ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ.
Bored.
Visiting my blog.
Ok, I’m breaking rules but who cares.
Some songs found on my playlist.
Aerosmith – Jaded
The Beach Boys – Don’t Worry Baby
CSS – Move (Cut and Copy Remix)
Daphne Loves Derby – Simple, Starving to be Safe
Empire of the Sun – Half Mast
Florence and the Machine – Dog Days are Over
Goldfrapp – Happiness
Howie Day – Collide
Imogen Heap – Hide and Seek
Jason Mraz – Burning Bridges (Single)
Kelly Clarkson – Cry
La Roux – In for the Kill
Musiq Soulchild – Just Friends
Ne-yo – Mad
O.A.R. – Shattered (Turn the Car Around)
Phoenix – 1901
Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody
The Rifles – Fool to Sorrow
Sarah Vaughan – Misty
Tokio Hotel – Monsoon
U2 – Vertigo
Vega 4 – Life is Beautiful
Whitney Houston – I Have Nothing
No artist starting with X ):
wanted to put XES but nvm XD
Yael Naim – New Soul
Zazie – Je suis un homme
Ciao.
+STUDY MODE+
Le temps.
When my parents were still a number of inches taller than me, I imagined that by removing the batteries behind the wall clock Time would come to a standstill. When I finally did it our of sheer boredom, I thought I stopped Time. But my goldfishes kept on swimming about in the aquarium. People inside the television box kept on moving. Floral curtains were still dancing to the incessantly changing direction of the wind. House appliances kept on doing their daily chores. Mum was still talking on the phone, Dad was still outside practising his golf swings, and my brothers were still playing their favorite computer game. Birds could still be overheard chirping on the tree. Even the gentle rustling of the leaves was audible enough from inside the house. The aromatic smell of stir-fried vegetables in the kitchen spread like good news and wafted on the air under my hungry nose. And pasted on the window was the setting sun, sinking beneath a sea of houses, its orange rays slowly dissolving in the vast expanse of indigo.
For that moment, on the exact same place, when everything else was moving, I stood still. Gripping the edges of the clock with my hands, I wondered why I couldn’t stop Time.
When my parents were still a number of inches taller than me, I wished Time would just shut up and stand still and leave me alone because I wanted to do as many things as possible. As a kid, twelve hours of sunlight was never enough for studying in school and playing with my friends. Four or five hours in the evening was never enough to do my homework, watch my favorite shows on TV, and spend time with my parents and siblings. And the remaining seven or eight hours was never enough for me to get sufficient sleep or to finish my dream before waking up.
After all these years, it seems that Time had been such a scarce, selfish resource that I had to chase every single day.
Well, it still is.
And it’s only starting to become worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.
I’m on the supersonic boom.
I’m so three thousand and eight, you’re so two thousand and late.
Another Michael Bay movie.
I don’t know what to say.
After sitting in that cinema seat watching this blockbuster movie for 2.5 hours, I was left wondering to myself as to whether I enjoyed the movie or not.
The fanboy inside me was so thrilled for the whole 150 minutes of non-stop robotic warfare on land, in a forest, on air, in Shanghai, in Paris, on a hot desert, on top of one of the Great Pyramids of Egypt, on the ocean floor, and on the sea. It was a dangerous adventure around the world with the Autobots and Decepticons as tour guides. Wonderful backdrops of Mother Nature’s creations and man-made construction marvels getting destroyed was the underlying ethical dilemma of this film as the avid moviegoer witnesses both robotic races trying to kill off each other on an alien planetary rock floating in space called Earth. But sad to say, like any other typical Blockbuster film usually released at this time of the year (with the notable exception of Nolan’s The Dark Knight last year), this movie was mindless, noisy, overwhelming, and of course, excruciatingly long. Wait. Batman was quite a drag too. But who cares it was a genius film.
There were too many loopholes in the film that I found myself frequently tripping over them and knocking my head over the seat in front me, but the mindless script kinda balanced it out for me since it was not necessary for any movie fanatic to render 100% of his or her intelligence to fully understand what the hell was going on. The plot, although conveniently straightfoward, was as shallow as a kiddie pool, as empty as my fridge at home, and as dry as the Sahara Desert. But of course the awesome firepower and action was the wonderful oasis where I took refuge from all Michael Bay’s nonsense.
