And that's coz I'm getting stressed out. There you have it, I blog whenever I am stressed out. But no worries. It's all good here, loving it. Just about.
Kasi naman. Why did I have to have a sort of thing with someone who goes to the same office as me? And who in fact goes to the same office at around the same time as me, like right now, when I'm supposed to be slaving my brown arse away in front of Gossip Girl and not in front of a half-cooked Powerpoint presentation. I was waxing sentimental over the whole thing (the aforementioned "sort of thing", not the PPT presentation) when he showed up uninvited. For what? A damn football game? Turn-off!
And why do I always have to write about such things anyway. My first stab at blogging in what, 7 months? On what--some boy? Gad, that's.... sad.
But yeah, I'm loving it here. Got in just before the recession hit, haha. Just like Ohms in Singapore. Yeahbah! As friends can attest to, my timing's pretty off in most cases. But this time, well, I think I've paid for it enough already. I was starting to get depressed (see below post entitled "Someday").
Some people I know would call it luck, which to me betrays their sense of insecurity and lack of faith in how this whole fate thing works for people who do work for things to happen. I worked too damn hard for this. Everything I've done in my previous company had been leading up to this. After all those months of intense prayer and relentless preparation (inside and outside the office), I got "lucky" and scored a pretty decent offer. And I'm loving it here now. Especially after I got regularized after my 3rd month on the job, so life is pretty rosy now, hehe.
And now I'm back on the blogosphere. For the same mundane reasons, but dang it, I'm back. I miss writing. I had to disappear for a while in case headhunters actually took an interest in my cyber profile and Googled me. Yes, I am Google-able. Used to be anyway, and this blog was one of the things that linked to me. It wouldn't exactly be a good idea to share more details than what are listed in the resume now, would it?
Gotta get back to (slave)work now. After all, people don't call this a country of (and for) slaves for nothing.
Keep you posted, for sure. The Saga continues in a few...
Sometimes, even when it seems you might be in the throes of despair, the truth is, you're not.
Coz really, you're too pooped to muster the appropriate emotions. To feel. To want. More than you already do. To pine for that which is forever within your reach, only to find you're still never quite there.
And you think about the sudden change in mood. You wonder about everything. Actually, you don't wonder--you suspect. And what you suspect you throw right back in the garage of your mind. Coz whatever it is, it doesn't matter anyway.
And while you can still chew on things and act like the taste doesn't make you hurl, you're gonna give. Oh yes you are. Just like that song--one day. Someday. Soon.
Pretty exciting start of the week. Got a little something-something in the works, which got me thinking about priorities all of a sudden. But the future seems so... "blooming," so to speak. The leg up Teppers gave today was just what I needed. You the best, Teppie!
Flashbacking to the present, work's got me walking around the dizzying confines of the office like I was auditioning for a part in the sequel to 28 Days Later. On the brighter side of things, we had an informal lunchtime learning session with some folks from Philam Life (an AIG company) today. They showed us some pretty neat slides that I would have requested a copy for, if only the main speaker wasn't an actual client of mine. Basically, the major takeaway there was, I had better get my @ss off the computer chair and cook me up a plan to get my hands on a couple thousand big ones. Seriously.
And nuh-uh, I ain't talking about them pesoseses here. I'm talking about the real ka-ching, baby. The greenback. Mucho dinero from the land that produced the top two richest men in the world, on top of other filthy rich dude-nerds. The capital U-S-D. But then you interrupt, "What you talking about? The Euro--it's king right now, or is gonna be anyway. Compared to the once-mighty Joe Americano, it's the one to beat. It's gonna be everywhere, P. Diddy and posse even wrote a song about it. Too bad about the whole subprime debacle, which got the ball rolling on the downgrading of the dollar. Now they have to contend with the current energy crisis, just coz they rely so much on oil and everything. And by the way, shouldn't this rant-post be penned instead by an American, not some greenback-hungry Filipino blogger who probably doesn't even know what the value of the Euro is....?"
(Okay, here's where I go schizo on y'all.)
I then respond, "Actually, it's 1.58 to the dollar, and 70.98 to the peso.. I mental-telepathed just now with Benny Bernanke, you know, the Fed guy." . . . Daymmm, don't you just hate it when you realize that you got even poorer. Last time I checked, the Php was around 67 to the Euro...
So anyway. Before my MPD whisks me away to la-la land once again, allow me to get back to what I meant to say before I lost it--the point of my need to get my hands on two thousand buckaroos. The point of my semi-tirade refracted off from an imagined split personality (that's a double split already--haha, pleonasm!). The point being--well, relative poverty, really. At which point you ask, "What does the current phenomenon of energy disenfranchisement in the US have to do with your poverty?"
Elementary, dear imaginary reader who I will, for the purpose of this exercise in virtual inanity, christen in my mind Watson... Everything. The answer is everything.
Okay, maybe not every-little-thing kind of everything. But being the biggest gas guzzler in town with a consumption rate of 25% of the world's total oil, while just "merely" producing about 10% of the whole lot, is almost exactly the point. I'm sorry to hear about the state of economic unrest that's going on over there, but the rest of the world is suffering, too. As a citizen of the rest of the world, I'm suffering, too. From inertia, from opportunity wastage. (And yeah, sometimes from hunger and oppression and all those other things, too.) Now is the time to grab the bull by the horns, people. Hurry, while it's still in siesta mode. Now's the best time to get in on the action. By that I mean buy stuff. By stuff I mean stocks, mutual funds, bonds, you know, stuff. Not shoes, not handbags, not iPhones, not whatever. With the US market being down in the dumps, so to speak (no offense to my dear American readers), it's the best time to buy up since prices are so low.
Skeptical? Look, what do I know. I'm just a fan of the process, I'm not even amateur-level. We all only have to take our cue from Warren Buffett, who now heads the ranks of the ultra-exclusive Forbes ultimate hitlist. (Former Number 1 Bill G. is retired now and just a couple or so billions poorer than WB.) The Oracle of Omaha is on a jurassic roll, gobbling up companies left and right. You now see it makes perfect sense. The Tao of Warren Buffett is in overdrive.
To be specific, what I really have dollar signs in my eyes for (inspired by thoughts of endless dalliances in snow-capped settings, a la Tim Ferriss in his book, The 4-Hour Workweek) is the dollar bond fund (PDBF) that's one of the investment products being offered by Philam. For a minimum initial investment of two grand, you get to engage in high-stakes (as high as you wanna go) gambling, sans the Judeo-Christian guilt. To quote the investment objective:
To provide investors with a hedging mechanism against the peso exchange rate value with returns (ka-ching, baby!) and inflows derived out of diversified investments in dollar-dominated fixed-income instruments.
