Jogging – The Devil’s Pastime

My brother and I went jogging yesterday. I’m an athlete (Alright, so that’s not entirely true. But I was part of my school’s volleyball varsity. And I do go shopping on a regular basis), so that shouldn’t really be a big deal. Of course, Royce (that’s the devil’s name) had an entirely treacherous concept of what I thought was “easy jogging”.

I was actually tremendously excited when he suggested we go running after mass. I don’t exactly have the Kate Moss of bodies, so I have to watch my weight. I’m not fat though – not anymore, anyway. I used to be really really fat. In fact, I weighed 9 lbs. when I was born (I was heavier than my three brothers at birth). When I was in kindergarten, I was the biggest in my class – boys included. My mom was afraid I’d grow up and become a whale, so she gave me her “healthy diet” lecture, hoping that I’d mature into a normal-sized creature.

Anyway, we arrived at Sports Complex in high spirits. I was ready to do some laps and hopefully shave off a few excess pounds. Royce, the big buffoon, decided to make me his little project.

So he made me jog. 5 rounds. Straight.

Royce (R): Ok. We’ll do 10 rounds.
Me (M):  What??!!
R: Pila ka laps maubra mo straight haw?
M: Eh? Err. Two.
R: Lang?
M: Yeah. And I’m getting pretty tired.
R: Well, we’re doing… 5 rounds today.
M: Okay. But medyo kapoy na ko gamay.

(After 2 rounds)

R: Okay, you can do it. You’re going to be thinner. 5 rounds!
M: I don’t want to anymore! I’ll get liposuction.
R: You have no money.
M: I can’t do it. I have to stop now!
R: Kay, no! (He pushes me forward).
M: Sakit na kilid ko.
R: Pain is an illusion. It doesn’t exist. It’s an illusion. There’s no such thing.
M: It does to me. I feel it right now. I have to stop.
R: Hindi mag-untat. Go. Jog. Athlete ka.
M: I’m not an athlete! I’ll go shopping instead.
R: Naano ka man?
M: I don’t care anymore. I’m a wimp. I’m a wuss!
R: O sige. Slow jog na lang. Malakat-lakat ta after the 5th round.
M: I hate you’re stinking guts!
R: One more round to go.
M: Manong! Daw mahibi na ‘ko.
R: Ano mas nami pamatian? That you did 4 rounds straight? Or 5 rounds straight? 5 rounds eh!
M: Shut up!

To add to my misery, he made me do 3 sets of 12 sit-ups (That’s 36 crunches!), 3 sets of 10 leg-raisings (I forgot what it was called because of the gut-wrenching pain), and 3 sets of  10 “lady push-ups” (I can actually do “fake push-ups”. But it wasn’t enough for Mr. Look-I’m-A-Trainor).

I was seriously contemplating punching him in the face. I’d knock his nose right off and send it flying to Somalia where pirates could turn it into stew. Then we’ll see how good an athlete I am.

I’m sore all over now. I can’t feel my arms. My legs have gone numb. My stomach feels like an elephant stood on it.

Royce is a pig. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.

Scout’s Anti-Boredom Potion (One Dose Cures All)

Hey, a little heads up. I just graduated from highschool (I do a little jig here). It’s absolutely liberating. Don’t get me wrong. I feel quite sad about leaving my home outside of home (school, I mean) after 13 years, but the fact that I actually braved through that teenage jungle is amazing. I feel like I should be given a title or something.

For the record,  I graduated on a Saturday, March 28, 2009 at about 6:00 in the evening in our school’s chapel.

And after we made our exit from the chapel, when all my batchmates were breaking down and hugging each other as if someone was dying of salmonella, I did not cry – or so I’ve convinced myself. I dare anyone to challenge that (I can be a total jerk/bad-ass now that I’ve graduated. It’s not like they can take back my diploma or something. Brilliant, no?)

I’m going into the third week of summer vacation and I am positively bored out of my mind. There’s nothing else to look forward to except Facebook (which, let’s face it, is nothing more but a direct consequence of the boredom I will be dying from). I have read and reread all the books I have. I feel like a sack of potatoes, and no one wants any more french fries.

