Waves are crashing

. . . And stars are falling all for us.
(Because it is stuck in my head and I need to send it out there so it'll feast on the LSS-hugging corners of your minds. *Evil laugh*.)

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Anyway. The last week of class shall be a flurry of required novels, smuggled novels, and dinners with lovely people. ZoeDee and her crabcake thingies. Rar. :) And splendiferous coffee. Oh, gosh. Blockmates and blockmate friends, see you on the 22nd. :)

Then it's off to the wilderness of Cavite, then to Calatagan for some frozen beach-ness. Christmas Eve has, lately, been a night of grilling hotdogs with my brothers, chasing chickens (to my father's consternation), making molo soup with my mother, and sleeping on top of my uncle's billiard tables; dinner consisting of tacos, sushi, pizza and the odd estupado; the brothers who squirm from your hugs, the father who blushes when you kiss his cheek, the mother who stares at you for two seconds before she lets herself be smothered with an awkward hug.

Won't have it any other way.

Aww.

Ahem.

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Last Christmas, I realized that the induction to adulthood was barricading one's self in one's grandmother's room with a ton of Christmas wrapper, hardening one's heart to the squeals and pleas and flimsy excuses (Ate Sha, kuha lang ako ng . . . ah, hair brush . . .) of little cousins everywhere. Nothing like knowing other people's gifts and near-suffocating one's self with scotch tape to know that you're a freaking adult.

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Random(-er): That song by Jose Mari Chan that begins with a trapped-in-a-tomb-voice that goes Whenever I see boys and girls never ceases to freak me out every single time.

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Another random brainfart from the depths of my past journals:

"The reality was, you only knew you were loved if you were left and returned to, if you were ignored and then craved. Occasionally you would be seen for slightly less than the sum of your parts, and that was love, too. Love announced itself with a sting, not a pat. If love was love, it was urgent and ripe and carried with it the faint odor of humiliation, so that there was always something to be made up for later, some apology in the works."
- The Brutal Language of Love by Alicia Erian