Tag Archives: immigration

Jean and the Beanstalk

Once upon a time, in a land not so far away but definitely in the UK, there was a girl named Jean and somewhere in this fairy tale, she’d get some magic beans and an enchanted beanstalk. Of course, as early as now, it should be obvious that Jean’s no Jack ’cause, first, Jack’s a boy and Jean’s a girl. But also, and I guess more importantly, Jack’s poor while Jean’s fairy taley filthy rich.

Jean was fairy taley filthy rich ’cause she drank different flavors of coffee every day and posted the picture of the flavor of the day on her bedroom wall without fail.

She lived with her mother in an apartment where no green grass grew but where they did keep a cow in the form of Jean’s grandmother. Well, how could anyone argue that she wasn’t a cow when all she did was eat and get hated by the two for being fat and lazy? So they sold her, mysteriously forgetting the fact that if not for her, the two ladies might have never come into existence both in a fairy tale or in a real world.

One day, on the way to the mall to drink the day’s toffee nut super vegan impossible no-whey, no-weight latte, Jean met a guy with magic beans behind his glinting aviator glasses. How that was possible is completely irrelevant ’cause somewhere in this story, there’ll be a giant cupcake with a knack for interrogating humans and that’s more BS, if you ask me. So well, the guy with glinting aviators said, “You down?” Jean replied, “Hella down!” And the guy, deeply feeling how down Jean was, gave her all the magic beans saying, “Baby, no matter how down you are, these babies’ll bring you up.”

Back home, Jean showed the magic beans to her mom who said, “What the heck are those?” Continue reading

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You’re Right, You’re Right

Oh, you’re right. Yeah, you’re right.
You haul big boxes on your shoulders every night,
Bruise them and heave some more boulders.
Oh, you’re right. Pain makes you right.

Girl, you’re the boss. Yeah, you’re the leader.
You strut around making friends with higher-ups,
Clowning around while whipping underlings.
Girl, you’re the boss. Two grinning faces slathered in sauce.

Man, you’re the go-getter. Flying to Finland for your future.
Give yourself a few months of utter failure,
You’re gonna come back to your homeland a sleazy winner.
Man, you’re the cash cow. Milk yourself and spill more grand!

Boy, you’re cool. Look at that! You’re nobody’s fool.
Hitting the road in your sleek, sleek car
After getting hit from behind by every Mr. Johnson.
Boy, you’re cool. You surely earned that tsk, tsk tool.

Guys, you’re on top of the world. Can’t see nothing but birds!
Directing your little armies in your dingy office
What more can you ask for? When your knickers strike fear?
Guys, you’re the lords. So go and make ’em sweep the floors!

Oh, people, you’re right, you’re right.
You’ve been through hell and back and now you’re hell as tight.
Kick ’em in their asses, these pansy Nancys
Like you kissed Mr. Johnson’s hiney before you turned holies!

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My Pimples Never Lie

My pimples never lie. They burst out like an angry Arab mob out of my greasy pores when my unconscious falls into anarchy (though the unconscious is already in a constant state of chaos). They burn. They itch. They make me want to grill my face with a red-hot iron and condemn the whole world for its infinity of sins and cheesy religious rituals.

My unconscious never lies.

I smile calmly before friends but deep inside that black hole, I am wasting away at the bloodcurdling truth that she will leave me in a matter of weeks. If you’re curious about how an utterly lonely man feels, I’ll tell you how. It usually feels like deliberate indifference and forgetfulness, which it IS exactly in every single way. One cannot smell right or see right; mostly just a haze of colors and scents in a crumpled day. One cannot remember.

Some two nights ago, I dreamed we were chased by vampires. Brown vampires, not Meyer’s pretty pale vampires. We were running down a flight of stairs we painfully hike with our mouths agape everyday. We were hopping, skipping, careful not to trod on something and crash. It was a losing battle, so I woke up.

