It is remarkable how something you believed in to be all too real and pure now just seems to be nothing more than a trance, and then all is gone and you’re not even left with the memory of the face. It’s like waking up in the morning from a dream you do not remember, but somehow you feel in strange disarray.
Disclaimer: Writer stresses that this post is intended for no one. If you think that you are the recipient, you are wrong, you need a reality check. Taking any action in reliance on the contents of this information is strictly prohibited.. by the.. uhm..guardians of the watchtowers of the east.
What I really mean: If you think I learned it from you, give yourself a pat on the back, maybe I did. If it hurts you, for some reason, I’m sorry, it was not meant to be hurtful nor was it ever meant to be addressed to anyone in particular. That was why I put the disclaimer on top to stop you from reading further. Yehehe, lusot. Otherwise, writer would really prefer if you would cease egoistically thinking too much of yourself because anyway everything here should be coincidental, and plainly for purposes of education and entertainment… I think…
This year I learned the following:
· No matter how sweet a bottle of perfume is, you should never marinate in it.
· It is said that you should never apologize for being yourself, it is equally important to try not to endorse yourself on top of someone else’s opened toed sandals.
· Celebrate your femininity with less sarcastic feminist jokes and with more use of your cunning as a woman and your innate ability to land sales deals just by wearing pink, it’s proven to work 100% of the time.
· Never trust a person who haughtily says, ‘that’s just who I am, what can I do’, after they hurt others. Firstly, it’s a fucking lousy cliché which means that they may reek of unoriginal whiff in the other areas of their lives, and secondly, you’ll find out further that they’re just not worth the boredom. Make them happy by taking your leave so that they have more time to keep telling themselves that.
· Always give yourself a chance and you will find out that a lot of people would like to have a chance at something with you.
· The earlier that one realizes that his family (or those he considers family) are the ones least likely to desert him, the less worries he has to put into the mundane, boring details of insurance.
· I like the concept of karma, Its justice spelled with fewer letters.
· Rejoice in your differences, they are the essence and the entertainment of your relationships.
· Being a woman is an inherent gift and a natural defense mechanism that gives you the advantage of surprising your attackers.
· Character is also defined by your response to those moments when you f**ked up and you’ve been found out.
· Be careful, the stubborn belief in destiny can ruin your ability to grow; it may make you think apologies are for sissies and veracity can be quite a handful.
· Love your friends with all your heart and with most of your free time, especially those who have the courage to tell you that “that turtleneck looks wonderful on you…because it hides your double chin.”
· Never promise anyone forever… you can always say ‘for as long as I can’, it’s handy for both parties, expectations are managed and it proves the effort you want to put into it.
· Real friendships always have a second chance.
· Let go. You will be surprised with how much more you can handle and how much more you deserve.
· Even impulsive liars should be honest to themselves.
· Finding a convenient setup is making sure that you do not have to try hard to work at it because everything is in place right from the start. Sadly, only fools and cowards believe that that exists.
· Don’t fix it if it’s not broken, and if it is, fix it quickly before someone else finds out.
· These two are surprisingly always connected — do but also seem and nothing is ever as they seem.
· Celebrate all that is skewed, indefinable and cannot be mirrored.
· A man, who does not practice what he preaches, will make a very very talkative husband.
· The time you spend crying over your imagined inadequacies is inversely proportional to your happiness and directly proportional to the number of times you’ll attain huge amounts of mascara gook.
· Okay this is not from me this is from Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon – ‘Who would want to belong to someone who does not belong to herself?’
· Be grateful.
· It is my obligation to speak the truth, sometimes even when unsolicited. However, there will always be times when I should give people the liberty to bask in their own versions of that truth to keep things more acceptable for everyone.
· Proximity was never just a bonus.
· The biggest sin you can commit against yourself is to run away because you realized your own insecurities. People are sadly inclined to put their egos first, it is always the easiest way out.
· The best way to hit back is to not.
EAT A LOT AND ENJOY THIS CHRISTMAS, YOU ARE WITH PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU, THEY DO NOT CARE IF YOU GAINED AN EXTRA KILO.
HAVE A WILD NEW YEAR’S EVE, AND KISS THE PERSON NEXT TO YOU, NO MATTER WHO THAT IS, WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES 12. IT WILL BE EITHER GOOD LUCK OR A GOOD DEED DONE. HEHE.
AND MAKE THE MOST OUT OF 2006.. LIFE IS GOOD.. ALL THE TIME.
