Yes, we’re finally selling our car of nearly five years.

We’re selling Lance.

Lance has been a good car. Dependable, reliable and never a gas guzzler. We’ve gone through the worst of times together: flooded Espana, radiator trouble, freon leaks, drunk drivers and water meters. Lance was my (and the family’s) first car, and all I know now about driving, I owe to Lance.

I learned how to shift gears in time to avoid conking out the engine; pump the clutch in case the stick shift gets stuck; keep my foot on the gas pedal to avoid a watery death; drive a pawis-steering car with one hand; and park in reverse.

Now it’s almost time to say goodbye, because we need a bigger car (we have really, really long legs and little patience) and my cousin’s finally selling his Revo.

I sort of feel like crying the same way I did when my dog Kim died, except that it seems weird because Lance isn’t even a living thing. I suppose I really should stop naming my things, because then I find it extremely hard to let go.

*sigh*

I really should’ve blogged about this earlier, but I’m an insensitive cad and it takes a few days to process things.

The earthquake in China leaves me at a lost for words. To talk about the value of life now would be trite.

Requiescat in Pace.

So a few days ago, I found out that it’s possible to make a living from blogging.

I was ecstatic, of course, seeing how I could make money off something I actually enjoy doing. And as everyone knows (or do they?), earning a few more bucks is something I need right now. Anyway, I though naively that it would be so easy to have a website up and running, with a focused blog that would get the attention of people and earn revenue through ads.

I have no intentions of selling out this blog (except for google adsense, maybe, if they want me, but none of the paid-to-blog-about-this-shit shtick), because primarily this is the only means by which I blow off tremendous amounts of steam, enough to send three steamboats around the world. I can’t be a paid hack in my personal blog, you know. It’s just principle, man.

So I thought about making up some other blog, one that would talk about little else but a particular topic. I was excited and happy, not realizing just how difficult it would be to create and write something that would have people interested. I declare it now: it is completely whorish to write solely for the purpose of hooking people in.

Now I am seldom morally squeamish. I would throw my principles and values to the wind when necessary. I can’t, however, insult the one thing that God has so graciously given to me. I realized, after a few fake and half-hearted entries, that I’m not going to survive as a blog whore.

I’m not knocking the people who actually make a living out of this stuff. A lot of them actually are interested in what they write, and it’s the reason why a lot of people appreciate their work and patronize their sites. They’ve earned it.

I, on the other hand, am interested in the topic of my said site, but the way I keep thinking about how interesting it’s gonna be to people is just so fake and pathetic. I’m not even going to link to that site because I’m just not proud of it.

I think PnE says it best:

kapag pinilit mo,
hindi na totoo,
ang awit na natapos mo,
ay mawawalan ng tono

After nearly four years, finally, we’re all together again.

Maybe it’s true that friendships forged in hellfire stay stronger. A month before graduation, I realized that I loved these people more than anything else (except for my family, of course, but that’s a given) and that I’d do anything to keep us all together. I knew, then and there, that surviving the horrors of Moncada and the aftermath of treachery had given us a bond that was unlike any other.

But fate has a way of cracking horrible unfunny jokes. Somewhere along the way (on my 21st birthday, I heard), things changed and somehow we didn’t have what we had anymore. Anyway, that’s what we thought at that time, because things didn’t seem to fit anymore. Everything’s changed, and I wasn’t sure we could ever go back.

But of course I have this weird never-say-die attitude, particularly when it has to do with the band of evil sisters (sorry, Jason, sister ka na rin) I hold so dearly in my heart. And so I’ve always sort of stayed in touch with all sides, regardless of the cracks and gaps and whatnot that kept us apart. I know I wasn’t always very good at keeping things together, but at the very least, I can say I tried.

Yesterday, September 15, at a horrible place known as the Mall of Asia (I’d have it declared a solar system if I could), my wish finally got granted. Despite the crowd, the midnight madness, traffic and, of all things, school, we found a way to be together at last. Finally, we were complete.

