Drunken Ramblings? Hope Not.

Blog update. Written: April 13, 2009. The original post is in my Multiply account.

Normally, I cringe at cliches, but today I’ll make an exception.

Dreams can come true.

Hard work can pay off.

One of my more lofty goals this year had been to try and make it to the dean’s list. Yes, I thought I’d put aside that yearning during the first two years of college, thinking, “Life’s too short to pour my heart out on schoolwork. Good grades will not assure me 100% of having a beautiful life.” And so on and so forth. However, being a bit of a type-A-personality, the hankering for a muscle-y QPI eventually won out, and what perfect timing, too. I’d chosen what’s supposedly the “hardest” year level to do so: third year. (Granted, I had a lot of great memories the first two years of college, but on some occasions I still bemoaned not trying to be on the dean’s list those two years. It might have been easier, and I might have been spared this sudden anxiety to prove something to myself.) Knowing the odds I was up against, I couldn’t go without humility: “Come on, God, I probably won’t be a dean’s lister for two semesters this school year. But give me at least ONE semester. ONE!”

Self-denial. Truckloads of discipline. Caffeine. Sleepless nights. Caffeine. Frayed nerves and slight paranoia. Slaving over my laptop to write, write, edit, write. Fatigue and palpitations. The deepening of my love for knowledge, particularly literature… More caffeine.

I should have known my grades early last week, but one of my teachers didn’t submit my grade (and my classmates’ grades) on time. (Trust Sir Pulan to make you agitated about your intelligence and worthiness to live. Haha…)

They were finally fully available today, and they were damn pretty: a QPI of 3.50! It’s so much more than I thought I would get, but I’m happier this way.

That’s one goal I can tick off. I hope I’ll be just as successful at my other goals (e.g. my senior thesis, law school, etc.), and maybe after all of that I can go on to spout another cliche: Love conquers all. (But that last one is another story worthy of another blog entry.)

For now, I’ll try to see if I can wheedle my father into awarding me with some money. After all, I need to spoil myself a little, too.

Blog update. Written: January 5, 2009. The original post is in my Multiply account.

2008 was a bitch.

How’s that for a comeback statement?

And it’s true, too–for me anyway.

Granted, it wasn’t bad all throughout the year. There was the Alingal crew; Andrew (and the great times we spent together); the best first semester QPI I’ve ever had in ADMU so far, the ARSA dance team; new friendships; rekindled friendships; fun creative writing electives; and anecdote-worthy situations.

But in the same year, the Alingal crew dissolved into different factions: a few had to leave ADMU (or the Philippines, for that matter); some went into self-imposed hermitage (*cough*); others went off to form new groups.

Andrew and I weren’t even on the same island for most of the year, and with that distance came jealousies, intrigues, long bouts of loneliness, and the magnification of relationship problems.

I drowned myself in schoolwork and was lost to the dorm community in general. (”Yeah, where IS Margie? Is she still a dormer? I haven’t seen her in a long time.” Jeez. Sorry. I’m a 3rd year lit major. Do you know how many readings I have to deal with aside from the ones from my non-majors?)

New friendships were made in a disproportionate pace to how some old ones irrevocably deteriorated.

Lola Juling died.

Some of the peace-loving, almost zen-esque attitudes I had adopted towards life since freshman year were challenged amid problematic group members; unpleasant blast-from-the-past appearances of people I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with again; flaky friends; etc. Yes, my legendary high school bitchiness manifested in destructive spurts throughout 2008.

My blogging was also put on hold because of everything I had to do, to fix, to sulk about in private.

So, in the last few minutes before New Year, I stood on the Tuscania rooftop staring at the fireworks going off around the city and my knees shook. I felt the oppressiveness of the next 5 years looming closer: specifically regarding law school and how it will affect everything else in my life. How far does my decision-making freedom go? Have I ever been “free” to choose in the first place, or was I just made to believe it? What is the right–the best–decision?

In the aftermath of 2008, I’m still here–alive, more ruthless in fighting for myself, keener on protecting my interests.

That doesn’t mean that I’m not scared, though, because I am very scared.

But there’s a part of me that remembers how to hope, too.

