When Words Aren't Enough..

and this, people, is what I like to call "CLOSURE."

or. "MELODRAMA."

or "GOOD GOD HOW DID SHE DO IT WITH MICROSOFT PAINT??!!"
nah i'm just kidding.

do not be alarmed.
this is just "THERAPY."

Ow.

Rodel's got a new girlfriend now.

Good for him.

I'm not supposed to feel so bad, am I?
cos pathetically, i do.

Sigh.

Summ'm out of Nuth'n

I was thinking, just now. Long and hard. What am I going to write about?
Because I do feel like writing.
But, for a solid hour I stare at the cursor. It blinks. It's mocking me.

Here I am, world, with nothing to say. Again.

Writer's block, I'm sure has come upon a whole bunch o' people, writers or no. It's like, you wanna say something but it comes out as.... "Plehhh." Think the sound of pimples exploding into glorious yellow pus. If I could write about zits and be interesting, I could try, but I can't.

Different kinds of people look at writer's block differently.
Sylvia Plath looked at it as a dark hollow. Figures why she killed herself.
Yvonne looks at it as a silent echoey hole of nothing. Which is one of the more profound ones.
Agatha looks at it as a wall getting higher and higher as she goes.
She does get over it though, by sheer wall-climbing skills. Or the occasional kung fu. concrete- hole chop.

I, on the other hand, look at it as a big giant chocolate eclair that I cannot seem to overcome because either I am not hungry or my sneakers aren't apt for chocolate-y, caramel-y traction.

So, as I would scale this giant eclair, I was thinking, "Gees. I've been reduced to writing about giant malformed freak pastries."
I'm sure that claiming to have writer's block and consequently writing at length about writer's block is a paradox in itself.
but heck. it's been so long since I wrote something that actually had a point. if any.

till then, I shall eat my way through the giant eclair blocking my way to the Pulitzer.
I shall come out fat and old and full of zits, with increasing heart failure to boot. I shall be wearing a purple tracksuit, sporting new trainers and rapidly failing organs.

But writing, no less. And that, in my puny mind, is all that matters.

i strip... pt.4

there is a little drama queen in all of us.

that, and a tendency to screw. . .
screw things up, that is.

incidental copycat

hindi lang pala ako ang nagsimulang gumawa ng comic strips.
pati na rin si Kuya Andrew.
hindi lang pala ako ang may pa-epek na kunyari parang e.e. cummings ang dating.
pati na rin si Ginang Tuhod ng Bubuyog.

hindi na pala ako orihinal mag-isip.
shiyet.

the janitress is perv

"may i pee?" said she.
"of course" said She.
"thank you." said she
"may i help you?" said She
"er.. no thanks!" cried she
"fine" said She
"all right" said she
"i'll mop" said She
woosh woosh from she
swish swish from She
zip zip went she
creep creep went She
"what the hell!" screamed she
"you're looking well!" beamed She
"perverted belle!" cursed she
"don't tell!" cried She
"i'll get you fired" threatened she
"let me stay hired" cowered She
"why peep?!" cried she
"oh i weep!" said She
"i'll run away." said she
"what can i say?" sighed She.

i shall never do justice to e.e. cummings

i strip ... pt.3

i strip ... pt.2

'let's be friends' would be a line you say but don't really mean.

i strip ... pt.1

this is the story of me and rodel and archie. in the form of bad comics.
heehee.

The Better F4

Fantastic Four was amusing to the point of retardation.

if you ask me, and you wouldn't, i'd say it's more of a comedy than an action flick.

chris evans, the human torch, provided most (if not all) of the humor. he got the role down to a frickin tee. i read reviews and he seems to have impressed most critics with a 'swell' performance.

looking so damn good while doing it, surely, helps.
ditto jessica alba, who looked so gorgeous i wanted to kill her, skin her face and put it over mine.



hotness, i swear, and it's such a bad pun.

you notice how i like those characters who burn at one point or another. first it was hayden, who was a pulpy mass of burning flesh towards the end of star wars. now its the human torch who was a hunky mass of burning... hot maleness all throughout.

after the movie, which was good because it rammed you with so many jokes you wouldn't know if it doesn't have a story or any significant meaning, the cunning corporate bastards of Podium had the perfect merchandise stand waiting outside the theater.

