Monday, February 28, 2011


Give me your heart,
Make it real,
Or else forget about it.

Because I’ve been spending too much time on my SocSci 3 paper, I still have a PolSci 177 (or is it 178? Damn, I don’t even know what my subject’s course title is) paper and a CL 150 report to write, and according to my iTunes, Rob Thomas’ Smooth has been played 103 times this afternoon.

Define ‘sabaw’.

I’ll let you in on two secrets, though. One, I currently have a love affair with tomatoes. The big, red, round ones. I’ve eaten them (usually three to four) in every meal I’ve had at home since last weekend. And two, I believe that Rob Thomas does sing. He just drawls and growls, but for some reason I find it ridiculously hot.

Pop Question One: Is ‘growl’ a word with the same degree of association with sex/banging/love-making/fornicating as, say, moan and mewl? As a writer I won’t deny having dabbled with lemony stuff, (refer to post Bed Time Stories) though my works still tend to be dominantly of the angst genre. So yeah, if I ever write full-fledged erotica (though I have no idea why I would want to do that), would using the word ‘growl’ be appropriate? (Granted that the work does not include felines or ursines as characters)

Pop Question Two: I was chatting with a friend and an orgmate simultaneously last weekend, and as what always happens when I do that, I sent the wrong message to the wrong person. Friend asked what I was doing, but my reply ‘Writing a blog post titled ‘Feeling You. Give me a word that rhymes with tongue’ got sent to Orgmate.

Guess what Orgmate replied. Apparently wala daw word na nag-rarhyme with ‘tongue’. I asked him how he knew, and he said it was a trivia. Pati daw ‘orange’ walang ka-rhyme.

What about ‘dung’ for ‘tongue’ and ‘range’ for ‘orange’?

I wanna cut off my tongue
Cause I licked something that tastes like dung.
I will bring us an orange
Let’s eat it at the archery range.

That sounds rhyming to me.

Pop Question Three: As you may have noticed, my blog now has a new layout! It still needs a little tweaking, but I'll do it when I have more free time. Ugh, HTML is sooo not my stuff.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Because...'s been a long time since I posted a poem. ^_^

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“You’ve changed scents,” I remark quietly,
And you afford me a small smile
As your pale lips meet with the ceramic brim
Of this morning’s cup of Earl Grey.
(You’ve given up drinking coffee, I see.)
“Tom Ford, Gray Vetiver.” You answer softly
And then add “Do you like it?”
I do not know why,
But for some reason I do not reply.

I wearily eye the lone fleur-de-lis
On your black, wool-lined leather jacket
(I thought you hated the color black?)
And I heave a long sigh.
You are like your home, St-Isidore, now -
Cold, distant, somewhat detached.
I feel as though I no longer know you
When not too long ago we were nearly inseparable.
You had your reasons;
A closed fracture in summer and then a cold;
Your cousin’s death a few months ago.
There was college last fall,
And now your work.

I fail to stifle a bitter laugh
As I ponder about how rime seemed to have formed
Just when I though that the sunlight in Montreal
Would banish the last traces of St-Isidore’s frost.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
“Nothing,” say I, “just that you’re wearing
a black jacket; I thought you hated black.”
You go on to explain
How you felt artistically enlightened,
- perhaps even liberated -
By the bleak purity that you heard in a song
And later teased out with your fingers
(“Exodus, by Maksim. I play the piano now.”)
Leading you to the symbolic decision
To wear black.

I pore over how much has changed
As helplessness gnaws at my forgotten tongue.
I no longer know you.
Not that I find you to be at fault;
Three oceans keep Manila and Montreal apart.
It’s just that I remember
How we used to walked together
Kicking up orange leaves as we went.
You would give me a smile
Illuminated in the late afternoon’s wan sun
And all else would be a blur.
Back then I would wonder
How long our footprints would grace the grass
Before they became someone else’s.
(That time seems to have come, sadly.)

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“I guess things have changed,” I remark quietly.
You afford me a small smile,
As your pale hand reaches to your chest
To pull back the right lapel
Of your black, wool-lined leather jacket
And reveal a small crucifix
Hanging from the golden chain around your neck.
I catch my breath – it’s the one that I gave you
Not too long ago, before you returned to your home
Of frigid French streets
And flags of four fleur-de-lys.
“Some things don’t change.” you answer softly.
And this time no one needs a reply.

*** Made for CW 10, so needless to say, it's creative writing (or at least it's supposed to be) and this isn't the least bit drawn from any actual experience.

The title, I decided, should be a French word given all the references to Montreal and Quebec, and when I think 'French' you know who I think of first. ^_^

Thursday, February 24, 2011

I am Dead.

Today I finally got my grad pics.

It would have been great, if it were not for the fact that I might not graduate this school year at all, thanks to International Economics.

Oh, Econ 141, why do you have to be so difficult?

Oh, Ma’am Carlos, why do you have to give right minus wrong exams?

Oh, Lord, why do I suck at Econ so much?

I am dead. I am so dead.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

DotA, par Cinq Man

Literally DotA, through five men. In French because I suddenly missed Georges St-Pierre’s boyish smile and I would like to reaffirm my fangirlism to the guy with possibly the most gorgeous blue eyes in the world. He doesn’t play DotA, but I do and this is my blog so run along. ^_^

DotA, par Cinq Man

Lawi is the gentleman.

He has no qualms about harassing enemy heroes away, even taking in substantial damage from enemy heroes if he has to, just to save her sorry ass whenever she gets in trouble. He is usually able to save her because he’s that good at this game, but sometimes he can’t take all of the heat alone and she dies despite his rescue efforts; whenever that happens, he always apologizes to her, as if her death was his fault for not being a good enough lane mate instead of her fault for being a lousy DotA player. He does his best to give her instructions about what to do while the game is ongoing, and whenever she makes mistakes (and a lot of them too), he just teases her with a single exclamation of “Fail!” and then he lets it go.