Okay, so I forget the thing is actually a bond, which means there's less risk involved than if you play to win in the equity ball game. Well anyhow, we gotta start bouncing off with baby steps. We can't just expect to go play with the big boys in the courts without training and practice.
Now I have yet to seriously digest the figures that are swimming en masse before my eyes, but I will get to that at a time when I'm more lucid. Notwithstanding the value proposition of the company versus what we can expect from others in the market, I think what's important here is that we recognize that for those of us who dare, the future is actually staring at us in the face, poking at the side of our nose even. I've had this thought germinating in my head for some time now and it's reassuring to me to hear a professional validate the plausibility of an idea that almost a year ago was alien to me.
Of course, at the risk of looking like an @ss for not walking the talk, I have to share that all this money talk doesn't mean I can readily take the plunge as I'm advocating we all should. I would if I could. And quite obviously, "should" is spelled differently from "could." See the difference? It's a whole world of it that you see. But of course, I can only speak for myself. If you have two grand (loosely translated to about Php90K), then you're in business.
My memory's pretty fuzzy right now, but I was actually supposed to blog about Mom, how she's coming over and cooling her heels in Manila for a couple of days and stuff. I was even searching the PC for a nifty picture of her to post in here. Alas, the greenback monster reared its ugly head and I just had to blog all the way up to here to convince y'all, basically anyone who should feel so inclined, to contribute in the alleviation of poverty. Help ease the burden of mankind. Donate US$2,000 to this overly excitable blogger. C'mon now, it's all for a worthy cause..... =P
The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.
-- St. Augustine
Although certainly not exclusively the domain of bespectacled lovers of the written word, traveling is not an easy hobby to pursue. For those who live in the real world, where oil prices are currently inching toward the $200 per barrel mark and so on and so forth, it takes a certain level of financial confidence to be able to indulge your wanderlust and go where the wind may take you. Not to mention, a lot of VL credits, and also a certain amount of chutzpah to convince the head honchos that, yes, you are a very important cog in that well-oiled machine that you helped grease up and that although your time-out might bring about the ruin of the company as they know it, chances are they’ll endure in your absence, and so they need to let you go as you please--or else...
My last trip, albeit a little more "short and sweet" than I would normally care for (it's just a paradox), was certainly an eye-opener. When I saw the never-ending expanse of good ole Mother Nature in all her verdant glory, I felt something deep inside me being quenched, like a ripple swelling from inside out, saturating the weary soul. And it felt goodah!
I may have been a bit flippant in the past about serial traveling, but I realize that traveling can only do you good. No duh. But seriously now. Notwithstanding the present economic pickle we're all in that demands a little more effort from each of us in terms of conscious consumerist deliberation, if you should find yourself at a crossroads of sorts and faced with the question, “To go or not to go?” there’s only one way to rationalize it:
If you can, go.
Like them Nike ads say, just do it. End of story. And if you do your homework right, it’s gonna be well worth it. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
-- Mark Twain
I like to be prepared for the future, thank you very much.
Something to help you with homework...
Available in Powerbooks branches everywhere. Grab a copy if you can. You can’t help but fall in love even more with the Philippines after seeing what’s inside.
Wherefore art thou? I need you. It's almost that time of the year.
I'm floundering in the ravages of time, battling this sea of uncertainty that I know will come at least 25 more times in the coming years. I need anchoring. I need to come up for air. I need music. I need to play the piano. I need Debussy. I need Neruda. I need chismis. I need a chiropractor. I need a Philadelphia Roll. I need swimming lessons. I need a good night's sleep.
I need something illegal in my system. I need a shoe addiction. I need a chain-smoking paragon of depravity. I need cheesecake from Bizu. I need foie gras stuffed with truffles. I need a friggin' Parisian sidewalk cafe. I need action. I need adventure. I need my own cable station. I need another credit card. I need a Roman holiday. I need a ride to take me to Bicol and back next month. I need deliverance.
Or to want what you want, which you can have but know you don't really need and would probably be better off not having (which then makes you want it even more)?
Gaaah! Why oh why did the concept of want ever have to come to being anyway? As if that wasn't enough to give you a minor heartburn, there's freedom of choice waving in your face the proverbial noose with which to hang yourself. Ack. This indecisive war between the id and superego, between desire and responsibility, is killing you. You're positively writhing inside. And it's all your own doing.
***
But it's great, you think, that you're made to come to terms with such things. Through the distress of contemplating battles with the self comes the Trojan Horse of a boon, a welcome respite reminding you of what you have and have had.
You have had the time of your life. Whatever's gone down in the past so far, you know this much remains true. And for this, you will always be grateful.
And yet you sit there nursing your designer coffee, whining about how the past is getting old, and clamoring for más y más.
Maybe that's the beauty of experience. Maybe it's human nature to want more than what you have in your hands. Others are not so lucky. A few will probably never be.
And really, you have to admit that sometimes, you don't even deserve it. At least not all of it. Maybe not all in one big go.
But dammit, you want it. You want it. Heaven help you. You just don't know how bad you got it.
Then again, maybe you shouldn't try to find out...
Finally. For the longest time, the idea of blogging about food has been fermenting at the back of my mind. Chronic wishy-washiness comes to the fore when I try weighing the pros and cons of the deal. My favorite excuse is that I would be undermining my own penny-pinching efforts, as I would be somewhat "forced" to eat out more often at places slightly better than your friendly, neighborhood Kenny Rogers (ain't much of a McDonald's junkie). Now not to diss the great Kenny R, coz he sure knows tasty comfort food-in-a-flash. (Even though his roast chicken gives off that GMO vibe, like you're biting into cloned meat or what-have-you, which is not actually all that comforting...) But some days when feel like you've had one roast chicken too many, you know you gotta have variety. And some days, you just gotta have quality variety.
By quality, I mean healthy. As in salads and greens. Olive oil-based entrees and roast white meat. Soy lattes and sugar-free desserts. Friends know how I can live on tuna au naturel for a whole straight week and not feel like I'm starting to grow fish scales. I get a kick out of eating things that I know won't lead me to a premature bypass. Even though I like digging into rich, hearty treats (lordy, I miss Cyma!), I get a little lightheaded from images of clogged arteries swirling in my head, the special effects punctuated with every bite. (Okay, well, maybe not EVERY bite.. usually just the first one.) Plus, I know I don't look like it, but I admit vanity plays a teeny role in my preferences. Gotta love this society that's being held up by pillars of double standards.
