with you always as you pursue your ambition in life. I firmly believe in your capacity that you can surpass all the trials and you can survive that pursuit of attaining success. In your school, make the best that you can. Show to your mates that you are excellent because I believe you are. And don’t ever forget that you have someone who is always praying for your success and happiness. As they say, life is never easy. You have to be wrong to learn what is right; struggle to persevere, hurt to be stronger, fall to rise again, lose to try harder and to love to conquer them all.
June 2, 2002 is a very special day for you. This is the time when you will bid goodbye to the teenage years and say welcome to adulthood. In your 20th birthday, all I wish is good health and a happier life or should I say happier love life. You only have one more year to go to be called a full-fledged man. The future may seem unclear and indeterminable but one thing is for sure, this time and forever, you are always loved.
Until then! Reply me asap.
Always,
Vinx
Of course, there was no reply as this is in the first place unsent. J is just his initial. I still want to keep him anonymous here because I don’t want to stir other people’s lives he may have connected with now. The letter is so corny and gay, I know, but I don’t actually give a damn. Now, he remains to be a good friend and I am so happy and contented about that. Some things are not meant to be, maybe in another lifetime.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Breathing death...
The office has undergone some renovations to provide more space for keeping files which are now fast mounting like bubbles. The built-in desk at the back was removed and replaced by cabinets for more storage. I could have appreciated these improvements more than I could actually rant complaining about migraine-triggering odor brought about by the paint applied on the cabinets. But the office is a merely 20sqm, fully air-conditioned room and there is no other way the stinky odor could escape to but our noses, our lungs eventually. Right now, as I am writing this, I am actually having breathing difficulty and feeling a little sense of discomfort forming right in middle of my forehead and just between my eyes.
So what is the problem?
The problem is people, I mean the higher ones, don’t actually make a move on how we could get out of that place or at the least, think of something that would lessen the destructive aroma. I made suggestions that maybe we can transfer to the other room, the conference room just so we could focus on working. But it seems I was talking to old, deaf-since-birth people. I did not get any answers or reactions for that matter.
I may not be knowledgeable in the exact clinical or medical effects that chemicals of the paint bring about but I know, my common sense tells me, that if you breathe something in aside from oxygen is alarming enough not to mention the headaches and the difficulty in breathing that we have experienced.
The higher ones may have forgotten that they are not generous enough to provide us health benefits or insurances in case this might go to a higher level, which I hope, would not happen. In the exercise of prudence, I am just being health conscious because to get sick these times could surely make you fall even lower than the poverty threshold. And I don’t want that to happen to me. I think everybody doesn’t.
In another words, they should be sensitive enough. They have options. Like I said we have an extra room, or they could provide us with masks perhaps, or anything that can alleviate our suffering. Or to exaggerate, provide us with health benefits and insurances! The latter is absolutely remote in consideration.
For the time being, I am using the coat of Sherlie to cover my nose and inhale from time to time my favorite Betet. If Ef can read this, I hope she doesn’t slap me with that question again. "When are you all leaving?"
If only everything were alright, I would. I will.
So what is the problem?
The problem is people, I mean the higher ones, don’t actually make a move on how we could get out of that place or at the least, think of something that would lessen the destructive aroma. I made suggestions that maybe we can transfer to the other room, the conference room just so we could focus on working. But it seems I was talking to old, deaf-since-birth people. I did not get any answers or reactions for that matter.
I may not be knowledgeable in the exact clinical or medical effects that chemicals of the paint bring about but I know, my common sense tells me, that if you breathe something in aside from oxygen is alarming enough not to mention the headaches and the difficulty in breathing that we have experienced.
The higher ones may have forgotten that they are not generous enough to provide us health benefits or insurances in case this might go to a higher level, which I hope, would not happen. In the exercise of prudence, I am just being health conscious because to get sick these times could surely make you fall even lower than the poverty threshold. And I don’t want that to happen to me. I think everybody doesn’t.
In another words, they should be sensitive enough. They have options. Like I said we have an extra room, or they could provide us with masks perhaps, or anything that can alleviate our suffering. Or to exaggerate, provide us with health benefits and insurances! The latter is absolutely remote in consideration.
