Is it safe out there?

I am starting to rethink my going public with this blog.  A few hours ago over dinner, my mom was just so cryptic in asking about my love life.  Ew.  I appreciate the concern, but still.  My love life is not really dinner conversation.  So yeah, I’m reconsidering publishing on Facebook.

I don’t know if anyone had noticed but I have changed my blog title!  Whoopdedoooo.  Or not really.  I’m still thinking what could be a more memorable one, or at least something that others can easily associate to me.  But then again, I don’t really have that wide of a readership.


As the holidays come nearer and nearer, I can’t help but feel somewhat nostalgic.  Lately, my days have been completely devoid of the holiday spirit.  I’ve been trying to bring it back — actually, for some time there was even collective effort there — but then, it reverts to nonexistence, and I am here again tapping away.

I could use some hot cocoa though.  With whipped cream.  And tiny marshmallows.


The wedding is so near and I am yet to lose the weight I am supposed to be losing.  Ugh.  I need to  be more dedicated to this diet and workout regimen.  He can’t be the only one sexy there.

He has always said he finds me sexy in any form.  I believe him… until I look in the mirror.

My self-esteem badly needs a boost.  And a new hobby.


I miss his voice and the way he sings this song.

I hate this feeling.


Photo nabbed from 1000 Notes.

One random thought after another

I feel like there’s so many things wrong with me lately.  Cough.  Colds.  Period.  Dysmenorrhea.  Cramps.  Migraine.  Nose bleeds.  Not to mention that thing I have to take the same time everyday.  I wonder when I’d be better.

The more I look at things I want to have, the more I feel pain for the reminder that I am not that well-off.  Responsibilities and obligations suddenly spurted from one side to another, and I am having a lot of trouble catching up.  I wonder if the time will come when my other relatives wouldn’t have to rely on us to keep functioning.  It’s not that I don’t want to help; I do.  I absolutely do.  It’s just that sometimes, I make a much bigger sacrifice than what they originally had in mind.  Does appreciation come in a cup?  I sure hope so.

I will not fail this module.  Also, because I already flunked one and this is my last chance.  Everything about this module is so fucking boring.  My foot falls asleep every three minutes.  Thank God for Ranna and the pass notes thing.  At least, I am able to stay awake.  It kind of worries me though, whether I can study enough or know enough to get through to the next  round.  I better.

I swear on my perfect ovaries that I will enroll and finish a photography refresher course before the year ends… of course, after a purchase of my lovely camera.  And after learning how to drive.  I can’t let my friends drive me around anymore.  I’m becoming too dependent on convenience and air conditioning.

Commuting:  every one I am close to at work hates it.  For some reason, I missed it.  I’ve been people watching a lot lately.  I’m trying to come up with a good enough script for next year’s indie film festival.  I am running out of characters and profiles to feature and I can’t afford that.  I can’t afford to lose my creative touch.  Or maybe I have lost it and this is my attempt to recover it.  I aim to recover gracefully.

What’s up?!

So, Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov is a good read.  I better start reading more, especially the classics.  There’s something about old English and the fullness of every word that make me want to live in their time.  To be wooed by a thousand words of men that will journey halfway across the world to prove his worthiness of your heart.  Ah.  Beauty.  So, I stopped at page 14.  Can’t afford the romantic niceties.  I do need to review.

I wonder if my handouts are complete.  Better call Anj and check if we’re still on with Review Day binge.  I hope not.  Been running every other day in hopes of adding curves to my now-becoming-full body.  I like it a lot.  I aim to be as full as Monica Bellucci.  Now, to get those boobs…

I love my boobs just the way they are.  Just so we’re clear.

I do believe I will run out of tissue in about six hours.

I’m going to stop hiding if you start showing yourself.

So the last couple of posts made me sound like someone who can’t do anything better that day.  I’ve decided to put an end to it (or a pause, if you may) and just be my ranting self.

I haven’t spoken to my mom for the past 36 hours.  It all started when she picked me up from QC.  She said I’ve been gaining weight.  When Thursday morning came, she said I should work out more.  Around lunchtime, she said I’m becoming "wider".  Then on our way to church, she said my clothes are inappropriate and slutty.  Talk about tough love eh?  Naturally, I stomped my way to the closet to change clothes.  There’s not much to say after that.  She just  stopped talking.

Don’t get me wrong; you can criticize me all you want and I welcome that.  But I guess that’s not always the case when it comes to your family.  Your family is the sole core group that is obliged to love and care for you, no matter what shape or size you’re in.  I felt a bit betrayed when I noticed that she hasn’t really said anything worth remembering since I got here.  I’m starting to regret my decision to spend the long vacation here.  

Honestly, I don’t feel like apologizing.  What am I supposed to apologize for?  For reacting the way I did?  I never questioned her maternal right over me; she has the right to reprimand me all she wants when I’m wrong.  I just wish she can be more empathic.  She can be overly critical and she can make it look like my fault.  I mean, come on.  Are you kidding me?  Hindi porke anak ako, ako na lang parati ang mali.  I have all the right in the world to react against anyone’s opinion, especially those that hurt my pride and ego.  

I’m sure, once I tell this to my friends, I’ll get a handful of advice.  Listen to her, she’s your mom.  You shouldn’t have said that.  Blah.  Blah.  Blah.  Where in the rule book did it say that moms are infallible?  I mean, fuck it, they know best, that’s for sure, but where in the grand scheme of things did it say that they can never make a mistake in raising their child?  I’m raised well; I thank God every day for that.  But sometimes, the things she says and the way she reacts to how I look and the things I say make me question whether I measure up to her idea of a daughter.

Dear Mom.  I am 24.  Freaking 24.  I get it.  You just want me to look better.  But your manner of saying it makes me feel ugly.  You make me feel ugly.  Seriously.  And you should be the last person that could make me feel like this.  Ironically, you’re the first.  I am not going to apologize for the way I dress.  It makes me feel pretty.  My clothes make me feel sexy and confident.  I don’t like the fact that you’re trying to change that, just so I can conform to a conservative set of rules made up 30 years ago.  This is now and I am born in the now.  I am not forcing you to live my years, so don’t force me to live yours.  Next time you tell me to cover up, be prepared to wear a plunging neckline.  If I’m changing for you, you should be as hell ready to change for me.

There.  End rant here.  I go now to my secret place where Alejandro and Rubi just keeps looking at each other and this song plays in the background.

*happy place*