Two hours later, when they are in the cab or jeep on the way home, he will patiently explain what she was doing wrong and how she should do things next time.

Archer is the honest guy.

And brutally so. Unlike Lawi, whenever she makes mistakes – a late stun, a late ultimate, a late escape – he does not hold back from telling her how pitifully exasperating her DotA gameplay is. He gives him instructions too, but one mistake later the whole internet cafĂ© gets a loud earful about how weak her play is. His rants usually go on until someone else makes a mistake, and then he rants about that other player. It’s okay though, because she appreciates the fact that Archer treats her the same way he treats all his team mates, giving her none of the ‘she’s a girl, gotta be gentle with her’ crap. Besides, he is also usually the first one to point it out whenever she’s doing well or she ended up first in the Stats for a change.

He is also the first guy to talk to her about jerking off without the use of Marco Lansangan’s chemical metaphors or Rex Dizon’s ‘this-is-officially-an-awkward-conversation’ dismissal.

Bong is the quiet one.

They’ve never been early-game lane mates. He usually goes to ‘taas’ or ‘mid’ while she never goes anywhere but ‘baba’. They seldom take on enemy heroes together in mid-game as well because they perfectly accept the fact that it’s easier to kill when one is with Lawi or Archer. Bong does not give her instructions about what to do like Lawi or makes fun of her game play like Archer. He won’t say anything when they get together in a lane, but he will be cooperative when she tells him that she wants them to try killing one of the enemies; he will do his best to nuke with her, but it usually won’t work anyway. In the end they will retreat together, and throughout all this he seldom says anything.

In fact, even when he was already angry at her for giving away one of his Christmas gifts to her, and to his own room mate nonetheless, Bong never said anything.

Buduy is the reckless bloke.

He will go in anytime, all the time, no matter if it’s ten seconds, ten minutes or ten kills into the game, no matter how many or who are the enemy heroes in the lane. They’ve been early-game lane mates four times, and during all those times he was first blood. She could only watch in amazement as the guy charged forward, blatantly disregarding the fact that the green bar on top of his character’s head is quickly turning to orange and then yellow and then red, and the next thing she knows, she’s alone in their lane. Sure, Buduy tries to be supportive, taking in the heat so she’s free to rain skills on the enemies, but there really isn’t much that she can do when her lane mate is dead or running back home.

Her fondest DotA memory will always be that game when Buduy was killed by neutral creeps, of all things. Lawi and Archer have since joined the club, but the original is always the best.

Kuya Caltrops is the team-completer.

When she first started playing DotA she didn’t really like going to his shop; it was small, gritty and there were too many gamer guys who erupted into frenzied trash-talks or ally-tripping every few minutes. However, each visit there he grew from merely civil to actually friendly towards her and the team. Now they’re actually chummy and Caltrops doesn’t seem like such a bad place anymore. Now her usually day-ender is the sight of Kuya Caltrops’ curly hair.

And as long as she has this team, DotA will always be something to look forward to.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


She made her way through the corridors of the Faculty Center in long, rushed, brash strides, the rest of the world seemingly unimportant as she hastened to get to the last room down the Political Science Department. She was tired and breathing heavily by the time she got there, but that was exactly the point – she had to look like she hurried, or at least she had to look flushed.

She didn’t even have to look for him. He just got out of the room when she saw him.

“Hi,” she said faintly as she caught up with him, pausing to catch her breath before offering an apologetic smile. “I’m from Naval’s 177…”

“Yeah, I remember you.” He replies, politely returning the smile. “What’s the matter?”

She bit her lower lip briefly before she went red in the face and told him what she was there for.

But he didn’t react the way she expected him to. Instead, he merely adjusted his glasses, owning all the indifference in the world.

“So… what do you want to do?”

She was slightly stunned by his answer. It was the fourth time she dared to do something like that, but it was the first time that someone asked her that, or any other question for that matter. The first two times she did it was at Math 17, and everything went on smoothly with her instructor. The third time was at Econ 106, and even that nosy proctor was not the least bit reluctant.

She certainly did not expect that this proctor from Polsci would drag it out. 

“So what do you want to do?” he repeated, but there was a swagger in his voice that told her it wasn’t a question.

You have very expressive eyes, and they’re very convincing, Jaime Naval had told her once. She cleared her throat as she decided that if Naval was telling the truth, she might as well use them in Naval’s own subject, right?

She gave him a telltale glance, her smile turning from apologetic to challenging. Your call.

He looked at her for a full second before he gave it up.

“Follow me,” he said, smirking as he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket and began rambling something about how she should be thankful that she got to him before he left the building.

He opened the door to let her into Jaime Naval’s room, closing the door as quickly as he opened it. He stood by the table for a few moments before he said “Okay” and mumbled a permission.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

By the time she was done, his phone was ringing. She could not help the amused smile on her face as she watched him fumble around the piece of technology that was tethered to the lanyard around his neck anyway. It took him a good ten seconds to answer the call, and she was all the more amused when she heard him speak. She wondered why the spontaneous Polsci geek was suddenly stuttering.

She waved her hand to catch his attention, and when their eyes met she briefly mouthed the word “Thanks” before turning around to leave. But she heard him call her out just as she was about to turn the door knob.


She turned to look back at him. He had one hand covering the phone’s receiver, and idly she wondered how much trouble he would be in if the caller had turned out to be Professor Jaime Naval himself.

“Just… don’t tell your classmates about it, okay?”

She had to look away to stifle her laughter.

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