Oh, and before I forget, there was a Megan Fox who made me realize that I really love women with pouty lips (Angelina Jolie and Eunchae of I’m Sorry, I Love You, anyone?), and who nearly made me jizz in my pants. Don’t you just love the fact that Michael Bay’s cameras are always at the right angles whenever she’s running around scared or doing her motorbike design or just simply lying down with Sam Witwicky watching the Egyptian stars in the sky?
If I had a choice to choose to be any character in the movie, I would choose to be Mikaela Banes because I would get to run holding hands with hot Sam Witwicky around the world, fight the Decepticons alongside the Autobots and save the planet Earth from the brink of destruction – still jaw-droppingly beautiful with a little bit of dirt here and there, and without injuries. No fucking injuries people! Who wants to get the Sam Witwicky broken arm and those Sam Witwicky burns?!? Nobody.
(EDIT: Apparently I mistook his hand for his arm, I’m really sorry about that, I mean, who pays attention to a bandaged hand when Megan Fox is simultaneously running around while the film is rolling? And I read from an article that Shia suffered a helluva gazillion injuries while filming Fallen. Like seriously, jeez, all for the sake of an imaginary robotic warfare? And he got his hand injury from a car crash incident on some American road, so his “broken hand” had to be intoduced to Fallen’s script. Poor guy.)
Well I think Megan has yet to prove her versatility as an actress. The world has already seen her as a perfect marketing strategy for selling a movie about alien robots, but we are still yet to see her act for real. Well, she has a lot more room to grow. Go Megan! I’ll just be here waiting for your next big break 
And poor Bumblebee’s got less character development in this film. In fact, all characters have been disappointingly shallower this time around. There is a lack of personal touch (party because there were more robots, machines and explosives than human beings) in this film, which made it feel somewhat detached from very emotional and psychological beings like me.
With countless rumours going around that this movie’s budget stretches at $300 million, I hope that Michael Bay’s Total Revenue will exceed his Total Cost. Well, it’s pretty certain that it will. Although the movie was exhausting from the beginning all the way to the credits, it is undeniably better than its predecessor.
I still don’t know what to say.
‘Writer ka lang pala’
A column from the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
I remember an experience I once had with the Bureau of Internal Revenue. This was way back during Cory’s time when I was still paying my taxes. I am not paying my taxes now—not since 2005, when the “Hello, Garci” tape came to light. I was paying my taxes then, but for one reason or another failed to do so one particular year. Being a dutiful citizen, and having no problems recognizing Cory as a perfectly legitimate president, I resolved to rectify it.
I went to the BIR, waited a couple of hours for my turn, and finally got to talk with an appraiser, or whatever they call the people there that deal with these things. He took the documents I handed over to him solemnly, flexing his hands like a doctor about to perform a delicate operation. His solemnity vanished in an instant as he scanned my documents, and dismay overran his face like the hordes of Atilla. He suppressed an expletive and groaned, “Writer ka lang pala!” (You’re just a writer!)
I took it those words were a reaction to the couple of hundred pesos I owed government. I took it moreover that those words were a reaction to my entry in the box “occupation,” which was “journalist.” Whatever plans he might have had about negotiating a deal with me were dashed to pieces by that proclamation, or admission. His deflation was a thing to behold. “Writer ka lang pala,” he repeated.
He stamped my papers and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. He probably wondered what he had done to make God punish him that day by sending him someone who wasted his precious time.
That is the one phrase that has stayed with me all these years, one I wear proudly like a medal, and humbly like a reminder: “Writer ka lang pala.”
I remembered this in connection with something I’ve encountered over the years while writing a column for the Inquirer. It’s what detractors tell me when they cannot find a way to refute or get around, my argument. Which is: What you say is all very fine. But those are just words, they are not actions. When will you stop writing and act?
Sometimes, friends, and not just detractors, say this as well. Particularly those who have wondered why I do not entertain going into politics. “Why don’t you run for this or that?” they ask. “With the exposure you have in the country’s number one newspaper, you have an advantage which you can turn into votes. If you win, you can be in a position to do something for this country.”
My answer to this is not that I see no way of winning, although that’s probably true too, since the vote-friendly medium is TV. My answer to that is: “I’m already a writer, as ascertained by the BIR. Why should I want to demote myself and become a politician?”