But really, I like what I like mostly because I like my body to function the way it's supposed to when it counts. I like sports. I like being able to move with as little baggage as possible. I like being able to go trekking for hours on end without stopping every 10 seconds or so for a breather, or slipping on jagged rocks and breaking a rib or two in the process. I like not looking like a wuss during training, especially at times when I feel like I'm being one.
So that's my story. Now what about this health food series thing? Well, the dealbreaker is, I have to motivate myself to eat healthy more consistently. Enough with the excuses, enough with the sissiness. Sure, grabbing healthy eats means dishing out more bread. But if you want something, you do what you gotta do to make it happen. If you gotta spend, you might as well spend wisely and with flair. Quality is the shiznit, whereas extravagance is for the uninspired.
And most of all, spend in finger-lickin' good taste. Coz really, if it's so good, who cares about anything?
Aha! Now I know why I was so not bringin' it during training last Saturday. I needed some iron-pumping action, and how! And that's not just because I'm sort of anemic. Although now that I think about it, how in the world am I getting by without any ferrous reinforcement?
Needless to say, I totally bombed. Halfway through the second round doing pad work with one of the krus (that's Thai for "teacher"), I found, to my utter mortification, that I was operating at 25% capacity. In cellphone terms, I was low-bat. I immediately saw it even before the new trainer was saying, "Kaya pa ba? (Can you still do it?)" In my mind, I was missile-launching expletives at myself. WTF--I used to be able to do 6-8 rounds, straight up. The least number of rounds a student can do is three, with a two-minute break in between. So this one I totally didn't see coming. Just earlier, I had relatively breezed through a straight five-lap run of the tracks for warm-up. Okay, I know, that's not even half a 5K, but considering that I haven't been running in a couple of months, that's hunky-dory for me. Anyway, doing a 5K right before Muay Thai training is just not the smartest thing in my book. Add to that the realization that it is so not worth going through training when you cannot perform to full capacity. I swear, you'd just feel crappy.
An added caveat: This weekend was the first time I set foot in the gym since New Year's Day. Yep, I was that fanatical. During the countdown to 2008 party that Lejan and I went to (see here post), I was texting with the lone kru who was left to care for the training gym while all the other instructors were enjoying the holidays with their respective families far and away from the city. I was on a roll during the holidays, training for days at a time, and I was so gung-ho on making the most of the slackening preoccupation at work that I went ahead and scheduled a one-on-one for the next day.
So I came, I saw, I kicked butt. Although it wasn't the easiest sesh I've had or anything, I was pretty pleased with myself. Nothing says "I'm getting game" more resonantly than doing it in the first day of the new year. Obviously, I thought it was a sign of things to come. Good things, of course, a year of all things fabulous for the Muay Thai nerd that is me, myself, and I.
But then work came flooding back into the mainstream consciousness like a superlolo blowing up on NY Eve--in the living room. While you're in it. Plus, the fam's painting the town red, and I need to keep them in check lest they be accosted by the cops for possession/abuse of acrylics.
And my own pending homeward bound in the coming days doesn't exactly leave me with boundless energy for other stuff that the cosmos might throw my way.
And so, when I spotted a window in my weekend schedule to finally put in some time again in the gym, I was so intent on going that I didn't bother stopping to ask myself the usual questions before heading off to training:
"Did I get enough sleep (and not just rest) in time for training?" (Answer: I was thinking 6 hours of sleep should be good enough, just coz I have had way less.)
"Did I eat anything the day before that might contribute to an unnecessarily challenging and uncomfortable performance?" (Answer: Nothing memorable. Meaning, nothing weird enough to derail me from performing as needed.)
"Did I have a relatively stress-free Friday to buffer the craziness of the week and allow for a smooth transition to training day?" (Answer: Not exactly. From Sunday to Friday last week, average amount of sleep must have fallen below 5 hours.)
"Did I have my daily banana?" (Answer: Unfortunately, I was fresh out.)
Maybe I should add in a couple of bullets in this here list, saying:
"Did I take the recommended daily 14.8mg of iron today? What about yesterday? What about the rest of the week?"
"Did I ingest less than 2 units of coffee before Wednesday?"
The number right there is an arbitrary figure; I'm trying to cut down on the once-daily cup of joe, on top of attempting the impossible--doing away with caffeine altogether on the uber-toxic days of Thursday and Friday.
And another good thing to consider, too--getting enough calcium for all that bone-crunching, hard hitting/kicking/kneeing/elbowing action. I know I avoid dairy products like the plague now (unless if it's cheesecake) but this serves as a serious mental note to head on out into a pharmacy on the way home and get a box of Anlene or Calci-Aid or something.
Brrrrrr. I shudder to think of all the crimes of negligence I've committed in the name of whatever. If I were my own mother, I'd be giving myself a spanking right now.
So I have had it--enough with the excuses! Who knew the Muay Thai diet could be so common-sense? Read on, for the equally dispossessed.
Hunger hurts but starving works When it costs too much to love...
- lyrics from "Paper Bag" by Fiona Apple
During a trip to Palawan with a few friends last year, I asked Greg as we were sitting out on the porch of the rustic beach house we were renting about something that my mind just wouldn't lay to rest. Earlier that day, we had toured the myriad of islands in El Nido and by golly, the view that stretched out in front of me was so sublime that my eyes hurt. I was so struck by the blinding beauty of the place that the question I posed only made sense: "What is it that makes places like this a thing of universal beauty?" That is, if there is even such a thing.
Much like moral relativism, I believe in the plurality of aesthetic values, in how something to which one ascribes beauty as a natural truth can be viewed quite differently by another. But certainly, at the key moment of recognition, there was no question in my mind as to whether El Nido was beautiful. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. I'm saying this now because prior to our arrival in Palawan, I had expected the rave reviews of El Nido to be overrated, that maybe the budding tourist trap was not all that it's cracked up to be. Now I know that to cradle thoughts to the negative was a sacrilege. To even acknowledge such a question could exist in the realm of the natural world was unimaginable. And that was what got me wondering, exactly what was it that made imagining so difficult.
To this day, I still have no idea.