Cheers! =)) Jude
I’m a gay man trapped in a woman’s body, a very happy gay man indeed. This is something my very witty (and fabulous) coven of gay men and women has figured out about me some x years ago, I do not even remember how, yet the tag and its implication follows me around, too much.
I am a very happy gay man in a woman’s body, and sometimes I think it’s a curse. Probably I was born with prozac and lithium in my blood, I have an overdose of optimism and yes, after keeping mum for some time about it, I finally admit that sometimes it really gets to me when people associate depressive states and dark personalities to profundity. It seems that insightfulness and complexity can only be borne out of a dismal state. I beg to differ. It’s equivalent to saying that only suicidal types of people get to be deep, mysterious and multi-faceted. Please don’t get me wrong, I am no member of the Brady Bunch and I certainly don’t have the disposition of a Happy Tree Friend who comes back all hopeful and giggly after being cut up to pieces in one episode. I’m not saying I’m right, I’m just… saying.
When I look back to high school with all those hormones flying around, when our hobbies include letter writing (oh, god I think I’m the only who did not get into it – I cannot explain it to you clearly, but I assure you it was) and identity crises, I realize that I did not have so many issues. Either that or maybe I just never wallowed in them. High school was supposed to be the time when your all ‘who I am’ episode gets up to your ears and your hormones tell you why getting angry can actually be well… cool. I did not go through it while everyone else seems to have. Growing up in an all-girl catholic school, we always had spiritual recollection seminars. We had it almost every year, I think. Those spiritual seminars were fine with me, you get to sleep some place else with your friends and get to be out of the school routine. However, there is one part that I dread the most — sharing — when you have that little candle right in front of you along with expectant candle lit faces of 20 high school girls waiting for a sob story and your supposed to say something about yourself that is equally tear jerking as the person who just finished. Sharing meant getting your heart out in the open; it also means crying your tear glands dry. I always thought that it was, maybe helpful to some, but to me, it was just dreadful. I could never match other people, because my stories always eventually turn up like something from a “chicken soup for the soul” book. I once said at the end, “But hey, everything’s fine, so what if I’m getting my spinal operation tomorrow, it still means I get off from school and I have one cool story to tell.” I feel guilty that I might be trivializing their pain, I mean stories about broken families and my-friends-hate-me-thus-I- hate-myself seem to be the bestsellers. I am not trivializing anything, because it is supposed to be a very deep and serious discussion of feelings. Plus, we definitely don’t have a perfect family either, I have my insecurities and sometimes I wish I had bigger boobs (well I still have that wish now). It’s just that when you have rose-colored glasses stuck 90% of the time to the bridge of your nose like a permanent wart, it’s just so difficult to get depressed for long periods of time, to be depressed for too much tears and to be depressed enough to manage to take someone down with you unconsciously. Misery anyway really does love company.
People say that one can make the best poems when one’s heart has just been broken or when it is yearning. I say, that the best poems are made because people have been in love. It is good to feel the pain of a heart break, to let it sink, but it is always madness if you allow it to consume you and wallow in it too long that you forget about the fact that first you have to define love before you can shed oceans for it. But then, love has never been defined so precisely by anyone. Only the bible was able to say something really close, which anyway equates to: If you really love him, get a life… and let him have his.
Maybe the reason why they say that people in depressive states are wise and complex is because of an experience, nonetheless, my respect can only be given to them if I have seen how brilliantly they bounced back and took over their life. And how much time it took them to work on it. Otherwise, they can just shove their wisdom way up… there … somewhere.
Every year I get to this reevaluation of my life and the challenge that I perennially face is that I do not see obstacles, only opportunities. Thus I cannot truly, extensively get intense. When it comes to melancholy I have the attention span of a two year old. I bitch and I get hurt but my tantrums have never permanently become a fully mature wound. Not even a bad love life, the threat of being unemployed nor the couple of major operations in my life had made me miserable for more than a day. I cannot hold real grudges, I trust, I forgive and I absolutely can forget, and luckily for those who have hurt me, the chances I give are real although measured of course (c’mon you cannot be that lucky). My philosophy in life stems from this simple fact: you are STILL alive and you CAN be dead tomorrow.
