last week was probably one of the most hectic in my life. for three straight days i had to be at four different places at the exact same time.

it was NERVE-WRACKING. but fun. in a twisted way.

and he texted me, so i'm sort of happy, although i think he ran out of load AGAIN, and unlike me, who'd go autoload just to text him back, will probably wait until he REALLY has to.

it's SO WEIRD. in that way, he's lazy. but cute.

whatever. why the heck am i posting ba, when i'm just supposed to check my mail?!

it's ANNOYING, the way i digress. but satisfying.

 

OR One step up the fiestamundo fiasco

I named it the fiesta mundo fiasco because we were too early and our parents wouldn't let us stay out until 3am to watch the concerts. Given that our collective ages added up to just 50 something (I was thirteen, Tsubame was 13, Harry was 14, and Draco was... yeah, 14 too.) And that we were "defenseless" femmes.

fast-forward to a year or so later:

I'm not even going to try and explain. On Monday, I was just a semi-normal girl-child trying to get through the last week of Summer.

Tuesday, I believe, was the deciding factor. Because I cannot delve into details, I will send my inner scoffer off to play golf with my inner pessimist while I type in my horoscope, which more or less describes my situation a lot clearly than I would want it to.

AQUARIUS (Jan. 20- Feb. 18): This is a wonderful day for romance! If you're in love, it's just like a fairytale. Just remember that fairy tales are a fuzzy interpretation of reality.

I texted him for the first time. When he replied, I thought I would spontaneously combust from kilig on the spot. I wanted to commit seppuku then and there.

Maybe it's just my gift for over-obsessing the small stuff, but it strikes me weirdly right. As a friend's boyfriend says: "People see what they want to see."

It feels like love. Really. And it is complete hell.

Wednesday, I stayed at home. Thursday too. I don't care about those days. They're empty days for me. He was sick, but really nice. Sort of. I talked to a good friend of mine who has known me for a really, really long time.   

Friday. I went to the Bamboo album launching thingamajiggums. And I saw him (not the him indicated above, but the former love of my young life, Bamboo Mañalac) jumping around like a sugar-crazed kid on the spot. It was just me and sweet Tsubame Reiko, and she kept on laughing because I kept on ogling Bamboo, even though I've completely turned over a new leaf. Delurianne came but had to leave (she felt really tired and she might asphyxiate on all the smoke). So, basically, from five to when the concert started (8:00 PM) was just me and Tsubame Reiko. And this one couple kept on talking to us. They're bit players, so I'll leave them out. I still don't know if they were a) drunk, b) high, or c) escapees from the mental hospital.

Then Hale came on. One of them reminded me of him. Tsubame was smiling at me, because I looked so... I think the word is love-struck.

I think I can commit seppuku now, ne?

I didn't stay to watch, because I had to meet friends (Tinkerbell and her consort Mr. Big Blue Trucker) at Starbucks so I could guide them to the concert. (Entering the concert required a body search that rivaled entering Pakistan without a passport. Take it from me, even though I have no immediate plans to go there.) I was pushing my way through the crowd, the next thing I knew I was in the middle of a crowd of disgustingly sweaty men.

Disgustingly sweaty SHIRTLESS men. Who were slithering to the sound of Sugarfree. I thought I was going to DIE.

Let me mention here the Guy. He was wearing gray, and he had an earring in one ear, or maybe he had both ears pierced and I saw only one. He helped me up onto a chair so I could see where I was. I thought I was going to die. I texted my friend that I was in hell and my sweat was dripping from my face. Or were those tears? Even I couldn't tell. I tapped the Guy on the shoulder.

"Isn't there any way out?" He must've seen the despair on my face, because he shook his head.

"Take my hand. I'll get you outta here." (Mind you, we were really speaking Filipino, but it's shorter if I translate it). So I took his hand, and he took a paper bag from his companion, a girl in black with a ponytail. I'm not good with crowds and details.
To her, he said, "Guard my seat. I'll be back." To me, "Let's go."

Even as he led me through the disgustingly sweaty shirtless men (now being reprimanded by concert security) and through the crowd of black-clad fangirls and fanboys, I FELT safe. But visions of the molested and murdered, the morbid and the macabre danced into my head.

