Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
February
--- I own this month.
-------- Party everyday.
--------------- http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2025714&id=1515293816&l=f60bfe3864
-------- Party everyday.
--------------- http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2025714&id=1515293816&l=f60bfe3864
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Nurse Me
7 Nursing students in Starbucks occupying 2 tables, sharing 2 orders of iced latte, 6 cups of complimentary water, and a pack of chips brought by someone who looks like the leader of the group.
Student1: (Reading from textbook) "The client was bleeding but when given the prescribed medicine, the bleeding was lessened to spotting."
Leader of the group: (Adjusting her glasses in an authoritative gesture) Ibig shabihin, yung client nagblibleeding sha, pero dahil sha medishin naging lesh na lang. At shpotting na.. OK?
Group: OK.
Me: (Thud, thud, swoosh, kablargzxh ... yes, I fell off of my seat and landed head-first on the floor.)
I am utterly blown away by the sheer deductive power of the nursing population. I think I just cracked my skull.
Student1: (Reading from textbook) "The client was bleeding but when given the prescribed medicine, the bleeding was lessened to spotting."
Leader of the group: (Adjusting her glasses in an authoritative gesture) Ibig shabihin, yung client nagblibleeding sha, pero dahil sha medishin naging lesh na lang. At shpotting na.. OK?
Group: OK.
Me: (Thud, thud, swoosh, kablargzxh ... yes, I fell off of my seat and landed head-first on the floor.)
I am utterly blown away by the sheer deductive power of the nursing population. I think I just cracked my skull.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Since I don't go and casually tell people my date of birth, I don't suppose anyone will greet me here. So Borge happy birthday in advance man. Have too much fun that you'll choke and pass out. You'll come to in exactly five seconds to take another swig at that bottle and smile. You don't look as good as that 18yo guy you once were but hey, you turned out better than you thought. And guess what... you're still alive. Crap, what am I saying,,
Semantic Valentine
“Make love” has become an acceptable phrase among grown-ups. To younger people it’s “make out.” Well, how exactly do you make it? Do you end up with a corporeal, tangible, physical evidence of the process?
When you make potteries, you produce pots, decorative vases or ashtrays. Make a mess out of your life and you create wrinkles and grow gray hair. If making love equally means producing something and that something is an offspring, we must seriously consider colonizing Mars.
Thank heavens there are contraceptives. Inter-planetary travel hasn’t been perfected yet. However, if we must align ourselves with the church, we better be not so thankful.
Anyways, if population growth is not the idea, what is the point of having sex? Is it the ingestion of enough lipstick to clog the esophagus? Is it the inhalation of face powder, enough to cause respiratory failure? Or is it the tedious job of extracting those twin, semi-circle, sturdy set of wires from around the woman’s upper body, and the sliding off of a girdle from around the midsection, which could, if fitted around the neck, cause a serious case of asphyxia? The things a guy has to go through (Face it: You just don’t bump into perfect bodied females and those you see in FHM aren’t real). In retaliation, a guy sprays on enough perfume and deodorant to trigger gustatory allergy, so much so that when the woman kisses him on the cheek, neck, chest, tummy and down some more, she will almost have a gruesome seizure - or at least, a case of suffocation from the resulting inflammation of the tongue.
Aside from the perils (not to mention the sound produced when two sweaty bodies push against each other, which reminds you of toilet noise), what else is there about having sex? Is having sex the same as making love? If the answer is No and that making love is simply it, what are we to do with this critical over-production? (I doubt this presumed abundance, what with all the wars being waged in the name of gender, religion, and politics).
I propose to change the deceptive term “make love” to “develop love.” As in, “C’mon, bhe, let’s develop love.” The former connotes that in a relationship, love is initially absent and that it has to be created by swapping fluids or passion secretions; or, that love is created out of that bestial ritual called mating. On the other hand, “develop love” transforms sex into a process by which emotions are driven just a bit deeper, beyond the surface that mainly consists of a fashion wardrobe and accessories. Mostly fake. Of course, the substitution will take some getting used to.
