Smiles and Glances

Once, there was a boy who liked a girl, and she liked him back. There were signs, of course. Stolen glances. Awkward smiles. But he did not say anything, and she did not assume.

So, the girl settled with someone who gave her flowers. The boy? Well, he settled with someone who gave him big, sunny smiles and melting, puppy looks.

Tch. Flowers? The boy thought. He would have given her songs — pieces she could call her own, poetry that would serenade her soul. Too bad she did not see through his meaningful glances. Maybe she was not that special after all. Maybe he should stop looking for someone who could succumb to his depths.

Ha! Who smiles that big? She looks like a fraud. The girl thought. Too bad he did not see through her small smiles. Maybe he was shallow after all. Maybe he was only interested in the surface. So, she decided, fuck it — she did not need someone who could not see her soul.

An Open Letter to Everyone I Ever Liked

I swear, this unhealthy infatuation routine will be the end of my sanity. You see, other people – they actually do something when they like someone. They throw meaningful glances, send text messages, smile, and – I don’t know – say hi or some shit.

Me? I do nothing. The more I like you, the more I ignore you. I can totally treat the person I’m obsessing with like they're the air. Hell, even the wind gets more visible attention from me. But I fixate. Oh, hell, do I fixate. You don’t even know it, but we’ve already had several meet-cutes inside my head. I build up serendipitous scenarios all the time that I have trouble recognizing them from actual events.

Now, this may look like I’m assuming you like me, but you should know that I’m not the jumping-into-conclusions type. It would have been better if I were assuming you like me too. If I were delusional in that manner, I would never have to feel guilty about my fantasies. Frankly, I’ve realized that nobody will ever like me even if I made the effort to flirt. I’m just not attractive like that. Throw my paranoia and awkwardness into the punch, and you have the perfect specimen for a crazy spinster.

The only time someone will know that I like them will be the time they crack my skull open, hook my brain to a supercomputer, and start an intensive research. You know, like that thing they did with that kid’s brain in John Saul’s “Shadows” or in one of Walter Bishop's outrageous experiments in “Fringe.”

But that’s beside the point. I don’t think I will ever have a healthy relationship with anybody. I know I have a problem. But so far, the only thing I have done to address it is to rant on my blog. Check it out; you will see posts of insecurity and self-deprecation. They’re lovely. I rant about my loneliness, my androphobia, and my terribly convoluted thoughts. Have I done something else? Maybe some proactive shit like talking to a shrink? Hell, no. A therapist is expensive. I can blab the same things to my friends, and they’ll probably give me the same psychobabble anyway.

My friends are smart, so I know they give excellent advice. But it’s not like I follow them. I’m terrible at follow-throughs. I guess what I’m trying to say is you will never know that I like you – ever. Sucks for me. If only I were like other people. But, no. Instead of devising ways for you to notice me, I devise more scenarios of us together. Inside my head. Now that I’ve written it down, it feels a little creepy. Ha.

You don’t even know me, but I read your blog on a regular basis. I stalk your social media accounts. I check your photos. I build our fantasy life together based on the information I’ve gathered online. See what I mean? I need a fucking shrink.

But it won’t matter anyway, right? Because you will never know I like you. Unless my girlfriends betray me and spill all my secrets or unless – for some miraculous reason – the heavens grant me with gumption, I will take your names and your faces to my grave. So I hope you think of me sometimes. And see you never.

Battling Ennui

I am the type who gets bored easily. That’s why I take advantage of what little curiosity and open-mindedness I possess. I surround myself with things, ideas, and people that will save me from unbearable ennui.

I love music, but I don’t have the natural musical abilities of the talented few who possess the gift. So, I make do. I try to play the guitar – although I’m quite terrible at it. I try to write songs. Just lyrics though because I’m bad at identifying notes, even worse at making a melody. Of the four songs I’ve written so far, three already have melodies. Thanks to friends who took pity on me and my poor lyrics. I'd like to holler a special shout out to Myra Escoro; she created the melodies for my lyrics. She's one of the most creative people I know, and these songs won't exist without her. I guess this is kind of an accomplishment for me. But it’s not enough. There’s a hunger inside me that can’t be appeased by my mediocre attempts.

So, I devour music – every genre, every artist, every song that has substance. If it triggers emotions within me, I consume it without guilt. I don’t understand why some music fanatics can be so condescending and elitist. Some do not understand the soul woven into the fabrics of rock, so they roll their eyes and call it noise. Some rock fans feel the need to be angsty and exclusive, so they bash pop – calling it trash.

