Don't fear the butterflies

One of my very good amigas is in-kilig. Note that I refrained from using the L word. It's simply in-kilig. For now. And that's wonderful.
The butterflies in the stomach. The I-can't-wait-till-I-see/talk/chat-with him again feeling. The daydreaming. The conversation that leaves you smiling long after it's happened.
Up until a couple of days ago, that was me as well. Which is why I can't help but worry. Because I somehow don't want her to go through the roller-coaster that I'm currently going through.
You know how they say, what goes up must come down?
The kilig factor gets replaced by questions, and the exchange of more information, that leads to even more questions. Then follow the expectations. And then the inevitable downward spiral when either party does not meet said expectations.
But sometimes, things go well. And kilig turns into admiration. And then to love.
I somehow screw things up somewhere between the questions and expectations. (wry laughter here).
But my friend has more brain cells than me when it comes to matters of the aorta. She is the one person I know who can handle men with so much grace (even under extreme pressure) that I end up fuming on her behalf. This girl could put up a school on poise education with electives on self-esteem formation.
Suddenly, I'm not that worried anymore.

Nice going genius.

I'm staring at my toes because I refuse to think about how idiotic I was acting today.
If I could do one thing over today it would be this: Find a better way of expressing myself without sounding stupid. Anything would be better than what my mouth came up with, which was: "I am so not jealous!!!"

If I were inebriated, I'd probably have started off with (and this is in no particular order) -
>I'm sorry but years of jerk exposure has turned me into a scarred cynic who has trust issues. The fact that you act the player does not help.
>I am probably now hard-wired to sabotaging any/all chances of semi-coupledom.
>I try to find reasons to run away before you can get under my skin.
>Jealousy is a by-product of like, so you see, I'm actually admitting that I like you too. In a roundabout way. And that's a lot from me.
>Be semi-glad I'm showing any emotion at all. I could've just walked away without warning.
>I'm sorry, but until I know what the story is, and where I stand, I will act like an idiot sometimes.

But I wasn't inebriated. I was stone-cold sober, albeit green-eyed. So all I could come up with was: "I'm so not jealous!!!"
How creative.
I see the other party running in the opposite direction now. The end is nigh.

Stop. Look. Listen.

Remember how, as a kid, you were taught to look both ways before crossing the road?
The instruction was pretty simple and very logical.
Look to your left and then to your right. If it was clear, you could cross. If not, stay on your side of the road and wait until it was safe.
So why do we, as adults, refuse to apply this simple rule to our lives? Why do we cross without pause, blindly hoping we sidestep the inevitable wreck that may just happen because we refused to look? Why do we insist on walking into the path of speeding bullet trains?
Why do we ignore the figurative traffic signs staring us in the face???
If it's clear, walk. If it's not, stay put. Wait until it's safe, and then cross.

Maybe we all secretly dream of adorning the asphalt as non-furry roadkill.
How else does one explain it?

Revolutionary Road follows Ash Wednesday

I am not April Wheeler. I refuse to die as April Wheeler. The fact that I sit here typing this must be testament to my ability to rise above the pettiness of imagined suburbian bliss. There must at least be something within me that realizes the lie in feigned conformity.
I must admit though that I am not as honest as I wish I could be with myself. There are times I find my thoughts wander to the safety of the nine to five existence again.
And I conform. We all do. Don't say that you've never salivated over a window display at Ikea. I have. But I believe I do it because I want to, not because I have to.
And yet I question myself.
Somebody spoke to me honestly and simply yesterday. And that opened my eyes to the hypocrisy within me. Here was someone who wasted no time sugarcoating what he had to say, yet was not cruel in dispensing the truth. He didn't give a rat's ass what people thought, as long as he knew that he was doing no harm and was being as good and decent a human being as his parents raised him to be. I envied him that.
And I thought I was pretty decent. And I thought that I was being honest with myself. And to others.
I always prided myself at being a really lousy liar. Now I think, I'm possibly a good liar without knowing it.
Now I think of another goal to set for myself. To try and be a little more honest with myself before it's too late. Yet another reminder of my mortality passed me by the other day. Nuns with the black crosses on their forehead signifying the passing of another Ash Wednesday.
This time last year I wrote about how the day reminded me of old roses. And churchyards I think it was. Poetic. Romantic. Whatever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be the tough cynic again with that I'm about to say. I just want to say that poetry goes hand in hand with honesty. Don't go around showing everyone how tough you are by being the rebellious badass. Be the badass because that is the most honest way you know how to Be.
This year I think about how much clearer things become when I take the time to just fucking let go of all my issues and say things like they are. It isn't that hard to be honest with oneself. Or with others. It just takes a little practice.

