Para Kay Petras

Have you ever felt that strange heaviness when something you never gave a damn about is suddenly, brutally snatched from your grasp? And because of that loss, you suddenly care. But you can't do anything about it, because the damage has been done and you can't take it back.


Earlier today, something horrible happened in my Panitikang Pilipino 12 class. My professor asked a question, something that we should have easily answered had we read the references, yet we didn't utter a single word. Not one of us said anything.


That triggered a series of unfortunate events where the professor scrapped the previous roll-call and instead based attendance on whether we brought our readings or not. It was a disaster because not even half the class brought theirs. So we received an earful- how he was so disappointed, how he cannot believe that we are students from UP...stuff that a teacher, who actually teaches, would say. Then he dropped the bomb. PanPil12 Section WFR1 would no longer hold classes and would meet only for exams and submission of papers. Then he dismissed us and walked out of the class.

He actually said more that cut us to the quick, but it's either I forgot them or I just can't bring myself to face them again. The turth hurts, huh.

I felt and still feel like crap. And believe me, it's a lot worse had you heard his words first-hand.

I need to cheer up. Maybe I should go bash Twilight. That never fails to give me the LOLs. :D

P.S. Hi to my PanPil12 classmate, Rosie! Check out her blog, Stercus Accidit (i.e. Shit Happens. You gotta love anyone with "shit" in their names/blognames/etc.) I finally got to visit your space. Loved it, mon amie.

Hiatus. Another seemingly endless bout of writer's block has hit me. Now I wish for those blissful days when hypergraphia would force me to regurgitate streams and streams of words that do or do not make sense. I had a release, at the very least. But now...

Can I rant? Just a little bit.

Okay here goes.

Goddammit, screw those blood-sucking bitches with doctorate degrees who can't do anything but torture dying students with fucked-up inane statements and force them to swallow their dignities like thick, white mancrap! Those motherfreakingfucker assholes should get a life before they bite the fucking dust! Get ya heads outta your loose fucked up posteriors, dammit!! God damn it.

Dammit. Dammit.

Just Setting the Record Straight

Do you say that bitter gourd ice cream tastes like shit just because you like vanilla ice cream? Do you say that Demi Lovato is a lame, Disney freeloader just because you like Vanessa Hudgens? Do you say that pork isn't good for the body just because you like chicken?

No, you don't. You say that bitter gourd ice cream tastes like shit because IT DOES taste like shit. You say that Demi Lovato is lame because SHE IS lame. You say that pork isn't good for the body because IT ISN'T good for the body.

Just like I say that Twilight is a pathetic excuse for a novel, not because I like Harry Potter, but because IT IS a pathetic excuse for a novel. Do you people get it now? Me liking (or loving) Harry Potter (the series, not the character) has nothing to do with me disliking Twilight.

Scratch that. I do not just dislike Twilight. I abhor it with every particle of my animus. And this is, predictably, because of rabid fangirls who just don't know when to stop, who just can't get it when their brainless comments are not wanted, and who just can't get a clue that their aggravating squeals are doing serious damage to my ears.

Those hellish things, I can endure. But when you say that Harry Potter is, and I quote, "a boring and sucky book COMPARED to Twilight," that's where I would have to draw the line. Heck, that's where most accomplished authors and literary circles who laud Harry Potter would have to draw the line.

You have your own opinions, yes, but nobody said that ludicrous statements such as those cannot be reprobated, no?

First of all, literature is literature because it is decided by certain authorities in the field. One cannot just say that a written work is a piece of literature just because it has a plot, characters, setting, etc. Being a bestseller doesn't cut it either, because what does sales mean when the very people who read the book in question have a lamentable taste and feel for literature? What do figures mean when the fans (most, not all, because I do not want to generalize) are anencephalic, shrieking hounds with little to no literary refinement? Nothing. Literature has to have a cultural impact, a lasting impression that would make that work immortal- alive through the years even after its maker has long been dead. Dickens, Dahl, King- those are just a few examples of what I'm talking about. Harry Potter certainly And Rowling sure had earned her rightful place among that level of genius.

Do you want me to prove to you why your statement IS anomalous and unfounded on all angles?

Here are a few evidences.

I apologize for the incomplete data on the awards and nominations of Harry Potter. It was quite taxing to hunt down each and every award that the series garnered. Thankfully, I couldn't say the same about Twilight.

And as for your laughable allegations that (heaven forbid!) Harry Potter is, I quote, 'boring", I can only think of one feasible justification. Your pitiable ability for apperception (read: your pathetic brain ) wasn't able to handle the presence of a plot, proper character development and lack of unnecessary adjectives, hence, you were bored.

