roSaRy tuCkeD iN hEr liNgeRie

Why oh why oh why wasn’t I in that Cosmopolitan Bachelor Bash thingie?! Why? All I could do was stare as impossibly good-looking men paraded oh-so-gaily on an elevated platform with the least amount of skin covered. And thirty seconds, at that, sa ABS news. Oh god. Although I think my innards rearranged themselves at the sight of John Prats (the fuck?!) and Patrick Garcia trying and failing to be sexy, I wasn’t at all disappointed by all the other male models—pretty boys meant to be ogled at like, say, tapa at Monterey.

Sorry. I woke up with a crick in my neck, without any feeling in my ghastly legs and then I learned that I’d tucked Sex in History under my pillow.

My entire day was a catalogue of pain, encompassing all possible avenues:

At Socio, I had to sit through my professor’s class with that review of him and his class, which I read yesterday, reverberating inside my head, refusing to be silenced.

During my one-hour break, some divinity floating around, who had nothing better to do, gave me sufficient reason to cross out one statement from my randomization in yesterday’s post. I mean, hello, isn’t it being a tad mean to slap me with the fact that ay, he has a girlfriend pala. Gr. (Di bale, it’s not the end of the world. I’m just, say, winded, that’s all. I mean, said girlfriend has history of snagging a previous crush. Ano be-e-e?)

At Aesthetics, we had to make our curriculum vitae and I had another whopping realization: I am so amateurish. That one publication was a fluke. Has anyone here actually read it? Gawd, I was such a Pollyanna at fourteen. And that’s another thing. It looked good in print that I was a high school senior at fourteen. (Now, at seventeen, I’ve lost my novelty. Add that to the fact that I am awakening from these narcotic-induced imaginings that had me thinking that I am actually a passable, if not good, writer. Wah.)

Okay, so publication isn’t the only way of judging someone’s literary prowess. In fact, it’s often an unreliable one. So I’m just bitching. Wahaha.

Sa Theo. Duh. Do I really have to say why this is a torture? Context clues: Introduction to Theology, under Mr. Rosar Crisostomo.

Swimming. Ach. Body pain, shrinking lungs. Sus.

Notice that the length of my descriptions sort of match my energy level. It fluctuates too, see.

Oh, why am I ranting? Why am I wasting your time with my uber-long (Schlifen Plan!) and far-too-wordy entries?

Because this is my blog at magdusa na lang kayo! Buwahahaha! :D