I cry when I want to for no reason at all or for all the reasons I have forgotten to cry for. For people who left, for the people who came back and for the people who appeared in my life, most especially. I am not frugal with tears because my idea of strength is not very shallow. (Note: trying hard to not cry does not make you tough and deep neither; you just end up looking like a motorcycle bike dude who lost the big-breasted girl riding behind him on the highway, but that’s another essay). Things have got to be taken advantage of because time is really a bitch. He does not care about your issues; he will just go about his business.
Overt and extreme optimism can be both a trap and an escape. Nonetheless, it is my way of dealing though I did not consciously choose it. I am not saying I am right, I am just… saying. J
attraction as a function of smell and not looks
hard to believe huh? everyone has a specific set of immunities to diseases. you might have immunity to anemia (just an example) while i won’t have the same immunity. as humans, we have this primal instinct to produce the ‘best baby’ possible, we tend to look for people who have a different set of immunities than us. this is to ensure that our baby gets the best of both worlds. and how do we do this? somehow our body achieves this by scents we give off and our sense of smell. they did a live test and it was proven that the girls’ natural scents that the man was most attracted to were the girls who had no immunities similar to his. so that can somehow explain why we get attracted to people who are, ummm… not pleasing to look at.
… and onto men’s natural compensation against adulterous women
their natural compensation? bigger balls (scientifically known as testes). the male testes is - believe it or not - bigger than a gorilla’s, but smaller than a chimpanzee’s. scientific explanation? in societies where the male is very dominant, the male does not have to worry about the females committing adultery (read: i will beat you to a bloody pulp if i see you with another man), hence the gorilla only has to have a ‘little’ supply of sperms in order to ensure he’ll have offsprings. while in the chimp society, the females are notorious for sleeping around (read: my wife is not at home today. it’s monday so you can find her at ted’s place.) and it is widely accepted. the male chimps compensate for this by having a ‘bigger’ supply of sperms so that they can sleep around as well in order to ensure they will have offsprings. and human society? well we’re in the middle. (read: i don’t care if you sleep with other men, i’ve been sleeping with other women too anyway.). the higher the faithfulness of the women in that society, the smaller the balls. hmm…
It’s surreal, utterly dreamlike. I am not in my early 20’s anymore, not that there is something wrong with it; it’s just that I never thought it would happen to me. Yesterday I was watching a movie from 1995 with my boyfriend and I just blurted out ‘1995 does not feel like a decade ago, it feels like last year’. The 1990’s still seem close to me, I still feel 12. Eww. I know that’s tragic, stop squirming.
The turn into ‘Judy’s theory of when true mathematical adulthood starts’ was not at all bad. Last year it was the company Christmas party when I had my birthday, so I came late because I had to have a separate dinner that did not include at least 100 people cross eyed from one beer after another and definitely getting overly friendly. Last year, when they asked me how old I was and I answered 25, most of them said, “Wow, you’re a kid”. Even one manager jokingly shook my hand, greeted me with this big impish smile on his face and said “happy birthday, so finally you’re turning 12 huh?’ This year though, when I tell people I’m 26, they say: “Oh, I remember that age, that’s a wonderful age” or “26! My gyne used to say it’s the time when your body is most prepared for a child, something like you’re ovaries are definitely working for a good appraisal!”… where is my “you’re life is ahead of you, kid!” remark??? Don’t I even get… “want a lollipop?” Its weird that last year I hated how everyone was treating me like I just got baptized into real life and now I want to postpone knowing what being 4 years away from 30 is.
Oh, what the huut, I am now in my late 20’s officially and there’s nothing I can do about it, thank you very much. I wonder if there’s a membership card that gives me discount for massages. J
Here’s the rundown of the birthday.