It seems to me that Harry Potter will, and I quote Stephen King, "indeed stand time's test and wind up on a shelf where only the best are kept; I think Harry will take his place with Alice, Huck, Frodo, and Dorothy and this is one series not just for the decade, but for the ages."

With that, I rest my case, Your Honor.

P.S. Did you bimbos know that over 72 million copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows were sold worldwide in just 24 hours? This is according to TIME Almanac. How does that compare to your precious Twilight, hm? I didn't include this in my argument for the purpose of maintaining consistency. Just thought you wanted to know.

The Act of Crapping

Disclaimer: I take no credit for this image. All I take credit for is the very true crap I've written here.

WARNING: Humourless Twilight fangirls, proceed at your own caution. Intelligent Twilight fangirls (though I'm not really sure if there are such creatures because the statement is a fallacy), maybe we could have a mature debate on why Twilight is a shitbag vampire romance.

I don't know why, but it's just so FUN to make fun of Twilight. Probably because fangirls transform into werewolves at the slightest hint of anti-Twilight stuff. And don't forget their heartfelt declarations that Twilight and its sequels are the "best pieces of literature in the history of everything" (Dickens must be rolling in his grave). Please, people, I still have a tiny, teensy bit of hope left in the human race, and don't crush it by being gigglish dumbasses who have no taste whatsoever in literature. You have to realize that you need help, and quite a lot of people are more than willing to extend a helping hand.

Let's start with these few steps, shall we?

1. Go burn all your Twilight books and sequels. Gather the ashes and scatter them to the four winds.
2. Visit the nearest bookstore and purchase some books, preferably the works of Voltaire, Chinua Achebe, Mark Twain, etc.
3. If you really are a vampire lit fan, then there is still hope for you. Get the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice and indulge yourself in manly vampires. There are quite a lot, and not just one wussy, pasty douchebag like Edward.
4. Get rid of your downloaded/pirated Twilight movies/books.
5. Change your Edward desktop wallpaper into anything BUT Twilight-related shit.
6. Separate yourself from webgroups (read:cults) dedicated to worshipping Edward's skinny, undead self.
7. Stop dumbing yourself down just to be on the same wavelength as other fans. But if you really are that much of an airhead then I can't do shit about it.

Well, those are just some steps you gotta take. But I hate to tell you that some damages cannot be reversed, such as the death of some of your innocent brain cells or the sudden drop in your IQ. Treatment for these requires much patience and lots of reading books that are actually written by an author with a working, lucid brain.

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This is a little something I've found on the Net, so I take no credit for it.

Quite a lot of lines cracked me up. One is "Twilight iz mature and sexier then HP!" - Sad. Just sad. I feel sorry for those fangirls whose lives revolve around trying to be Mary Sue and dreaming about Edward Cullen's sparkling balls.

Another is "You're just jealous cos you'll never get a hot guy like Edward!" - Oh, and you could? Not to mention that he's a 107-year old undead virgin, and guys like him exist, right? RIGHT? (yeah. RIGHT)...

And another.. "ur just jellus!!1!" - I am not even going to start about spelling...punctuation...

It's painfully obvious what kind of people Stephenie Meyer (bestselling author and comedienne) has for fans- utterly clueless preteen/hormonal/deprived girls who dream of having their anorexic cherry popped by Edward's pasty (yet sparkling), undead sausage. I would feel sorry for Meyer if only she didn't bring into the world the little piece of shit that started it all. But then again, if she didn't, I wouldn't have this much fun bashing up a book.

For the Rain

I expected to feel a shifting in the air, a sudden blast of light from the horizon, or even- well, I didn't really expect those, though subconsciously, I had been waiting for it to transpire.

New. It implies quite a lot if things. By "new", do we mean an overall, 360-degree change? A complete renaissance? Or do we mean the birth of something through the death of another? The decay of life that is to be replaced by feeble seedlings? Of life through death? Of joy through pain?

The new year that had everyone on their toes in giddy anticipation was dampened by the quite heavy drizzle and bitingly cold breeze. It had also- quite considerably, I might add- lessened the dark smoke that usually permeated the air every New Year's Eve. But I was rather pleased with the presence of the rain. It felt good, like it had fallen to purge all the atrocities, the mistakes, the pain. It felt like it was salvation. Or some shit that sounds like that.