But, if we were to accept “develop love” in place of “make love,” every time it happens, there must be an increase of concern, devotion, affection, passion … Essentially, the premise demands that an improvement in the relationship must ensue.
Well, we know for a fact that arguments happen. The man usually avoids an argument till it turns into neglect. Then, neglect itself becomes neglected. The woman recognizes the perceived cause of the argument. She acknowledges it inordinately, emotionally, mentally, and most of all, verbally. She hammers it on the man’s head gratuitously. It breaks the man’s head whereby she succeeds in making the mess three times messier. The damage becomes irreversible. The relationship becomes irreparable. The proposed term-shift then becomes inapplicable.
You fcuk because mating has become so casual. You have sex because it’s fun. You make love when you want to go beyond affectionate kissing. The terms are understandable enough, though I find the last one inappropriate. But with Valentine in mind, that should be beside the point. The affair through which two genitals interact does not decide whether a relationship will or will not work, no matter what term you use to describe it. Neither do the gifts that are scattered all over the malls this Valentine. What does is up to you to find out. If you aren’t so inclined, you have no business celebrating the 14th with whomever your unfortunate date may be. Very kindly throw those concert tickets in my direction, and cancel your hotel and restaurant reservations in consideration of the more deserving. As for the rest, have a lovely month. Happy Valentine.
---------------
Originally written in January 2002 | taken from my Essay Portfolio
When you make potteries, you produce pots, decorative vases or ashtrays. Make a mess out of your life and you create wrinkles and grow gray hair. If making love equally means producing something and that something is an offspring, we must seriously consider colonizing Mars.
Thank heavens there are contraceptives. Inter-planetary travel hasn’t been perfected yet. However, if we must align ourselves with the church, we better be not so thankful.
Anyways, if population growth is not the idea, what is the point of having sex? Is it the ingestion of enough lipstick to clog the esophagus? Is it the inhalation of face powder, enough to cause respiratory failure? Or is it the tedious job of extracting those twin, semi-circle, sturdy set of wires from around the woman’s upper body, and the sliding off of a girdle from around the midsection, which could, if fitted around the neck, cause a serious case of asphyxia? The things a guy has to go through (Face it: You just don’t bump into perfect bodied females and those you see in FHM aren’t real). In retaliation, a guy sprays on enough perfume and deodorant to trigger gustatory allergy, so much so that when the woman kisses him on the cheek, neck, chest, tummy and down some more, she will almost have a gruesome seizure - or at least, a case of suffocation from the resulting inflammation of the tongue.
Aside from the perils (not to mention the sound produced when two sweaty bodies push against each other, which reminds you of toilet noise), what else is there about having sex? Is having sex the same as making love? If the answer is No and that making love is simply it, what are we to do with this critical over-production? (I doubt this presumed abundance, what with all the wars being waged in the name of gender, religion, and politics).
I propose to change the deceptive term “make love” to “develop love.” As in, “C’mon, bhe, let’s develop love.” The former connotes that in a relationship, love is initially absent and that it has to be created by swapping fluids or passion secretions; or, that love is created out of that bestial ritual called mating. On the other hand, “develop love” transforms sex into a process by which emotions are driven just a bit deeper, beyond the surface that mainly consists of a fashion wardrobe and accessories. Mostly fake. Of course, the substitution will take some getting used to.
But, if we were to accept “develop love” in place of “make love,” every time it happens, there must be an increase of concern, devotion, affection, passion … Essentially, the premise demands that an improvement in the relationship must ensue.
Well, we know for a fact that arguments happen. The man usually avoids an argument till it turns into neglect. Then, neglect itself becomes neglected. The woman recognizes the perceived cause of the argument. She acknowledges it inordinately, emotionally, mentally, and most of all, verbally. She hammers it on the man’s head gratuitously. It breaks the man’s head whereby she succeeds in making the mess three times messier. The damage becomes irreversible. The relationship becomes irreparable. The proposed term-shift then becomes inapplicable.