Midnight. When 0000h struck, I was on a boat sailing on the river cutting Prague in half, along with 100 people from my company and a 1930’s theme, we were already tipsy enough to be the carbonated versions of ourselves. A surprise cake and a birthday song was given to me a little bit earlier than that with almost everyone singing (C’mon the party started at 6pm, imagine what 6 hours did to us. It really felt like some revelry of Santa’s elves and someone was distributing free Prozac.) There were several other versions of that song after that, from each group I passed or said hi to. So technically, this year holds the most number of birthday songs sung for me. I was given a bottle of red to finish, as if it was some sacred tradition and I finished half, so you can imagine how giddy I started to become. I can say though that even excluding the alcohol, because I anyway really make an effort to never get too drunk in company parties where they can use one stupid thing you don’t even remember doing as ammunition, I enjoyed the party extremely —- the dancing, the food, the people and the extremely cheerful atmosphere. I recognized that I have made some very good friends here whom I have consciously not acknowledged in my head, because they were anyway always there. It is something I didn’t realize because work sometimes gets in the way of knowing people more deeply, or perhaps it is the fact that I spent most of my time making love to the members of the MS Office package (spreadsheets, etc, just to make sure… heheJ)
Morning. I woke and W was already there. He apparently has been watching my post-REM self for a boring ten minutes, or maybe it wasn’t too boring for him.. I wonder what I was dreaming about :)). I opened my eyes and checked if I was drooling, I wasn’t fortunately, so I got my good morning birthday greeting from him ;), tea and the birthday gift. When I opened my mouth to say thank you, this really sexy voice came out, husky and low. He smiled. I smiled… and then I started coughing like a maniac. W ran to the kitchen to get me meds, and that wonderful herbal tea that makes coughing a little bit less like hell is being torn from your chest along with all of darkness’ steaming lava.
The whole day. Sick on my birthday, that was this year’s theme. I didn’t know if I was going to laugh or cry or laugh and cry and dance around invoking spirits to rid me of my woe. We were planning to go to that photo exhibit, have lunch at our favorite Italian place where the crew became good acquaintances of ours for the past year, buy that coat that I have kept my stingy self from buying since forever, have some sushi dinner and then party with some friends. I was thinking of doing something for some kids for my birthday before, but since I am on a project for the Catholic missions already, I figured that maybe I can have some selfish time with W for the birthday. Instead we ended up watching a couple of videos while he fed me with honey, lemon and tea and trip-less cough syrup. I had a very hot shower in the early afternoon, and then we went for food around 4pm. At the sushi place, we made up for lost… birthday time… laughing and talking about stupid stuff. (I taught him to thumb wrestle, so yeah I guess I did something productive that day). After the sushi place, I just bought a copy of the latest Harry Potter installment… and I was barking all over the bookstore like a dog in heat, that was when W came up behind me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I beg you, go home and rest, we’re scaring people here.”
Throughout the day though, I was so happy to have received calls from my closest friends, sms, email messages. This year, I got really surprise messages and calls from people I thought would not even remember. My family has been phoning me continuously from two days before my birthday so I didn’t feel too lonely, I felt over greeted actually. Hehehe. That can never be a bad thing.
When we got home, I dressed up in my thickest pajamas and turned in early. W tucked me in and asked if I had a good day, I said… “It could not have been more perfect”… with that sultry rock-star voice.
(And I would like to thank everyone through this, I really don’t expect too much, but this is too much.. luxury… thanks!)
I write this now with a totally un-sexy voice, right now I just sound like a man fresh from circumcision. Hehe.
Me talking to my reflection on the computer monitor as I type away another entry on one journal: “What the hell do you need an online journal for? It is called repressed exhibitionism, it’s either an undeniable manifestation of your insecurities or a clear expression of your over confidence in your imaginary little victories. In this page you become the quarterback instead of the water boy, the cheerleader instead of the mascot. You may unconsciously be writing a twisted version of the truth about who you are and your life. Inadvertently, you call Technicolor to spice up Pleasantville. Suddenly, your life has a soundtrack. Girl, you preach nothing less than blunt, almost arrogant honesty, remember that.”
So I snap back at me with this little piece of useless yet overused and quite priceless wisdom: what makes my problems a lot bigger than everyone else’s is that… they’re mine. What makes life more imbedded in memory is that it has more color in a journal than when a mind merely thrives clouded by thoughts of what other people may think.
Maybe I am right, if I wanted a record of my thoughts why could I have just not kept a small black book containing my dark little secrets… like that Spice Girls album I still keep (I am such a sucker, deep dark secret number 1 uncovered… I am definitely going down :))). Why don’t I reveal myself only to myself then just try submitting prose to the local newspaper? Additional dough if my work gets in, ya know. The black book will contain all those little cusses I throw at people I love the most when I get really pissed, which I itch to say but could only spit out the mollified version of. The black book will contain the horrid details of my being vain and self centered, things which will never fit most of who I think I am… even if I tried. The black book will contain my secret dreams of becoming famous… and sometimes of becoming a man. The black book will contain my fears, my vulnerability, and… yep, my dirty thoughts. So, I will guard it with my life like a drooling hyena.
You know… I can do that. But then, it would be tremendously boring (that’s a personal opinion, thank you very much). Greed and paranoia are always boring unless you can make movies about these themes.