I am not being entirely facetious when I say this. My point is simply, if a bit airily, that I cannot think of a better way to do something for the country than by writing.
Doctors will never be accused of merely saying and not doing. I do not know of another profession more resolutely associated with acting. You either cure or you do not. The patient either lives or dies. No action could be more fraught with meaning, no action could be more laden with consequence.
It is writers who routinely get to be charged with saying and not doing, of talking and not acting. It is writers who routinely get to be told: That’s all very fine, but when will you act?
It is the most astonishing thing because writing is acting. That is why we call it “the act of writing,” because it is an act. And like physically ministering to the sick, it is a vital act. It is spiritually ministering to the sick, an act that is fraught with meaning, an act that is laden with consequence. When you write, you either cure or you do not. When you write, the world either lives or dies.
What the writer does specifically, an act of awesome reverberations, is to articulate. It is to put reality into words. It is to make reality real.
We’ve all heard Socrates’ famous aphorism, “A life unexamined is a life unlived.” It is a profound insight into life. It is the difference between merely existing and living. Just drawing out the length of your days without looking at where you’ve come from and where you are going, without looking at whether you have been of service to others or only to yourself, without wondering what all this means or what all this amounts to, is not living, it is just existing. You may as well not have been there at all.
It is writers most of all that make that examination, of themselves and the reality around them. It is writers most of all who make that interrogation, of themselves and of the reality around them. It is writers most of all who articulate themselves and the reality around them.
Without that articulation, the world and ourselves are just as unreal as ghostly apparitions. Without that action, the world and ourselves are just a jumble of sense impressions.
We often speak of “grasping” things when we are able to understand them. The word “grasp” is only too apt. The action, like seizing something with the hand, is seizing something with the mind, turning it around, feeling its shape, marveling at its texture, realizing (there goes that word “real” again) that it is there.
You put things into words, you make things real.
It’s not true at all that sticks and stones may break your bones but words can’t. The opposite is true: More than sticks and stones, or indeed more than Manny Pacquiao’s fists, words crush bones. At the very least, you see that in the many knife fights that break out during drinking sprees in dingy neighborhoods because someone called another names.
At the very most you see that in what writers have done. In what a writer of no mean talent named Jose Rizal has done.
Rizal was first and foremost, a writer – a fact that many people have interpreted in various ways, some disparagingly.
I recall that many activists of my time submitted that Andres Bonifacio was the greater hero because he had done something marvelous. He had almost impossibly, given his personal circumstances (he was a plebeian) and his social circumstances (the indios were abject and acquiescent), founded the first truly revolutionary organization of his time. Rizal had merely written essays and novels, which however grand and brilliant did not quite equal in importance the creation of the Katipunan.
Their equation was: Where Rizal had just written, Bonifacio had done. Where Rizal had just expostulated, Bonifacio had acted.
It was no small irony, they went on, that Rizal was tried and executed for subversion. Which we could only attribute to the stupidity of the Spaniards; they had bad intelligence in more ways than one. Rizal was never a member of the Katipunan, however the organization tried to recruit him, or offered the leadership of it to him. In fact he had openly discouraged, if not opposed, it, saying the country was not prepared for a revolution. All Rizal had done, they said, was to become a martyr, which even more ironically only helped to fuel the very thing he tried to hold back.
Looking back, you see how wrong that judgment was. Looking back, you see how the Spanish authorities knew something the activists of my time did not. Namely, that by writing his essays and his novels, Rizal had become more subversive than Bonifacio or any of the Katipuneros. By writing his essays and novels – and doing so better than Marcelo del Pilar and the other propagandists in Spain – he had done more than those who took up arms.
The Spaniards were not wrong in jailing him for subversion, even if they did it for the wrong reasons, even if they did it on the wrong evidence. Rizal was the most subversive Filipino of his time. He did so by putting the plight of the Filipino under Spanish rule into words. He did so by putting the anger, the restiveness and the growing awareness of the indios they were a separate people into words. He did so by putting the reality of his time and place into words.
By doing so, he made that reality real.
It is no surprise that the Spaniards would make this recognition. Given that they had a Miguel Cervantes who had blown up the conventions of his own time and place. Indeed, given that they themselves had deprived the indios of Spanish out of the belief that giving them a unified and unifying language would make them ungovernable.