Hello, 2009.

So, my roommate from Taguig has been MIA since last semester, because she’s part of the Junior Term Abroad (JTA) program of Ateneo’s School of Management.

So, my Korean roommate went home to Korea. Her exchange program stint is done, and she left me a note on my corkboard during the sembreak to express her farewell. I bought her a pair of earrings and dried mangoes from the airport yesterday. Fuck. How the hell was I supposed to know?

So, my fellow Cebuana roommate is in Laguna for the weekend with her current dorm posse.

So, I am all alone in the room. I rented four movies at Video City and bought a bottle of liquor and two packs of cigarettes to entertain me.

One movie down, one cigarette gone, and half of the liquor imbibed–I am not as well entertained as I thought I would be.

I am currently playing a game with the liquor bottle. I close one eye, open it, and close the other. Voila! Dancing botilya.Twenty minutes have gone by.

Well, I guess this is better than crying, though I am sorely tempted to ask Pat to hang out with me. I could find amusement in his periodic rambling about mundane things.

But I refuse to be that desperate.

I should have bought more alcohol. If I did, I’d be asleep by now.

I wish I could find you; stab your shiny, sleek body with a branch; and watch you writhe in pain.

I suspect I know what you’re waiting for. One, that he is seduced by your careful navigation over his mind and heart, enough to throw all caution to the winds and take up your invitation. Two, that you can strike at my spirit, infect my blood with the venom of Suspicion, and drive me to madness until I myself give up on him. It’s one or the other, or it could be both.

But let me tell you something: I’ve dealt with snakes like you before, and none of them have ever escaped without feeling like their lives have been irrevocably damaged. You are treading on a fine, fine line.

I’ve thus far managed to reign in the full extent of my bloodthirsty  ways. I’m so much nicer these past two years that I’m actually starting to miss my bitch-fit-days.

So, try anything more, slut, and I swear you will pay.

Blog update. Written: June 29, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

I’m
still going through days and days without internet in the dorm, and
coming back to Metro Manila has meant having to face the gaping absence
of so many people I adore.

I
remember simultaneously sobbing and joking to Kyla and Francelle about
our Long Distance Relationship club. I remember sitting in the Alingal
SPG for consecutive nights watching fireflies and trying to find hope
in them. I remember telling Migoy the other day about the strange
feeling of displacement, because the dorm got bigger…and I feel
swallowed up by its massive size.

But
the first month is coming to a close, and I managed to get by. What’s
more, I’m realizing more and more that I’ve been obsessing over the
thought of being at the mercy of the Universe–which I most certainly
am not. Thank you to a few friends (particularly Sher and Gani) for
reminding me that there is, after all, a form of resistance against
fate, and that is free will. So, I’m taking matters into my own hands.
Finally.



Sparks of life are igniting inside me again, and it’s the most promising occurrence in almost a month.

Something wonderful is around the corner, and I’m eager to meet it.

Whenever, wherever.

Blog update. Written: May 29, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

Good morning, world. It is the 30th of May. I woke up for class enlistment at 6 AM.

A
sigh. The teachers and electives I wanted had some clashing schedules,
but I wanted to get most of them anyway. The result? Mondays which
would start at 1:30 PM and end at 7:30 PM. Wednesdays, and Fridays that
would begin at 1:30 PM and end at 4:30 PM. A Tuesday class from 12 noon
to 1:30 PM. Thursdays with 12-1:30 and 3-6 PM classes. I clicked
confirm, reviewed the schedule, panicked, attempted revision, and was
met with the words: "Site under system maintenance." Shit. I realized
my folly too late.

Insert
more cussing for 10 minutes after clicking Confirm. I took a deep
intake of breath thereafter and resolved to live with the effects of my
stupidity. Besides, there were some benefits to the schedule I had
arranged for myself. Yes, of course. Right. Sure.

I
took a pen and scribbled it all down, and when I had finished I stared
at the paper in my hands. Looking at it was like admitting that classes
would start soon, and I would have to leave Cebu in a few days.
Feelings of unease and nostalgia and futile struggling against Time
settled in my stomach as I thought of the boy I would have to miss for
many months.