So do you write online to be entertained? Honestly, I do sometimes. The best way to look at another side of your life is when you look at it without having to be psychotically attached to it. When I update, I see a webpage and a kick-ass layout (hahahaha that was a baaaaddd ugly layout joke). No I am not completely detached from it of course, these are my memories we’re talking about, they are sacred. Memories matter to me because they compose my little textbook of mistakes and ammunition. Only with the journal, I see myself in a different light- sometimes with more humor and more angst, sometimes with more grace and more spunk, sometimes with more dweebiness and more awkwardness, me in a different costume all the time. But me, nonetheless.
Does having journal friends help? I guess so, notwithstanding, the odd stories of being stalked or the queasy feeling of paranoia. (ang feeling! well, like I said if you are being true to yourself, everyone has that, look at all those people who have locked their pages "friends only")… Knowing that there is someone looking over my shoulder while I write makes me more creative about my otherwise colorless life. Knowing that someone is watching (whether I like it or not because I risked being read since I stepped into this medium) humbles me more, makes me more real, more alive.
Besides, there is a lock function, dumb a*s.
So you tell me you like it when people comment? Of course I do. Not to confirm my beliefs, I don’t think people need that at all. But then maybe, there are other sets of beliefs that I could modify, drink in, spit out or challenge. See, people commenting on your life is not my goal in keeping track of my memories and thoughts. I hate journal politics.
So what is the goal? Oh, honey, a whole bunch of different things. Living vicariously. Learning about my personal, emotional and intellectual trends. Wanting to be spanked. Reinforcing self-worth. Recording. Laughing at myself. Getting entertained. Exploring personal possibilities. A place to write some of my pieces of bull shit in.
More than anything it’s RELEASE… minus the dread of your own handwriting staring back at you or a ransom note for your diary in your little brother’s handwriting.
Does it not defeat the goal of anonymity? Oh, then sweetheart, keep off the Net. There is no point. Being a participant in a network or probably just commenting on another person’s blog, you are bound to expose yourself, maybe not straightforwardly (but people always see through). Pretending is as addictive as it is self destructive.
Online journal writing allows me to be myself, accepting all that is wrong about my thought patterns, knowing that judgment is only as strong as another letter on the keyboard and making sure that I’m grounded with an unboxed identity. To some people journals free them from being judged without having to look like an angry rebellious teenager. Or… some people are really angry rebellious teenagers, and there is nothing wrong with that.
To me it’s a reflection of how I think, plus a little bling. It’s more like talking to me… but with my hands moving all over the place and my face contorted in all possible directions. Nothing fancy, just more color.
More like how it is in real life… only you can go back 20 entries and snicker.
I am ___ years old and still by choice a virgin. Anything fucking wrong with that?
I had a blissful weekend out of the concrete jungle and told some of my friends about it. I stayed there with my boyfriend and no one else. Oo kaming dalawa lang. Growing up like I didn’t give a damn about my ovaries and not wanting to wear a bra for the sheer inconvenience of having something wrapped around your chest all day with your sweat gathered sourly together, has made me seem like one of those people who would miraculously realize that I can use my vagina for something else other than peeing. One day in college we were talking about who among us (in my clique) would get maried first and they all pointed to ME. I craned my neck towards them so rapidly that I almost killed myself. I went ballistic, almost offended. As if marrying early was equal to lying on the street waiting to get humped. Well.. they all think the one least likely to get married would be the first one tied down. Suprise, surprise, the story of my life.
And so, every time N and I would decide to go somewhere all by ourselves, I either get loads of SMS begging for updates on my (not so eventful) sex life. Or, the first question to be asked when I get back is undoubtedly: SO DID YOU DO IT? I always disappoint them.
Hey I make out.. a lot in fact, but I have not done it.. done it.
I have absolutely nothing against people who have decided to do it before marriage. I am not from Pleasantville. In fact I envy them at times, brave ones who are not afraid to do what they want to do. But, I am doing what I want to do . Or maybe I romanticize everything a little too much. I flirt, yeah, I am quite liberal, and I know how tolerant I can be of other people’s opinions and ideas. Its just a little unnerving during times that I feel nauseous, someone blurts out jokingly: Buntis ka no? (you pregnant?) , I always say: Ano Immaculate Concepcion? , someone will automatically say Waaahh Madre! . Or when they are talking about sex and one of my friends will jokingly cover my ears. For crying out loud, I’m a virgin not a retard. Jesus Christ.