Although, yes, even I will have to admit that most songs in the top 40 charts are crap. But there are hundreds more out there that deserve a few minutes more of people’s attention. Calling one genre crap because it doesn’t suit your taste is a douchy move. More importantly, it is an insult to people who dig multiple genres. I am one of those people. I devour classic rock, metal, and punk rock as much as Jpop, Kpop, and the good old American pop. As long as the music radiates soul, I will embrace it. Loyalty to your preferred genre is one thing; disrespect to other artists’ music is another story.

I love art, but I’m not an artist. The closest I have to artworks of my own are humanoids roughly drawn on MS Paint. It is absolutely frustrating to try to make art and end up lacking – big time. I always feel like a fraud. The fuck are you doing, Jen? Stop embarrassing yourself. Stop trying too hard. I know my attempts at art will never amount to anything. But sometimes, when I’m feeling creative and delusional, I draw floating heads with questionable hairstyles. I write baybayin calligraphy. And I do my best to make them look half decent. And I smile, knowing I didn’t beat myself up for making shitty art – knowing that I made them for my entertainment, my satisfaction. I smile because my stupid sketches answer my deep craving. I smile because they understand.

So, because I’m a frustrated artist with depressing attempts, I look for other means to indulge my creative sensibilities. Art/artist appreciation. Art events. Tumblr – it will never let you down. I’m also fortunate to have befriended a few illustrators, but that’s it. That’s the extent of my connections. I would have been acquainted with more artsy fartsy individuals if I weren’t an insecure, intimidated, neurotic mess.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk, says the cliché. I can’t change how I am with people and I’m sure my perennial boredom won’t be a catalyst for change. I’d rather die than talk to people I’m uncomfortable with. And most artists make me feel so little and insignificant. I collaborated with an artist friend a few months back though. Jissa wanted to make a booklet compiling Philippines’s mythos and creatures of lower mythology. Since I’m a big sucker for Philippine lower mythology, I immediately said yes. I supplied the tanaga for every creature and god she’d drawn. It was a small compilation though – just three creatures of lower mythology, three gods, and a babaylan. Thankfully, her project was received with praise. We plan to add more to our measly collection and turn it into a book. Someday. Lol. I will write a separate blog for this project. I will also include Jissa’s artwork and my tanaga to show our brilliance. HAHAHAHAHA.

Aside from music and art, I also turn to books, anime, movies, writing, filmmaking, food, and whatever new interest catches my eye. I’m good at spotting interesting activities; the problem with me is follow through and commitment. Then, I have concerns every time I consider going to events or activities. Will there be people? How many of them can tolerate me? How many of them can I tolerate? Will I have a safety net – someone who will not leave me behind for another group or another set of friends? What are the chances of me ending up at the back of the room, edging out toward the exit? Sometimes, I overthink too much that I cancel my plans altogether. Rational, ei?

Just thought I should give you a peek into my intricate thought process. Now, you won’t be surprised if I won’t show up in your event when I said I would. It’s not like I’m invited to events all the time anyway, but you know. Damn, this is awkward. I don’t know how to end this shit. Perhaps I should just call out to the eternally bored like myself. Reach out to me; let’s compare notes. But do it cautiously because I dash off when startled. Haha. See ya.

A Bottle for My Sanity (Or How I'm Deeply Contemplating if I'm an Alcoholic)

I miss getting drunk, like puke-everywhere drunk -- not because I'm sad or depressed (although I think I am). But that's not the point. I want to get piss drunk again because I miss the elated confidence it brings. Is that a disorder? I don't know. Am I turning into an alcoholic? At 25? I don't know. Do I like myself better when I'm drunk? Perhaps. Because I am happier, spontaneous, and open -- with a devil-may-care attitude. I guess that, in its happy, twisted sense, is a form alcohol dependency.

The obliging Merriam-Webster website defined alcoholism as

a medical condition in which someone frequently drinks too much alcohol and becomes unable to live a normal and healthy life

Me? Unlikely. One of the major factors why I can never be an alcoholic is because I don't have the extra cash to buy alcohol (to my heart's content) at the present. But, does craving for it when facing problems count? I might be overthinking this again. Yes, I tend to do that. Maybe this reflection is just my irresponsible brain's way of procrastinating. See, I'm writing this at 2 p.m. On a Tuesday. On my office computer. 

I can almost hear its sly voice. Yea, go on. Write a damn blog post, and leave your press release drafts for tomorrow. What's wrong with being a mediocre writer anyway? Your bosses won't kill you. They might fire you, but hell, whatever, right?

Ugh.

Where was I? 

Oh, forget it.

