yOu cAn'T kNoW tHat

(I predict, Random Reader, that you'll yawn by the middle of the third and think, "Rambler bitch, you bore me." Anyway, happy reading until then.)

I.
Whoever's on top of my shoulders right now, digging her pixie-dust stilettos (or are those dust-covered spurs?) on my clavicle, Thank you, asshole, you couldn't have picked a better time. There's a ridiculously immediate urge for me to write and, given the sheer volume of other, more pressing things I need to accomplish before this sem finally closes, I can't really give in to that urge, can I? Well? Well?

II.
I kicked ass during my SA orals. See what a gigantinormous difference it was from those blasted, straight-from-hell, fuck-you-thanks-a-lot Theo orals? For one--and this is what I really noticed form the get-go--I was actually talking. As in oral communication, which is the very point of an oral examination. No blanketty-blank professor butted in every thirty seconds or so to tell me I was wrong.

III.
Bought a couple of books from Booksale. I'm telling you, I may be starving or fretting about the economic stability of the Philippines/my wallet but when there's a glaring 40-peso tag on that book, I will buy it. Buwahahaha. Got Misadventures of Maria O'Mara, this book whose author's name is so Gaelic, my tongue starts to twist even when I'm just looking at it, a book that is testament to a rather guilty pleasure, and this story about a marriage and a plane crash (not necessarily in that order.)

IV.
I'm seventeen now. But I haven't really felt my mind change. I still think the same way, I guess, and that scares me. Aren't I supposed to change? What if, five years from now, I still think the way I do now? What the fuck is going to happen to me then?

V.
I wonder how it's like to be a fucking talented poet/artist/writer. Not to be most promising but the poet/artist/writer, the entity we all aspire to be? How does it feel living inside that poetic body, Mr. So-So? When you look at people, do you see the words forming like halos around them, Dr. Someother? And Miss Ma'am, when you walk into a room of writers too-insecure about themselves and rightfully so, do you think, "I am Poet"? I just really want to know.

VI.
My roommates are back. So much for solitude, silence and cold-shoulder-free weeks. I really am moving out. God, I have to. Can anyone die now so I can move in your room?

VII.
I hate being stranded in a room full of artsy people I don't know. Urgh. The experience forces me to take a peek into what an outsider could see in me: Whiny, Artsy-Fartsy, You Think The World Revolves Around Just Because You Know the Difference Between a Metaphor and a Simile, You Thinking You're So Different When You're Not.

VIII.
My parents brought me a kilo of gigantic lanzones and I ate them all in one sitting last night, while I was tinkering with my Anorexia report. Guess who's wanting to shit every five minutes today?

IX.
I am in desperate need of a hug. I grew up with huggers, then got transplanted to my nu-clear family, who are rabid non-huggers, except for our youngest John, who I don't want to hug anyway because the boy has a rather peculiar aversion to regular bathing. My HS friends are all huggers--even those who don't wanna be hugged hug back just as affectionately--because they understand that I am a moody, temperamental little bitch completely intent on sucking all the comfort and fuzzy feelings I can get. And then I plop into Ateneo, crawling with intellectuals and free-thinkers and recluses and artistes and you'd think, God, will this be my hugging paradise? And He gives you a letdown because when you spontaneously take someone in your arms over trivial glee, she stares at you as if you wiped shit on a white wall. Salamat ha.

X.
Owf, I really need to pee now. Temperature at the libe is absolutely glacial.