Who knew I’d be in this situation again a year later? (God has a funny sense of humor, doesn’t he?)



But although some factors are the same, many are different, too. That’s why I choose to gamble. I choose to hope.






But oh my god. I’m just so horrible at goodbyes.

Blog update. Written: May 15, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

Rob
Sheffield in his book entitled "Love is a mix tape" said that every
playlist has a story. I’d reread this last night, and on a whim I
decided to dig up an old playlist among my files.

The pivotal summer of 2006, and a playlist that might as well have been a crystal ball.

Boys speak in rhythm and girls in code.

Do you think I have a case? Let me ask you to your face. I think I love you.


Let’s compare scars. I’ll tell you whose is worse.

My heart is yours to fill or burst, to break or bury, or wear as jewelry–whichever you prefer.

Here
in this diary, I write you visions of my summer. It was the best I ever
had. There were choruses and sing-alongs and that unspoken feeling of
knowing that right now is all that matters.


And
down to the edge of the water, where we’ll spill our guts and we’ll
name our fears, I’ll give you this picture. Keep it, and don’t be
scared.

Oh my god. I think I’m dying in this car seat where I’ll spend through winter.

Where do you run to so far away? I want you to know that I miss you. I miss you so.

And you are my fading photograph. Oh, ripped of memory, and your burning memoirs rest here. You know they wrestle with me.

Losing half a year waiting for you here. I’d be your anything.


I’m home. Haven’t you heard the ring? The sound of my voice–I know it isn’t much. That’s why I say your name.

It’s
insane. I don’t know why I came. I guess just to see you here but from
far away. All the seniors tell me that I should move on. This is crazy.

All I want this year is for you to dedicate your last breath to me before you bury yourself alive.

But I swear you’ve got me all wrong. All wrong. All wrong, but you’ve got me.

I’ll say it but I’m sure you knew. You’re what I look most forward to coming back to where I’ve been.

We got older, but we’re still young. We never grew out of this feeling that we won’t give up.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry. No, I won’t shed a tear just as long as you stand by me.

Please
tell me you’re just feeling tired, because if it’s more than that I
fear that I might break. Out of touch, out of time. Please send me
anything but signals that are mixed.

I could be an accident, but I’m still trying.

Can
I swallow this bottle whole? So this brain in my head can forget your
face. Can I swallow this bottle whole? ‘Cause I’d rather be dead than
make more mistakes.

I’ll be there painting the town your favorite color. Guess I’ll call or see you around.

Sew this up with threads of reason and regret, so I will not forget.

All my love, all my kissing. You don’t know what you’ve been missing.

Kiss the day goodbye. The sweetness and the sorrow. We did what we had to do.

Silence. Koosi sauntered into the room and sat at my feet. We stared at each other.

Sheffield was right, but listening to this playlist was a stupid idea.

Delete.

Blog update. Written: February 18, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

She hadn’t been well for the past several days.

The
woman who, in spite of her many suitors, refused to get married,
because she thought they weren’t her match in terms of intellect, moral
standards, and spirituality. A wealthy, jilted suitor once found out
the hard way what happened when her decision was challenged.
Wordlessly, she picked up a rock and threatened to decapitate him with
it.

The
woman who loved her brother so much that she moved in with him to keep
his wife company and to help raise the children whenever he left Cebu
to work or oversee farms.

The
woman who, as a prim schoolteacher, would demand that my mother and her
sisters follow her in a single file on their way to school.

The
woman who doused males–who dared to serenade her lovely, young
nieces–with water. My mother and her sisters would sigh and pout and
say, "Oh, Tia, they were just singing." Lola Juling would reply, "That
sounded more like screeching than singing to me."

The
woman who screamed imperiously from the door whenever my sister and I,
during our childhood, would tear down the plants at the balcony of the
Mandaue house. We’d run fearing for our lives when she’d threaten to
fling the watering cans at us.

The
woman who never failed to bring sweets home for my sister and me
whenever she returned from church. She would lovingly watch us eat them
as she rested her feet on a chair.