And really, all I wanted to do was just post pics of some of the things that got me asking that question again today. But of course, I had to have an opening. =P
Anguilla
Nevis
Tangiers, Morocco
Capri
Amalfi, Italy
St. Barts
This is why people like me work like dogs. Because you never know when it's gonna be the day that the cosmos might decide to go nuts and give you your lucky break. C'est si bon!
Photos courtesy of Wimco Villas. The Conde Nast-winning villa and boutique hotel reservations company has an ongoing essay contest wherein you stand a chance to win a US$1000 credit on your villa vacation. Check out their official site and MySpace profile for more information.
Aren't the pics below the most precious things you've ever seen?
My family loves cats. No, scratch that--they don't just love them. They're crazy-obsessed with them. Not Ripley's Believe It Or Not crazy-obsessed, mind you. Just the normal kind of crazy.
Growing up away from the fam in college, I'd be coming home for vacation to a house that's bursting at the seams with tawny and black-tipped furballs. Each vacation stay is a different family history: a whole generation of cats that replenished the line of the ones that ran away from home wanting to be independent. I mean, who wouldn't, with my family smothering them with TLC like anything you've ever seen. Mom and the kids would adopt pusakals or stray cats by the truckload with willful abandon, not caring where they came from or if they had the playboy bunny gene which predisposes one to make more babies than they can keep track of. Apparently, we’ve become quite popular in the cat community as the good samaritans/suckers of Gov. Ramos Avenue that strange cats would just show up on our doorstop, expectant and waiting to be taken in and fed and bathed. There has never been a more implicit display of effective word-of-mouth marketing than in our extended household.
Them cats are like family that sometimes it’s hard to tell apart my brothers from the short-hairs lolling about the house with a languorous air of entitlement. If the kitties make a boo-boo, Dad would scold them in the same way he would us kids, and even practice his corny jokes on them every chance he could. Ina/Grandma was once in tears, heartbroken, when Faisal, my brother, accidentally ran over the dazzlingly white kitty that was everyone's favorite then because it had the misfortune of playing in the yard when brother dearest was pulling the car up into the driveway one night. If anyone in my family had an allergy to the cat species, even if it killed them, they'd better get over it real quick lest they risk being booted from hearth and home where our furry, feline adoptees are deemed little overlords.
Right below is how Dad would look like in a classic family scenario if we turn feline in our next lives. Except that maybe it should be "7pm" instead of "11pm". Dad's old school like that.
I super love the furry, merry brood of critters in this selection. Looking at them, I hate to say it but I'm going "Awwww..." all over again. Sappy, I know. But what can I do? These pics instantly tug and poke at certain parts of my heart. Damn cute.
I see them Everywhere, everyone It hurts to see them It hurts how much I used to care "I don't want to lie, I can't tell the truth.." That I can't be with anyone Who causes me pain.
Just like a root canal, you don't want it, but you damn sure need it.
Not that I'm in the market or anything, but I'm just totally moved by the playlist (Morricone, Armstrong, and the like) that's currently playing in my PC that I ended up humming and even sort of singing out loud parts of the lyrics here at my cubicle. Good Lord, what will the suits here think of me, slacking off and having a bit of fun just coz it's the holiday season. Haha, right.
"Yep, I hear yah, boss. Sure, let's check out some CDs at Music One at Greenbelt. Just a sec, okay?"
When my own special day comes, I would like my guy to sing to me La Vie En Rose, the song immortalized by the iconic French songstress Edith Piaf. Of course, there's no other way to do it than in front of all our guests-to-be. He's gotta sing the whole thing in the original French, too. Never mind if he doesn't get the pronunciation right or whatever. I mean, we're not French anyway, no biggie. Haha.
Not up to the task? Fine. He can sing it in, what else--*drumroll*--Tausug. Yeah, baby! The good ole mother tongue. Really, I can't think of anything cooler. Of course, he can do the translation himself. I haven't found anything on the Internet, so that means he'd be the first ever to do something like that.
On second thought.. Hmmm... Now I'm totally going nuts with the French wedding song idea. I'm thinking maybe I should do it. It would be a total first. Sort of like that intellectual entrepeneurship thing that Tom Friedman goes on and on about. Not to mention, it would be something with which to validate my Tausug-ness for all the cyberworld to behold.
All righty then, I'm doing it. I'm writing it in stone as one of my plans for the new year. I can't wait to get started. So what if I'm total crap at my own people's language? I still have, what, a few years to practice and write the draft and do it well enough so my people won't hurl invectives at me from the sides of the aisle and disown me for ruining the language or the song. Piaf would flip and turn in her grave. Besides, mediocrity, if not the total annihilation of a cultural aesthetic, would be such an un-French thing to do. It totally gives me the heebie jeebies. But I'm psyched!
------------
LA VIE EN ROSE (French Lyrics)
Des yeux qui font baisser les miens, Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche— Voilà le portrait sans retouche De l’homme auquel j’appartiens.
Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose. Il me dit des mots d’amour, Des mots de tous les jours, Et ça me fait quelque chose. Il est entré dans mon cœur, Une part de bonheur Dont je connais la cause. C’est lui pour moi, Moi pour lui dans la vie, Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie. Et dès que je l’aperçois, Alors je sens en moi Mon cœur qui bat.
Des nuits d’amour à plus finir, Un grand bonheur qui prend sa place, Les ennuis, les chagrins s’effacent, Heureux, heureux à en mourir.
Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose. Il me dit des mots d’amour, Des mots de tous les jours, Et ça me fait quelque chose. Il est entré dans mon cœur, Une part de bonheur Dont je connais la cause. C’est lui pour moi, Moi pour lui dans la vie, Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie. Et dès que je l’aperçois, Alors je sens en moi Mon cœur qui bat.
LA VIE EN ROSE (English Translation)
Eyes that gaze into mine, A smile that is lost on his lips— That is the unretouched portrait Of the man to whom I belong.
When he takes me in his arms And speaks softly to me, I see life in rosy hues. He tells me words of love, Words of every day, And in them I become something. He has entered my heart, A part of happiness Whereof I understand the reason. It’s he for me and I for him, throughout life, He has told me, he has sworn to me, for life. And from the things that I sense, Now I can feel within me My heart that beats.
In endless nights of love, A great delight that comes about, The pains and bothers are banished, Happy, happy to die of love.
When he takes me in his arms And speaks softly to me, I see life in rosy hues. He tells me words of love, Words of every day, And in them I become something. He has entered my heart, A part of happiness Whereof I understand the reason. It’s he for me and I for him, throughout life, He has told me, he has sworn to me, for life. And from the things that I sense, Now I can feel within me My heart that beats.
