Writing exercise. Worked out a story out of a given first sentence. Sucks.

...

Gigi talks me into going to a party in Cubao. She's been talking for ten minutes in what seemed like ten hours. This party I call Sleaze Rave, it's sponsored by middle-class old men with potbellies and limp dicks. I've been to one only once, two months ago. This guy named Ramon, he had a cigarette clipped to the corner of his lips. For the next three hours that dragged by, the cigarette smoke just whiffed in between us like a veil, watered our eyes, and battered our lungs. He never smoked any, not one single puff. I just snapped out my trance when finally he said, "Hey sexy, why don't you come to bed with me?" Sure, I said. I excused myself for a peecall and never came back.

What's the point of all this?

Truth is, I haven't any money left in my bank account. I've been waiting for my visa for six months to hit the snowy slopes, and now my money's all drained. I can't work any because I can't leave any job record in this stupid country. It's a good thing I met this anorexic prostitute Gigi. She taught me how to work underground--not pleasuring some old withering dick part, but she sold me into earning a little with XTC. I haven't tried any of that bull. Gigi says it's marvelous, like you're being fingered all the time. I just say: wow. But really, I can't compare.

I'm a virgin. A never been anything.

Gigi, she's slumped by my door, wearing nothing but bandaid X-marks on her nipples and clits. What I mean is, she's wearing almost nothing, just strings and a gazillion bangles and pierces and bigass rings. She has pierces on her navel, her tongue, and both her traguses, the little flap of flesh just before the ear canal. In her stripper outfit, she's all bones and ribs, fattened with silicon in all the right places. Guys think she's hot, hot, hot, a head turner and eye sticker on everything else but her face.

She's saying the Big Boss is in the Sleaze tonight, and that he'll give me extra if I can sell fifty more tablets to that guy Ramon.

All I have to do is have sex with him.

I'm sorry, I tell her. But that just isn't going to happen.

I am not going to rip my hymen open with this guy's balloon belly bouncing on my stomach. I tell her I have genital warts or some infectious disease but she wouldn't buy it.

She says: Please, pretty please.

Make me an offer I can't refuse, I tell her.

She can't point a gun to my mom or dad. They're long dead or diseased or something. Either way, they no longer exist. I have no family, no boyfriend. I have nothing to lose.

She says she'll do all my laundry, clean my room, buy me new clothes, rob a bank for me. She'll be my menial slave for one full week.

It's a tempting proposal, all in the name of some sacred primordial ritual. But I say: No.

Mood: angry, hypersensitive, scatterbrained, humorless, hungover, puky. Or should I say moods.XP

This is a note to myself. This is what you might call a diary thing. A handy pocket journal except that my laptop's as heavy as a phonebook directory. And, I can't scribble as fast as I type. So, without further afuckingdo, I present: my memory catalog.

Booooooooooooo.

Jumping bullfrog thoughts ricocheting on the walls of my skull. You can't help but write them down and move the fork on with your life.

The excuses we say for blogging.

It's economical, saves drive space, online, and it's cached on Google's suprahyperscanning megacomputer.

Amusing science fiction word, computer.

My brain today can't slow down to the speed of my fingers. The moment an interesting thought hits me, it vanishes right when I punch the first key.

All these explanation, they're a waste of words, of energy, of time and internet space.

At the peak of Mt. Arayat, Pampanga yesterday morning, Angel asked me: Why do you blog? Who gives a shit about your life anyway?

Only I give a shit about my life. All others are phantoms hovering around, entering, reading, exiting my blog. Sometimes they leave ghostprints you call comments. Sometimes they don't. But who cares about what these phantoms care about what they think of this blog.XP

Note the word: CARE.

But really, they don't.

In Alyssa's words: I write, you read. I talk, you listen. If you don't like what you see, bugger the fuck off. (I added the bugger and fuck thing. You get the idea.)

Going back to Angel's question, I write simply because I have a rusty memory. As Gabriel Garcia Marquez says, death doesn't come from old age but from forgetting.