Of course I had to go and ruin it because I’m a freaking nerd, but in any case, I can’t say anyone was happier than me last night. I’ve been working so hard for this to finally happen, because I knew that there was still a way we could at least retrieve what we had. It will never be the same again, particularly because we’re all old and decrepit now with old-people problems, but I always knew we’d love each other for as long as we could and would like to, regardless of everything that’s happened along the way.

To my bestest friends in the world: thanks for a birthday wish granted.

Birthdays suck.

The getting old thing isn’t quite a big deal anymore. I’m far beyond that “I can’t grow old and die!” stage.

Besides, when you have icons like Keith Richards, old age doesn’t seem so bad.

It’s just that my birthdays aren’t happy.

I don’t ask for much. Greetings are good, gifts are welcome. But overall, a peaceful and happy day is all I want. For crying out loud, please have enough control not to scream at me on my birthday over a non-existent infraction.

And oh, why does everything have to be such a big deal? I suppose no one else on earth has the ability to turn leisure into a logistical nightmare.

Yes, I love you, but somedays I just can’t deal with these things as easily as I’d like to.

Especially not on my birthday.

So I never did realize that it was possible to have a problem with no actual viable solution.

By viable, I mean solutions not consisting of any actions that would result in two things: clan ostracism or guilt-induced suicide. To this very minute I still feel horribly conflicted whenever I complain about this dilemma, particularly because I welcomed it with open arms in the first place.

They’re very nice people, and I love the kids to bits. It’s just that only when you’re all living under one roof and boundaries are crossed do you realize that maybe you don’t really love them as much as you initially thought. Little things pile up one after another and you don’t quite feel that fuzzy warmth inside as much as you used to.

It’s been six days, and I suppose I’m not the only one counting.

I’ve been a houseguest myself several times in the past, but I’ve never begged the host to sleep beside me, play with me all day or feed me healthy food. I get food and shelter and we’re all good. I don’t whine or wrestle my hosts into submission. Sure, I’m dumb at household chores, but I do try to make myself useful one way or another. At the very least, I am perfectly capable of shutting the hell up.

Kids are kids. I know. Patience is a virtue I can never hope to attain, and I’m not exactly mortified by that realization. There is, in fact, an end to my problem. The end, however, is 10,000 dog years away. Again, I’m not patient.

What frustrates me most is the fact that I can’t do anything to help my mom, who’s pretty much taking the brunt of it. When my mom’s temper flares, my first instinct is always to do away with whatever’s making her angry (no, I have not committed murders … yet). This time, though, there’s really nothing I can do. It’s also the first time that I’ve taken my mom’s side and blasted my dad for being so insensitive and unsympathetic. Oh well. There really is a first for everything.

They say stop worrying about problems you can’t solve. Wise words to live by, until you realize your problem’s sleeping right next door.

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The real reason I’m so pissed is because I can’t play my guitar in peace. There.

By now, I suppose you clearly know how obsessive I can get when it comes to my hair. Around a month ago, I decided to have it shortened, just because I was getting tired of the “long hair” schtick.

Too bad.

The haircut was fine at first, but then it started GROWING.

It looked weird when left in its natural state, so I pretty much had to keep my hair in a ponytail most of the time. I was secretly unhappy with the way my hair was, but I thought that at least I had means to keep it under control.

Yesterday, though, I finally had the chance to fix my hair problem — or so I thought. In an attempt to bring order to my rebellious hair, I had it cut shorter and thinner.

Voila!

Now I look like some F4 reject. Yay.

I can still keep it in some sort of ponytail, I guess, but I do hope it grows out properly this time. Note to self: stop messing with your hair!

Plus, I’m imposing a moratorium on haircuts. No more haircuts until my hair reaches its previous length. I hope.

Here’s a rather funny article from The Onion about hair. No, it’s not about me.