i was finally able to submit my sample vlog to 5 takes yesterday. i had to go to a net cafe to do it 'cause we're on dialup-- kinda reminded me of the time i had to walk to a friend's house to watch an MTV special on alanis because we had no cable.
i digress.
we had a rather hard time getting the vid to the right size. a colleague "compressed" the inital 22MB file into a whopping 100MB. how she managed to do that, i don't know. we, not "we," more like "they" (i know nothing about compressing videos, if you want to talk about .txt, .rtf, .cwk, or .doc, i'll be able to relate and say something intelligent like, "oh, it's safer to send word processing files in .txt format just to make sure that it opens regardless of platform" ... once again i digress, ye gods and little fishes!)... as i was saying "they" got it down to 5.6MB, but the screen size was a step down from what the folks at discovery required. ah, well. if they take that against me, there's nothing i can do.
making that vlog released my inner ham.
trinka, jason, and stephie: supersam thanks you for your help, really.
if i don't get into 5 takes, i figure i can just make more videos (er, trinka?) and saturate youtube with my presence.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
you think this will work?
dear google,
how could you let yahoo! get a toehold in the philippines before you did? they've partnered with a telco firm here, and you? you're nowhere to be found--except on all of our PCs.
come to the philippines, use our country as a hamster for your mobile apps. better yet, just come here.
if you need someone to sell the google brand, i volunteer. if you want to train a mascot, i volunteer my services as well. i may know little (ok, more like nothing) about programming, but i do know how google has made search, e-mail, and all the other stuff easier for us programming-ignorant people. everytime you come up with a new service, i tell anyone who will listen about it and why it's so great--my colleagues have called me a "google god" several times. i believe in your brand and your philosophy (don't be evil) and i get all excited when i come across an article on google.
love for a product makes for effective and compelling marketing. use me.
how could you let yahoo! get a toehold in the philippines before you did? they've partnered with a telco firm here, and you? you're nowhere to be found--except on all of our PCs.
come to the philippines, use our country as a hamster for your mobile apps. better yet, just come here.
if you need someone to sell the google brand, i volunteer. if you want to train a mascot, i volunteer my services as well. i may know little (ok, more like nothing) about programming, but i do know how google has made search, e-mail, and all the other stuff easier for us programming-ignorant people. everytime you come up with a new service, i tell anyone who will listen about it and why it's so great--my colleagues have called me a "google god" several times. i believe in your brand and your philosophy (don't be evil) and i get all excited when i come across an article on google.
love for a product makes for effective and compelling marketing. use me.
worst pick-up lines, ever.
"are you married?" (do i LOOK like i'm married?)
"are you a girl?" (not the approach i'd use)
"are you naughty?" (my parents think i am)
"what's your sign?" (oh my god, people actually use that line?)
"make me a good writeup, baby" (baby? who are you calling baby?)
speaking of writeups (all those lines above came from a guy i had to interview for a supplement. he reminded me of a bald and bearded johnny bravo). i made seven pieces around 450 words each and due to lack of space they had to be whittled down to a quote each.
analogies:
1. "i'm sorry, but all we could find of sam's corpse was a fingernail."
2. "could you condense beowulf into a haiku, we're kinda short on paper."
it was frustrating because they had stories to tell. but as my editor said, "let go."
so i'm letting go... this serves as a eulogy for my 3,000 plus words.
rest well, say hi to all my killed intros for me.
"are you a girl?" (not the approach i'd use)
"are you naughty?" (my parents think i am)
"what's your sign?" (oh my god, people actually use that line?)
"make me a good writeup, baby" (baby? who are you calling baby?)
speaking of writeups (all those lines above came from a guy i had to interview for a supplement. he reminded me of a bald and bearded johnny bravo). i made seven pieces around 450 words each and due to lack of space they had to be whittled down to a quote each.
analogies:
1. "i'm sorry, but all we could find of sam's corpse was a fingernail."