------------ English translation done by Thomas Keyes, a writer/author who has studied languages for years and traveled extensively on five continents. Obviously, the piece sounds a bit weird in certain parts, but the author has a caveat or short explanation for the the choice of words. I just can't find the link coz it was quite some time ago when I downloaded this. Anyway, for questions or concerns, the author can be reached at udikeyes@yahoo.com.
To listen to Piaf's original rendition of the song, copy-paste the following link onto your browser:
http://www.angelfire.com/ca5/magic1/Lavierose.wma
Here's my favorite take of the song, done by no less than the incomparable Louis Armstrong. I super, super love it. Hope you do, too. Enjoy!
Kainis. The folks behind Avenue Q are doing a restaging this month after an uber-successful run of the Tony-winning musical just last September. I missed out on the hoopla then coz I was too wiped out to lift my arse off the swivel chair here at the office and make the short trek to RCBC Plaza where the play was being shown.
But now, well, 'tis the season for merry-making, like they say. And if the rave reviews of the production are any indication, Avenue Q is bound to leave you in stitches over its mischievous rendition of certain themes in kiddie pop culture (read: Sesame Street).
Grrr. Now they pull this when I've just about run out of juice to fuel extraneous spending for the remainder of the holidays. A little heads up a few weeks ago would have been nice. Gift-giving and fattening holiday dinners aside, the bonus has already been chalked up for some credit alleviation, making it a little hard these days to part with even 500 clams. Gaah. Cruddy heart-searing dilemmas, why oh why?
***
Duh. I totally have to do some serious soul-searching this season. Incurring the error of regret now comes just second to keeping hope afloat (meaning, still being able to play Muay Thai on weekends and then gorge at masa sushi joints). I can now say no to a possibly good movie, as long as I don't see its trailer rocking out on cable or anything. Of course, I'm still watching Will Smith's I Am Legend with Lejan next week, coz it can't be helped. Gotta have my last big-screen hurrah for the year.
In times of consumeristic indecision, the burning question of the day remains: To Scrooge, or not to Scrooge. While it's incredibly tempting to jump headfirst into the Kool Aid of holiday cheer and play my own Santa Claus, I think I should really take my own advice and stick with the following yearend resolutions, if only to stave off further damages:
1 - Must stay away from Starbs unless absolutely necessary (i.e., the case of pending OB with client or Town Hall meetings)
2 - Must not partake of any meal that costs more than 200 bucks during weekends and 170 during weekdays.
3 - Must keep consumption of desserts to a maximum of 150 bucks per week. (Really gotta bite the bullet here.)
4 - Must stay away from Powerbooks/Fully Booked/National Bookstore. (Okay, except to avail of that single 10% discount c/o dear company.)
5 - Must stay away from record bars. (Doggone eSnips, why'd you have to go and pull a Napster?)
6 - Must stay away from Nike stores. (Except maybe to get one last dri-fit shirt...)
7 - Must get up much, much earlier and go home earlier and keep away from cabs.
8 - Must get OT-related expenses reimbursed.
9 - Must stop watching the Living Asia Channel.
I guess outside of this, I'm good. Oh well. When the spirit of the holidays wears off, I think everyone finds that you just can't screw Scrooge. So here's hoping personal tightwadism does work out and I don't end up in welfare, hallucinating about ghosts of Christmas past and what-could-have-beens and whatnot.
Wow, free dietary consulting! I lurrrvvv the Internet. Props to the MuayThaiFan for the heads up on the Metabolic Typing Quiz, the results of which you will see below.
I especially love the fact that I get FreeDays to gorge (okay, well, maybe not exactly "gorge") on any dessert of my choosing. As anyone who knows me can attest, I have a pretty big little sweet tooth. I may be all for healthy eating and what-not, and I do have days when I can go totally vegan or carb-free if there is particular need for it. But to be perfectly honest, I tend to bypass that inner voice when I spy something that piques my curiosity (which, as everyone knows, is what killed the cat). If it looks pretty, I might just inhale the whole thing right then and there, regardless of whether I'm actually hungry or not. Curiosity of the palate is all it takes, and I find that I'm always able to rationalize through the racket of warning bells going off in my head.
But self-serving rationalization isn't always the way to go. If you have goals, whether they be in health, work, love, whatever, there's no room for wishy-washiness. Easier said than anything else, as always, but does that mean it's right to just shrug it off, saying "Duh, there are other more important things I should be concerned with.."? Fact is, in this day and age of takeout pizza and couch potato careerism, your health is all you have (okay, aside from your brain, your spirit, yada-yada.. but that's beside the point). If you're not healthy right now (or at least don't feel in the pink of things), you're not likely to be able to do a lot of things that everyone normally takes for granted. And that's hard, when you really take stock of the multitude of things one can do when they're unshackled by health woes. There is really a different kind of freedom to be had from merely knowing this. But as with all major struggles for freedom throughout history, the campaign for healthy living doesn't come without a fight. There will be times when we waver in our resolve and that's okay. But abandoning the cause is just plain sad. When you wave that white flag on your health, you might as well do the chicken dance while you're at it coz that's probably what you think being fit is good for. And by the way, just because one is fit doesn't mean they're healthy. That's a whole different debate. What we're talking about is something more holistic. We're not talking about Miss Hawaiian Tropic standards here. Heaven help me if I think I can begin to fathom the workout and lifestyle quirks of sub-one percent of the world population. Of course, being ripped like them girls in the pageant wouldn't be the worst thing to happen in life. So what, you ask, is being healthy then? Well, that remains to be more relative, and hence complex, a question than it would seem. (Perhaps another post would do the topic justice.) But suffice it to say that being healthy is more than a state of mind; it's a way of life.
Nobody said anything we ever do for ourselves was gonna be easy. But everything boils down to a little decision-making. And you stick by what you've decided you want for yourself through thick and thin. And in this case, thin is definitely better than thick (at least for the majority of us who aren't blessed with a killer metabolism). Now if I had the discipline for it, I would love to go the skinny way even, if only so I'd be able to squeeze into my fave threads from 5 years back (hmm, on second thought, I think I was a little chunkier then than I am now). But I somehow doubt if I can manage decent kicks and knees or not be blown away by great gusts of wind when I attempt my next 5K if I pulled a Mary Kate. In any case, I think the world would be an even brighter place if we fed our heiresses enough so that their median life expectancy would be a little higher, and then we can expect lots more antics from this bunch in the years to come. I just wonder if Lance has any plans of helping his new flame's twin beef up, what with him being the poster boy for carb fiends everywhere and all.