It’s not like I’m not trying. I just finished To Kill a Mockingbird – again – which is a marvelous book but I’m not going to read it another fifty times. The first week after my “apparent” freedom I decided I’d become minutely productive. I was going to take up piano again. I downloaded all the piano pieces I could get my tiny fingers on. Halfway through Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, I chose to start learning John Vesely’s Fall For You. I went as far as the Intro when I realized that my butt was dying on the piano seat. So, I decided to stretch my legs and fingers for a moment or two. Two weeks have passed and I haven’t been in front of the piano since.

I bought a couple of DVDs hoping to have something remotely exciting to do. I watched a couple or so and had a few good laughs, but then suddenly the whole thing lost its touch. I settled on playing guitar to kill time, but I’m not half as good as my brothers, so that died down after a while. I went back to good old regular TV programs, but then flipping channels all day was giving me a tiny embolism. I sought refuge with the scientific breakthrough that is The Internet. I downloaded this and that. I played Mafia Wars in Facebook. I watched a few videos in Youtube. I answered quizzes in Facebook. I thought of making a new layout for my sites, but I never got round to starting. I played Fashion Wars in Facebook. I’m on the verge of marrying Facebook. It’s disgusting.

But then, like an epiphany, it came to me.

I have this excellent idea of making lists. You know, like Books to Read this Summer, Friends to Strike a Conversation With, Food to Stuff Down My Throat, etc. Normal stuff, really.

I’m thinking of making my first list a bit on the scholastic side, because I don’t want to start on the wrong foot and make you think I’m a madcap fool. The thing is: not a lot of people know I’m a bit eccentric, to say the least. I’m trying to be subtle about it. I don’t know if it’s working.

Here’s a toast to summer. I hope it doesn’t kill us all. And I’m not just talking about the heat.

Cheeehrrs.

P.S. Happy Lenten Season to one and all.

P.S. (The Sequel) I’ve finally decided that I’m going to Ateneo for college. You wouldn’t understand, but this is such a great achievement for me to be making decisions like this. Unfortunately (or fortunately for me), I never plan on telling you how I came to this decision. Needless to say, I have a tendency of blocking very painful memories at the point that I’ve become rather exceptional at it.

Caught Off Guard On Goodbye

My uncle died last Wednesday. He was 50 years old.

A massive heart attack – that’s what the doctors said finally got him. It was a big shock for the family. We all knew Tito Boy wasn’t doing so well these past few months (In fact, he was released from the hospital just  last Sunday). But I don’t think any of us counted on him to say his goodbyes early. My dad’s taking it like a man, but I think he feels much worse than he’s letting on.

I was never as close to my Dad’s younger brother as compared to his other siblings. My titas were an ecstatic bunch, and I was drawn more to them and their jolly (and - may I add - generous) habits. Tito Boy usually kept to himself. He said very little, and so I never really got to know him. He used to remind me of Eddie in The Five People You Meet in Heaven. Now, I wonder if he ever felt the same way Eddie did – insignificant and unimportant.

Death always reminds me of how fleeting everything is. The great equalizer. You can’t buy your way out of it, that’s for sure. I guess the lesson here is to live while you can and love while you have a reason to. We’ll miss the people who have taken an earlier flight than us, but we can appease ourselves with the thought that they’re having one hell of a vacation – and a permanent one, at that. And if some of us are still terrified out of our wits of the inevitable, think of the reunions we’ll be having. It’s the next great adventure.

I’d like to think Tito Boy is in a better place. No, scratch that. I know he’s quite happy where he is now. If there was one thing my tito loved, it was chickens and cock-fighting. So, my idea of heaven for me is in some manokan up in the clouds.

We’ll miss you, Tito. We’re praying for you. Most of all, we loved you, still do, and will continue doing so.

Why I Should Have Failed Junior Year When I Had The Chance

I think this more often than not: I am graduating in less than two months. Most people (meaning every adult I or my parents may know) get all wound up and animated at the mention of that fact. I, on the other hand, cringe to the pits of Hades. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the sentiment people extend (although somewhat forced) to my life, but the conversations I have with these people are quite exhausting. And frankly, they’re all terribly awkward and embarrassing.

