I’ve been listening to Sara Bareilles constantly these past few days.

It’s not that I’ve given up on rock. That’s not even a possibility at all — my children will be air guitar-ing to Enter Sandman before they can walk.

It’s just that I’m not exactly in the mood to rebel right now, like I don’t have any strength left. My general aura right now is reeking with tiredness. I’m just tired. Completely, utterly tired. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that I had no choice but to give in to three days of near complete bed rest. I had no choice; just thinking made my head hurt.

The problem, though, is that tiredness is a general symptom of old age. I’m 25. Good Lord.

My mom, in particular, repeatedly reminds of this old age problem. Everyday she takes a look at me, asks me how old I am and shakes her head. “You should me married” is still ringing repeatedly in my ears.

I’ve learned, though, that saying I’m allergic to men is open to various scandalous interpretations. I know this from experience, having survived a mountain of accusations against my “gender preferences”. Once and for all, I am not interested in women.

I want to say I’m not interested in human beings in general, but that’s open to even worse interpretations.

“You know how they say that you can’t live without love? Well oxygen is even more important.” - Dr. Gregory House, M.D.

There are two very good reasons for the title of this post. First, I got a universal keygen that lets you have any game from Reflexive for free (I downloaded Wedding Dash — get it?). Okay, so that’s sort of a secret lest Reflexive send in the cops to haul my ass to jail. Let’s not start spreading the news.

The second reason is just as important, though probably not as pretty. People I know seem to be in a mad rush to get married, with three weddings scheduled for 2008. That’s normal, I’m sure, for normal people. To me, though, it just seems like a race towards the finish line where you get a noose instead of a medal.

Admittedly I am not normal.

I’m 24, never had a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, for that matter, you dirty-minded gossips), never had the urge to express sappy romantic feelings for another human being, never ever ever quite had any reason to destroy my already dysfunctional life with a Relationship.

And did I mention I’m not exactly fond of commitment?

When I was 16 I got dragged to this chain-smoking manghuhula who told me I would have a very complicated lovelife. I suppose she mistook complicated for non-existent. Which is just as fine with me, given the circumstances of other people’s lovelives. I’d rather not have any, thank you very much.

So why are people bugging me to get married? My 24th birthday was spent under constant exhortation to end my happy life of alone-ness (if there were such a word) and stick my neck into the proverbial noose.

But no, I’m not cracking, baby. Not soon.

Much as people insist on displaying the beauty and benefits of a Relationship *gag*, I quite like being free and alone and, well, free. The way I see it, I’ve got a guitar, so I don’t really need much of anything else now, do I? Unless I get a musician boyfriend, of course, then that would be another matter entirely.

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BONUS
Guess who I saw at the Charity Bazaar churva of ABS-CBN? Clue: not Kuya Germs.

This is the “I love Al Tantay” fans club.

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.

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.

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

I am awkward, horribly awkward when it comes to dealing with my crushes. Contrary to popular belief, I do have male crushes, thank you very much. Most people — normal ones, that is — would find it exhilarating to actually have a human conversation with the ONE who gets their heart racing. I, on the other hand, would rather swallow myself whole and disappear from the face of the earth rather than make small talk.

Yes, I refuse to conduct anything that requires eye contact with the object of my attention.

People at the office have been witnesses (sniggering ones at that) to the horrendous manner by which I deal with my crush. There is only one person in the entire 18th floor capable of reducing me to a bubbling puddle of shame and worthlessness, and for all intents and purposes, that person shall remain anonymous behind the name “Peachy”. Yes, he is male. No he is not fruity.

Suffice it to say that I am reduced to an illiterate, incomprehensible dummy when in his presence. In rare instances wherein I am forced to share proximate space with Peachy, I turn into a blubbering mess squeaking out a mix of half-coherent grunts and syllables. I refuse to look at him at all, prefering to watch my beautifully deconstructed Chucks shuffle uncomfortably as I wait for him to get it over with and leave.

Every encounter never fails to remind me that I am, first and foremost, a highly pathetic social failure. I’ve been this way since God knows when; I get so flustered I forget how to string sentences together. It is rather disconcerting, however, to realize that my pathetic attempts at socializing bring much joy to the people around me. Seeing me reduced to a speechless babboon must be more interesting than I thought.