Some Thoughts on Rurouni Kenshin: Kyoto Inferno (Movie Review)

Hajime Saito

Hajime Saito is still hot and cool at the same time. My sentiments are the same with the first movie though—Saito in the series has a more indifferent vibe. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Makoto Shishio

I’ve said this before. I don’t like their pick for Makoto Shishio. Shishio is tall and thin; Takuya Fujiwara is neither.

Farewell scene

What was that? Thirty seconds or less? In daylight? What happened to the fireflies? What happened to the cloak of darkness adding mystery to Kenshin’s quest? What happened to Kaoru’s painfully sweet tears? Of course, the director explained why he opted to change the scene, but still . . . the feels . . . Mr. Otomo just ruined my childhood.

Aoshi

I still don’t get it why they did not introduce Aoshi in the first installment. They were adding him in the storyline anyway. Why didn’t they give him a more solid character in the first place? He just went on like a broken record, asking everybody where Battosai was. The actor is handsome though, with slender muscles showing on his sexy biceps. He was still like a broken record in the series, but at least it was more poetic. His lines were sort of like, “I will take the title of “Strongest” and decorate it on the graves of my men.” I’m too lazy to give a back story to the noobs. Just look it up online.

Misao

The actress sorta looks like someone I know. Hello, Alya Mongaya. :) You have a doppelganger in the new RuroKen movie! ;)

Eiji

You have to give it to the kid. He totally stole the scene! They should give him an award: best child actor in the screaming role. His cries were perfect.

Fight scenes

The fight scenes were great! I was dissatisfied with Kenshin and Sojiro’s initial fight though. Maybe because the setting was different and one character was missing. That large dude was not a major character, so I guess it was okay to omit him in the movie. But they could have made the fight more exciting. I have a big feeling that they will compensate through Kenshin and Sojiro’s final fight.

Sano and Kenshin’s moment

It was awesome! I know it had bromance written all over it, but I couldn’t help getting the feels. Can’t see it? Well, imagine Sano with a wet look just inches away from Kenshin’s face. I shriek and giggle internally.

Kaoru as bait

Are you fucking kidding me? They made Kaoru look weak. She did nothing but fight the enemies in the series, and they just let Sojiro snatch her in the movie. This modification is a travesty!

Kenshin, Sano, and Saito’s deck scene

I love this scene in the series. I love how Saito kept calling Sano baka when in the end, Sano’s strength helped in bringing the ship down. Too bad they did not include that in the movie. Instead, they decided to kidnap Kaoru and make her look helpless. The only explanation that came up is fan service—damsel in distress with the fearless samurai at her heels.

Hiko

We were pretty sure that was Hiko in the final scene. But what the hell, man. What the hell did they do to his outfit? His coat was gone, and his clothes were all baggy and dull. Ugh. The actor who portrayed him is handsome though. ;)

Affirmations? Violent reactions? Additional thoughts? Feel free to comment below.

Half-Broken Hearts

I will tell you a story. You might assume this is a love story because of the title you have read. So, I won’t disappoint you. After all, this is for you to enjoy. Although I am not so sure you will enjoy my narratives since so few others can relate to them. Nevertheless, let me tell it to you.

Once upon a time, in a land far away . . .

Wait. Let’s steer clear of the openings that suggest fairy tales. My story is far from it. In fact, I have never written a fairy tale in all my long years! Let’s leave these tales to the likes of Stephenie Meyer. A prose about a vampire that sparkles is surely a fairy tale. Sparkling vampires. Ha! Tell that to Count Dracula. Okay, back to my tale.

This is a story of a boy meets girl . . .

Wait, wait. Is that not the opening line of 500 Days of Summer? Not good. I cannot afford to be sued. And the movie is easy enough to recall. I cannot afford to be dubbed as a copycat too. Let’s see . . . Oh, yes, yes. Here it is. Are you ready?

There was once a girl who carried her heart in her hands. It was half-broken. She was walking on a well-paved street where many people tried to appear busy enough to look important. And important they seemed to the girl. She was looking for someone, for something. If anyone cared to pause, to look, one would see the determined fire in her eyes. It was almost feverish.

She desperately peered into each person’s face. She raised her half-broken heart to each one, as if in offering. With every offering, she would ask a stranger one thing.

“Can you love me?”

The poor girl was answered with scowls and shoves and snickers and sarcasm. She was caught in a throng of people hurrying to God knows where—maybe to a nine-to-five office job where they revolve their lives around. Maybe they could not wait to kowtow to some bosses they considered as gods. The girl screamed helplessly while hands pushed and legs kicked. When the throng finally thinned down, the girl was lying on the concrete. Her hair was a mess, and she had scratches on her face. But she never let go of her heart.

