‘If I Were a Girl’

Ano 'to?....Kamay!

A spin-off of Beyoncé’s If I Were a Boy? Let us see.

If I were a girl the only thing that I would want from my man is something that will make me smile and not the one that I could show or brag about to my girl friends. Meaning, call it passé but simple things are more appreciated that expensive gifts. Do you remember J Lo’s music video (My Love Don’t Cost a Thing) when she throws everything she has while driving towards the beach? That is exactly the same thing that I would want do if I were a girl (minus driving a car) and in the middle  of the same situation.

A date with someone I love [or someone I like] is a very good idea if everything is just spontaneous; there must be plans but not the generic ones like the usual date at a restaurant or at the movies perhaps.

I want him to call me on a Friday night saying that he rented a car and that he wants to drive somewhere. I’ll take a backpack with some personal stuffs inside just in case I might need them. When he fetches me up, I’ll jump on the car he rented and will just ask, “Where are we going?” If he would just smile, I’ll just give him sweet kisses on the cheek.

In a nearest gasoline station along the superhighway, a cup of cappuccino and some doughnuts is a good idea to fill our tummy for the next hour/s of driving on the freeway until we reach a not so developed resort where nobody really goes to swim. He would just park right in the sands and will tell me to find a spot were we could make a bonfire.

After finding a nice place, he would walk slowly onto my direction with a picnic basket , some blankets and pillows, and that’s it, we are having a nice midnight snack at the beach before a bonfire. He would hug me close because it’s cold and because there are only two blankets, we are going to share for one because the other serves as our mat.

We would just talk. This time, he is the one who is going to do most of the talking and I am all ears. I’ll hug him close while he’s telling me all the strange stories he has experienced throughout the weekdays that we didn’t see each other. As I listen to his weird and wonderful tales, he is cuddling me back and kissing my head every time he pauses to check if I’m listening.

The conversation is too intimate that we would never notice that the sky is turning red orange and the sun is starting to greet us good morning . As soon as he felt the fresh morning breeze, he would grab my hands and lead me to the water. He would ask me to just remove my pants and shirt as he does the same.

With his hoarse voice and sleepy yet enthusiastic eyes he would sing Savage Garden’s Truly Madly Deeply that goes: “I wanna stand with you on a mountain, I wanna bathe with you in the sea, I wanna live like this forever until the sky falls down on me.”

Since I got all wet and my clothes are dirty, and I only brought just some personal stuffs I thought that I might need, he would give me a-big-t-shirt-for-my-size to put on.

That’s not the end of our date, we would drive to the nearest inn where we could have a nice bath before heading to small coffee shop to grab something to eat.

We would drive back to the city and while he’s trying to concentrate driving the car with automatic gear, he’s holding my hand as the song Passenger Seat and I’m Yours play in loop over the stereo.

Okay, since I am just man [boy], probably that would be  my whole plan so just look at every detail in reverse. Let’s say it’s quite hard to be cheesy at times but all we wanted to do is to make our girl happy, and that after a long day, she would sleep with a beautiful smile on her face.

Darkroom

The title itself is not original. A friend used this title to his article that was published on Philippine Daily Inquirer some few years ago. When I got expatriated here in the Philippines [from my middle east outing] and met some people from the Dawn, University of the East’s official student paper, they showed me an article headlined by the word Youngblood.

I read through the article and was happy for it narrated our raw experiences being novice writers who were confronted by tight schedule being students, campus journalists, and normal teenagers. The article however was not about how we juggled our time between school and social life but how our experience inside the darkroom bonded us as close friends.

A darkroom is a place used by photographers to develop pictures. Since Dawn’s darkroom was no longer functional, it was decided that the room be converted into a kitchen yet retain the name so to keep the memories that were gathered by the four walls of the gloomy room (I guess).

The darkroom was the witness of my dreams and failures. After being reprimanded by our editors, we would go to the room, which name is really appropriate because it’s virtually dark and sometimes stinky. I know that we used to stay there but I can no longer recall how uncomfortable it was to be enclosed in that kind of place that can be compared to a prison cell.