2. "could you condense beowulf into a haiku, we're kinda short on paper."
it was frustrating because they had stories to tell. but as my editor said, "let go."
so i'm letting go... this serves as a eulogy for my 3,000 plus words.
rest well, say hi to all my killed intros for me.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
dirty talk.
my truck is so dirty that someone took the liberty of inscribing this message on his windows (yes, my truck is a boy... named sue):
several weeks have gone by, the words are still there.
contrary to what others think, it's lack of time-- rather than the wish to preserve the vandal's sentiments-- that keeps the inscription there.
"completely
we belong
i never told you
the one i have
i love you"
several weeks have gone by, the words are still there.
contrary to what others think, it's lack of time-- rather than the wish to preserve the vandal's sentiments-- that keeps the inscription there.
so, i was in a cab, right? and...
[02VII06]
roads are beautiful when they're empty;
you can see the promise of somewhere
written on those lonely stretches of asphalt.
roads are beautiful when they're empty;
you can see the promise of somewhere
written on those lonely stretches of asphalt.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
got game, got no game face.
looking at these pictures, it seems like i got my game face during the tail end of a clearance sale: "ALL GAME FACES MUST GO!"
"GET THEM WHILE YOU CAN! GOOD WHILE SUPPLY LASTS!"
when that happens, this is what you get.
if you find a picture that does me justice, tell me. i've been to the site several times and my face still looks the same, dammit.
"GET THEM WHILE YOU CAN! GOOD WHILE SUPPLY LASTS!"
when that happens, this is what you get.
if you find a picture that does me justice, tell me. i've been to the site several times and my face still looks the same, dammit.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
eep!
i caught a typo in a previous post and almost died.
it's the absolute worst when you're all serious and shit and you make a boo-boo.
"oh, look at me, i'm deep."
"oh, look at you, you've got a typo."
kinda reminds me of that time i was arguing with moe.
tempers were flaring, voices were octaves higher; at a critical point, i became ungrammatical.
grammar trumped logic-- he won that one.
it's the absolute worst when you're all serious and shit and you make a boo-boo.
"oh, look at me, i'm deep."
"oh, look at you, you've got a typo."
kinda reminds me of that time i was arguing with moe.
tempers were flaring, voices were octaves higher; at a critical point, i became ungrammatical.
grammar trumped logic-- he won that one.
so, i was sitting in the garden, right? and...
eucalyptus I
[06XII06]
without its leaves, the eucalyptus tree
in our garden becomes an accusing
finger rising from the ground--
a silent, static gesture that blames
the sky for its nakedness
around it, other trees whisper of
its vulnerability and pity its voicelessness
and lost knowledge of dance
the wind and birds don’t recognize
the eucalyptus unclothed
and above, the clouds race past
unwilling to get caught in its
still, bone-bare branches
___
eucalyptus II
[06XII06]
a white finger
pointing at the stars
graceful and long
unencumbered by modesty
or a paralyzed paintbrush
held upright and firm by the earth
with the paper sky doing all the work
for the uninspired artist
[06XII06]
without its leaves, the eucalyptus tree
in our garden becomes an accusing
finger rising from the ground--
a silent, static gesture that blames
the sky for its nakedness
around it, other trees whisper of
its vulnerability and pity its voicelessness
and lost knowledge of dance
the wind and birds don’t recognize
the eucalyptus unclothed
and above, the clouds race past
unwilling to get caught in its
still, bone-bare branches
___
eucalyptus II
[06XII06]
a white finger
pointing at the stars
graceful and long
unencumbered by modesty
or a paralyzed paintbrush
held upright and firm by the earth
with the paper sky doing all the work
for the uninspired artist
Saturday, June 03, 2006
xandra, this is what my murmur meant.
the sea will change you, she said.
all i could do was murmur my assent.
i have learned that some things are better read than heard.
for example,
winning is the wild, fierce joy of a raptor flying.
murmuring has no place here. so let us begin again.
the sea will change you, she said.