You fcuk because mating has become so casual. You have sex because it’s fun. You make love when you want to go beyond affectionate kissing. The terms are understandable enough, though I find the last one inappropriate. But with Valentine in mind, that should be beside the point. The affair through which two genitals interact does not decide whether a relationship will or will not work, no matter what term you use to describe it. Neither do the gifts that are scattered all over the malls this Valentine. What does is up to you to find out. If you aren’t so inclined, you have no business celebrating the 14th with whomever your unfortunate date may be. Very kindly throw those concert tickets in my direction, and cancel your hotel and restaurant reservations in consideration of the more deserving. As for the rest, have a lovely month. Happy Valentine.
---------------
Originally written in January 2002 | taken from my Essay Portfolio
Thursday, December 25, 2008
2009, the implacable approach of
..then it will again be my birthday. How harsh.
I envy those who are able to write almost on a daily basis. After this entry, I do not know when I could visit again. I do drop in more often to check out some entries and huwaw, andaming masisipag dito.
Wishing us all with everything we deserve for 2009. If we don't deserve anything better bahala na. We're not in total control but it helps if we do little somethings about our lives. Being fatalistic has got to be one of the corniest things.
..a little less alcohol, greater control in eating, lower blood pressure, more sex, more friends, new apartment -- 2009, here I come. Cheers.
BTW, who's celebrating the New Year over at MOA? I'm thinking of going there. I'm such a sucker for fireworks.. Then let's play with drinks and fireworks after.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
alright i'll buy you
Friends please. Like, real ones. We stop being innocent idealists a couple of months after we leave the school and start looking for our first job so I won’t say I’m looking for people who’d stay stuck through thick and thin, whatever that cliché means. I’m not out to look for lifetime companions although that kind of thing can exist. Friends, please. That’s about it.
I grew up about 400kms north of here, went to a university about 100kms also north of here. The real people I spent so much time with were either contented staying where they were which is an ugly thing, or have left the country thinking they could be happier which is sad. There’s a much bigger world than your hometown but you don’t have to live and work your ass off outside your country to appreciate this vastness. As such, I’ve thrown myself into this metropolis of pickpockets where I lost a cellphone a couple of months ago, where I was cheated my first big purchase with my first pay, where I was ditched by people I called friends because I stopped dating their friend. How much uglier can things get around here?
Was it Brandon in Beverly Hills 90210 who said that it’s in college where you’ll find the people who’ll stick with you through your life? Guess what, Brandon,,, they’re two provinces away (I know I can count on them but let’s get real. How many times a year can you actually hangout with or run to best buds that aren’t physically there?). Or they’re in seclusion in a dimension called Relationship. They feel that they have to be secluded to show they have evolved. That seems to be the notion of maturity these days.
I deserve more fun than this and bleep you if you think this is midlife crisis hahahaha. I’m young and I’d like to think I’m younger than I look, while people around here seem to be growing older faster than they have to. People are getting a bit too serious.
Hangout buddies please, if not friends. People who can hop out on weekends and not say No because they’ve got nothing to spend or are too tired to be out. Or damnit let’s stay in but please it’s a weekend let’s grab some bottles. Lots. People who drink. People who are smart but won’t insist on a smart conversation because that, absolutely, is not necessary on a weekend. People who won’t talk serious unless they have to; just talking with sense isn’t so bad. People who wear cheap old Gap or Old Navy, instead of Armani in exchange of having enough for gas or parking.
Sit back. Take it easy. Drink. And let’s just be kids before we forget how it is. Call me.
I grew up about 400kms north of here, went to a university about 100kms also north of here. The real people I spent so much time with were either contented staying where they were which is an ugly thing, or have left the country thinking they could be happier which is sad. There’s a much bigger world than your hometown but you don’t have to live and work your ass off outside your country to appreciate this vastness. As such, I’ve thrown myself into this metropolis of pickpockets where I lost a cellphone a couple of months ago, where I was cheated my first big purchase with my first pay, where I was ditched by people I called friends because I stopped dating their friend. How much uglier can things get around here?
Was it Brandon in Beverly Hills 90210 who said that it’s in college where you’ll find the people who’ll stick with you through your life? Guess what, Brandon,,, they’re two provinces away (I know I can count on them but let’s get real. How many times a year can you actually hangout with or run to best buds that aren’t physically there?). Or they’re in seclusion in a dimension called Relationship. They feel that they have to be secluded to show they have evolved. That seems to be the notion of maturity these days.
