ask me if i give a shit.

March 9, 2010

They only want you when you’re 17, when you’re 21, you’re no fun.
-Ladytron

. . .

It was 6 AM as I glared at the alarm clock. I didn’t set it to buzz at all, but I woke up anyway, mentally counting only a couple of hours I slept. I was parched and my mouth tasted of puke. My fingers reminiscent of nicotine. The thick curtains only permitted dim light and so I staggered in the dark to get my cellphones. One was filled with texts from the queers. The other had a message from her:
“Hey, Alice. Can I call you tonight? ; )”
The message was sent at 11 PM last night. By that time I was probably drunk enough to dance. I clutched at my splitting head. Waves of guilt washed over me as I read Lisa’s text.
I went down to the living room and found nobody. My sister was sleeping over at her best friend’s. My parents probably left early to go out of town, but my mum taped 5,000 pesos on the fridge. Everything was quiet.
It was another normal Sunday.

. . .

At around eight I stepped out of this building and proceeded to take a short walk across the street to meet up with my good friend Johnny, the self-proclaimed gay slut. He was way older than me–26 I think. Still, we hit it off pretty easily the first time we met. That was when I woke up at his place after a night at Embassy. They said I passed out and Ross and Brian brought me to his place since it was nearby. When I got out of the unknown room I saw him talking to Brian quite seriously, like Brian had been crying or something. That was when I found out that Brian was in love with me, and Johnny told him I was into girls. How the hell did he find that out when I had never met him that time? Johnny said his gaydar was spot on, and he recognised my gay arse without difficulty. Even if I was dead drunk that time.
Minutes later, we were chilling outside of this bistro, and Johnny ordered me a beer. He slapped a pack of Marlboro lights right in front of me on the table. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem,” he lit up a joint. “So how was practise?”
He was asking me about the cotillion practise for a friend’s debut party. That was where I’d been earlier.
“It was a laugh. The dance instructor was hilarious. He kept saying ‘freeze’ in between dance steps, only he was saying it like ‘praise’. And we all raised our arms to fucking praise, man.” I said, almost spilling the beer on my skirt, laughing at the thought of the dance instructor in slip-ons with his socks up to his shins.
Johnny laughed. “What a pie grinder.”
Johnny called me a few minutes ago to meet at this place. Said he just wanted to chill because his long-distance boyfriend was ignoring his calls. He was looking cool in a navy blue pocket tee and new sneakers. I wore a black mini over ripped tights and boots and a Tsumori top underneath a light-colored blazer. A lot of people from Johnny’s other older crowd walked by the bistro and asked if he was turning straight for the chick in the blazer. We both just laughed, getting used to reactions like that.
I took a swig from the beer. My candy-colored bracelets glowed in the dim patio.
Johnny grinned. “Your wearing ‘em,”
“Yeah. Some of these on my left wrist are reminders of my favourite guys in the whole world,” I said, looking thoughtfully at the line of bracelets on my wrist. There was a jade bracelet from my grandpa. Pink and brown beads from Brian that he got from Boracay Island. And a colorful string of beads Johnny got from a cereal box on the day we first met. Said the rainbow colours suited me just fine.
Johnny smirked at me, the telltale sign of the beginning of a joke. “Your favorite guys? You mean that name carved on your left wrist is actually a guy?”
I pouted, smacking him on the shoulder with a mock frown.

. . .

yes.

Angry Confession #1: The woes of my ignorant younger self.

February 23, 2010

I’m reposting this from my old blog. This was written when I was 17. What an angry child I was.

I know I have completely outdone myself this time. A few years ago i would have thrown a fit and rebelled against my parents’ wishes. I would have yelled my head off with protest. Bene, sto molto lunatico. heh. Anyway, what I’m talking about is my frustration with the school and course my parents chose for me. And this time, I asked them nicely, gave them a formal letter (because I’m a coward). And they…well, let’s just say I didn’t have to wait for a response in letter form.

Heck what is the point of this country’s democracy, a vox populi, if I am living under a dictatorial, even dogmatic, roof? The course I have now is a far cry from the one that I would have chosen and despite that, I still have grades that are pretty okay (which is all I can ever manage given my course that I practically had to grit my teeth and got it over with). I may have a bit of freedom partying and drinking til I drop in God knows where, but I would really rather not do any of those things if only I was doing what I love, i.e. having the course that I wanted. 

Some people wouldn’t be doing as well as I am though. I mean, would you do something you didn’t like? Would you eat meat if your were vegan? Of course not. Most people don’t even have the decency to be ashamed if they didn’t at least pass a few subjects, just because they hated their course. But I do, since I’m too concerned of what people might think if I failed. And so I did at least pass all my subjects, just because.

But after a while (a year to be exact), my jaw (and my pride) got numb with all that gritting and bearing and pretty soon I started to be apathetic towards people’s opinions. Hey, my parents were apathetic towards mine too, weren’t they?

So i started going back to my old high school routine of coming home very early in the morning even on weekdays. A little tipsy, to say the least. But so what, [mum]? I go to that damned school for free, even without [your] help. Four years of praiseworthy marks and a “Student Council President” stamped on my high school record got me a scholarship. I just saved [you] a fortune on what supposedly would be my tuition for the school I so badly want to attend. But it’s okay, you can go and continue to trek the world and shop everyday at the most chic fashion houses, as is your job supposedly. It’s okay, really!

Sarcasm aside, I have to admit that I’m acting very selfishly. But I can’t help it, especially when I see that my parents are more than capable to send me to virtually any school. They simply don’t want to. Okay, fair enough. But what about the Hayabusa in the garage that my dad rarely ever drives? Can’t we just sell that and give the proceeds to a good cause? Keep the SUVs, that sportbike is enough to fund four years of grad school. And couldn’t we just send Gianfranco and Miguela to normal co-ed schools? Save that enormous fortune of their collective tuitions, or better yet, save their developing personalities from imminent identity crisis! Look at what happened to me after going to an all-girls high school. I’m hopelessly bisexual, even my boyfriend knows it. Well, there’s nothing wrong with the possibility of my younger siblings turning gay, but really, what’s the point of secluding them to the limited environment of single-gender schools? Okay, i’m straying off the point.The nitty-gritty of it all is that my parents are so impractical. To think my dad is Chinese! 

What my parents told me was the most eloquent string of words I have ever heard in my life. When as politely as I could, approached and inquired them to look into other schools I could possibly attend to other than the one they picked for me, they stated (although they said this with a little more potty-mouth in their respective languages) that I was an emotionally stunted, intellectually repressed, self-absorbed youth that cares more about listening to hip music and wearing cool clothes than what is happening in the world. 

Hmm. I think I better not broach the subject with them again. I honestly fear the wrath of the Cursing Italian Mother.

 

God, how I want to smack my younger self in the head. Excessive use of parenthesis. Unforgivable!

Oh well. No matter. I’m just happy I have moved on from this angsty phase. I love my Mum and Dad. Seriously.