Boo, She Lame-o.

On the week of July 8th, Trudy slaps the nail of a scoreboard because of frustration. The accidental semi-scandalous spank resulted to a bloody emergency room entrance, three right hand stitches, two anti-tetanus injections, and two unplayable weeks. She then realized that oncourt brutality that leads to hurting thy self is plain stupidity and thus, it leads to a mummy-like hand.

On the first week of August, Trudy slides on a slippery floor, falls her weight onto it, and twists her right ankle due to a simple sidestep training routine. The accidental kind-of-funny fall resulted to an icepack partnership, physical therapy sessions, penguin walk, plastered foot, and more unplayable weeks. She then realized that clumsiness over an obviously wet bball court is outrageously dumb and thus, it leads to a name out of a line-up tournament she has been preparing for so long.

Fresh from the recent accident, she is now having unreasonable thoughts with a small span of focus on things especially when she is in front of facebook, her lame reminder notebook and Blink-182. Her wonders are inside this hot air balloon which will blast in no time.

"Is this destiny?". She asked.

"Destined Karma". The quick conclusion for she wants a not so painful, immediate answer with or without proof, only superstition and strong hunch.

My Inside Story

You can never finish a story without even reading it. That is probably the lesson so far for today. I am not even joking. I talked to big-time suspects, hung out with a man scheduled to die for 7 times but still living his life with God, played tennis with criminals, laughed with killers, enjoyed the day with men wearing “P” orange shirts, and most of all, was overwhelmed with the day I spent with real people, real characters in an unread story I once immediately concluded.

Almost all my teammates noticed an unusual me as I entered the high walls and security-glazed gates this morning. I was nervous. I felt like someone’s going to grab me, pull my hair or hit me because for the first time, I felt disgusted by such stares. Then I saw this man trying to wipe off the glimpse of tears from his eyes and I asked myself why. Half way, I already regretted the idea of being there but seeing the man pulled my judgments away.

Still with an empty facial expression, I faced the morning. The crowd was not the usual crowd you’ll hear applauding for your winners or good shots. And the people you are feeding the ball to are not the usual students in the camp having fun because they’re exhausted. The court was not a grandstand of flexisurface or shell court, it was made of cement. But regardless of whether or not it is playable, it was fun. If you’ll look at each and everyone’s faces along the crimes they have committed, if you’ll listen to the small talks they are into along with the miserable past they once walked by, you won’t see damages of the hopeless, you’ll see a new and better life.

Eating lunch with “inmates” was supposed to be the most awkward feeling but it wasn’t. They looked at us as little kids wanting more food from the table. They offered us coke and smiles. They welcomed us inside their mini homes. Most importantly, they considered us a part of their family which is never a bad idea for it was a family of care and acceptance. They might be evil in the eyes of the society but the good in their hearts were visible in my sight that afternoon.

They toured us around the whole “village”. Bodyguards a.k.a. Peacemakers were guiding me and my 7 other female teammates along the walk. People are still staring but this time, I didn’t doubt to say hi or to smile back. Some are producing arts and crafts while some are playing basketball. Some are waving back while singing for the Church while some are praying. Some are joking around while some are just blankly staring. Deep inside I knew that they are somehow just like me, somehow just like any other people because they want change.

People with gigantic carpet-like tattoos doesn’t make a big difference to people with the small or invisible ones. Why? Because first of all, it is still stuck there forever and second, because in the eyes of God, it is the value of life that we share which is the most important. I saw an isolated community full of hopeful people smiling and enjoying the controlled life they were given to and coerced goals expected from them and from their pasts. All they ever wanted is to breath the air outside the challenging space and they felt like seeing us is almost feeling that air. Being considered the air of freedom and hope is just heart-warming. That was the climax of the sound-filled scene. The unexpected part wherein the reader would realize how lucky she is for being part of the story, how happy she should be because she’s moving freely and how stupid she is for not using the latter in the best way possible.

As we stepped out of the white castle-like building from the outside, we knew they’ll be missing the feel of air again. We knew that somewhere along the entrance of that building is a place of moral lessons and an experience only few of us could share. It was a place of hope and not sadness. It was a place of lessons and not regrets. I guess we’ll be coming back. I mean we want to. I know there’s going to be a next time and you know what, I will never be tired of sharing this story.