The New Year festivities had never really held something of importance for me, which led to my conclusion that it is hugely overrated. Come to think of it, all festivities are overrated, because these things force you to share in that terribly overbearing feeling of camaraderie and joy despite the fact that the mask of the joker is slowly freezing, cracking under the pressure.

Though I have to admit that celebrating New Year is good for some things. There is just something about ushering in new year that makes people want to consider change. Change. Hence the New Year's resolutions.

Resolution. Do they even know what this entails? Resolution is determination- a strong will to achieve something and not mere promises and vows that should be thrown around thoughtlessly. Yet this is what we do, what most people do, because intent should be honored as justified once it is verbalized, is it not? Because weightless words should hold meaning when it is merely said? Utter rubbish. Crap.

Knowing this, I still find myself wanting that elusive ideal, that impossible change most people yearn for. Yet I want it without truly knowing what I want. I still walk in circles, I write in senselessness. A nomad- homeless and, under the erratic stream of pressure and bitter memories, dreamless.

There is only one thing that I truly wish to achieve this 2009. I hope to let go. Of what? Of everything that had taken hold of me and made me into this acerbic, vile person. It is easier said than done, and this is something I have come to realize very painfully. Yet I realize, and I know, that the person who started it all has moved on, has forgotten. I may be wrong in this assumption, I may be right, but it doesn't change the word abandonment. The act of forsaking. And you know what? Though thinking about it makes my chest hurt and my hands shake, I'll make sure that this year, nothing is all I'll feel. And when that happens, I have forgiven, but not forgotten. No, never forgotten.

"Di na kami kasama

sa mga pangarap

ni Rizal."

To the Hero with Rockets on His Feet

You don't say you want, only to take back the words later. You don't say you will, only to back out at the slightest hint of danger. You do not do any of these things, but you still do, you still did, because you're only human, are you not? Like a frightened animal, you bowed your once proud head and submissively retreated from the snarling creature who towered over you.

I know your story. You once loved that monster, though in your eyes it was never such. You saw it one day when life was at its liveliest, when things seem to be falling into place. You saw it, and hated it, very much like how you hated, at first sight, every one you meet. Because that's all you can do- hate first, love later.

But when you love, you fall endlessly, never mind the fact that anytime, you might hit rock bottom and barely survive. You fill the empty crystal glasses on your nightstand with tears without fail every night, before you let yourself fall into living oblivion. You were foolish, and brave, for daring to care for such a creature with the unfathomable eyes and leathery wings, but you were whole.

It seemed to me, that it was all that mattered. You were whole.

It didn't matter that you were ravaged, desecrated within an inch of your life for even stepping near the creature. It didn't matter that you returned with shreds of cloth barely hanging off your emaciated frame, with purplish bruises littering your alabaster skin. It didn't matter that there were dry tear tracks down your once-plump cheeks, didn't matter that your hair hung in greasy clumps around your tired face. It didn't matter that sorrow nearly killed you when the creature left.

You were whole. And it was all that mattered, because being whole allowed you to see yourself in the mirror and fool yourself into thinking that there are no cracks on the surface, that the mask of the joker remained as what it is- a visage with a painted-on smile.

I could only laugh at your demise. You were alive, yes, but barely. Seeing the creature in your memories and dreams could not sustain you for long, for you yearn to touch, to taste, to feel with your bare palms. Tangibility.

We do not know how much time had faded into waste. You went on hating, then loving, every person you meet down the path. We do not know how deep the lacerations had become, how large the gaping holes had grown, because you smothered them all with pretentious peace and silvery talc.

Until it returned. And the barriers you erected around yourself started to fall, one by one.

Until you were left as you were before the creature vanished.

Until you were nothing more than a bruised bag of bones.

Until nothing, save the creature, could liberate you from the prison you made for yourself.

Lies spewed from your mouth in endless streams. You no longer love the creature, you say?

I could do nothing but laugh. I laughed and watched your face crumple, watched as youth left your body through a rattling breath. I laughed and felt the disease consume her from the outside, eating away at her vitality, at her exuberance. I laughed at the absurdity of it all, that you loved and I hated, though we were trapped in the same shell.

See, we are one and the same. I always came first, so I hated. And you were a mere second, so you loved.

To the hero with rockets on his feet.

She never stopped, though you thought she did.

She never resented, though it appeared she did.

The only truth is that she loved.

She loves.

When Boy Meets Girl

A canine love story. Enough said.

Boy.

Girl.

The first look.

His bashful question.

Her blushing reply.

They meet.

And sparks fly.

* Photos captured by my bro and sis. Check out his and her Flickr site.