i offer a stone as a reply. one that is shiny, black, and smooth after years spent in the water.
yes, the sea will change you.
flesh is more pliant than stone, softer,
more susceptible to the dulcet songs of the ocean.
consider how quickly we allow the waves to dictate the movement our bodies.
we float and we are carried away.
consider how quickly we glow after imbibing in the sun. we are mutable.
but before we talk of the ocean, we must speak of the trip--
all i could do was murmur my assent.
i have learned that some things are better read than heard.
for example,
winning is the wild, fierce joy of a raptor flying.
murmuring has no place here. so let us begin again.
the sea will change you, she said.
i offer a stone as a reply. one that is shiny, black, and smooth after years spent in the water.
yes, the sea will change you.
flesh is more pliant than stone, softer,
more susceptible to the dulcet songs of the ocean.
consider how quickly we allow the waves to dictate the movement our bodies.
we float and we are carried away.
consider how quickly we glow after imbibing in the sun. we are mutable.
but before we talk of the ocean, we must speak of the trip--
on the way
[27V06]
the sky closes her eyes
and clouds darken
behind her lids
tears will fall
and night will follow
___
there
[28V06]
sleep
face up, sheathed in warm liquid
and rock to a basso profundo
soundtrack
dream
underneath the
waves,
and see serpentine sunlight
chase each other on the sand
wake
to the pulsating pink
heart of the world
that reveals
itself at dawn
Friday, May 26, 2006
how my boxes and taking a crap keep me sane.
see, this is the thing, i have boxes. these boxes give structure and order to my world. it's a framework i use so i don't feel like a schmuck every time i have to ditch.
saturdays belong to flag. even if my dad tells me i'd better seriously look for a place of my own if i insist on playing flag while there's a bad-ass storm ("you leave this house, don't come back"), i risk his anger and play. that's the extent of my commitment--saturdays.
if the team holds practice during the week, i'll have no qualms about being absent. my weekdays fall under the box labeled "work." there's no guilt associated with not showing up for the team.
things are neater this way. i can say "no."
sundays are for family.
notice that there isn't a box labeled "sam." the only alone time i have now is while i'm taking a crap.
saturdays belong to flag. even if my dad tells me i'd better seriously look for a place of my own if i insist on playing flag while there's a bad-ass storm ("you leave this house, don't come back"), i risk his anger and play. that's the extent of my commitment--saturdays.
if the team holds practice during the week, i'll have no qualms about being absent. my weekdays fall under the box labeled "work." there's no guilt associated with not showing up for the team.
things are neater this way. i can say "no."
sundays are for family.
notice that there isn't a box labeled "sam." the only alone time i have now is while i'm taking a crap.
the joy of winning.
winning is a beautiful feeling. but i have to confess that winning the first women's 8-on-8 championship (shameless plug, right there) pales in comparison to our semi's win over the rogues.
that game was scoreless after four hours, and both my body and spirit were crying out for rest. but i had no right to admit that i was tired because there were girls who were going both offense and defense. it frustrated me that time and again i couldn't bring my offense into the zone. we'd move, i'd bring them close, only to turn the ball over.
it almost came to a point where i didn't care who won or lost, as long as it meant the end.
but it didn't end, and we had to continue it the week after.
nothing compares to the feeling you get when you throw a long pass right down the middle to your receiver, who catches it perfectly then takes two or so steps to bring the ball into the endzone. that touchdown meant the end of an epic battle.
it's a pure, fierce joy that lasts a few seconds, unadulterated and distilled.
it's a violent happiness that demands release.
it makes you want to yawp barbarically.
it's a bottle of coke shaken like nobody's business.
it's so beyond words that my metaphors are getting messier with each iteration.