He led me out. I was breathing normally. I wasn't hyperventilating or feeling the claustrophobia. I couldn't thank him enough.

"Okay. Go meet your friends." He gave me a little nudge towards the less crowded entrance. Then he disappeared.

If I ever see him again, I will thank him a million times.

By the time I reached Starbucks, Bamboo was starting, but I felt no desire to see them play. I ordered a Venti caramel frap and sat down in the foofy armchair. Then Tinkerbell texted me, and I told her to meet me in the Beauty section of the department store. So we met (her, me, and Mr. Big Blue Trucker) and she said she didn't feel like going to a concert anymore. So we texted Tsubame (who really wanted to leave the concert, since when Bamboo started to play the people literally went WILD, and the people at the railings were trying to push them down) to meet us at Starbucks.

We settled in at the foofy armchairs and ate cake. YAY! :> That is the BEST. And we talked about all sorts of stuff.

Tsubame wanted to see her cousin at the SMB whatever thing, to which we also had tickets too, so we went. Tinkerbell and consort waited near the entrance, not at all eager to push through a crowd of disgustingly sweaty  shirtless drunken people. Mine and Tsubame's Bamboo posters got pilfered before we even reached the middle, and she didn't even spot her cousin.

The SMB thing showed me how disgusting being drunk really is. There was trash everywhere and people were doing the weirdest shit. I don't even want to go to details.

So Tsubame and I escaped back to the brighter though not necessarily saner or safer world.

Then the Bambbo concert ended and hordes of people (mostly men) started running to the SMB thing, hoping to score cheap beer and some more music to scream at.

Then, horrified by the spectacle (they were all in black, and they looked like they were going to loot and pillage a few towns, victimize a few villages, etc.) we went home.

Amen. And now it's Saturday. And tomorrow's Sunday. And the week can only stretch into months, into years.

And now I'm done with trying to explain.    

(Okay, I actually wrote half of this on Saturday. Then my internet card ran out, leaving me unable to post. But now it's monday and the week is over. so . there. )

Have you ever had a friend who spoke in pain?

Ever cut class to spend time with your friend, crying in a dirty bathroom cubicle?

You don't have anything to say.

You don't know what to say, coz everything you think of is soooo cliche.

You don't want that. And still she cries. And little, by little, the story leaks out.

Failure, and condescension, and sorrow, despair, fear.

You just WANT her to SMILE. To reassure you that she won't hurt herself while you're not there. But it's useless. That's because pain is her language, the same way you have made smiles and laughter your own semaphore.

You watch the blood leak out from her wounds, and you want to cry, but you can't , because one of you has to keep smiling, else stain the walls with your tears and blood.

She tells you to go back to class.

Nu-uh. you answer. You comin' back wid me, honeychile.

she smiles. You don't know if it's real. You have known your share of false hapiness.

You hug her once, and then you go. It seems that life has taken on a surreal spin-off, and you are not the girl you were six minutes ago.

You come back after dismissal, but she's gone. And it takes all of your best efforts not to curl up in her cubicle and cry your eyes out.


----
For J. Because you shouldn't speak in pain and blood. And because you CAN write stories of sorrow and despair, to keep it all from exploding inside you.

I couldn't believe last night.

I expected that the popular girls would take the limelight, spotlight, sweep the awards, stuff the ballots, steal the guys, and make it their own party.

I expected to feel uncomfortable, weird, hungry and sort of cheated.

Boy, was I wrong! They DID take the front table, but, they were probably three hours early, so let them.

But everyone last night was completely beautiful. no one was rich or poor. No one was popular or unpopular. No one was especially pretty. Or plain.

Overall, it was a success. I still wished I wore the black star shirt and my boots, but it's okay.

There's always prom next year.

more when i get my brain back.

i don't want to smile anymore.
i don't want to pretend.
that this is perfectly normal.
that this isn't the end.

i don't want to hurt anymore.
i don't want to cry.
i don't want to sit beside you,
and hurting because i never tried.

i don't want to get up
in the morning
i don't want to go to sleep
in the waning gloaming.

i don't want to live in between
i don't want to stay
but i have to, since i'm human.
and for this, someday i'll pay.