Inside we would confide to each other and curse the editors who treated us as if we were paid to be part of the publication. We were even treated like house helpers in the true sense of the word.

As I go down memory lane, I have this urge to visit the darkroom to give it my last visit and to express my gratitude since I’ll be leaving the campus as a proud graduate. When the school publication kicked me out for a very flimsy reason, I was inside the darkroom when I dropped some curse words and said that the Dawn can’t make me. Yes, that sounds so bitter but I was really bitter because I devoted almost my entire time in school with the publication only to be pushed outside as if I did a serious offense or a crime.

I have always wanted to be a journalist that when an opportunity to be part of the school paper, I grabbed it without thinking twice. I thought I already failed and that my dream to be a journalist or at least be part of a publication had seen its darkest days, but not when I went back to school and took my internship.

Last year I received a text message from Jeka. Believe it or not, she was the key person why I got into the world of professional journalism. She secured several slots for students who wanted to have their internship at the publication where I work right now. The opportunity was great; I never even thought that the Entertainment editor would give me such kind of opportunity to practice what I have learned from the devoted teachers at the University of the East.

Weeks before 2008 ended, I visited my friendster blog and took notice of the post entitled ‘owjeyti.’ The article is a humble and a very simple post yet it spoke of my great desire to have a byline.

As I write this article, I have this safe knowledge that my desire and my dream has come true and that my internship at the Manila Standard Today was the best experience or event that happened in my life in 2008.

As I would like to relate the first paragraphs to next passages, it only means that realization of our dreams might not take place instantly. It took me five years to realize that this dream has come to its realization, and that I should leave all the insignificant memories behind, and that it is no longer necessary to feel bad about the experience that gave a feeling of strong animosity toward certain people who kicked me out of the publication that almost became my first love.

I don’t know if the Dawn’s darkroom still remains as a storeroom and a kitchen that used to serve as a comfort zone during my stint as a campus journalist, but no matter what, the memories with that lifeless nook inside the campus will remain as the silent witness of my failure and a proud seer of my so-called victory.βΦ

Long Lone December

This little kiddo might perish anytime soon, so give love on Christmas day. He needs more than just a hug!

Aside from birthdays, Christmas is one the most anticipated days of the year especially to children. This is the time when they feel overwhelmingly excited in opening the gifts they received from  people they know and from relatives or friends who are dear to them.

There are presents wrapped in fancy colored papers with Christmas-themed prints or materials and there are surprises packed with plain recycled wrappings. Some of them, valuable or inexpensive, are enclosed in boxes of different shapes and sizes. Receiving a present enclosed in a heart-shaped box however would seem a little absurd for Valentines is not celebrated in December. Strange as it is, but the worst Christmas gift I have ever received [so far] was a present coming not from a store, and usually given during February.

Four or five years ago (sorry for my terrible memory), I met a girl named Marge. She’s stunning from afar and voluptuous in close up. It wasn’t her bosoms that really attracted me to this wonderful lady, but it’s the way she spoke and the way she weaved her words when we had our time for an intimate conversation. She’s pretty  smart (meaning pretty and smart). She  always corrected my pronunciation and even my grammar.

I met Marge in a bar in Abu Dhabi. I was with my housemates when I spotted a girl dancing on the dance floor. She was wearing a body-hugging black mini tube dress that defined and flattered her curves. Marco, a very good friend of mine pulled me to the  dance floor together with Zaldy and Toots, my housemates. While strutting on the neon lit fiberglass flat form, I just kept my eyes on the lady in a tight-fitting mini dress until she noticed my eyeballs. With that, I was able to make her throw a naughty smile at me. Then several house club anthems later, the  DJ interrupted and announced the live band’s  next set.

When I was about to rest my behind on a metal seat, a group of girls approached our table, and Marge was one them. I was surprised that Zaldy’s girlfriend knew the girls. During the course of the conversation, I discovered that Marge was a cousin to Zaldy’s girlfriend, and from that time on, Marge and I started calling each other on the phone.