WHAAAAAAAAAT'S UP!!! YEAH! YEAH!
the rush is amazing. i mean, c'mon, finishing an article (no matter how hard to write) doesn't inspire fist-pumps, nor does it give you license to jump in the air or roll on the floor.
that game was scoreless after four hours, and both my body and spirit were crying out for rest. but i had no right to admit that i was tired because there were girls who were going both offense and defense. it frustrated me that time and again i couldn't bring my offense into the zone. we'd move, i'd bring them close, only to turn the ball over.
it almost came to a point where i didn't care who won or lost, as long as it meant the end.
but it didn't end, and we had to continue it the week after.
nothing compares to the feeling you get when you throw a long pass right down the middle to your receiver, who catches it perfectly then takes two or so steps to bring the ball into the endzone. that touchdown meant the end of an epic battle.
it's a pure, fierce joy that lasts a few seconds, unadulterated and distilled.
it's a violent happiness that demands release.
it makes you want to yawp barbarically.
it's a bottle of coke shaken like nobody's business.
it's so beyond words that my metaphors are getting messier with each iteration.
WHAAAAAAAAAT'S UP!!! YEAH! YEAH!
the rush is amazing. i mean, c'mon, finishing an article (no matter how hard to write) doesn't inspire fist-pumps, nor does it give you license to jump in the air or roll on the floor.
the analysis and comparison of the performatory aspects of poetry and rockstar-dom, or why i will never be adored by the masses.
an image on the television screen: a man stands with his head tilted skyward. his jaw hangs slack, his eyes are shut tight. sweat has plastered his shoulder-length hair to his forehead.
his name is john frusciante and he is jesus on guitar.
pay close attention to the tightness around his eyes. his music is translated in those few centimeters of flesh, with guitar riffs writing themselves in the creases and folds of his skin. lines appear and disappear in tune with the guitar's keening. the higher and longer it sings, the more he tries to hide himself behind his eyelids.
he hits his musical climax, he undulates against his guitar, and his face contorts in euphoria. we are voyeurs, we see him orgasm close up and he awakes to a million screams. there is a prurient aspect that marries the exhibitionist to the peeping tom.
a song is a means, not an end. the purpose of writing a song is for it to be sung, performed, preferably in front of the adoring masses.
writing poetry, on the other hand, is its own denouement. once written, it is over, done with. the act is the writing itself, and committing one's thoughts to paper is the performance. anything after is inconsequential, unnecessary.
an analogy: a rockstar is jesus turning water into wine, feeding the hungry, and preaching on a mountain. the rockstar is worshipped, and for worship to occur, two or three must be gathered.
an analogy: a poet is a sinner confessing misdeeds to the self. confessor and confessant are one and the same. the mouth does not have to say things aloud for the ears to hear.
an image on the television screen: a man pirouettes on the stage. his body is his instrument.
the poet does not, cannot pirouette. the closest thing is the movement of the hand on paper, assuming that the poet still uses a pen. loops, curves, and lines--the wrist dances as dictated by the shape of letters and the tempo of thought.
i could milk this some more. but i'm tired, the moment has passed, and this has been sitting on my desktop for too long. on to the next...
his name is john frusciante and he is jesus on guitar.
pay close attention to the tightness around his eyes. his music is translated in those few centimeters of flesh, with guitar riffs writing themselves in the creases and folds of his skin. lines appear and disappear in tune with the guitar's keening. the higher and longer it sings, the more he tries to hide himself behind his eyelids.
he hits his musical climax, he undulates against his guitar, and his face contorts in euphoria. we are voyeurs, we see him orgasm close up and he awakes to a million screams. there is a prurient aspect that marries the exhibitionist to the peeping tom.
a song is a means, not an end. the purpose of writing a song is for it to be sung, performed, preferably in front of the adoring masses.
writing poetry, on the other hand, is its own denouement. once written, it is over, done with. the act is the writing itself, and committing one's thoughts to paper is the performance. anything after is inconsequential, unnecessary.
an analogy: a rockstar is jesus turning water into wine, feeding the hungry, and preaching on a mountain. the rockstar is worshipped, and for worship to occur, two or three must be gathered.
an analogy: a poet is a sinner confessing misdeeds to the self. confessor and confessant are one and the same. the mouth does not have to say things aloud for the ears to hear.
an image on the television screen: a man pirouettes on the stage. his body is his instrument.
the poet does not, cannot pirouette. the closest thing is the movement of the hand on paper, assuming that the poet still uses a pen. loops, curves, and lines--the wrist dances as dictated by the shape of letters and the tempo of thought.
i could milk this some more. but i'm tired, the moment has passed, and this has been sitting on my desktop for too long. on to the next...