“You are out there. Go to Church, celebrate and never let anyone or anything pull you behind the grills”. Such unforgettable words from a pastor who used to be a drug lord.

Miss And Take

Mistakes, Mistakes, Mistakes; things we find wrong, embarrassing and/or just plain stupid. And whether or not it froze or replayed in our memory, we have to deal with the fact that it has been part of our history.

I finally reached the finish line of a disastrously unlucky, mentally tiring and somewhat happy third sophomore week and I’ve been searching for an inspiration to at least start a freaking blog post. Now, it is finally taking place and the inspiration is the lecture from my history class which I consider the incident that started the adjective proclaimed week I was telling.

Most of you who don’t know, history is such a pain in my ass. I can’t keep up with the dates, the sequence of the Cold War or the truth about the Spanish hegemony. This subject should be inside my I-have-no-choice-but-to-do-this bucket along with Mathematics and Political Science. But last Monday, there was a statement from my professor that I can’t get over with until now. It was a slap in my face and I’m pretty sure that it was not only me who got Rihannaed in the class of 25. This can possibly make me remove my perception about history out of the bucket. But we’ll see more about that later.

“To commit a mistake is human but to repeat the mistake is stupidity.”

If you’re against this quotation, please press alt + F4, hit your head with whatever is in front of you because darling, you are probably an outer space /earth-disturbing freak looking funny on a horse. This is an accurate experience-proven cavalry charge.

Most of us would say that “The past is the past” because we are trying to move on or just forget the wrong things in the right way. But sometimes this famous quote doesn’t always have to be the answer to our emotional belief about moving on because the “past” that some of us are trying to forget or escape is somehow worth remembering simply because it is someone’s life guideline for better decision-making. Maybe I am trying to dig the treasure in the end of this motionless rainbow or maybe I am trying to transform a yellow lego to SpongeBob SquarePants but either way, I am just trying to preach one thing: mistakes aren’t always a bad thing (depending on the situation and on the person, of course).

It is good to hear that the majority wouldn’t make or will try not to make the same mistake or regret but, sadly, there are still people who would press rewind and play. And I am allegedly accusing myself to be somehow part of the latter.

Useless and stupid mistakes, as explained, happens to:
1. those who listed the “not to do’s” for their new year’s resolution but failed,
2. those who got their heart broken for so many times, cried so many times, and cried for so many times again, and /or
3. those who said “sorry” but ended up saying sorry over and over again until he or she is not worth it to be forgiven anymore.

I am a rational animal and I am, most of the time, too stupid to face promises such as “I won’t do this anymore”. And I am not hoping for a mistake-free individual to exist because that’s like hoping for the sun to rise from the south. But someone can always try to live a life full of different mistakes and not the same ones.

Destiny, in a long run, is a different story.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da, Life Goes On..

I don’t remember exactly when but I already once thought of meeting myself. I don’t know if it really makes sense but I think it is kind of cool to actually handshake another you and then you’ll see what you really are just like how other people see you. This idea is in sane but I think it is a product of wanting to know my flaws and my forte from another view. I think that this can be like a good substitute to the famous genie wish of ‘time travel to the past’ because instead of replaying and fixing what you have done wrong, you’ll just understand what kind of person you really are and initiate which of your recklessness would you possibly do again. So having a conversation with yourself or hanging out with yourself (additional exaggeration) is quite a cool solution to think of if you are really up to the social life you would want to have. But guess what, I think the love I used to have with the so-called ‘impeccable social life’ with the definition of all the people liking me is now over.

I’ve realized that happiness isn’t judged by the number of audience you get for attention, the number of friends you hangout with during lunch breaks, the amount of comments and feedbacks you have on your facebook wall, the number of people who SMS you everyday, or the number of visitors you have on your myspace page. Being perfectly happy, if actually existed, is based on the times you’ve done something nice for your friend, for your loved one, or for yourself and not wanting anything in return. Now, I think that if my conscience is clean, if I am just being myself, if I can face life as my bitch and, most of all, if I can make other people’s life worth while or at least make other people smile then I guess I found out what happiness really is.