…Lalala…If I were a bachelor, I would like to marry: I would marry a call center agent’s daughter and no other lassy. She will phone, I will phone, we will phone together, and we would wake up in the middle of the night, phoning one another…

After three days, it was Christmas Eve; Marge invited me to be her special guest on  their Christmas party held at the beach. It was one of the coldest Christmases I’ve ever experienced (literally). Abu Dhabi reaches 5 degrees Celsius during winter ( a warm winter as they call it). I was just quiet while having some drinks; I didn’t do anything except from staring at Marge while she participated  in parlor games (at the beach!?). While doing so, I thought she was the one.

On our way back to her  apartment, I held her hand (my left on her right [hand]). I kissed her left cheek. I kissed her neck, and then I kissed her lips. Our lips were locked for some minutes. The taxi driver kept on staring at us. That was the start of many kisses that made my December longer than ever before. Yes, we officially became sweethearts on December 25.

Just like normal couples, we were sweet. She wanted to be cuddled almost every time, and I was just a lover who’s weak and defenseless so I just took all the chances.

Our daily routine was always the same. After work we would call each other on the mobile phone then I would fetch her from her apartment then we would go to my place. After few hours we would go to her older sister’s apartment, and I would leave her there (her sister didn’t like me for I was three years her junior). Before sleeping, we would still call each other until our cell phone loads finish off.

Six months later, just like movies stars in Hollywood (wink), we had a big fight. From “I Love You,” “Can’t wait to see you,” our conversation turned into war of words. From “Take Care,” our lines became “Who cares?” and from “Good night love”, our words became “Love yourself,” and the list of tender phases we corrupted goes on.

‘I’ ended the relationship saying: “You’re the worst thing that happened in my life!” She replied through SMS and corrected me. “No, it was you who treated me bad.”

Every year, whenever the smell of Christmas sets in, I can’t help but remember Marge. I hated her for reasons I can no longer recall. All I have been thinking for the past years were the bad things she told me and the story of Marco that I’m not even sure if it  really ever happened. Marco said that he saw Marge dancing with another guy and they both left the bar cuddling each other. I didn’t confront her about that story, but all I could remember, our relationship had gone sour after I heard that unproven and unverified tale of unfaithfulness.

My love will stay even if my heart is no longer breathing (or beating), so I learn and try each day to make this love a better gift that I could give on Christmas day (wink wink).

I used to think that she was the worst present I have ever received on Christmas day. Well I think  I’m just terrible at this, because as I celebrate each Christmas, I remember the sweet kisses we had inside the cab , I feel the warmth of her body that comforted me when I felt chilly that night, and  I still smell  the scent her skin left on my left arm at dawn of Dec. 25. She’s still beside me when Christmas carols are being played (creepy). Her face still appears as I stare at effulgent fireworks that explode  in a sky devoured by hues of black.

I do miss her, but I have to move on. As I’m surrounded by another Christmas season, I can’t help but think that it wasn’t really her, Marge wasn’t the worst Christmas present because of the good memories she left in my heart. I have to admit that it’s actually me; my self-centered ‘me’ was the worst Christmas gift I have ever given to anyone, that is, if I have really even shared  a little of my self at all.

Cross the Line

Between two evils, which one would you choose?

I pray for world peace and for a nice cup of American coffee. Been drunk lately (wow they rhyme).

When I was in high school, my English teacher told my classmates (I was absent then), that white lies are not counted. “St. Peter will not include petty lies in the book of your wrongdoings,” she declared as if she met the Saint whose rooster stays beside him like a pet dog.

Anyway, I’m not going to discuss what my teacher said during the time of my absence. I don’t really care about the things she said back then.  Although I got a higher grade from her than what I expected, I wasn’t her pet (I’m not her dog, not even her iguana). I guess it’s all about impression.

We only have one chance to get a good impression. It is so unfair and very cliché-ish. I cannot summarize my entire life in just one page and instantly get a good impression, and the thing is, whenever I write something about my self I just couldn’t go any further. I wasn’t born to laud my own merits. I tried writing about my evil self but because of my pure heart I just couldn’t continue writing or typing, if you want it more technical. My soul’s chastity is too dominant(Now you know, so please shut up!).