I deserve more fun than this and bleep you if you think this is midlife crisis hahahaha. I’m young and I’d like to think I’m younger than I look, while people around here seem to be growing older faster than they have to. People are getting a bit too serious.
Hangout buddies please, if not friends. People who can hop out on weekends and not say No because they’ve got nothing to spend or are too tired to be out. Or damnit let’s stay in but please it’s a weekend let’s grab some bottles. Lots. People who drink. People who are smart but won’t insist on a smart conversation because that, absolutely, is not necessary on a weekend. People who won’t talk serious unless they have to; just talking with sense isn’t so bad. People who wear cheap old Gap or Old Navy, instead of Armani in exchange of having enough for gas or parking.
Sit back. Take it easy. Drink. And let’s just be kids before we forget how it is. Call me.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Wake Up
You spend 20 years in bed, unconscious, doing basically nothing, where you’ve got absolutely nothing happening for you. That’s a good one-third of your life. Then you die.
An average person spends about six to eight hours in bed sleeping. If he’s heartbroken, only two hours are spent unconscious while the rest is taken over by wallowing. No matter. Most of that is still time wasted. I’m not saying that humans should do without sleeping. You’ll mess up with your endocrine system and deprive yourself of serotonin. In English, you’ll make yourself cranky. I learned this from Scully. Tempers would flare and if nuclear bombs don’t annihilate mankind, we will die in our own rages. It’s only that I believe in staying awake while you can.
It’s 10:30pm right now on a Sunday. You’ve got work tomorrow? So do I. get your MP3 player and with your blaring earphones, walk the streets and stop by at Burger Machine for a longganisa with egg sandwich. Buy pirated DVDs and have a movie marathon. Write. Have sex. Write about it. Text your girlfriend. Blog about it. Surf the net. Meet new people. Then have sex again. Build relationships and destroy those that aren’t healthy for you. Sit in bed drinking while waiting for Chowking to serve breakfast, although they’ve replaced the ham with paper. Visit the red-light district. Text your ex and flirt with her. Learn a difficult song and sing it and just this once let it be you who disturbs the peace of the neighborhood. Do a hundred sit-ups. Go to Starbucks and complain about their Wi-Fi fcuk it it’s supposed to be for free! There’s just too much to do and if we live to be 60, that’s practically throwing 20 years in a vegetable state. Make something happen. Right now. Sleep only when you can’t sustain a vertical position any longer because there’s just too much opportunity for that when that time comes when you aren’t able to wake up.
An average person spends about six to eight hours in bed sleeping. If he’s heartbroken, only two hours are spent unconscious while the rest is taken over by wallowing. No matter. Most of that is still time wasted. I’m not saying that humans should do without sleeping. You’ll mess up with your endocrine system and deprive yourself of serotonin. In English, you’ll make yourself cranky. I learned this from Scully. Tempers would flare and if nuclear bombs don’t annihilate mankind, we will die in our own rages. It’s only that I believe in staying awake while you can.
It’s 10:30pm right now on a Sunday. You’ve got work tomorrow? So do I. get your MP3 player and with your blaring earphones, walk the streets and stop by at Burger Machine for a longganisa with egg sandwich. Buy pirated DVDs and have a movie marathon. Write. Have sex. Write about it. Text your girlfriend. Blog about it. Surf the net. Meet new people. Then have sex again. Build relationships and destroy those that aren’t healthy for you. Sit in bed drinking while waiting for Chowking to serve breakfast, although they’ve replaced the ham with paper. Visit the red-light district. Text your ex and flirt with her. Learn a difficult song and sing it and just this once let it be you who disturbs the peace of the neighborhood. Do a hundred sit-ups. Go to Starbucks and complain about their Wi-Fi fcuk it it’s supposed to be for free! There’s just too much to do and if we live to be 60, that’s practically throwing 20 years in a vegetable state. Make something happen. Right now. Sleep only when you can’t sustain a vertical position any longer because there’s just too much opportunity for that when that time comes when you aren’t able to wake up.
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