If you love the idea of all the people liking you because you are one hell of a teenage superstar in your world then I guess you need to get rid of your dark Chanel sunglasses because it is making you go blind.

Right now, I am happy with my outrageously crazy and challenging life. Furtado said that all good things happen to an end, I say please let me enjoy this moment.

Get Them Haters Out Your Circle

It is impossible not to react with lines such as “You’re a fag”, “You’re a big fat slut” or “Get a life”. The feedback we often offer to these is some sort of like “OMG hater, like errr”. But if there is no hate then love wouldn’t have his rival and that’s somehow boring. Last night, I felt like crying in the shower feeling the depression brought by a famous hater of mine and then a solution kind of hit me with a blagapak.

If there are no haters then there will be no criticisms. If there are no criticisms, there will be no personal improvement. If there is no personal improvement, your days would be like the heartbeat of a lifeless.

You can’t please everyone. Sometimes, you can’t even please someone. But if you’ll look at the bright side of hate, you’ll realize that what if all the haters relocate to Mars or somewhere then absolutely, life would be too cheesy. And if you are trying to live in a world expecting a confetti shower to every life event you are walking to then, I guess, you should find another world of your own.

Come on, who doesn’t hate? If everyone loves something or someone then it is a matter of fairness that everyone hates something or someone too. So don’t sit in the corner of your room crying like Taylor. Get up and think of this: If you are giving up a part of your life because of one, two or hundreds and thousands of haters then how would you give a time appreciating your lovers. If you can’t accept hate, then you don’t know what love is. And if you do not know what love is, then you have no right to hate.

So to you my dearest hater, for some reason you made me smile. Thanks for hating me because without you, I wouldn’t know how beautiful the type of person I am compared to you.

If I Had A Penis

If I had a penis, it would be bigger than his. I will not just tell the world the size it has but I’m going to be a real man to prove it. I am not going to flirt with another girl when I already have the one I should be loyal with. I will not hook up. I will not take advantage of a girl who likes/loves me. I will love a girl for who she is and not for what she has. I will look through her eyes and not her boobs. If I had a penis, I will respect her because any girl deserves it. I will not bring a girl to my house for a one night stand. If I had a penis, I will prove you that my purpose is more than just searching for lust.

But I do not have a penis, and I will never ever have one. It’s pretty easy to imagine but I only have my vagina to live sacred with until the moment I find the one; the one who would say “I love you” because he means it and not because he's trained to say so.

My First Kiss Featuring Shia Labeouf

January afternoon two years ago, Shia Labeouf sat on the furnished dining chair across my mom's seat. It was 'Mom Unstoppable' sharing my degraded autobiography across the set of our usual lunch never knowing that I just wanted to hide my face behind the red satin table cloth. I still can hear the laughter striking back and forth within the walls of that room.

"The garden looks cool". His Chuck Bass voice invited me to enjoy the spring-like weather outside with him and only him.

We sat on a faded green bench and mumbled about how beautiful our lives will be in the future. We felt that all the mumbling were a bit tiring so we paused for a commercial break; the etymology of my life's young love. We played the usual game of 'impersonation'. I lifted my arms and he lifted his too. I squeezed my voice while trying to be funny and he did too. On his turn to be the leader, the butterflies in my stomach continued to do more hyper flying. He leaned towards me so I leaned towards him too. He held my right hand and I froze like Jack at the end of the Titanic movie. He kissed me and I had no idea what to do with myself. The flowers witnessed the warmth of his lips and the clouds photographed the romantic scene. I don't want to end the moment but I had to release my lips with a smile because of the total awkwardness included.

"You had my first kiss". I told him with an indescribable facial grin.
"It's my trophy for winning the game". He jokingly said with his eyes staring at the nervousness I was feeling.

"I love you". He said.
"I love you too". I replied as I held his left hand tighter.
"Was it good?". He asked teasingly. My mental capability collapsed and it resulted to an "Uhhhh..yeah". The intelligence of my tongue did not cope up with the situation. So it just said "How about mine?".

Shia stared at me, laughed and said "It has the talent but it needs improvement".

So there you have it folks! The cheesy story of my first kiss. The story where I felt the pangs of puppy love. It's your turn now. What is your 'first kiss story'? :)

Ethan Melted My Icecream Season Finale

“Silver, I like you.”