It doesn’t take a Freud to see that I’m running away from the future, which has recently synchronized its meaning with the word “failure.” Future and failure mean almost the same thing to me now despite my efforts at fighting back the clouds of doubt and the bloodsucking vampires. Though I love her with all my heart and soul, this darkness has blanketed my sight with the sleekest, clearest blindness and I can’t see beyond.

Friends say I should apply for a scholarship. In Canada. Or Japan.
My mom just wants to be assured of the monthly rice allowance.
Gates have to be opened for “wire cutters.”
She’s leaving.
It’s hard to get a fuckin’ job.
The axe is nearing my neck.
She’s leaving. Perhaps forever if I can’t make it out of this shithole of a homeland.
All the while I’m forgetting things, succumbing to an illness brought about by years of paranoia.
Did I say my love is leaving?

———–

It’s nice to shop around malls for things she can bring on her trip. She’s careful not to buy clothes she can’t use in the merciless cold of that country. So basically, I’m helping her get out because I’m the best man to do that. It’s always the greatest irony and tragedy when the guy who doesn’t want to let go helps the girl to fly away.

And she sells things ladies love. I joked that she’s selling our memories. Every dress she posts online is invested with days and nights of experiences engraved in my mind and my skin. Funny how customers fight over them like wolves under a juicy piece of meat dangling from a tree, blood trickling. Had they known how precious they were, they will probably stay away from them and bow to them, like they were sacred temples.

But they have to be sold. They are of no use to us anymore.

————

Chemae’s friends know she is a special person like I do. From here on out, her Facebook wall will just continue to unroll a kilometre of farewells, sad jokes and goodbyes. I’ll make sure to add my own bits because in the end, I’m just another guy in the crowd who will wave at her from underneath the plane. Not even literally ’cause she won’t let me be there on her departure. God, we all love her. But please allow me this — I love her the most.

Fuck, this entry is gloomy.

And that’s why my pimples are here to stay and they never lie.

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Neverland: 94 Days to Go (White Memories, Glenda Gloria, the Future and Noynoy)

We are down to two digits: 94 Days to go before ropes and nooses become strangely attractive to me. It is with great sadness and frustration that I announce my complete and utter resignation at maintaining my daily countdown. Still, I am very much determined to document the few days I have left, so I’ll just give an account of moments that my glitchy brain have successfully recorded.

White Memories

For me, there are two uses of metaphors: one is to beautify language and the other is to deliberately conceal meaning. In this case, when I say we had lots of fun white memories over the long weekend, I’m obviously using metaphor in the latter sense.

Some people just get big, red ants in their pants when you do something fun, forcing you to use metaphors in your blog. We can’t do anything about it because as I’ve said before, some (or most) people just can’t help being annoying. One thing I’ve learned during the course of my relationship with Chemae though is to never, ever underestimate her will to have fun.

When Chemae wants to have fun, some people may have to cry in pain.

Glenda Gloria at the Next Table

One of the biggest surprises when you get into a relationship with someone is his or her family. In my case, I wasn’t expecting the managing editor of Newsbreak and the CEO of ANC to be three meters away from me, eating Ilokano food at family gatherings. Continue reading

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Neverland: 107 Days to Go (A Failed Attempt at Self-Flagellation)

Yes, yes, crucify me! Pour gasoline on me then let my carcass burn through the night so the crackling fire and black smoke can serve as warning to all those who go back on their word!

I am guilty of not maintaining my countdown to Never, Neverland. And now, I cannot remember what happened in all those days since I last wrote a decent entry. All those rare, precious days are unrecorded now; forever forgotten by a man who tries desperately to remember them all.

After a year of living without Chemae, I’d reread my blog and notice the excruciating jump from 116 Days to 107 Days. I’d curse myself for being such a lazy-ass moron. Yes, there are only 107 Days to go before everything happy around me breathes their final breath. And I’m failing at remembering. Continue reading

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Neverland: 116 Days to Go (Grasping and Losing Time’s Tail)

Time is a speedy motherf*cker. Can you believe it? Just 116 days to go now before my birthday death day party. Chemae and I wrote some articles, sent some Tweets here and there, went to a beach in Zambales, drank with friends, watched a movie and — ta-da! 17 precious days have already passed since I started counting down to D-Day. If I close my eyes now for a few seconds and take a breather, I might open them up to witness an airplane flying off toward the infinite blue sky.