So. I finally got myself a notebook. Pretty nifty, I would think so, especially since as I distinctly remember just a month ago, I never thought I’d have enough in my payroll piggy bank to finance the purchase of anything that cost more than a few measly grand. But then I remember, that’s what plastic is for. Memory gaps, tsk. That’s what you get for living the corporate zombie lifestyle.
Forgive me for being such a sap, but allow me this one-liner, to introduce a heffalumpa load of one-liners in the coming attractions:
Say hello to my little friend.
Yes, holla to Lennie, the new kid on the block. The fresh pea from the consumer pod of the Bel-Air of computers, IBM Lenovo. My precious. So help me if I accidentally drop the thing which, given my genetic predisposition, is not a near-impossibility. And yes, I now understand why dog owners call their beloved quarries Blackie/Brownie/Snow-Whitey/what-have-you.
So why get myself a notebook when there are bills to be paid and gabizillions of kids going hungry in China? Well, one might say it’s not so hard to justify the acquisition of such things, what with the world being increasingly run by computers and us humans needing to “get with the program” lest we get obsolete (yeah, the Matrix rocks!).
But the truth of the matter is that I got the idea of bagging Precious here so I could download and install iTunes for my personal use. (The damn office firewall won’t allow such errant behavior for some reason.. Friggin’ holier-than-thou IT people, you guys are insufferable when you’re not troubleshooting and fixing bugs and other garden-variety PC mishaps, you know that?)
And why, pray tell, should I have an actual use for iTunes? Because, silly, that’s how you transfer and save mp3 and other kinds of files to and from your iPod. An iPod, rather. Which would refer—painfully obviously so--to the lack thereof. Autoplay new mantra: Stop The Swiping. Must Save Bread. It’s rainy days again, after all.
So anyhoo, any bright kid who hasn’t been brainwashed with the idea of buying into the Apple experience franchise would raise the logical question of why I feel the need to get myself an iPod to begin with. It’s not exactly the most essential of things, after all. (Note: I am yet to be a proud iPod owner--only the question of when that's happening remains. So to those who already get the idea, this is my caveat.)
The answer to the nega-million dollar question? Coz I need to run. I need to run, dammit. And what else to egg me on all the more with my current preoccupation than to get myself one of those Nike+ thingamajigs. It’s a tiny gadget that monitors distance and time elapsed, plus calories burned (if I got my vital stats right), in the course of a run. To complement and maximize the benefits of using the Nike+ system, you need to firmly latch on to an iPod as you do your runs. It doesn’t hurt either that apart from listening to energy-boosting tracks that are supposed to help distract you from all heartburn-inducing sensations associated with running and exercising, you also get the rare chance to be pushed and bitch-coached by some of the greatest in the current sports scene. I mean, I guess hearing Lance Armstrong say “You go, girl” or any permutation of such would be enough to get your engine revving to full capacity, even if I personally would prefer Marat Safin to do all and, well, any kind of revving up for me. But what can I do, he’s still in the Adidas fold. And I suspect that until he wins a title again, he’s hard pressed to be courted by the peeps over at Oregon to lend his sexy Spanish-speckled baritone to Nike+. But I digress, time and again, for the last time.
And that, my friends, is the long and short of how I got myself my Lennie.
P.S. Let me assure the people who are the least bit concerned about Lennie's reason for being. Prior to its purchase, the uses I've decided would be this notebook's purpose have graduated to more serious, less interesting roles. Apparently, notebooks are quite the little engines that could, and then some. Maybe this little fresh prince could actually someday bring me to Morocco, like you never know. I'm serious.
I never would have thought the day would come when I could say I probably relate more to guys than to my own kind. And it's becoming sort of a problem coz sometimes, without realizing it, I inadvertently give the cold shoulder to the alpha females in my block whenever I hear shrill chatter about girlie stuff. But don't get me wrong. I can be quite the girlie girl. I think. There's a degree of kikayness to me that I can't shake off, as my friends would attest to with grating candor. Not that I've really ever tried anyway. Shaking it off, that is.
Fine, so I'm vain. Not that girlie-ness should equate to vanity, but I guess if vanity is considered a soft trait, then I would say that's the extent of my, er, softness and hence, femininity. So there you go. I am vainvainvain. (You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you....)
Crud, everyone is vain anyway, big deal. It's all a matter of being able to live with the fact that you are what social self-righteousness says you shouldn't be. All I can say is, occasional bouts of self-lovin' should be all right as long as you don't take yourself too seriously. So damn the hecklers, go on and be a little kinder to yourself. Come on, you know you want to. Indulge a little. It can be quite healthy, too. Hehe.
***
So, as I was saying. Lately, I've taken to exchanging more words than are necessary with one of the top guns here, and even more so with my dude cubicle-mate. In the office, Bry has always been a little more interesting to me (as a person, you ha) because of our shared affinity for sports. He's my one-time swimming tutor who got me interested in trying out wakeboarding. Unfortunately, not even his National Team background could get me to learn how to freestyle properly. But that was just an hour's worth of lessons anyway. And his freestyle is pro-level too, by the way. Excuses, excuses. Guess that means I gotta make do with my dog paddle for the meantime.
Jer, the boss man, seems to be a fun guy, too. I mean, he listens to house music and owns a rockin' digital SLR. He's also into boxing, thereby rounding up the triumvirate of male enthusiasts of the sport in our department, with me as the lone thorn among the so-called roses (or should it be the other way around...?) Plus, he just participated in the Adidas King of the Road 21K citywide run last July 1. Coolness in a barong and suit, that's what he is.
Anyway, those two got to talking about joining The Great UP Run to be held next month in, where else, UP. As for me, it has always been a sort of goal for me to be participating in a marathon someday. Fun runs like these are a fine way to get started, I guess. So I turned to Google and got to checking out The Bull Runner and Our Awesome Planet, plus a couple of other blogs whose authors/titles now escape me, all espousing the glorious merits of taking up running as a serious hobby.
After signing up with the guys at UP, I found out Jer and Bry were also running. And like the saying goes, the more the many-er, I mean, merrier. So we sort of teamed up and now, we have, like, snatches of mini-powwows revolving on possible places where we could train and getting decent/lousy finishes and what-have-you.
