In the spirit of Christmas, I suppose it’s time to just swallow my pride and spit it all out.

I never really cared much for the people in my high school barkada. They’re my friends, yes, that’s a given, but for much of my life they’ve been monuments of my not so great high school life rather than actual people I love.

Which could probably explain why I haven’t made much of an effort to see them as often as they want, only meeting them whenever it was “convenient”. I jumped in and out of their lives whenever I felt like it, each time thinking that I wasn’t really missing anything. One friend actually explained my absence to a clueless boyfriend by saying that I had been an OFW in Dubai.

Come to think of it, I barely know anything about these so-called friends of mine.

Rare meetings serve as some sort of catch-up point for me, where I receive updates of their lives thus far. The updates are always miles long because I’m never around, I’m never the friend to call – much more like a totem than an actual friend at all.

The point, though, is that I’ve never really given them much thought. They’ve always been just there. I never figured them for anything more than people from my high school that I’ve known all my life – except that I never really knew them at all.

Thus far it’s all been rather superficial. Shared memories, but nothing more.

Except that a few days ago I realized we had much more in common than I gave them credit for.

I’ve been living my life thinking that no one could understand me exactly. Hell, not even my sisters get me. At 23, I still have so much unreleased angst that I’ve taken to concealing and – at times – blogging it just to stay as sane as possible. A few hours of talking and non-stop eating, though, made me realize that I’ve had the people I needed all my life, except that I was too stupid to realize it. I was looking too far forward to realize that I didn’t have to be all ronin and that I had actual human friends.

They’ve been with me all the time, but I’ve been such an ass that it took me four years of college and two years more to get it. All along they’ve been my friends, except that I wasn’t a friend enough to see it.

Yes, sheer stupidity.

I know this isn’t much of an apology, or much of anything at all for that matter. In any case, at least I’ve grown some sort of brain this Christmas to realize that there are people I owe friendship to.

I’m not trying to be melodramatic this Christmas.

Just stating the facts, ma’am.

I am proud to declare that the search is over.

Do wish us the best!

Somewhere here, a lurker oh so kindly pointed out the one thing I needed most in life right now: a boyfriend. Apparently, I am currently weird and boring, not because I was genetically engineered to be this way, but because the Fates have yet to provide me with a man who could make me a better person.

Ah yes, every woman needs a man, I suppose. Otherwise we’d all be blah and boring and taking up our Masters in UP — que horror!

I have realized the error of my ways, Anonymous Lurker with No Balls #1 (numbers are necessary to keep track of the thousands of castrated “anonymice” as puts it) and am now in search of the perfect man to turn me into a happy domestic Martha.

I have thus come to the conclusion that I must begin the never-ending quest in search of a boyfriend, an endeavor I believe Anonymous Lurker with No Balls #1 would so happily wish me luck in. Shed happy tears, Anonymous Lurker with No Balls #1, I shall finally be the perfect and completely man-dependent woman you wish me to be.

Unfortunately, there are few avenues by which I may come across the perfect man. The Fates are difficult to rely on, seeing as how they may be too busy throwing banana peels at random people in Rexona commercials. Cupid, on the other hand, is completely immature and a poor shot, I might say. In the spirit of having a boyfriend in time for Christmas, I have decided to take matters into my OWN hands (cue theme: Thriller!).

JOB POSITION: Boyfriend
REPORTS TO: Senior Management, aka ME
REMUNERATION:
- A girlfriend (which is me, obviously)
- Pats on the back and the occasional Scooby Snacks
- Heartfelt greetings on Birthdays and other important occasions
- Possible promotion to Husband in the future

JOB DESCRIPTION:
Though definitely not managerial, the position is truly multi-faceted. The successful candidate is expected to perform the following functions above and beyond the call of duty, with nary a whimper or a complaint. Take it like a man, will you?

- Driver/Bodyguard/Boy/PA/All-Around Alalay (the position, however, does not require the carrying of Senior Management’s bag. Carrying a girl’s bag is not hot, it’s gay.)
- Cheerleader
- Comedian
- Gift-giver (only on special occasions)
- Movie Buddy (must enjoy gory movies filled with violence and strewn body parts)
- Fashion Consultant
- Plus any other thing Senior Management can come up with at random moments

REQUIREMENTS
- Must look like or at least have passing resemblance to this:

- Must be no less than 24 years old. However, DOMs and senior citizens need not apply.
- Must be taller than 5′7″ or 170cm
- Must be lanky but not lampayatot
- Must be equal or above in intelligence compared to Senior Management. IQ tests are stupid; to establish level of intelligence, candidate must be able to answer the following questions with wit, grace and poise:

1. “Am I Chuang Tzu, dreaming that I am a butterfly, or am I a butterfly, dreaming that I am Chuang Tzu?” Explain in detail then compare and contrast with the Buddhist concept of reality.

2. Discuss the significance of North Korea in the US-Japan-China impasse. Cite specific examples.

3. For world peace, didilaan mo ba ang kili-kili ni Van Damme pagkatapos nyang makipag-sagupa sa limanlibong maton? Justify your answer.