Today, however, marks a breakthrough. At approximately 10 minutes before 4 in the afternoon, while waiting for the elevator, I found myself alone (technically — nobody’s counting the guard, right?) with the current apple of my defective eyes: Peachy.

So I was there, fiddling with my iPod, when he turned up and greeted me. I froze and had no choice but to smile awkwardly and acknowledge the greeting. I, or rather my boss, had been trying to sell him a Yellow Submarine shirt. It was supposed to be mine, but the cute and cuddly tindera at Happy Days gave me a size L — for men.

I think he was apologizing about not having enough money to buy the shirt, but I was too busy not being too obviously awkward and self-conscious to understand what he was saying. I don’t think I even heard most of what he said; I suppose half of my responses made no sense either. In any case, I got roughly four grammatically correct sentences out during that brief conversation, and it was the first time I actually looked at him directly (not via stealth mode, which is how a modern stalkerish ninja usually does it).

I think it was easier talking to him this afternoon since, again, there was nobody there, and it would look incredibly weird if I feigned deaf all the while. Not that I’m above doing that, considering I’m a pathetic example of social suicide. I’d probably go back to stealth mode tomorrow, and he’d be none the wiser. Most of my friends, however, think otherwise.

Pam, in particular, thinks I’m too obvious and insists that Peachy’s probably realized a looong time ago that the strange person with messy hair has a massive neanderthal crush on him. Whether he knows it or not is a problem too ginormous for my neanderthal brain to consider. It won’t be a problem for long, anyway, since he’s leaving for HK soon enough.

I’m going to need some new guy to turn me into mindless mush soon.

I just finished watching Episode 5 of Hana Yori Dango 2, and I must say there’s no one quite as honest and transparent as Tsukushi’s younger brother, Makino Susumu. The scene where he runs to Domyouji and tearfully reveals the rejected love letter still in his hands is UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL. You just have to believe “eraser girl” is his first love, and unfortunately, it didn’t go quite as well as hoped.

What really got me, though, is the familiarity of the feeling.

Rejection, regardless of the reason, always stings — especially when you put your entirety on the line.

I’ve never really been in a situation similar to Susumu, but the feeling of defeat and bitterness is something I’m clearly familiar with. Rejection sucks, however which way you look at it, and frankly, I’ve been on the bitter end of this saga many times before.

It never ceases to amaze me, the way human beings keep picking themselves up after a fall. It’s like we’re addicted to this Sisyphean cycle of pain or something. We keep putting ourselves in danger of complete destruction, reel from the terrible blow of defeat then continue living like nothing ever happened.

Sometimes, when you picture the probability of absolute defeat in your head, there’s this feeling that you’ll never live it down. Somehow you just “know” that a resulting catastrophe would be the end of you and that the universe will come crashing down as well.

But come total destruction and you find yourself bloodied but still alive. Somehow, human beings find a way to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and wipe off those bitter tears after a crushing blow.

Love, in particular, can be rather trying. Love requires you to put everything valuable in your life on the line. Pride, dignity, general well-being and your mental stability are at stake. As a friend once said, if you’re going to humiliate yourself, might as well do it for love.

If anything, I’d hope for nothing more than Susumu’s courage — when the time comes.

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I passed JLPT 4! Woohoo!!!

DISCLAIMER: I don’t suppose I really have to warn you that this is just my opinion. I must clarify, though, that I have not been cheated. Nope. However, I stood witness to a rather horrifying example of the general crappiness of men.

Suffice it to say that the universe has succeeded in breaking me down.

I have repeated time and again in this blog that I am not a Feminazi. I do believe that men and women are equals, and that neither would be able to exist without the other, pretty much like yin and yang. I like to think I have a fairly healthy outlook in life, thanks in great part to my father — quite possibly the single biggest influence in shaping my view of men.

I do know that there are crappy guys out there. Still, I like to think that they’re shitty human beings simply because they are shitty for one reason or another, not because of their gender. I’ve always believed that it’s too simplistic an explanation, too childish a point of view to fault all men because of one guy’s stupidity. That’s why I always take offense when an asshole uses the excuse, “It’s a guy thing.” The fact that you’re an asshole doesn’t automatically mean that all men are as asshole-y as you are. Blame it on your parents or something — don’t blame it on the rest of mandom.