About a boy

So here I am again. After a long absence due to the insanity of shooting schedules and celebrations, I'm back. But not because I really want to be.
I'm back because I have to bitch and moan. And because my closest faggy friends, my girl friends and yes, even my platonic guy friends are of no help.
So its you and me blog. It's lets-let-out-all-our-pent-up-emotions time. Lets get it all out in the open without the painful possibility of someone giving you advice you may not as yet be ready to hear.
Yes, okay, this is about a boy. and believe me, I have absolutely NO IDEA how I got tangled up in this. And now, now I want to know why I'm, er, so, um, crap, confused. What is it about this kid that I can't quite figure out?
I thought I could pigeonhole him into your run of the mill player. But then he exhibits traits that say otherwise.
I thought maybe brainless actor/jock. But then he shows me he has a brain.
I thought maybe, chivalrous long-term dude (not necessarily for me, mind you) who was being the nice guy-next-door type saint because he didn't want to be the jerk to any girl. But then he goes on flirt mode with the lobby gals soon as one turns around.
Hans says that it could be possible that I have finally met a guy who is fairly normal, decent and NOT a jerk (problem is my exposure to jerks has left me with absolutely no working knowledge of how to treat possible nice guys on a normal level).
Another friend insists that the guy IS a player and that I should start running in the opposite direction. Like now. And fast.
But punyetah, no matter how cool and detached I insist I still am, come end of day, I admit to looking forward to that goodbye hug and beso.
I sometimes think, fate, in all her wisdom and twisted sense of humor, has sent me this person to well, keep me on my toes here, lest I become lazy on my last term.
My reality based one-foot-constantly-on-the-ground side is telling me that this confusion can and will be over in a matter of weeks (hello, past experience here at this funny farm!). It could be over next week. I should thus stay cool and apathetic to all manner of charms being thrown my way. That way, when end comes, I can properly deny, laugh, mourn over, cackle and shake my head over this little episode with a guy who was, truth be told, an absolute puzzlement.
But this stupid little fluffy voice (yes fellow cynics, I have one inside me too sometimes) says I should just smile and enjoy the attention.
After all, it isn't everyday someone inspires you enough to kick the nicotine habit. It isn't everyday a guy carries all your things, walks you to your door not expecting anything more than a thank you and a hug goodbye. It isn't everyday you get a smile so warm and without guile.
It isn't everyday you wish you belonged to someone you could, in another life, have maybe really been great with.

Island fever

I'm not going to write a cliched storm about what turning thirty meant to me. Because I intend to stay twenty-nine for another six months. Yeah, you heard me. I can make my own rules.
But I will tell you what happened to me the moment I stepped onto Kalibo airport's windswept tarmac after a five hour wait at NAIA.
What happened was, I got a fever.
The grey skies, rough seas, airplane fiasco and my incredibly delayed arrival in Boracay contributed to my deteriorating health and enthusiasm over my beach birthday weekend. I was sure I was going to give someone a bitch fit soon as my feet hit the white sand.
Out of sheer fatigue and nausea, not only did I do away with birthday melodrama, I also let go of any delusions of drinking and dancing the night away. I thankfully ended up being extremely well taken care of by friends. Pumped with vitamins and paracetamol and treated to dinner (bless Pix and Ritchie), I started to feel the island vibe. but due to the cold and absolute exhaustion, I promptly fell asleep after coffee (which unfortunately left Jing and Siobe to their own devices at Cafe Del Sol).
Goodbye first night in paradise.
The next evening was, er, a blur. Really. Armed with good intentions and the will to party the night away, we made our way to Juice. After a couple of beers, an undetermined amount of tequila shots, a flaming "waterfall" which in retrospect must have been the reason the world almost went black, and a "blowjob"shot, one really couldn't blame me for the inebriated dance floor madness that followed.
I thus greeted the dawn of my thirtieth year dancing with hazy figures, stumbling home through the sand and puking my guts out in our pretty hotel bathroom.
The shaking stopped sometime after noon.
Although my eyes still found it hard to focus by three and my head was throbbing like a thousand elders were having a canao in it, I somehow summoned the will to stumble out to the seashore and bid my birthday sun goodbye.

So I slept more than half the day away. So my insides felt like jell-o. So I didn't get as close as I planned. Big deal.
I welcomed the day with friends I loved, I partied like a madman, danced like there was no tomorrow and lived to see another day. I couldn't stop smiling.

Hello three-O.

My afternoon as an ear

I am devoid of inspiration.

As I sit here contemplating my thesis and ignoring the void of meaningless thoughts that enter my otherwise pre-occupied brain, I realize that everyone who has stopped by my table this afternoon has been a man with an opinion. An a need to be listened to.

I have sat here and listened to all of them greet me, compliment me, whine, narrate, explicate (is that a word?), uselessly comment, lazily smile, request a favor from, dispense grandfatherly advice, randomly blab, thought out aloud and yes, subconsciously hit on me.

I realize that to most of them, women like me are sounding boards, nannies, and at most a pleasant distraction.