One time during lunch,I was talking to a couple of friends about relationships and one relayed some of his recent ones, I think he has quite an appeal to the other members of the community.
Him: So how many boyfriends have you had and how long?
Me: One, three years.
Him: But surely, you have had flings?
Him: Well, yeah, maybe.. yeah sure. (I have forgotten that I did)
Another friend: They haven’t done it. She has not done it with anyone.
Me: (manager drops fork, looks at me like a museum specimen for 5 long seconds and waves his hand) WHAT?
Him: What’s your problem? (breathes in, like he’s trying to control himself from hitting me, then waves his hand) Okay, no judgement, I can’t judge you, honey.
No Judgement? I don’t know what he meant when he said it. Did he mean, am I sick? Am I afraid of germs? Am I afraid of anything that resembles a shaft? Na-rape ba ko nung bata ako? That is not normal? Why the hell would someone as healthy as I am not want to do it yet? Everybody else is?
Ten years ago I would have been the norm. Now I am the exception.
I do not dare judge others who have not chosen the path I took, I do not have the right, and I am against any form of witch hunt. I believe that anyone should be able to face the responsibilities that come with the choice. Maybe, yes, I am scared of getting pregnant in the middle of my prime (so you’ll probably say, as others have: you don’t have to get pregnant!) or maybe I don’t want my first time to be with my mate’s penis covered with latex or maybe I can still hear the voice of my grandmother who is vehemently against premarital sex in my head or maybe I just want to wait. Not necessarily after marriage but maybe, at the time when I am really ready to want it.
To all the girls who have decided to give it a try, I say they should still hold their heads up. As long as you’re not whoring yourself to anyone and everyone you meet, for.. I don’t know… self affirmation, unless again its a choice that you can handle.. or an experiment (your hoping for a breakthrough that will improve the way we ride each other today). I know its a little difficult expecially within the Philippine culture to come out of the closet and not be ashamed of your choice of doing it. Dahil ang kultura natin, kahit hugis at sukat ng balakang pinakekealaman, may mapagusapan lang. Hindi kabawasan ang magdesisyon, ang kabawasan, pag nakikigaya ka lang. Being responsible for your choices, in terms of sex, goes the same for men, sabi nga nila: dapat may bayag ka sa puso at may bayag ka sa utak.
I happen to know of some people who have decided to wait. Well… the number is getting less and less each year, and none of my friends have gotten married yet, at least those below 28.
"Judy Anne Santos?! hindi nga? no c’mon what’s your real name?", my new business acquaintance says after a slightly hysterical almost mocking laugh. I laugh heartily as well, like I have heard this piece of smartass comment for the first time, "I shit you not", says I. And his laughter will slowly die down into bits of snickers. "Really?! I’m sorry, it’s just.. you know", says he. God, believe me I know. That is all it takes for me to have an instant friend (at least in the Philippines), all I need is to follow it up with another interesting statement.
My name is uncannily similar to that of an actress who makes a living out of generating tears.
Do I like it? I used to loathe having it during my first year in college when I had to bear the torture of being called my whole name while walking down a university hall by some classmate from an 80-student class whose name I don’t remember. (Ofcourse he remembers me. My name is not very difficult to forget is it? Especially if the professor decided to say it like it’s the best thing to ever happen in his class is to have a pseudo-celebrity in it). Yeah, I get to be called by my whole name, and mind you, it has to be said several decibels louder than one’s ordinary speaking voice. "Judy Anne Santos, kumusta?" While the others are called Joanne or Patricia, RJ or Jeff. I get to be called Judy Anne Santos, nothing more nothing less. Sometimes my other friends call me by it just to piss me off.
Once during a jeepney ride somebody who I did not know reached for my fare and wittingly said to the driver, "bayad po ni Judy Anne Santos" (wink wink). I smiled but I was imagining throwing him through the windshield. Everyone is a fucking comedian. Apparently he knows me from some big class again, where names usually sink into the abyss after they are called (well, at least considering you look typical).
Or consider this one time when I had to be benchmark as to the teacher’s coolness. The professor smiling at the mention of my name is a sign that he should not be feared because at least he has a sense of humor. I also have to be getting my ID out most of the time to prove that I am indeed who I say I am.