The teeth bit the spoon’s round and blunted head so strong that it wouldn’t touch the mouth-watering brownie flavored ice cream anymore. Putting the cover of the 800ml calorie-supporter back, I decided to let its content melt beside my seat. My eyes played the do-not-blink game for approximately 10 seconds not because the kiss was torrid but because it was the lips of Erin Silver having its full friction on the lips of the official manwhore of Season 1, Ethan Ward.

Yes, you heard that one right. Ethan kissed her. Ethan kissed Dixon’s girl. Ethan kissed his best friend’s girl. In short, “Ethan, what is up with you?”

People should not be extremely carried away with the intangible situations or characters seen on a buffering T.V show box. But what can I do? I can’t help it. Why is this white guy, who used to have a nipa hair, tend to get a touch of every girl he would want to touch? Girls, girls, girls. Boys, boys, boys. This is a global affair disease, probably the swine flu of relationships.

It happens in real life, you know. Based from a true to life story, a female Ethan came by once actually. She did everything to steal the boy she knew I really liked. I, for once, respected her as a good friend but the good ol’ days are over. I guess, I’ve been a Dixon for once, huh? And you know what? I eventually faced the fact. I can’t do anything about it. I chose to love and they chose whatever they have chosen. I admit that the incident was heartbreaking but then again, it was not worth the disappointment. So if you see yourself in the situation Dixon is into then just get over it. It is probably painful right now but soon enough you’ll realize that it shouldn’t even be your problem. When all is said and done, it is you whom they lost.

90210 forced me to overreact. Anyway, I am looking forward to Season 2.

Heidke Heorism

Last night, just before the midnight attempted to strike, I lay my head on my purple fluffy paw pillow while listening to one of my friends’ story about a girl who we should just call C. My friend was lying on the first deck below me and I was staring straight at the blank ceiling. While my ears were attentive to her story, I was imagining the scenes on the shadowed area in front of me.

“I don’t like her because she wants too much attention” She uttered with extreme annoyance. “Her words are exaggerated, her acts are too much of a lie, and I don’t know why people still believe her and her silly stories” She added up to the C description.

My thoughts stopped but I allowed my friend to know that I agreed with what she just said. I reacted with a negative nod and threw a “Yayks” but deep inside I was hurting silently. The thought that I was just like C killed my feelings awkwardly. Right after she released “her silly stories”, the memories of my unstoppable lies and compulsive attention-absorbing stories blew my mind away like Road Runner kicks Coyote; quiet yet very swift.

I knew my other roommate was on the other corner of the room, still awake and also listening. Her macbook light and the tap of her fingers over the safely covered keyboard were the senses I had with my peripherals. Everyone kept inaudible after the portrayal. The three of us felt the sleepy spirit and we knew that we were a centimeter away to being with it. My macbook friend lay down and waited for her boyfriend to reply on the sound-alerted chat box and my story-telling friend stretched her king-sized blanket up to her chin, covering her entire neck for comfort. And me, being the only one on the upper deck, was still replaying the soundtrack of her passage over and over again inside the head of repeated regrets. “What if one of my friends or (even worse) what if all of my friends were thinking the same way about me? What if they’ve been sharing their angst against me to other people? What if I am actually living the life of C; second-rate, worth the hate & illusioned?” My paranoid mind pumped out. I knew I was guilty. I knew the alibis and the lessons. I knew the problem and the problem was me.

The wintriness of the air condition drifted away but until now, 22 hours after the C story, I still can feel the aloofness. Trying to find the end of the remorseful once upon a time, I think I found a doubtful reason. I am not stupid for not having the answers but I am (very) weak to face the solutions. I know what I am and I am aware of what I have done wrong but the wheel of what I know had a small hole from a sharp nail of mouth slips. I can’t keep my tiny car moving with the same speed when I began the journey because the hole is getting bigger, the pain I’m giving to my friends is getting worse. In my sight I have seen the dead end sign but my heart is scared to press the brake.

It will never be enough to say sorry but everything will change if I start showing how sorry I really am. I need a longer time to find the strength to do so but I hope that it wouldn’t be too late for me to show.