I write because. I am not responsible to give you any goddamn reason.

You're the outsider, I am the in. The same goes when people ask me why I climb. Same answer goes, the mountains sculpt me into the statue that I am in the city.

I am ninja traveler, anywhere, everywhere. Backpacked with nothing but the essentials.

But mostly I just answer: What do you care?

Reasons, reasons, reasons. Satisfying people's questions is such a bloody chore and a waste of spittle.

When someone asks me why I don't believe in God, I ask back: Why? What's the point of explaining if all people I've debated with are narrowfuckingminded?

I used to argue: imagine you're Superman and you want to prove you can fly.

It's simply impossible for me, the skeptic, to disprove your ability to fly. I can't prove you can NOT fly. I can't stalk you with a spy camera for ten years and tell everybody the only time you flew was when you jumped off a building and cracked your skull.

It simply isn't my responsibility to prove your aviation superpower (analogy: God) does not exist.

The only way I'll believe you're Superman is if you fly right on my fucking face even for just five seconds.

All those annoying shittarded preachers and God fans who try to sway me back into The Way, The Truth, and The Light, they're these Superstupidpeople who use gazillion words to prove they can fly, which is pointless.

Imagine you're a Theist living in a country surrounded by eighty million Atheists. These atheists have an atheist church and a god named Nobody whom they praise and worship every Sunday.

How absurd, you think.

That's just what I feel about religion all throughout these years.

All these religious abracadabra, they're everywhere. They're nailed on the wall, posted on bulletin boards, broadcast and argued on TV, written with billions and billions of words.

This magical story of Nobody, it's everywhere.

And I've tolerated them the way a Christian would if he'd live with eighty million other atheists.

All this religious nonsense is just brainwash. Belief in God is irrational, illogical, hallucinatory, mind-altering, self-deluding, blind.

There is no Big Brother, no mystery, no miracles, no First Cause. If you want to know why and how did we exist, read String Theory and Darwin's Evolution.

So far, the number of people I've converted into atheism is a total of 1. My nine-year-old obese nephew Keolo. Everywhere he goes he taps people's shoulder with his pointing finger and says in his cute girlish voice, "Do you believe in God? How do you know he exists? What's your proof? Come on, try. Make me believe." And no matter how these addlebrained adults argue with his quandaries, Keolo can clearly see the holes in their faulty bible punching prattles.

All other shit I'd like to say escaped me. So, BLAH.

Change of plans for my birthday. I am fucking OLD. Twelve of us hiked Mt. Arayat instead of Mt. Anawangin in Zambales over the weekend.

My brother is sending me a new tent all the way from Dubai. My grandma tent is ten years old, already weak and diseased and about to hit the dumpsters.

The mountain itself is a disappointment. The major culprit are the mosquitoes who has the bloodsucking magical power of a syringe. My skin was layered with a generous coating of mosquito repellent, a stratum of antisunburn clothes, varnished with another layer of antibloodsuckers lotion. But them mosquitoes pierced that stratification all the way into the epidermis, dermis, and subcutaneous fat underneath my skin. I have like thirty to forty of them bites, the sons of bitches.

I haven't slept in twenty-six hours. The days before that I had an average of three hours of sleep.

Zombie. That, I am.

Nine of those I've hiked with are freshlegs. They've brought paper plates, plastic cutlery, plastic cups, canned food, and other stuff that produce so much garbage it depleted their energy descending.

So much baggage, so much makeup, so much clothes, so much snapshots, and too little water.

Angel and I don't teach them what. We'd rather let them learn from their own. Better make their learning process a personal thing.

The only good thing about this hike is the people. Them noobies, they're hyperfun and can produce a symphony of impressive farts.

Prolly the most gruelling hike I've ever had.

I conquered Mt. Arayat! Huzzah!

90% of the difficulty is the fucking weight of my bag. Five liters of water, a fucking tent, and rice grains, those mostly forced their way down to the ground like magnets.

My writerly mood skedaddled away, so.