I'm also planning on joining the run that's being sponsored by the Quezon City Red Cross on August 5. Which reminds me, gotta speak to the peeps over at the City Hall in QC about registration. There's also another run on August 12 under Runners' Plus. I still have a little under a month to improve my endurance. Never mind the speed, although I would probably hate myself if I finished last, even if I am a beginner. Whatever. Running is funfunfun. It's just a wonder that it took me this long to fully appreciate the fact. I used to dread getting on the treadmill coz it tends to get a little boring and, well, tiring. But after the initial few minutes of torturous self-egging at a graduated pace of 7-10 km/hour, you begin feeling a certain kind of high. It seeps into your consciousness, setting your body on fire and making you want to keep at it for as long as your legs can carry you. Beyond that excruciating period, it starts getting so good, you feel like you never want the ride to end.
So what's with the crammed August sked, you ask? Well basically, being a late bloomer in this thing, I need all the opportunities I can get before Ramadan sets in this September. Of course, then it would be zero activity for me. Tried being a little more active during the fasting month in the years since I started becoming a jock-wannabe, but it just didn't happen. And it can be a pain in the ass trying to get back on the horse after staying a long time away.
***
Speaking of which. I'm kind of nervous for tomorrow's class. After a month-long sabbatical from the training gym on account of reviewing for the wretched certification exam (okay, plus the week-long Palawan trip I took in mid-June), I'll be making like the prodigal son and heading home to get the blessing of the disapproving Mafioso father to train again and try to recover whatever magic I lost during that much extended breather. Everyone's already been telling me to bring my game up in terms of power and technique, and now the momentum's off coz of my long-winded detour from the whole learning process. If last night's practice session with my original training instructors at the gym-gym (which is different from my training gym in that this is where I work out) is any indication of how even more olats I am now, then I'd better start practicing my dude face tonight for the barrage of quips and needling my teachers are sure to throw my way after a lackluster showing.
Plus, if Kru Roy tells me to gear up for a sparring match, I can't very well back down. Even if I go home from that gym limping on busted kneecaps, I will try. You get hella tired from all that exertion, the attempts at outthinking and outmaneuvering the opponent, that you feel like you've forgotten how to breathe right. Not to mention, it's like a friggin' sauna in that place, that half the time you can't see through the sweat-drenched, matted hair that keeps falling all over your eyes while you're trying in earnest to beat the living crap out of your sparring partner, who happens to be the instructor who keeps telling you to amp it up and fight like you mean it coz you're not hacking it.
But hands down, sparring gives you the best high. Never mind the injuries that now seem to happen at a regular basis and the fugly bruises you've never in your previously sheltered girlie existence had. Muay Thai's a keeper. Nuff said.
When you're teetering on four-inch heels on a daily basis, your perception of yourself in relation to the world changes. You feel tall, you feel strong, like you can take on anything. Well, at least, you think you can take on extra-credit workload and more nutcase clients. And it's all good.
But then you also get moments of wavering confidence wherein all sorts of things spring up in your head, making you doubt things that you usually take for granted on account of their normalcy. Reality shifts indefinitely and suddenly, you get vertigo when you attempt the short flight of stairs leading to your office lobby, which you've always taken during your pre-heels era. It's not a comforting feeling. Seriously.
And then there's the blistering calluses that sprout all over the place, seemingly with a vengeance. Can't say I haven't been warned. Everyone knows heels like these are a killer. Like, I sometimes imagine myself slipping on the well-polished floor of some packed resto, like, say, Big Buddha during lunchtime, like, say, today. And then falling flat on my back, hitting the sharp edge of a nearby table, and cracking my skull in the process. All within full view of my officemates and my new crush, Paul, that b-ball guy from the UAAP (Ohms, he is a looker, survey says). Smooth, right? Yep, these heels could very well be the end of me.
So why can't I take them off? And I don't want answers making references to the time-old feminine struggle against patriarchal hegemony, okay.
And by the way, I'm no shoe fiend. Just so we're clear, I'm not the type to squeal in delight over the arrival of the latest season's pieces. But getting high on high heels, that's a reality with me. I even get instantaneous hallunications, hazy though they may be. But I guess that's better than if they actually smack of imminent possibility. Then again, they probably really do. It is quite a dangerous life people eternally perched on heels live. That's why I have my trusty Havaianas to use and abuse during the weekend. Balance, that's what it's all about.
And here's the part where you mutter, "Ayt, whatever."
Was supposed to go gyming tonight. Bad trip, it rained. Like hello, there was nothing in the forecast yesterday kaya. Not that I checked. But I feel I've been slighted.
Not that the rain would have actually licked my appetite for some boot camp therapy, at least not on days when I’m supercharged and I’d hie off to the gym whenever I was free. Nah, these days I let my lazy-ass self get the better of me. So now I have to make amends on some other day, tentatively maybe tomorrow.
Anyone who goes to the gym knows how hard it is to keep off the corporeal undesirables. I say keep off, coz maintenance is really the bitch of 'em all. So it's back to the usual excuse-ridden drawing board for me. Except that I already got it all figured out: how to get uber-sleek, like in the ads. Of course, let’s remain conscious of the fact that like the girl next to you, we're not talking about Rebecca Romijn-Stamos standards here.
Definitely, it's no walk in the park. But it ain't no rocket science either. Like anyone who's experienced the epiphany would tell you, it can sound utterly simple, to the point of incredulity:
Regular Exercise + Balanced Diet = Kickass Bod
Of course, it would depend on how you qualify kickass. For me, it's trying (this being the operative word) to look like the rockin’ chicks with the high-flying kicks in them Nike ads (Mia Sun, I'm still here in case one of your girls needs a body double, the 5"-frame notwithstanding).
For others, it's prolly trying to cop Kate Moss' drugged-up waifish look. Not that I have anything against the girl. In fact, I love her style, which to me is the basis for her redemption as an icon. She definitely has the bohemian vibe going, which is just as well. Better than going the whole slinky Lindsay Lohan/Hilary Duff “Is she or isn’t she?” way. I mean, waxing anorexic is so 1990's. Athletic chic is the new crazysexycool. Think Pussycat Dolls. Think Angelina Jolie. Think impossibly lean arms a la Madonna sculpted through hours of doing yoga. And she's, what, 55? Hell of a way to look on the years you're supposed to be having your mid-life crisis. But I digress.