- Must have steady LEGAL source of income
- Must be able to converse fluently in Mandarin (Putonghua) or Fookien
- Must have sense of humor and deep understanding of sarcasm
- Must be completely, definitely heterosexual beyond a shadow of doubt. Please.
- Must at least be willing to get along with Senior Management most of the time.

If you believe that you are the best candidate for the job, please do get in touch with Senior Management immediately. How? Only candidates smart enough to find a way to do so need apply.

Candidates who make the cut shall be informed immediately via snail mail. No placement fees necessary. Beware of illegal recruiters.

The fact that I do watch romantic comedies should come as a surprise to people who know me.

I am allergic to all forms of saccharine, especially of the overt form. Unlike normal girls, I don’t get a sugar rush from watching all those sappy love teams cuddling and running around like fools on LSD. Most of these romantic movies and television shows offer the same sap nearly all the time anyway.

FORMULA:
Cute boy + cute girl = major love team

Works for most people — unfortunately not for me.

It’s not that I’m completely out of it. Some romantic comedies do get to me sometimes. Actually, it’s the subtle stuff that really hits me; the simple, silent gesture that makes me go (all together now, people) awww…

Yesterday, bedridden because of intense back pain, I had the entire afternoon to watch the Taiwanese soap, “It Started With A Kiss”. I’ve watched the show a few times on ABS-CBN but haven’t actually seen more than a few snips. I found it funny, though, even if the lead actress looked absolutely stupid. Besides, I can swear the lead actor is some sort of wooden block brought to life by Photoshop or something.

So, no hotties. I was in it mostly for the fun anyway.

Watching the show then, I didn’t actually expect to find anything remotely romantic, despite the fact that the title actually speaks of a “kiss” (that has technically nothing to do with anything, since nothing has started with a kiss so far).

But then…

There’s this one scene in the show where the girl gets caught between two maniacs on a bus. One guy has his hand up her skirt; the other has his hand on her chest. Ahem. So, no one out to save her, as Mr. Lead Actor is too busy acting cool on the other side of the bus. Lead Actress tries to pummel one of the maniacs with her puny bag.

This is where it gets unbelievably sweet (I can’t believe I’m saying this)…

The maniac eludes the bag, but then! Mr. Lead Actor suddenly appears out of nowhere to freeze the crap off the maniacs with his icy stare (yes, beating the maniacs to a pulp would have been much better, but still). Mr. Lead Actor then takes Lead Actress to a different part of the bus and *tears in my eyes now* stands guard beside her.

Again, all together now: aww…

I’m afraid my descriptive skills fail to do justice to the sweetness of this scene. It’s these small things that get to me, you know? Makes me wish I actually had someone to ride the MRT with everyday.

Arrrghhh.

It got me thinking, though.

Maybe I’m the real romantic. Hold the gagging noises please, I’m serious.

There are people who go around like lovestruck fools, calling themselves “romantics”. I’m sure you know one at the very least (or more, if you’re unlucky). They claim to believe in love immensely, and their pathetic little lives revolve only around their love lives.

These are the same people who speak endlessly of their plethora of relationships. They light up whenever discussions venture towards relationships, love, romance — you get the drift. These are the people who live and breathe for what they think is “love” — and they’re rarely afraid to show it.

If you notice, though, these self-confessed “romantics” are the same people who find themselves in more than one relationship, who encourage cheating on one’s gf/bf because “it’s love”.

Well, that love be damned.

I’ve never heard of anything more crappy and pathetic than that.

I admit I can’t speak from experience. I’m not claiming any expertise at all. It’s just that I find these so-called romantics hurting other people in “love’s” name stupid — not to mention terribly deluded — soaking themselves in endless melodrama simply because they’re “romantic”.

I beg to disagree.

Love, for me at least, isn’t complicated. It isn’t difficult, or problematic. I don’t mean the relationships, by the way. God knows human relationships are the most complicated in the world.

Anyway.

What I’m saying is that love doesn’t have to play out like a Bea Alonzo soap opera. Love is simple, natural. It’s either you love someone or you don’t — no ifs or buts. There’s no such thing as “I love you, but I can’t leave her.” That’s just bull. Love is the simplest thing in the world, like hunger or joy. It’s an emotion, dear, not some sort of curse God saddled man with.

Love is just that. A state of being.

It’s all inside, you know. It doesn’t have to be in some sort of relationship to be valid. It doesn’t have to be discussed and dissected endlessly in girl discussions. It doesn’t have to be so complicated.

Love is just that.

It doesn’t have to be so convoluted, so overly-discussed, so showy. It’s not a performance, people.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s just a NBSB (no boyfriend since birth) girl’s point of view. I’m illogical sure, but nobody said love had to be logical anyway.

Found this really sweet image through my friend (and boss) Monica:

Awwww…

Cerebrally sweet, that is.