Spanish rule had lasted more than 300 years not just because the Spanish rulers had divided and conquered, it had done so also because the Spanish rulers had kept the indios mute, silent, voiceless. But then toward the end of that rule, which hastened the end of that rule, the same indios found a voice in Jose Rizal.
By satirizing the friars in his essays, by depicting them as bumbling fools quite apart from womanizing hypocrites, Rizal turned them not just into ordinary mortals but into objects of ridicule. By indicting the Spanish authorities in “Noli” and “Fili,” by railing against their corruption and their backwardness, Rizal turned them into obstacles in the path to progress of the indios that needed to be, and could be, removed. By the ferocity of his mind and the breadth of his talents, Rizal showed his fellow Filipinos how limitless their possibilities were, if only they could be free.
You cannot have anything more subversive than that.
These days, when some people tell me, “That’s all very fine, but when are you going to act?” I just smile and remember this.
I do not mean to compare myself to Rizal. He was one of a kind, a man of resplendent abilities and character, the likes of which we may not see again in a long time, if ever. But it can’t hurt to aspire to become like him in one or two of his many facets. I myself aspire only to catch a glint of his spirit in writing.
Certainly our time lends itself to that aspiration. For the simple reason that our time is not unlike Rizal’s time. In fact, it is almost a mirror image of Rizal’s time – talk of those who do not read history being condemned to repeat it.
It is a time when the rulers are as alien as a colonizing power, pillaging the land with a ruthlessness and ferocity to make the pirates of Tortuga blush. It is a time when the people tasked to safeguard the morals of the indios are as besotted and venal and hypocritical as the friars and oidores, making right wrong and wrong right, and proclaiming God to have ordained this order of things. It is a time when the masa are prostrate and broken and abject, unable to lift the yoke off their backs, reposing their deliverance in false prophets and clowns and sellers of snake oil.
It is a time when you realize that there is no action without articulation, there is no flesh without word, and look for ways to capture the agony of oppression and the ecstasy of liberation. It is a time when you realize that there is no direction without interrogation, there is no life without examination, and look for ways to release the power of a subjected race and the glory of a people longing to be free. It is a time when you realize that to do all this, you have to grope and grasp and clasp with your mind the truth of your plight, to impale with words the thoughts and feelings that flit around you, the fears and aspirations that well up within you, to make reality real so that you can face it, so that you can confront it, so that you can live it.
It is a time when you can tell yourself proudly: Writer ka pala. It is a time when you can remind yourself humbly: Writer ka lang pala.
‘Writer ka lang pala’
By Conrado de Quiros
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 00:20:00 06/17/2009
Est-ce que je me suis levé du pied gauche?
Lovely photo. <3
I love and hate French at the same time. It’s interesting to know how these two totally opposite emotions can co-exist inside this malnourished body of mine. Maybe that’s the exact reason why I’m feeling kinda insane right now. My heart is throbbing like shit. BOOM BOOM POWWWWWW! BOOM BOOM POWWWWW! Yeah the beat goes something like that. My mind is being boggled in a similar fashion as boggling jueteng balls or bingo chips or birth-control pills. And my scrotum shrivels to the mere sound of the words “homework”, “essays”, “oral exams”, “assessments”. GAAAAAAAAARHHHHH I HATE THIS. *defenestrates meself* I guess that given that this circumstance of life is a subset of all possible circumstances of life in IB, I should not be complaining at all. But I can’t help it! >.<
In less than two weeks, I have written almost a hundred pages of notes for French. Mind you. WRITTEN. You know, using pen and paper? I have sacrificed my five other subjects and my ToK essay for the sake of studying French. You know why? Because I need to understand French grammar and build up my vocabulary – nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, whatever – ASAP. Because my French oral exam is this month, according to an unreliable source, and I still can’t fucking speak in French.
Je ne suis pas en forme, like seriously.
Someday, someday.
I know you don’t really see my worth
You think you’re the last girl on earth
Well I’ve got news for you
I know I’m not that strong
But it won’t take long
Won’t take long
~~~~~
Sometimes, sad words of love are so powerful that they simply pierce straight through your heart like sharp daggers. They strike us the moment you hear them. Each successive word cuts out a fresh, new wound. And even though the depressing music eventually dissipates into nothingness, and the playlist chooses a different song for us, the voice continues to echo inside the mind, still singing that melancholic song of love.
