suckt.

One. should not mean but be
Two. as palpable and mute as a globed fruit
Three. use interlocking Rubayat
Four. be as deceptive as design or apparently no surprise
Five. capture somnolence in the final couplet

The five basic guidelines I set for myself so I could write angsty poetry. Or any poetry at all since I can’t bloody be poetic! There are more rules, like “Listen to Bright Eyes/Hawthorne Heights/Lovedrug” or “get stoned” and “have the worst fuck of your life”, and the like.

I did everything. I still can’t write a decent line.

And shit. I’m out of Marlys.

For you alcoholics!

Ash Porxa Lexi Nicki Brian Cassie Perry. My budget is for seven people only! Don’t try so hard to answer (please?) haha

1. What’s my favourite Tagalog cuss word? (it sounds like my favourite Italian cuss word too)
2. Where do I chill after school? Damn, this is easy!
3. The only Tagalog song I can sing.
4. Where would I be every Saturday at 3PM, before I hit the clubs?
5. My band covers which foreign artists?
6. How many piercings do I have?
7. I usually say this at the end of a sentence.
8. My favourite alcoholic drink. EASY!
9. My sister’s name. Plus points if you know my brother’s name. (i’ll treat you the answer to #8 perhaps? XD)
10. The Monet forgery that I have.
11. The name carved into my wrist. (I hope none of you know the answer to this! )
12. The title of my first short story.

Damn, you’re just giving me another excuse to get you all drunk tomorrow! Haha. This is so easy! Psh. 

Beach Girl.

her voice is a string of coloured beads,
or steps leading into the sea…

                                      - Edna St. Vincent Millay

ask me if i give a shit.

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.

another weekend over too soon.

Mood (or more appropriately, mode): sleepy, but munching on grapes anyway
Earcandy: 1 2 3 4 | Feist

Ah, here I am again. Alone in my small living space with time to kill before I go to sleep. I wish I had a wide view of the sky unadulterated by mortar and concrete towers. If only I had a natural scenery outside my window, then I’d write all about it. But that really shouldn’t stop me, right? They say Emily Dickinson was not very fond of stepping outside the house (or that she was afraid to go out, whichever), yet her poems are about narrow fellows in the grass and birds with eyes “looking like frightened beads”. Surely such detail required a close enough look upon nature whilst they go about their own traffic (”and then hopped sidewise…to let a beetle pass”). If only I were that imaginative, I’d write about the stars tonight, though I can’t see them with the city lights overpowering them. But all that comes to mind is that nursery rhyme about diamonds in the sky. And that made me think of the ocean at night with “diamonds strewn across the blue plain” (yes, I still love Incubus’ older songs). If I could just visit the beach in El Nido again, preferrably with someone whom I can talk to about how aptly the Jamesian rhetoric “What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustriation of character?” applies to life while sipping on coconut juice and sucking on sea urchins or sprawling on a hammock under the shade of the palm trees until everything is awash in a lovely polychromasia of amber and amaranthine.

Blah. What am I saying? This is what I spit out when I’m exhausted. All I really want to do is sleep all day at that coveted hammock! What I have is an airbed that doesn’t even come close in terms of comfort.

I’m being random. Psh. Best to ignore this, really.