For the time being, I am using the coat of Sherlie to cover my nose and inhale from time to time my favorite Betet. If Ef can read this, I hope she doesn’t slap me with that question again. "When are you all leaving?"
If only everything were alright, I would. I will.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Celcius, Kelvin, Fahrenheit, whatever!
After almost four years, I was back in Manila for four short days during the Halloween vacation. Noel and I availed of the promo of Cebu Pacific where we only paid P120.00 for each of our plane ticket, back and forth. There are so many changes in the metro since my last visit. Buildings are sprouting everywhere. Even the airport where we landed was undeniably clean and the architecture was just amazing, not to mention controversial. The roads have become cleaner and wider, I guess. I think MMDA has to be credited for the positive changes the metro have undergone. (OA ra sa personal!) But the traffic condition is still the same. Or perhaps, that time was just the worst because it was a holiday and people were going in and out of Manila.
Anyway, although Noel and I have been talking about what we were going to do exactly in Manila so that we won’t be wasting time, the itinerary however depends upon our two friends, gay friends George and Jeafrey who were generous enough to sponsor for our accommodation. Since they are gay and so are we, I was expecting that we would be doing something of our interest. George, who knows the beautiful and the not so visit-worthy places in Manila more than anyone in the group led us to a place called Fahrenheit. Yes, you got it right. It is a unit of temperature and it depicts a lot of what the place is really about. Okay, the place is a bathhouse and the temperature was so much fine. It was the people inside who have made the entire place figuratively hot.
I am not a stranger to a bathhouse at all. I have seen the movie entitled the same and I already have an idea what is happening inside. But to experience it at hand is just breathtaking. It was about eight in the evening when we arrived after a difficult ordeal with the traffic. And as early as that, I can already see people lining up for the entrance like enthusiastic fans of Sam Milby, wrestling, and hurting themselves as to who gets first his autograph. But the novice Melvin was more nervous than excited. Primarily because I was aware that places like Fahrenheit are prone to police raids and I don’t want to see myself either on TV or in papers confidently defensive and who would just say “no comment” to the reporters or police when asked. That would be so embarrassing that the next day, you would already see me dead on my bed overdosed with sleeping pills.
But forward we went. As relentless as I am, I shook off my nervousness and proceeded to hell. Inside, I was like a college freshman enrolling for the BS Accountancy program because I have to present two valid IDs, sign up registration form and pay membership fee. George told me that it was a standard operating procedure. Once done and given the key to hell, we headed to a locker room where we had to leave all our valuables. You have to pass at least two frisking officers making sure you’re not going inside with money and pointed objects for security purposes. The frisking officer had to touch everything including that thing in the middle that keeps everything in place. In another words, even our birdies have to be touched for inspection. Now I want to be a frisking officer! How wonderful would that be! (Career shift eto!)
Anyway, the interior of the place was very relaxing. The walls were painted red and the entire place was dimly lit. Mellow music was continuously playing setting everyone in the mood for love and otherwise. We changed our clothes and just wrapped our bodies with towels. That is the only fashion style inside the bathhouse. But the bathhouse is not exclusively for showering or taking a bath alone. George served as a tour guide and I realized there was a gym, a sauna, a Jacuzzi, a wine bar and of course shower room. Upstairs, there were labyrinth-like rooms for people to fuck and get fucked. There was also a section called “dark room” where you can hear people moaning and wailing like crazy porn stars savoring every minute of man to man sexual actions. I admit, I got hard by just listening to them. Bigaon jud!
The four of us went our separate ways exploring the entire place and looking for prospects. I think I was the first to close a deal. We went inside one of the rooms and started talking. He said he was from Olongapo and is married already. We talked for a couple of minutes and then we started to do the deed. That’s how handful kikis are in Fahrenheit. After that, I showered and decided to just rest and relax in a viewing room where a porn movie is showing. I stroll around the place from time to time but the level of libido has gone down. I waited until George, Jeafrey and Noel came back. We went out at around 12 midnight, which was an hour extension already of our agreed time. Noel has to be blamed for this. He wanted to see light in the dark room, so we stayed an hour longer for him to find the light. And he did.