The music inevitably bring out the loneliness within you, carving out the empty spaces of your heart blanketed by the fake smiles on your face. Words fill those spaces, like a replacement for something that was lost, or an alternative for something that has never been chalked up. But then again, they’re merely words – a constellation of abstract imaginations connected by man-made letters, painted on the sky for everyone to witness.
Such love songs, painstakingly sculpted by other people’s peregrinations through experiences, trials, and tribulations, become the channel for another person to experience pain because of love. Although their experiences may be different from ours, somehow, we can easily relate to them. We read their lines as if we’re looking through our painful past. We hum along to the tune of their sorrows. We sing their music in our own little versions. In a way, their music becomes a reflection of our lives.
However, it ultimately becomes something more than just a simple mirror image. Consequently, we resort to using song lyrics to express our feelings. We allow our lives to be dictated by the beating of the drum, the strumming of the guitar, the keying of the piano, and the registering of the vocals. They’re not the exact same copy of our unfortunate life experiences, but they simply bring it all out from within us – the sadness, the grief, the regret, the pain. And they consume us so immensely, that our lives ultimately just become part of the music, rather than the music becoming just a part of our lives.
You can’t hurt me with the things that you do; I’ll pick up dandelions and I’ll give them to you.
Open your eyes and take in everything that you see Look at all the colors like , yellow, blue, & green We can take an airplane and fly across the globe Look down upon the colors, everyone come on, let's go Because Love, love, love, la la love La la love makes the world go 'round Love, love, love, la la love La la love makes the world go 'round Open your ears and listen what the world has to say Hear the birds & bells and you will have a brighter day Everyone has a special song deep inside their heart If you want, you could sing with us, it's the perfect place to start Love, love, love, la la love La la love makes the world go 'round You can't hurt me with the things that you do I'll pick up dandelions and I'll give them to you (Puppy dogs, kitty cats swimming through love) Love, love, love, la la love La la love makes the world go 'round Love, love, love, la la love La la love makes the world go 'round ~ ~
Random.
This is what I normally do when I get extremely bored.
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Random keyboard typing # 1:
doif
Google searched 61,000 entries
www.urbandictionary.com
Doif: An expression of sympathetic frustration and surprise. Customarily used in situations where the person using the expression has found him/herself in the same or similar situation as the subject.
- “I got a flat tire yesterday, in the pouring rain”.
- “Did you really? Doif”.
Okay that was lame.
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Random keyboard typing # 2:
IGHO
Google searched 109,000 entries
www.facebook.com
it’s a fan page of some unknown Nigerian rapper (I think he’s a rapper)
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Random keyboard typing # 3:
THG
Google searched 3,880,000 entries
www.tomshardware.com
Tom’s Hardware Guide
Tom’s Hardware is the Internet’s premiere resource for hardware news and reviews.
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Random keyboard typing # 4:
GGHG
Google searched 24,600 entries
www.gghg.org
The Governor General Horse Guards
o.O
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Random keyboard typing # 5:
dfkdfjerg
Your search – dfkdfjerg – did not match any documents.
Suggestions:
- Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
- Try different keywords.
- Try more general keywords.
This time, I tried google image
ffff
rio
wawawa
somm
ryr
rowlandanthony
Recently turned 19, I am an International Baccalaureate slave, a Roman Catholic, now of legal age to vote, to drink alcohol, to drive, to marry, to smoke, and to f*** around. I am manufactured in the Philippines but currently utilized in Singapore. I am the thick-skinned, ingrate bastard who dumped the Government in exchange for a $100,000 two-year private scholarship. Most people in the Philippines call me Row, as a result of a passed down genetic trait that triggers laziness. Actually, my nickname is Anju, which I am really really not so fond of. But I am fortunate enough not to suffer from the ubiquitous Filipino frenzy of naming nicknames with letter 'h's sandwiched between other letters, e.g. Jhong, Jhing, Bhong, or Bhing, and from the usual repetition of the same syllables - usually created by the whole extended family giggling in delight as one utters his or her baby cry while shitting unconsciously and secretively on the lampin, inside the duyan - resulting in stuttering names like Ton-ton, Ping-Ping, Bam-bam, Ging-ging and Don-don.
I am currently having the time of my life.