And so it pains me to realize that the entire universe has conspired to prove me wrong.

I suppose my mind is still reeling from the rather serious blow it received last week. I’m really still trying to reconcile things in my head up to this point. It’s such a terrible blow that I am now seriously revoking my respect for men in general. (My father is a demi-god, and is therefore excused from this withdrawal of respect. Please keep this in mind as you go along.)

I have never ever come across such a blatant display of infidelity in my entire life.

What really riles me, though, is the fact that every single male who hears the story has nothing but the highest praise and admiration frothing out of his mouth. They keep pointing out that nothing happened, and so it’s no big deal. There were so many opportunities for him to “move in for the kill”, so to speak, but he didn’t, so give him props for that.

NO.

I’m not giving anyone props for such a flimsy consuelo de bobo. Dude. Even the world’s most lame-ass scriptwriter can do much better than that. What’s worse, they keep chalking up my indignation to my gender. Dear God.

Granted, people get attracted all the time. That’s reality. Marriage doesn’t keep your eyes from wandering, really. I get that. I even think that’s normal and natural and if you said you would never be attracted to anyone else after getting hitched then you’re a liar. Even flirting a bit is forgivable, considering how flirting is innate in human beings. It’s a freaking scientific fact. What you do about that attraction is the problem. For guys, as long as nothing is “consummated” then everything’s fine. It’s not cheating, they say.

I disagree. Vehemently.

It’s not infidelity to you, perhaps, although I’d really like to see you play that “I wasn’t cheating” card when it’s your wife out flirting with some other guy in the exact same circumstances. If your wife/GF flirted openly with another guy BUT didn’t sleep with him, would you say it isn’t infidelity?

You keep saying there’s nothing wrong, that it’s all above board. But then at the same time, you fight so hard to keep all this “hush-hush” from the wife/GF. If you’re so innocent, why all the secrecy?

Of course the standardized Persuasive Twisted Male Logic textbook would say that it’s because women are too suspicious and it’s better to keep things like these “secret” just so there’s no “trouble”. So it’s the girl’s fault again? Right… My response, though, is this: it’s not that your wife/GF is a green-eyed twit. You keep things like these secret because you know that there’s something inherently wrong with what you’re doing.

Guys keep asking us to “understand” their point of view. They’re not being two-faced bastards, they’re just feeding their egos (can you believe that I got this response from two different guys?). They’re not really going to do anything about it. It’s just a game.

Well, then, sometimes a bit of role reversal goes a long way.

If your wife came home one day regaling you with her escapades in flirting with another guy, I don’t suppose you’ll be high-fiving her happily either, even if she consoled you with a sweet, “but it’s you I love and come home to.”

I’m assuming you know rather clearly that your wife/GF, of course, would be hurt by your actions, regardless of the explanations. The fact that you’re pursuing other women — whether for sport or something else — is enough a bruise on the woman’s ego and self-respect. And no, saying she’s the one you really love doesn’t quite cut it.

If you were a decent enough human being you would know that your ego-fueled actions would likely hurt the people who love you. It’s not that we’re “emotional” girls. It’s just that your actions are hurtful, selfish and plain WRONG from a human vantage point.

The collateral damage of all this, I suppose, is my inherent respect for men. One guy messing up, that’s a given. Nobody’s perfect. The fact, though, that almost every guy I ran into thinks messing up is a great idea really threw me off. One guy, I can understand, but all of you? The things I’ve witnessed this week makes me think that maybe being a liar and a cheat and a two-faced scheming self-righteous asshole is hard-wired into every man.

Maybe I really was too idealistic, hence the way I’m reeling from the terrible truth I’d been exposed to. I had such high respect for men, thinking that they at least had the same decency and humanity available to women because at the end of the day, we’re just human beings all the same.

Why?

I tried. I really tried. But I can’t help it.
I don’t think I’ll ever look at guys the same way again.

I suppose it would be an ego boost for you to know that you singlehandedly (or not, you have your “buddies” to thank, too) destroyed my faith in men.

So, don’t you ever dare ask me why I don’t want to get married, because I’ll give you an answer you really don’t want to hear.

It’s because you just gave me iron-clad proof that none of you can be trusted, dammit.