Monday, May 15, 2006
where the fuck is the moon?
the moon was beautiful last night. i accidentally saw her, and all i could come up with was "wow, the moon is nice."
the moon is nice? what the hell is that? i was looking for her tonight, i couldn't find her. but i did find something else.
compare that to two months ago:
*sighs* i really miss my early morning thoughts. odd hours are conducive to writing for yourself and nobody else. so is an empty house. i was digging through my folders and i found this:
good reads... but i miss beautiful thoughts, is all.
the moon is nice? what the hell is that? i was looking for her tonight, i couldn't find her. but i did find something else.
behind cloud and concrete
[15V06]
i miss having beautiful thoughts—
she’s taken them from me, my words, my cadence,
my brief encounters with brilliance
she’s robbed me by hiding herself
behind cloud and concrete
i miss her jaundiced face,
scarred and beautiful
compare that to two months ago:
fruit of the moon
[16III06]
the moon is an overripe fruit
waiting to be plucked
from the night sky
human hands cannot relieve
her heavy succulence
thus she overflows and
stains the clouds yellow
*sighs* i really miss my early morning thoughts. odd hours are conducive to writing for yourself and nobody else. so is an empty house. i was digging through my folders and i found this:
[11IX03]yeah, those were the days i was reading d.h. lawrence. now i'm reading stuff like freakonomics and the tipping point.
How do I start? By saying: “there is no beginning, no end, there is only now, and here”. Words stumbleovereach other, wanting to break loose, unborn children impatient to see the world. I cannot tell them to wait, or else they will vanish and become aborted thoughts only because I could not think of a proper beginning.
I like sitting in front when riding a jeep. I wanted to sit up front today, so I waited. I can be stubborn—the patience and the will are innate. Today, I also had the time.
Several passed me by, they were never the right ones. They had no space for me up front, and that is where I wanted to be. At last one came, but someone got there first, though I had been waiting longer.
That was fine. I could wait some more.
Another came. I took my place and I was where I exactly wanted to be.
Why do you like sitting in front?
Not just in front, but by the window. My right side hanging out, my face turned towards the unobstructed view. Half-in, half-out. Not really anywhere, just sitting in-between, I become a liminal category.
I like the wind and the sensation of flying and the minute risk of falling because I am not holding onto anything.
I like the in-between-ness, the illusion of movement though I am still.
It’s like writing, isn’t it?
How do I mean?
Words give me the illusion of action. Of doing something though I am not.
My fingers hold a pen or move across the keyboard and give voice to all the things I know I can do but will not.wordThe house is empty.
play
comes
be
fore
play
Am I sober? Does it matter? These thoughts are all mine. Whether I am sober or not, mine.
The house is quiet and I can hear myself clearly, my self and not my voice. If I speak, my voice seems foreign, intrusive, apart from my thoughts.
Empty,
empty--fickle Eros has playedAnother one of my exercises in temperance. Keep them short, how about:
in your heart’s vacant rooms
leaving arrows without targets
lying carelessly on the floorEros rose sore.Ha ha.
Riding up front in a jeep is the same as sitting in the back of a trike.
I have had an idea, but I do not know how to state it briefly, so I must run off at the mouth now and edit later.
Does the night envy the moon of her light, borrowed though it may be?
We are both children of the sun but the moon has shared her secrets with you.
You do not burn, you reflect. Your body is a mirror.
I seem to be fascinated by light these days.