The
woman who would guilt me into submission whenever I said I’d rather
play in the mud than pray the rosary with the rest of the family. "The
family that prays together," she would say, "stays together. How much
do you really love this family if you can’t give up just 20 minutes of
your time everyday?"

The woman who, when her brother died, vowed to always be at his widow’s side.

The
woman who insisted on doing chores even if she was sick. She valued her
independence, and she believed in her physical strength. She escaped
many life-threatening episodes.





Two
days ago, my cousin called me up to say that this woman was put on life
support. How could someone of so much spunk, strength, and fire
suddenly have to rely on a machine to breathe? It seemed like sacrilege
had been done. But most of all, I refused to think that she could die
at any moment.



She did, though–about an hour and a half ago.


I was devastated when I got the news. God, why? This is unfair!

And then, after lots of crying, I got to thinking that, perhaps, it was all for the best.

When
was the last time we shared a decent conversation? I struggled to
remember. In high school? I can’t even pinpoint when that was.
Sophomore year? Junior year? She had begun losing her ability to form
coherent sentences.

And
what about that first Christmas I came back from studying in Manila? I
had bought her a pair of silk slippers. On Christmas eve, my family had
gathered in our Tuscania condo unit to exchange gifts. I walked into
her room to give her the gift, but I broke down crying when I realized
she would never get to use them. She was bedridden. I am an idiot, I thought to myself. She still thanked me anyway.

Last year, there were times when she could not recognize any of us anymore. Plus, she hardly spoke at all.



Yes, perhaps this is better. Someone of spunk, strength, and fire would hate to keep living like that.

Farewell, Lola Juling. You are always in our hearts, and we hope that your ship has taken you to a better place: with God.

Blog update. Written: April 12, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

It was the frustrate-and-confound-Margie-day.

Whatever I wanted was always out of reach. Whatever I didn’t want or didn’t expect wasn’t.

It
was like the Universe had sent memos to everyone except me that it had
decided to play Opposite Day, because… oh, I don’t know… it’s just so much fun to toy with my patience, money, and need for productivity.

It’s
kind of like when I used to get angry at my cat that I’d tie him up
with a leash to the staircase. And knowing how curious he was about the
world outside our townhouse, I’d open the door right in front of him
and watch him repeatedly attempt (and fail) at walking out. Except, you
know, in this case I was the cat, and the Universe was the
power-tripping master. (*Sob* I’m sorry, Marquis!)

Somehow,
on the way home in my mother’s car, a random memory occurred to me. I
had an online friend years ago who was so obsessed with feng shui. She
told me that if things ever felt like they were going wrong, I should
think about rearranging furniture or cleaning up cluttered spaces.

"You
know," Agatha said, "the Positive Energy can’t harmoniously flow
through your house. It gets blocked off or trapped in certain corners
where it shouldn’t be."

"No offense," I told her, "but I don’t believe that."

Rearranging furniture? Pfft. Lame. Unnecessarily strenuous, too.

But
as I was complaining to my boyfriend hours ago about the stupidity of
just about everything, he told me not to get too fixated with my goals
or feelings.

I hate how he can sometimes be irrefutably correct.

Ambitions are alright. Foresight and making preparations are admirable. But so is the occasional choice to simply not care that much.

I think, in the next few days, I’ll have to work on rearranging furniture–my mental furniture.
I’ve only just noticed how badly I’ve cluttered up my mind with
worries, intricate plots of revenge, doubts, an almost consuming thirst
to excel, and the stubborn determination to be preoccupied.


As cheesy as this might sound, the Positive Energy must and will flow again.

Blog update. Written: April 10, 2008. The original post is in my Multiply account.

Nope,
the title doesn’t bear a typo. I’m not talking about the band Minus the
Bear; I’m actually talking about the absence of alcohol in my system.

Something came up. I understand. I have to. I’m the one who asked for a favor, after all.

It just sucks that the Band Aid Brigade is actually unreachable today. This means I have to deal with myself by myself.

Shit.

Maybe
I’ll go to the rooftop and set things on fire. Pyro joy and nicotine
without actually endangering other people’s lives other than my own.
Oh, and stargazing afterwards, too. Hooray.