(When thinking precedes writing, the writing becomes a chore. I prefer seeing my own brain at work on the page. Bleah.)

Boring post, this one.

Happy Birthday To MEEEEEEEEEEEE!:D

I are Le Frazzled. School stinks. Thank gulay may bagyoh!XD

A rundown of the classes this semester:

1. Chess - The chess coach speaks like there's a dick lodged down his throat. He's got two chess classes, mine being the second, for two hours each. By the time the clock strikes three he's a wilting kangkong, eyes drooping, mouth slack, his arms all rubbery and his voice raspy beyond comprehension. He should just camcord himself and replay everything he's discussed from the previous class. The chess room in CHK is humid and stiflingly hot. You can break an egg on the desk and it's deep fried crusty brown by the end of the period. Geeks and nerds with thick glasses, dental braces, and acne problems are crammed in the room. All 39 of us (39! My gulay! Hangdami!XD) are divided by gender (What the? What about the lesbians, faggots, and transvestites, hm??). And I'd have to haul my bigass wooden chessboard to school every Monday. My partner's a breastless, buttless lamppost, with glasses, braces, acne, haggard hair, the works. Of all the girls at the half side of the class I closed my eyes and prayed Ohgodohgodohgodpleasenother! and opened them with her face hovering inches before me, glistening with oil in that wide toady smile, squeaking, "Would you be my partner?" Pimples red and pulsating all over her nose and cheeks, I was like, "Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure!"

2. Archaeology - My professor's British! With the British accent and everything!XD His voice is just lovely.:D and somnific. Fifteen minutes in the lecture and you have three or four heads dropped to one side, eyelids flying, drool dripping, snores whistling in every awkward silence. Archaeology, much like literature, refers to the data dug up to interpret the past. Gazillion names and places to memorize interrupted by an occasional commercial break of some horribly sleep-inducing documentary field work. Boring stuff; I should've listened to my archaeologist sister not to take this British person.

3. Playwriting - The professor's a faggy emo-goth (wears black everyday) multi-awarded playwright and director superdiva who earned his PhD, summa cum laude, in Greece. He calls everybody "Honey" and wears this weird ring with a horse innit. (A real horse, on his ring??XD) What I didn't know about this class is that we're going to write, produce, and direct a bloody one-act play by the end of the semester when for all I know we're just going to write the effing scwipt. Unlike writing short stories which begins with the first draft itself, we begin this workshop with the gestalt ("That's not the gestalt, honey. What you're saying is the summary already. I want the concept! The concept! A one-sentence idea that will encapsulate everything!" At that, with his hands thrashing everywhere. Goodlordylickingfingers.), followed by the storylines or events, followed by the other elements then the dialogues come last, methinks. All them the reverse way of writing a short story. Pain in the ass, you see. I don't bloody know what my play is about--I haven't any vision unless I begin writing it. Grarrrrrrgle.

Out of thin air I conspired a story about a bunch of cockroaches living in Maxine's scummy condominium unit (Maxine, the name from the film Being John Malkovich.XD), when they overhear a conversation about a housemaid arriving any moment. Threatened, they look for the legendary Mang Toto, the friendly garbage man 35 floors below. Along the way down the pipes and mazes to the ground floor, they meet other roach families who tell them about Garbage Land, their version of paradise, where there is overflowing rotten food and unlimited space for their growing family. So they head off there then ladeefuckingda, in Garbage Land, they glut themselves with maggot-infested burgers and pizza, and sleep comfy in a soda can. The following morning they're thrown into a giant humming machine and are churned into material for landfill. They die happy. Right: what the fuck? "And how are you going to transform that onto the stage?" Faggy Emo-Goth says through email. I mean, Arrr. I'm writing for a play, not a violent farty cartoon.XP So, uhm, yeeeaaaaah.XP Fingers crossed to my cockroach stage play. I mean, jesuschrist, I haven't an eye for glamor and heavy dazzling costumes and stupid musicals and all that pretentious buggery. Any ideas?

The four other classes I'll write some other day. First, a blink of sleep.

:: rewind »