Black and white.
What would your whiteness feel like on my darkness.
Probably the same way the night feels in the luminous presence of the full moon.
Unlike the moon, you do not wax nor wane, you are simply here or not.
In plain view or absent.
True.
But that is physical reality, the corporeal realm.
Emotions wax and wane, ebb and flow.
So you could be here, couldn’t you?
Enough of that.
Enough of words.
Why?love, our lipswords words words words words. I have more, and there will never be enough.
and tongues
shall deal
in a currency
other than kisseslet me photograph youQuiet! Work on it another time.
nude--
naked,
skyclad.
but nude is different from naked
nude, you are without shame and beautiful
yes, beautiful
beauty goes by many names
and i think that yours is one of them
You’re reading too much of D.H. Lawrence.
What does he say?“Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body!”“Ravished! How ravished one could be without even being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.”Yes, but he also says“it’s no good It’s no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You’ve got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they’ve got to come. You can’t force them.”Yes.
Are you sober now?
Were you drunk, to begin with?
There are no beginnings or endings,
remember? Only now.
good reads... but i miss beautiful thoughts, is all.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
don't quote me.
caveat: the fun is lost if you don't know the nuances of Filipino.
from an e-mail i sent june 5, 2004:
...nope, the list doesn't end there. *sighs* i recently added
from an e-mail i sent june 5, 2004:
for posterity and future reference (not that you really care).
presenting a list of fabulous samples of sam's communication skills:
1. "am i kasya?"
2. "was it butas?" / "is it nabutas?" (i'm not sure which, i was tipsy when i said this...)
3. "fucken putik on my legs, man."
4. "sa'n tayo magt-talk-talk?" (talk-talk, like usap usap, y'know?)
5. "you might have bitbited it." (i still maintain that "bitbited it" is shorter than "taken it with you")
6. "tawag the landline."
hopefully the list ends there. yeah, i'm bored. so?
...nope, the list doesn't end there. *sighs* i recently added
7. "i don't want to dikit it there."
Thursday, April 27, 2006
how to gauge your maturity.
you know there's something wrong when you meet up with friends and they're talking about:
1. doing it a bezillion times a day
2. bad breakups and broken hearts
and all you can add to that list is how pimples have decided to make real estate of your face for the time being.
1. doing it a bezillion times a day
2. bad breakups and broken hearts
and all you can add to that list is how pimples have decided to make real estate of your face for the time being.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
"poker in front, liquor in the rear."
poker is today's badminton. i wonder if the cardplaying craze will last longer than zagu (i've only had one of those so far, and that was only because christi got me a glass and demanded that i drink it after i said i would never have one). as for me? the only chips i'll play for are the edible kind.
skinless chicken and swords.
i got home only to find that everybody had already left.
on the table were two pieces of kentucky fried chicken, de-skinned and unappealing, plus the dregs of my father's tuna salpicao.
i almost burst into tears.
please understand that i starved myself in preparation for this easter meal.
all i had for breakfast was a biscuit and a glass of water.
i deprived myself of food while i was in the office because i KNEW what was waiting for me at home. at least i thought i knew.
i was so frustrated that i went to the neighborhood grill queen and got myself a slab of grilled liempo. while i was there, i derived satisfaction from the sudden downpour of rain. god knew that nothing but a freak summer shower and omega-3-free pork would soothe my soul.
going off-topic, the steak knife/butter analogy reminded me of this bit in my anthro 112 paper (Batad: “Kapag Ang Palay Naging Bigas… May Bumayo”):
that knife was worthy of crocodile dundee, i felt so cool having it with me. didn't see any crocs, though. as i said, the only action that knife saw was versus a couple of onions.
dragonlance's tanis had wyrmslayer. arthur had excalibur. frodo had sting while the shards of narsil became aragorn's anduril. who cares? i had onion-chopper.
on the table were two pieces of kentucky fried chicken, de-skinned and unappealing, plus the dregs of my father's tuna salpicao.
