/insert

So I was rereading some of the stuff I’ve written (specifically the stuff I wrote during the time when I was bored out of my skull) and I had an epiphany. This is not exactly news to me that I am a serial self-insertionist in my stories. Rica put it in the geekiest terms possible: It’s like a comic book. You’re writing the same character but in a different universe.

[If you have read any of my stories, the characters in question are Paris Ross, Alexis Santos, the girl on the bus in Ang Pagtakas, the shopkeeper in The Shop, Mayari, and several others I may or may not have self inserted myself into.]

Random, random

Yesterday was pretty miserable for me. The good news was it had nothing to do with Valentine’s. The bad news? It had to do with everything else. It was one of those days when everything went wrong.

I walked toward the bus stop and marveled at the silence in my head. My phone had died and therefore I had no music. I let an older lady get on the bus before me and she got the last seat. Small things like that can be irritating.

While waiting in line for something, a guy about a head shorter than I am cut in line. I swallowed the fury that leapt into my throat and threatened to make my mouth rush into a barrage of big words. At times like that, one should remember two things: a. knowing you are perfectly capable of beating somebody into a mass of pus doesn’t mean you should; and b. your big words are bound to be lost on idiots, so don’t bother.

Date A Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico

Date A Girl Who Reads by Rosemarie Urquico

robbiefelipe:

vodkalemonade:

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

THIS. my wife’s gotta read, man. And no, not some Twilight, or Percy Jackson whatevers. But read, as in READ. haha.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5peqCDJi0A

Sad, upbeat song.

And it’s not like they were ever actually unhappy in the lives they lived
He married Martha, she married Tom
Just this fake notion that something was wrong
An ache, an absence, a phantom limb

Ben Folds/Nick Hornby - From Above (Video) (via benfoldsTV)

(Source: http://www.youtube.com/)

Anecdotes: The Mother Ship and the Mabie True Friendship Test

Let’s get some records straight: I can assemble a PC, I can fix a radio and other electronic devices with some duct tape and sheer will, I can reach stuff on high shelves, and I can execute a left hook. I can even build websites, write copy and short stories, and *gasp* sing in tune. Despite all of these things I know about and can satisfactorily accomplish, I do not know anything about fashion.

One night, Mabie ‘dragged’ me to accompany her shopping at Greenbelt.

Have you ever been to a place where everybody else speaks another language and everybody looks in amusement every time you make an innocent comment? In the Ally McBeal universe, you’d suddenly find a sign pointing at you in great neon lights saying EEJIT. If you have been there, or imagined the scenario to some extent, then congratulations, you have been to the Mother Ship. A Mother Ship is simply a place that contains something your friends like and can talk about in great detail. They can go on and on about how each and every item in that place is made, works, or looks and how each is different from another slightly different item – you get the picture.

Anecdotes: The UST 400th anniversary turista trip

So yesterday, I went to UST with Mabie, Rem, and Chris. Since Chris is a turista so to speak, we pointed out the places we hid out when cutting class, among other places where we used to hang out. Weirdly, Rem (AB SocSci) and Mabie (AB Philo, yeah!) never met there. I (BS PreCom - Bullshit Pre-Commercialism) spent a less than a year there, so lower chances of meeting them. Personally, I liked Tinoco Park (where I used to tutor peeps), the UST Library (I was a regular at the frigid Filipinana Section and the dusty Humanities Section), and the ever so masukal Botanical Garden (if nobody ever goes there except to hide out).

Spot the Turista! Clue: The Guy in the Middle.

While there, I felt a tinge of nostalgia that was soon overpowered by an intense, debilitating feeling of old age. I officially spent around eight months there. Some random notes:

Ang Pagtakas, Part 5

Parang akong tanga, tumitingin pa rin ako sa cellphone ko kahit alam kong walang signal. Ito na nga ata ang sinasabi nila na kawalan ng closure. At syempre, dahil nagpapakaengot na rin naman ako, nilubos lubos ko na.

Pag nagkita kaya tayo ulit, maaalala mong allergic ako sa tuna? Alam mo pa rin kaya kung pano ako gisingin nang hindi kita mabubulyawan? Tatawagan mo pa rin kaya ako ng alas dos ng madaling araw para lang magyosi at magkape sa tapat ng bahay nyo?

Napansin kong pasulyap sulyap sa salamin si manong drayber at kahit yung magkasintahan sa may katabing upuan ay tumigil sa pag-uusap. Biglang naging interesante ang pagnguya ng kambing sa labas ng bintana. Ako, umiiyak? Hindi no, napuwing lang ako.

Alam kong pinagtatawanan na ako ng kung sino mang nagsusulat ng telenovela ng buhay ko. Kung sa bagay, kung ako ang nanonood ng ganitong klaseng telenovela, binabato ko na ng popcorn ang screen at sinisigawan ang bida ng “Ba’t ang tanga tanga mo?”

Natawa na lang ako. Yung klase ng tawa kapag wala namang nakakatawa.

Ako ang umalis, pero ako parin yung naiwan.

Ang Pagtakas, Part 4

Alam kong tatawaging akong Diether Ocampo ng mga kaibigan kong fluent sa gayspeak. Oo na, bitter na kung bitter. Sa tingin ko may karapatan akong maging ganun, katulad ng pagkakaroon ko ng karapatang maging cynical at sarcastic. Idagdag na rin siguro ang karapatan ko to self flagellation.

Habang lumilipad nanaman ang isip ko, nag-iba na ang view sa bintana. Pinalitan ng mga bukid at ilog ang buildings at shops sa tabing daan. Bigla kong naalala ang sinasabi mo pag nakakakita ka ng bukirin. “Endangered species na talaga ang mga taniman.”

Napansin kong binibilot ko pala yung ticket sa kamay ko. Akalain mo yun, sa isang lugar na walang nakakakilala sa ‘yo at sa akin at walang nakakaalam ng nangyari sa ‘ting dalawa kundi ako, eh meron pa rin talagang mga bagay na nagpapaalala sa ‘kin na you do exist, somewhere out there.

Ang Pagtakas, Part 3

Nang bumalik ang lumilipad kong utak, may nagsasalita sa tabi ko. Ilang segundo pa at may kumakalabit na sa ‘kin. Parang may humablot sa kwelyo ko at hinaltak ako pabalik sa bus.

“Miss, ticket.” Sa itsura ng kunduktor, mukhang kanina pa nya sinusubukang tawagin ang atensyon ko.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Nun lang rumehistro ang sinasabi ni manong kunduktor. Medyo napabikwas ako at binuksan ko ang bulsa ng bag kung nasaan ang ticket ko. Maling bulsa, tingin sa kabila. Buti nalang medyo mahaba-haba ang pasensya ni manong.

Nung inabot ko sa kanya ang kapirasong papel, napangiti sya at sinabing, “Mukhang madami kang iniisip, ma’am.”

Marami akong kaibigan na susungitan ang medyo psychic na kunduktor na iyon, pero dahil ako ito, okay lang. Ngumiti na lang din ako at sumagot, “Hindi, kuya. Wala lang pong tulog.”

“Ah, ganun ba.”

Pinagmasdan ko habang ginagawa ni manong kunduktor ang ticket ko para sa bus. Hawak ang maliit na puncher, mabilis nyang binutasan ang ticket. Dalawang kopya. Pinunit nya at inabot sa ‘kin ang isang mala-resibong piraso ng papel na nagsasaad kung magkano ang pamasahe at gaano kalayo ang pupuntahan ko.

Gaano ba kalayo ang “far enough”?