Sometimes, or most of the time, when someone disagrees with me, I just don’t argue to prevent the conversation to stay longer. I just keep quiet and murmur all my musings inside my head. Then, I would force my self to throw a beautiful smile at the person as if I agreed, but at the back of my mind, I imagine shitting on his face, rubbing it evenly on his pores to give it a mudpack effect.

What you see is what you get. Unfortunately, what you see is just the tip of the gargantuan iceberg. If you would try to step on or go across the line that demarcates you and I, then, regret that your mother even brought you on the face of the earth. What I am saying is just a very simple rule: I have myspace, and you have your own obsolete friendster! Go fetch a multiply or facebook account. Meaning, you’re not in my league if you didn’t agree with everything I say.

We have settled the rule, now listen.

I used to hate kids who look ugly. Actually I still hate them until now. Not that they remind me of my own self (oh boy, i dress good and tidy), but whenever I see them, I have this urge inside me that tells me to kick their tummy or hook their eyes using my dirty and index fingers. When did I start hating them? Let me think…I don’t want to bother my self with that but actually I can no longer remember it, but one thing for sure, I lose my nerves every time they come near me. I don’t really have the guts to physically harm them but by just seeing their annoying faces takes me to the level like I want to explode or perhaps burn like Gohan (you know, the Dragonball Z character). Yes, I hate street kids (even Streestboys, but I used to sing Bakstreetboys ditties), and I hate them like the chain messages I receive occasionally through my mobile phone, just like this:

“Please pass this cross to all the people in your phonebook. After doing this task you will experience a miracle tomorrow (sometimes it’s even less, like after five minutes). Don’t ignore or erase this message or else you will experience bad luck or one of your family members will die.”

Die my foot! (Filtered from: Die my arse, you stupid f*ck*ng a**hole!)

Why do these people have to put their faith on this kind of messages? Damn, Jesus doesn’t have a cellular phone. Speaking of Jesus, my mother used to scold me for not going to church every Sunday. She used to yell at me saying that I won’t go to heaven because I don’t go to church and listen to the words of God.

Wow! My soul must be burning in hell right now.

But what in tarnation this thing is all about? Does someone’s presence at the Sunday mass every Sunday (quite redundant but make sense, there are people who would say there are Saturday masses, too!)define his fate or whatever life he is going to have after death? I can only count the times I entered the church and its premises (excluding the time I was christened, and when I attend burials and church weddings), because I am not comfortable going there. I am not comfortable  with all the phonies who call themselves religious (but there are some exceptions).

The church is known as the house of God, but if you would try to notice (unless you’re blind); it has become a place to socially profess our belief in God and not a place to renew our souls and have a genuine spiritual growth. Charlatans are those people who continuously attend Sunday masses but don’t practice what they’ve learned from the homily. Or how could they learn something from the sermon? Aside from the fact that some people go to church just to chat with each other, and some teenager just attend masses to spot some eye candies , churches in the Philippines have poor audio system that makes it difficult to hear what the priest is saying.

There’s no blasphemy going here, but it is up to you if you would judge me with the impression you get from these thoughts.

I believe in God. That’s for sure, but I don’t believe in religions created by humans. Love is my religion! I believe in love because that’s what God wants us to spread and share among us. If Jesus was present today, would he be happy that people created a religion for him? Isn’t it his teachings that matter most?

Having a good life, a religious or a sacred life is a choice. What defines a person is not what he does during Sundays but what he does everyday and what he imparts to the people around him. It is about choosing and doing what is right and what is wrong, or whatever makes a person comfortable and happy.

If you were confronted by the question: “In choosing between two evils, which one you would choose, the lesser one, or you would choose not to choose anything from the choices?” What would be your answer, huh? Tell me. I hope we have the same take on this.

If this article does not make me bad or evil, then you must and should agree that I’m a good and tamed person (or else, you already know the price you would have to pay!).

Kiwi Flies

Kiwi is a kind of bird, but ironically it can’t fly. Watch this video and discover the bird’s diligence. It made a big sacrifice just to belong or perhaps find the true meaning of its existence. This bird is a symbol of courage so don’t be upset after watching the video. Instead, feel fortunate and blessed. Happy watching.