More on how fast time trolls us all later. Now, a quick recap of days that went by.

120 Days to Go:

We watched Kick-Ass in Trinoma. I’ve been waiting for this movie for a long while because I’m really into this concept of superheroes without any powers — something I just learned now upon reflection. I got into Watchmen very easily despite its brooding and complex nature, and Batman is still my most favorite superhero. All these guys are crimefighters but they don’t have any super powers. I wonder if that says something about me?

Well, Kick-Ass was just pure of win. It’s so awesome that I’m still geeking about it today, which is increasingly making Chemae irritated. But make no mistake, despite her revulsion for flashy Hollywood movies with unbelievable plots — she liked Kick-Ass a lot, especially everyone’s inappropriate crush: the 13-year-old Hit Girl (actually, the character is just 10 years old). Now I’m following the actress who played the foulmouthed baby assassin on Twitter. Maybe the interest will wear off after a while.

119 Days to Go:

I woke up very hungry with my weight ghosts haunting my consciousness. Every time I feel hungry, I feel I’m losing too much weight and I’ll turn really, really ugly (I’m quite obsessed at maintaining and increasing my current weight. So I consider myself better than anorexics ’cause I’m actually hell-bent on doing the opposite thing they’re doing.)

Chemae and I went to the supermarket very early to buy a pack of danggit. The crunchy salted fish has been the stuff of our daydreams about food since we came back from Nagsasa where we fried some of it in front of the sea. So we bought an overpriced pack from SM North and went to our house where we cooked it along with some fried rice. It really amazed me that Chemae was amazed at me when she learned I eat fried rice every morning. Apparently, fried rice for her is like lechon — something people come up with during very, very special occasions. It’s really funny what we come to define as normal growing up in our own respective families. Hell, I used to think every one who ate a different kind of meal for breakfast, lunch and dinner were all really rich just because we never did that at home.

Back to danggit, Chemae was very close to punching me in the face because of how frustrated she was with what we bought. The brand we cooked didn’t turn crispy even after I cooked it for a long time in low and high fire. It also tasted so salty that you can put a millimeter of it in your mouth and that would’ve been enough to go with three spoonfools of rice. No tomatoes and eggs, too, like Chemae had been fantasizing. We vowed never to buy in SM’s crappy supermarket ever again.

In the afternoon, we went to Antarctica (where penguins rock). Chemae was very tired but nevertheless, happy. A new penguin had joined them. 😀 Continue reading

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Neverland: 121 Days to Go (Fast-forwarding the Fruitless Week)

Coming back from an awesome beach trip to Nagsasa, this week felt more incredibly dull as the city looked like a completely gray picture of staleness and pollution. The only thing that’s pushing me to continue doing my regular day-to-death activities is the prospect of a fun drinking session today, Friday, at Mogwai in Cubao Expo — the beehive of all the cool “artist” bees in the metro. But let it be known: I still prefer Sarah’s careless banter and layman philosophical talk over Mogwai’s. Still, with Lele, Angel and Rizch coming over, it should be great later.

And now, a quick review of this monotonous week, which just gobbled up 5 days of my precious time with Chemae:

125 Days to Go:

I kept thinking about how beautiful Nagsasa was compared to Pag-Asa, Quezon City and Ortigas Center, Pasig City. I worked and waited for our pictures to get uploaded on Facebook. Memories of danggit made my stomach growl and Chemae’s, too. I wore a white shirt.

124 Days to Go:

We are two very quiet and shy individuals. Our blogs betray our true personality. She wrote an insulting message over YM and I sent an insulting reply to her cell phone. That night, I felt like I was in a loony bin. She made me realize something valuable by inventing a very convincing facebook story. I wore my black company shirt. It was a good shirt and quite comfortable. Continue reading

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