This is how every (friggin’) dialogue goes:

Random Adult (RA): Ano ka na nga year, Day?
Me: Ahh. Fourth year na, Tita/Tito.
RA: Teh, ano na nga course kwaon mo?
Me: Ha? Wala pa ‘ko kabalo.
RA: Diin ka ma-school haw?
Me: Sa Manila na siguro.
RA: Diin ‘to nga school?
Me: Wala pa man gid ko kabalo. Depende pa.
RA: But, ano gid plano mo maging mag-dako ka haw?
Me: Ha? Uhh. Hindi pa ‘ko sure.

By the end of our little tête-à-tête, I’d be desperately wishing for God to strike me with a really strong blast of lightning. I’m not the blushing type, but I swear my face turns into a pitiful shade of scarlet. That’s why I try to steer clear of adults whenever I attend social gatherings. I think it’s the bright thing to do, sparing people from unwanted uncomfortable situations. Of course, it would be so much easier if they’d just butt out of my existence.

Okaaaay. That was mean.

The more accurate thing would be to wish for wisdom and insight. You see, I passed all my college entrance exams (which, God knows, I’m profusely thankful for). Now I’m at a dead end. Or an impasse, I should say. I don’t know what to take up. Hell, I don’t even know what I want to be when I grow up. This wasn’t such a big problem a year ago. This is exactly why you shouldn’t put things off (Even as I’m saying this, I know I won’t change).

The worse thing is that people expect me to know what I want – which, as I said, I don’t. I’m not going to rant about how other people’s expectations are weighing me down and all that psychological drama, because I don’t really care about what they think. If I’m being honest, it isn’t as much as it is their fault as it is mine. I’ve never been passionate about anything (unless you count the more shallow levels of my being). I do stuff because it is expected of me. There may have been a time when I wanted to reach spectacular heights, but I think I’ve been running on this mode a tad bit too long to care for anything else.

What is wrong with me? — Don’t answer that.

I can’t believe it. I’m operating on fear after all.

But then again, that shouldn’t surprise me one bit.

P.S. We have a soiree (pre-prom activity) in three weeks time and I still have no inkling of a partner. I go to an all-girls institution (if it helps you understand why this is such a dire drawback). I’m not socially incapacitated that I don’t know enough boys. It’s just that I don’t really know who to ask. And FYI, I’m not being picky. Okay. So, I am being picky. Dammit (Excuse me).

Take One

Here we go.

This is my first official blog, ladies and gents. I deleted my old (WordPress) blog for this. I thought it was about time I scrapped the old material with something fresher and less juvenile. I saved all the files in my hard drive though. I’ll be looking back at them one day, and I’ll realize how ridiculous I used to be – or still am, for that matter.

It feels great to be blogging again. By the time I got to high school, I completely lost all ounces of patience with diaries. Manual writing was a chore. That’s why I seek refuge in modern technology which has yet to disappoint. Besides, the good thing about blogging is that you don’t have to deal with illegible scribbles later. My spiky handwriting may be appealing to some people, but, in truth, is actually nothing more but a botched form of “art”.

English class was interesting this morning. We talked about Virgil’s Aeneid and how similar it really is to Homer’s Illiad and Oddyssey. From there, we went through an overview of (the Glory that was) Greece and (the Grandeur that was) Rome. We then had the discussion of how the Romans were a bunch of copycats, and how the Greeks were a race of push-overs. Miss A then posed this question: “Would you rather be Greek or Roman? Why?”. To me, it was a question of whether you’d rather be the artist or the businessman. On one corner you have natural ability, classic taste and brilliant talent. While on the other you have skillful ingenuity, cool tact, and cunning sensibility. Personally, I’d rather be Greek. No offense to the Latins, but I find it extremely tacky having to exploit another peoples’ culture to create yours. Also, I’m an individualist. I refuse to be subject to popular culture (Of course, the Greeks got the the other end of that bargain). I want to be the one setting the trend, not the one following it like a lost puppy.

Hmm. Look at me, all academic. It’s a good thing you guys don’t know me. If you did, you’d probably realize how parallel I am to a teenage imbecile.

That’s about it for now. See you around, folks.