Sometimes I get even though. There was a guy sitting beside me in my sociology class before who I thought would have an aneurism by the way he was clutching his stomach with laughter when the professor did the first roll call. I give him one dagger look but took it back and joined in the joke. Ha ha ha. Then the teacher opens her mouth and says "Edgar Mortiz, o dalawa pala artista natin dito," (Sorry to this old classmate but I just really had to include this). The guy beside me stood up and looked at me. I had tears in my eyes from laughing and I was pointing my finger at him. He sat down eventually after getting his class card, looked at me without a hint of a smile in his face and goes "Buti na lang hindi Vilma pangalan mo kundi love team tayo", then guffawed with me. He did not become a close friend but he sure gave me one good story to tell.
Yeah,yeah it may not be fun all the time. Sometimes I get so tired of being asked where Piolo is or what my last cry stint has been or how I lost so much weight. But honestly, it can be rewarding.
Maybe I’m not really so tired of it. At least it has pushed my patience level to new heights. I may even have enjoyed the fact that when I get to meet someone I do not have to try very hard to think of the first subject of an inevitable small talk. I do not have to make it so difficult for them to start a conversation with me either. After a while I have gotten used to this unusual attention. With a little charm and a little humor, I have learned to get by with my name. I even wondered if I could be successful if I ran in the university student council (only I did not like the way things were run there, the elections and the parties and all the pretense, oh the pretense - my opinion, sorry if I hurt anyone).
In a way it has become fun even. I was running late one time on my way to the airport, I came in 5 minutes after the baggage check in deadline. They waited for me because my friend told them that Judy Anne was coming. They knew that I was not the actress but nonetheless amused by it, they were a little bit more patient. I made my flight.
We all have this little handicaps which may, in a lot of different situations be our best asset and advantage. It may be a big mole on your face or an extra finger. What I have learned is that people won’t think you’re any different (special maybe), unless you do. With a little humor, a lot of patience and understanding that people notice that which is different, you will pull through without having to give yourself a a major headache every three seconds. To give attention to that which is out of the ordinary is natural. Self-pity is man-made. Siguro nga totoo, sa buhay, ang pikon, talo.
W.
the night lay close beside me
hand on waist, your breath on my neck
your skin embraces every corner of mine
as tears run down your face, falling on my shoulders
you clutch on to nothing in a hush
I turn to you and lay my head on your chest
filled with an awareness of your presence
uttering a silent prayer to the heavens
that you be given to me, this warm, this fully
I look at you and wonder how long
I can own you like this
and if not can I keep
this moment held in my mind
long after you are gone
long after I have lost your scent on my skin
and your taste on my lips
to call this by a name will be irreverance
so I will not, and instead I shall
rest all that I am to this night
and to the memory of this silence
I received a few messages asking me why I never write in Filipino, well the truth is I am not very confident to write in Filipino. When I write in my own language it’s either a rhetoric piece of unadulterated Filipino with all the unnecessary prefixes which makes me sound too serious, when its miles from the truth, nunukan nang bano. If I go to the other extreme, the way I usually talk to my friends in the Philippines, it will be filled with gay lingo, ridiculously invented expressions and mwahahahas that you will be lost halfway through the piece. I cannot find my midpoint, my ‘normal’ speaking/writing tone in my own language. I am just like that, fuck, how sad is that? I am starting to write more in Filipino though but I am not very confident about them. I have this friend who writes with a perfect balance of slang and clean Filipino that makes me want to strangle him every time I read one of his pieces. Hindi siya nakakalito, hindi pabibo, pero ubod nang saya. Some of those who wrote to me also said that they find it difficult to comment on my blog, hello mga bakla, technical problem ba itoh or izit dahil nalilito kayo sa mga sinusulat ko o dahil masaydong mahaba na nakakalimutan niyo na ang point niyo at kung bakit kayo nagsasayang ng oras wehehehe (or is this because I find it really boring to proofread so my mistakes make you feel like I wrote things haphazardly… well.. anubeh, this is a blog). Okay lang mga lowla, this will never be my personal blog anyway, I have that somewhere else, where I feel more secure… masyadong madaming ka-tauhan sa friendster. (there it is, I’m doing it again, see what I mean?) I will always be writing about general stuff here, pero if you feel I am passing on truckloads of rubbish to posterity, e go ahead paliguan niyo ko ng putik, hindi ako aalma. I took these opinions out into public, trash me there. Alang problema, I took that risk, so go.
Yun na. *apir*