There’s more of that where it came from. Check out this cool site: http://xkcd.com/c162.html

EDIT: had to put it under a cut… nasisira un layout ko eh OC

Just the other day, while browsing that stupid bug-infested thing (somebody should really QA that site) called Friendster, I remembered something my friend told me.

A classmate from college — a particularly memorable one — had posted something rather interesting on his Friendster blog.

I, of course, couldn’t resist the temptation of checking out the said blog.

All that was in it was a poem, titled rather unimaginatively as “To My Wifey”. As the title suggests, it’s his ode to his *ahem* girlfriend.

Which should not be so much of a big deal, really, except that I had spent the last two years of my college life (and every subsequent meeting with my barkada after graduation) making fun of him. Over the years, we’ve called him everything from loser to undin, simply because of one thing:

He had courted *blech* me and I had turned him down in a heartbeat.

Because of my extreme bitchiness, I pounced on the unfortunate guy and declared war. Just because he liked me.

Well, at first I did try to be nice and cordial, considering we were friends before everything blew up and went to hell. I did try to be decent, asking a mutual friend to discourage him from the pursuit. I knew myself enough to know that any guy unintelligent enough to have romantic overtures towards me could find himself dead in the process. And so, I tried to do the right thing and had someone else do the job of turning him down for me.

Eventually, though, the bitchiness took over and I couldn’t resist making fun of him.

He’s not exactly the most handsome man on the planet (and I’m being quite generous here you know), he’s inches shorter than me and he wallows in insecurities.

I suppose you’re starting to ask yourself: what right does this crazy girl have to rip some poor guy’s heart apart?

I don’t really have any right to, I guess, except that I had been given the chance and took it. It’s not like I’m the only girl on the planet who’s ever willingly picked on a guy who mistakenly declared his romantic intent for her.

It’s just that I’m really not so interested in this romantic cheese stuff, and any mention of courtship drives me up the wall. I’m batty, yes I know. So maybe I’m a little nastier than the rest of the girls on this planet. Having someone try to make me “swoon” (gag is more like it) can really bring out my Mean Girls side — and that’s never a good thing.

The poem, though, is really revenge served up on a silver platter.

It’s not like I regret ever turning him down (que horror!). I’d do the exact same thing I did then in a heartbeat.

It’s just that all this time I’ve been calling him a loser, and now, he’s found the love of his life (or something close to that I suppose) and I’m still here blogging about my so-called life.

Karma, really.

So then, who’s the loser now?

I’m for sale.

Or not, considering how my parents really aren’t expecting any monetary compensation for all the years that they’ve had to put up with me.

A door prize is more like it.

There comes a time when a Tsinoy girl gets caught up in a rather unfortunate enterprise imposed by elders who believe that they know better. The time to decide your worth has come, and parties interested in harvesting your genes come knocking. All those years of studying and carving a niche on this dying earth boils down to this crap. It’s time to think of marriage, Tsinoy style.

But don’t worry, it’s not a relationship they want, dear. They want a totem.

And who decides? Not you or me, unfortunately.

The entire thing is so goddamn unromantic even I would rather die than be part of it.

Last Saturday, I gave my mom’s friend and her grandson a ride home. The ride was pretty short, and I, of course, was more intent on the road than on them.

Yesterday, one of my mom’s temple peeps contacted her, saying how the grandmother wanted me to be her grandson’s “friend”.

Ahem.

The definition of “friend” can be quite tricky right here. My definition of “friend” is roughly the same as Webster’s. Apparently, my parents (and the grandmother) were quoting a different dictionary. Accepting a “friend” is tantamount to opening the gates of hell (or allowing a suitor in, which isn’t really any better). Worst, for the Chinese, marriage really isn’t far behind once you get your “friend”.

I have no idea who the guy is. I barely saw his face, by the way, except that I know he’s way fairer than me. I have no biases whatsoever, except for the fact that he didn’t respect my authority (Cartman style) when he didn’t wait for me to unlock the car doors with my omnipotent power lock. Unacceptable.

To be fair, he probably doesn’t want any of this crap either.

It’s extremely flattering that the dear old grandma would think so highly of me, considering we’re an average family and they’re pretty loaded. Selecting a granddaughter-in-law is very political for the Chinese, as it requires both parties to hurdle questions of status, character, family background and *ahem* horoscope. To have someone think that I’m good enough (me, of all people) is really quite a compliment.

Not that any of that bull could convince me.

I don’t want a “friend”. No. No. NO!

My parents have been rather nice, though, allowing me to decide whether or not I wanted to submit myself to the rigorous courting process (insert barf here). But they were pretty excited, considering I’m not getting any younger and have no lovelife to speak of to this day.

For the record, I asked my mom to tell the other party no. I’d rather not jump into the abyss, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first, and probably won’t even be the last. I don’t believe in finding a husband through this antiquated set-up. Corny as it sounds, you can’t force these things…they just sort of have a way of catching you when you think you’re safely out of reach.

I just wonder how long I can keep on running.