you're still reeling from the movie, smiling, docile, and having less IQ than when you stepped in-- and what do you see as you step out from the dark moviehouse? racks and racks of Fantastic Four toys and other products gleaming under the fluorescent lights, the plastic boxes shining like god's gifts to man.

never mind the insanely high prices. capitalism nga naman talaga.

right smack in the middle was "The Human Torch" action figure, looking macho and cocky even scaled down and frozen in rubberized plastic. wala bang life-sized?

for a minute i had the urge to buy one, thinking up so many sick ways of perverted fanatical fantasy, hours of enjoyment with my chris evans alternative. [yuuuuucccckkk, tin!!!]
before the remaining reason kicked in and said i was against fad consumerism. and that i wouldn't be able to explain the action figure if i took it with me everywhere, or hugged it in my sleep. not to mention a very angry anakin skywalker, looking so betrayed. ahh. insanity.

the tear that made a mark

My parents, like lovers newly met, are only just getting to know each other better. Years of living without each other, the quintessential long-distance relationship, has made them used to each other's absence. My Mom, who stayed at one place, was always with us. My Dad, assigned elsewhere, travelled often and came home regularly on weekends to stay for a few days before he had to go back to work. Always, he came with a barrage of toys, much to our delight. However, his frustration--aside from not having a house with a huge lawn-- was a sort of incomplete fatherly responsibility. My father felt as if he were deprived and guilty by not seeing us grow up each and every day during our childhood. The plan was, then, that one day when we're all ready, we would come to live with him in Manila where his idea of a 'complete family' would finally come to fruition.

I did not expect my evil lola to be included in the picture. She is a whiny, good-for-nothing-apparently, ill-tempered miscreant who gets on everyone's nerves. Much to our ire, we fear Dad manifesting these qualities someday if not in the near future. I also did not expect the days to be underscored by my mother's sobs, interrupting my mundane existence. Thrice now I've seen my mother weep like a baby whilst wondering aloud whether she should leave my nitpicking, overly critical and annoyingly irrational father. If not for Miggy, she said, she would have quit her wifely duty to live peacefully with our turtles and chili plants back home. I have to stand there, not knowing what to do suddenly, whether to placate her or cry as well. Thrice now my Dad has asked me what the problem is with my mother. It is too difficult to explain, and with a furrowed brow, he dismisses the issue with the accusation that my Mom is just too sensitive, too insecure.

I've honestly grown accustomed to Dad being busy all the time with work that provides us our weekly allowance and the occasional reimbursement for books. He might not know this, but I have also noticed that he is so used to many years living alone that he hasn't quite adjusted to full-on communal living. So, if Mom is gone for her monthly business trip, we are left to subsist on a refrigerator of ailing cheese and a half-empty carton of fruit juice as my Dad fails to see that not all of us are overly keen on "detoxifying" our bodies by way of perpetual salads.

Mom is the 'disco ball ng tahanan' says Nico because she's the energy that drives the household, the cheery face that greets you when you come home from school, the smile that accompanies your wrapped sandwich each day. She is the unseen force that makes the household run smooth for all the grocery shopping, maid scolding, and gardening it is worth. When she is gone, the lonliness is so palpably oppressive that we all realize how the world is flat without her. And we clamor for her to come back as fast as she can.

How sad it is to me, then, that my parents can't stand each other after all. Separately, they were great. Occasionally together, fine. Stuck in the same house, apparently, awful. One does not appreciate the other, and the other makes it worse by ignoring everything altogether. How I love them both.

Mom keeps on telling me, as her shoulder heaves and she presses her face to a Kleenex, that if and when I marry I should always make sure that I am self-sufficient and financially independent so that when things get bad, I can leave the future bastard. It's quite depressing, thinking that I would forever be sitting on a suitcase of clothes and money, always ready to run away from a husband I can't stand. And Mom even deigns to ask me why I say I will never get married.

There are subtle intricacies to the mechanism that is 'family' and I think that mine is about to fall apart. You see, we're all machinated and driven but separately we are drifters in an illusion of togetherness and dependency. It's Mommy who is the glue that binds us, as the cliche goes, making us all parts of a more effective and supposedly loving whole. So when the glue suddenly decides she can't stick anymore... well... I suppose you have a pile of junk and a pool of glue with nothing to make sense of it all.