We left the place surely not empty-handed. For me it was the final and full testament of our being gay. You can’t be called a full-fledged gay until you experience Fahrenheit. Now, a week later, I honestly want to be there again. But that can’t be in the next two months. I still have to wait for the promo again and save some money again. But I will be back. In time, it would not only be Fahrenheit. Perhaps Celcius or Kelvin, if there are. Hahaha…
Anyway, although Noel and I have been talking about what we were going to do exactly in Manila so that we won’t be wasting time, the itinerary however depends upon our two friends, gay friends George and Jeafrey who were generous enough to sponsor for our accommodation. Since they are gay and so are we, I was expecting that we would be doing something of our interest. George, who knows the beautiful and the not so visit-worthy places in Manila more than anyone in the group led us to a place called Fahrenheit. Yes, you got it right. It is a unit of temperature and it depicts a lot of what the place is really about. Okay, the place is a bathhouse and the temperature was so much fine. It was the people inside who have made the entire place figuratively hot.
I am not a stranger to a bathhouse at all. I have seen the movie entitled the same and I already have an idea what is happening inside. But to experience it at hand is just breathtaking. It was about eight in the evening when we arrived after a difficult ordeal with the traffic. And as early as that, I can already see people lining up for the entrance like enthusiastic fans of Sam Milby, wrestling, and hurting themselves as to who gets first his autograph. But the novice Melvin was more nervous than excited. Primarily because I was aware that places like Fahrenheit are prone to police raids and I don’t want to see myself either on TV or in papers confidently defensive and who would just say “no comment” to the reporters or police when asked. That would be so embarrassing that the next day, you would already see me dead on my bed overdosed with sleeping pills.
But forward we went. As relentless as I am, I shook off my nervousness and proceeded to hell. Inside, I was like a college freshman enrolling for the BS Accountancy program because I have to present two valid IDs, sign up registration form and pay membership fee. George told me that it was a standard operating procedure. Once done and given the key to hell, we headed to a locker room where we had to leave all our valuables. You have to pass at least two frisking officers making sure you’re not going inside with money and pointed objects for security purposes. The frisking officer had to touch everything including that thing in the middle that keeps everything in place. In another words, even our birdies have to be touched for inspection. Now I want to be a frisking officer! How wonderful would that be! (Career shift eto!)
Anyway, the interior of the place was very relaxing. The walls were painted red and the entire place was dimly lit. Mellow music was continuously playing setting everyone in the mood for love and otherwise. We changed our clothes and just wrapped our bodies with towels. That is the only fashion style inside the bathhouse. But the bathhouse is not exclusively for showering or taking a bath alone. George served as a tour guide and I realized there was a gym, a sauna, a Jacuzzi, a wine bar and of course shower room. Upstairs, there were labyrinth-like rooms for people to fuck and get fucked. There was also a section called “dark room” where you can hear people moaning and wailing like crazy porn stars savoring every minute of man to man sexual actions. I admit, I got hard by just listening to them. Bigaon jud!
The four of us went our separate ways exploring the entire place and looking for prospects. I think I was the first to close a deal. We went inside one of the rooms and started talking. He said he was from Olongapo and is married already. We talked for a couple of minutes and then we started to do the deed. That’s how handful kikis are in Fahrenheit. After that, I showered and decided to just rest and relax in a viewing room where a porn movie is showing. I stroll around the place from time to time but the level of libido has gone down. I waited until George, Jeafrey and Noel came back. We went out at around 12 midnight, which was an hour extension already of our agreed time. Noel has to be blamed for this. He wanted to see light in the dark room, so we stayed an hour longer for him to find the light. And he did.
We left the place surely not empty-handed. For me it was the final and full testament of our being gay. You can’t be called a full-fledged gay until you experience Fahrenheit. Now, a week later, I honestly want to be there again. But that can’t be in the next two months. I still have to wait for the promo again and save some money again. But I will be back. In time, it would not only be Fahrenheit. Perhaps Celcius or Kelvin, if there are. Hahaha…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