i almost burst into tears.
please understand that i starved myself in preparation for this easter meal.
all i had for breakfast was a biscuit and a glass of water.
i deprived myself of food while i was in the office because i KNEW what was waiting for me at home. at least i thought i knew.
i was so frustrated that i went to the neighborhood grill queen and got myself a slab of grilled liempo. while i was there, i derived satisfaction from the sudden downpour of rain. god knew that nothing but a freak summer shower and omega-3-free pork would soothe my soul.
going off-topic, the steak knife/butter analogy reminded me of this bit in my anthro 112 paper (Batad: “Kapag Ang Palay Naging Bigas… May Bumayo”):
"Aside from clothes, I had a nailcutter/can opener (very useful. I was able to open a number of cans, I felt so proud of myself) and a knife--a REAL hunting knife, not some puny blade (courtesy of my father who seems to have a fascination with knives and guns, I think he sees himself as some kind of woodsman). But I think I degraded it when I let my friend use it to chop onions."
that knife was worthy of crocodile dundee, i felt so cool having it with me. didn't see any crocs, though. as i said, the only action that knife saw was versus a couple of onions.
dragonlance's tanis had wyrmslayer. arthur had excalibur. frodo had sting while the shards of narsil became aragorn's anduril. who cares? i had onion-chopper.
why a period means the end of a discussion, plus fabulous things you can do with steak knives.
random thoughts while waiting for pages to close.
i'm still at the office. posting via safari, some of the functions aren't supported, hence the linklessness of this post. i'll probably edit when i get home. home, where the fam is enjoying easter lunch. without me.
regularly met up with marga and paul during the holy week. together, we weren't exactly the holy trinity. trinity, yes... holy? not even if we were dressed in white robes and cardboard wings complete with cotton balls for added angelic authenticity.
how did i wind up staying at home? ah, well.
*cue tinny music that initiates flashback sequence*
cast: me (of course), marga
setting: a mat in the garden of 4 aruego
*some parts of the actual conversation have been edited
marga: i wish the beach were right there.
me: mmhmm.
both: whoosh whoosh (those are supposed to be waves)
me: let's go to batangas.
marga: game.
me: you drive, i'll give you gas.
marga: i don't want to drive. let's take the bus.
me: ok. where will we go? you think we'll have somewhere to stay? they might be full.
marga: *eyeroll* there are plenty of places! game?
me: hmm. i can't. i have my period.
silence.
periods. end. discussions. not. just. sentences.
YES! update: the pages are good. i can go home and eat!
last thought before leaving the office: after my editor asked me about job-related concerns last week, i said that i was a steak knife being used to spread butter.
steak? butter? i'm heading home.
i'm still at the office. posting via safari, some of the functions aren't supported, hence the linklessness of this post. i'll probably edit when i get home. home, where the fam is enjoying easter lunch. without me.
regularly met up with marga and paul during the holy week. together, we weren't exactly the holy trinity. trinity, yes... holy? not even if we were dressed in white robes and cardboard wings complete with cotton balls for added angelic authenticity.
how did i wind up staying at home? ah, well.
*cue tinny music that initiates flashback sequence*
cast: me (of course), marga
setting: a mat in the garden of 4 aruego
*some parts of the actual conversation have been edited
marga: i wish the beach were right there.
me: mmhmm.
both: whoosh whoosh (those are supposed to be waves)
me: let's go to batangas.
marga: game.
me: you drive, i'll give you gas.
marga: i don't want to drive. let's take the bus.
me: ok. where will we go? you think we'll have somewhere to stay? they might be full.
marga: *eyeroll* there are plenty of places! game?
me: hmm. i can't. i have my period.
silence.
periods. end. discussions. not. just. sentences.
YES! update: the pages are good. i can go home and eat!
last thought before leaving the office: after my editor asked me about job-related concerns last week, i said that i was a steak knife being used to spread butter.
steak? butter? i'm heading home.
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