So anyhoo. I did get down and dirty, and I was rewarded with seven whole days of early-morning highs when I would get up and just feel glorious in my own skin. I mean, for quite some time until a few weeks ago, friends would tell me I was really working it, and it felt great. But there was this week wherein I really did acknowledge it to myself. As in near-zero orange peel, if you can imagine that. And dude, that ain't no Minnie Mouse feat for someone who's been on the mooncake-chubby side for a good number of years. It was a revelation: I could hack it with the best of them. (Of course, in the grand scheme of things, one could only do so much.)
But well, it was prolly too much for me to handle. I think there's actually a principle out there not unlike the Law of Diminishing Returns that says I would actually have to fall prey again to my characteristic inconsistencies. And I know it's no biggie really, coz I'm still better off than I was a year ago. But I can say that there are more days when I skipped the gym and took a detour at the mall, lugging around a beat-up backpack filled with gym essentials (coz I decided at the last minute, "It's 2 hours to closing time, I think I'll go tomorrow instead" or "Maybe I'll see my crush and my half-moons are so totally showing and he's probably gonna be totally weirded out") than there are days that I actually worked out at the old sweatshop. Loser, di ba? In these instances, my mind gets flashes of my motto du jour, courtesy of--no less--Aristotle, THE man: Excellence is not an act but a habit. Hah. So much for Miss Excellence in Gym Attendance. I live for the spontaneous inconsistent. But at the same time, my inconsistencies are the bane of my existence.
So where do I go from here? To Intercon. Tomorrow at 3pm. Just in time for the Punchbag Aero class, which I've never been to previously. Coz I never get to the gym in time for the classes. But that's extra info than I actually care to divulge. I swear, my lapses into the irrelevant are starting to irritate me.
Finally, signs of intelligent life. My college friend Noralen just called and insisted I have dinner with her at Gerry's Grill. Not my kind of cuisine, but that'll hafta do. If you can't go gyming, go eat. That's my ultimate motto. And I think the average Pinoy would agree with me that as far as words of wisdom go, I think I just became my own personal Aristotle.
1) Waterwaterwater! Pitchers upon pitchers of ICE COLD H2O. Need I say more? For obvious reasons, this is the one thing I cannot do without, especially during summer. No amount of Condura power can beat the sheer satisfaction that quenching deep-down body thirst brings. Fuels your sizzle without the drizzle.
2) Bring on the bling, baby! Whether they be plastic baubles, ethnic/wooden neckwear, or sparkly capiz trinkets, piling on beach accessories is a surefire way to make you feel like the summer goddess that you are. Corollary: This is the time to indulge in all things pastel and nautical. If you're usually the ball-busting power dresser in corporate-landia, you now have an excuse to dress up a la Charlotte York of SATC (but still kick ass in the boardroom). Maybe instead of piling on the pearls, you can opt for some rockin' capiz charms.
3) Gyming! Nothing like kicking butt indoors so you can kick butt outdoors, coz that's what summer is all about, baby! Remember to load up on water so you won't exercise yourself into a tizzy. For the more adventurous, this is the best time to embark on that Muay Thai class you've been meaning to get into for the longest time. Of course, there are other less disfiguring options, like that new craze called Zipping. Best taken up down Boracay way.
4) Hit the road, bustah! You don't have to go to the beach to enjoy the summer. Even just going on a joyride about town will do wonders for your cooped-up-too-long-in-the-office self. So long as you're with a fun bunch, or even with your summer honey, you can never go wrong. You can get lost, but hey, it's summertime. Anything's bound to be fun as long as you don't totally lose your head. Just get yo' ass off that couch, like, ahora mi amiga!
5) Click away! What's a fantabulous summer if you don't have the mementoes to show for it? Just like any other time of the year, one must lug around a trusty device that can capture instantaneous, precious moments in a flash. Even more so in the summer, coz in theory at least, it's the time you're given license to go nuts and be at your ditziest. And what's more photo-worthy than that? If you don't have a decent snapper at hand (like moi), you can always hang around people who do. Then you can hog the camera and guarantee that your summer adventures will forever be etched not only in memory.
Some say the true test of character comes when you go beyond yourself and your desires. Freedom from want is the only way for the spirit to be truly free.
Lately, I'm beginning to feel that my life has become one booby trap-mess of questions that need answering. My days are fraught with redundant moral dilemmas that have nothing to do with the essential. Daily living is an exercise in the mundane, which only becomes essential after you've taken stock of all your meandering ways and realized their moral implications. Just a minor caveat, I use the term moral loosely here, for lack of a more definitive word. Groping for words is a natural reaction for me, which results in occasional stammering and involuntary statement repetitions. People tend to think I'm suffering from a lapse in speech and thinking. Come to think of it, it may even be true.
But I digress. See here, mediocrity is truly a tragic crime of the youth in the same way that boredom is, and there are days when I fear that all of my 22 years of middle-class upbringing in suburban Zamboanga will go down the toilet as a mere example of globalization. Now I don't wish to try making sense out of this socio-economic debate. The point I'm driving at here is, well, that I'm decidedly consumerist. And I don't mean this in the entrepreneurial sense.
This I blame partly on my experiences in quasi-cosmopolitan Manila. Thank goodness, my penchant for acquisition hasn't blown up to massive proportions. I'm afraid people will no longer want to hang out with me for fear of being infected via osmosis with the consumer-crazy gene. Now child of materialism I am not, but these are consumer-driven times, and people who are not so gung-ho about acquisition like I am are indeed so lucky.
Crap. That's a lot of words, and all I wanna say is: I really gotta get me that Balenciaga motorcycle bag that I chanced upon in Greenhills. Seriously. This is basically what it boils down to.
Now you're probably wondering what's so special about faux designer loot. Nothing, really. But you see, in all statistical probability, this is the real deal. Yes, and it's in Greenhills. It's a few grand beyond budget, but it's still within price reach. And it's not fake, just probably acquired through other dubious means. After all, nothing that beautiful can be free and nothing that great a deal can be attained legally. Another moral dilemma in my hands. Sadly, only figuratively.
Actually, I'm not a bag hag through and through, and I don't need no damn Balenciaga to be happy. I'm the girl who can live from having to wear the same ratty Chuck Taylors day in and day out because they're just damn comfy. I'm not really partial to big name brands. But doggone it, I dream of Balenciaga. Truly madly deeply. It's crazy, but that's how bag hags like me operate. Selective acquisition, not variety, is the true spice of life.
We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others.