She stood up testily. She seemed oblivious to her injuries. She dusted herself and continued asking the people down the street—teenagers sitting on benches, old people playing chess, brooding people reading by the lake. She asked them the same question.

“Can you love me?”

Some of them gave a slight attention to her pitiable-looking heart. Some ignored her entirely. When she was too tired to go on, she slumped down a small bench by the fountain. She was surprised to see that a boy was already sitting there, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun. The weary girl cleared her throat once, twice. The boy did not move. She summoned her courage and started in a small voice, “Excuse me . . .”

The boy slowly opened his eyes and turned to her, “What do you want?” slightly irritated to be disturbed from his reverie. The girl looked him straight in the eye and held up her half-broken heart. The boy’s gaze shifted from the girl’s eyes to the heart, then back to her eyes again. They were now brimming with fresh tears as she asked in a cracked voice, “Can you love me?”

The boy did not move. He continued looking into her eyes. After a few moments—they seemed like an eternity, really—the boy spoke quietly, “I think I can.” The girl’s eyes flooded and then it overflowed, yet she was smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t cry here.” The boy seemed disgusted, but his expression turned mild as he took out something from behind his coat. He held it out for the girl to see. He too had a half-broken heart. His heart looked worn out, twice as worse as the girl’s scruffy one.

Now, it was the girl’s turn to shift her gazes from the boy to his heart. Her expression turned sad. She continued in her small voice, “Do you really think two broken people can make it work? Your heart is worse than mine. Can you really love me?”

The boy’s expression turned sad too. He carefully returned his battered heart back into his coat and looked up at the sky again. Then he quietly said, “I said I think I can.” He closed his eyes again, but his face now lacked the quiet calm he previously had. His eyebrows were drawn together. His lips were pressed. He actually looked pained.

The girl was distressed. She was ridden with guilt. She wished she had not said those words, but she had no choice. She had to find someone who could love her completely. She needed to find someone who could make her half-broken heart complete again. She stood up and turned to leave. Before she could take another step, she heard the boy speak in his quiet voice, “I’d still be here.” The girl turned back, but the boy’s eyes were still closed.

Her mind made up, she continued with her quest. She never wavered. She walked from place to place, offering her half-broken heart to anyone who would notice her. Don’t get me wrong. There were people who did promise they could love her. But they turned out to be wicked, with hearts blacker than coal. They trampled on her precious heart as if it were mere grass on the field. Her heart was left a little bit calloused every time. Numbed, she continued with her search. She did not know how long she had been walking.

When she had circled the whole world and still could not find what she was searching for, she was crushed. 

This can’t be it. This can’t be it. 

She kept thinking to herself. If her quest was not in this world, surely she could find it in other worlds, in other universes. So, desperate and alone, the girl traveled far and wide—farther and wider than the places charted by the maps of this world. She searched fiercely but to no avail. She gained nothing but more bruises and cuts for her wretched heart. It looked like it was already completely broken.

Hopeless and exhausted, she returned to her world. The world that so effortlessly rejected her. The world that gave her nothing but pain. But . . . she had a little bit of calm in that world. On a bench near the fountain. If she returned there, would she experience the same calm? Would she find the boy again? She still could not believe that his half-broken heart could sustain them, but her heart was more crushed than his own now. If she went back to that bench, would the boy do what she did so many lifetimes ago? Would he reject her too?

She did not know anything. She refused to think. All she wanted was some peace after her endless struggle. Once again, she summoned every ounce of courage left in her and walked wearily to the bench near the fountain. The boy was there. His eyes were closed. His face was turned to the sky. The girl gingerly walked toward him. She was about to open her mouth when she heard him speak in his quiet voice, “Welcome back.”

The girl’s weary heart swelled. She was hopeful once again. She sat beside the boy and asked her request for the last time, “Can you love me?” The boy opened his eyes and faced her. He had a small smile on his calm face.

“I think I can.”

Then, he returned to facing the sky. When he closed his eyes, the girl stared lovingly at her beat-up heart. She whispered, “Be better, old friend.” before she tucked it carefully inside her coat. Then, finally content, the girl raised her face toward the sky, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Of Queues and Daydreams

Long lines
How much longer?

Long queues
Am I to wonder?
About witches and wizards
And mutants and fairies?
About daydreams--
Both reachable and farfetched
About fantasies--
Both of innocent romances
And of guilty pleasures?

Am I to continue guessing?
Is that person staring?
Should I stop mouthing lyrics?
I'm running low on breath mints

Lull moments
Am I to endure awkward silences?
Am I to suffer idle chit-chat?
Am I supposed to enjoy this torture?
Waiting is the worst.