Friday, May 30, 2014

Pinoy (Over)Reactions

As someone who was born and raised in the Philippines, I have seen firsthand the overreaction of most Filipinos to foreign comments.

When jokes are made about Jews, Mexicans, Canadians, Asians, Whites or Blacks, everything's alright. Everyone laughs. Make one freagin' joke about Filipinos, and all hell breaks loose. So yes, you can't make a negative Filipino reference (no matter how realistic or true) in any foreign show or movie without getting either sued, or bashed on by the entire Filipino community.

In fact, Filipinos' overreaction to things aren't limited to negative jokes or comments. They also celebrate everything Filipino. And I mean everything. Sure, it's a good thing most of the time. We're the country that's known for smiling even during calamities. It's optimistic and lovely, really. For a country that's a constant victim of all-things-nature-can-ever-conjure, we are pretty happy as people. There is this odd concept of Filipino pride though. Anyone and anything remotely related to being Filipino gets celebrated by the Philippines. If you got your name outside the country known, and you've got Filipino blood, you're pretty much the headline of the news for about a week. Never mind the fact that you've never been to the Philippines, or even the fact that you don't know shit about the language, meh, you're celebrated. There's also a strange camaraderie between us Pinoys. There's a notion that we will always stick together no matter what happens. I won't mention any specific examples anymore, because trust me, this post will be long if I go there.

Of course, mostly it's a good thing - knowing that your countrymen will have your back no matter what happens, just for being born. At the same time though, it sometimes gets ridiculous. We become over-sensitive to jokes. Sure, jokes are half-meant, but all nations and countries have those types of jokes told about them. We are not perfect, and the better thing to do when that's pointed out, especially as a joke, is to laugh it off. (Cause really, if that's not the main purpose, what is?)

Also, celebrating every little thing that is Filipino is sometimes too over-the-top. Mentioning another lively people, the Mexicans, I don't see them shouting that a certain celebrity's Mexican at the top of their lungs. I mean sure, they're proud, but not batshit-crazy proud. I remember seeing a video where a Filipino person/thing was receiving negative attention, but all the comments just said "That's a Filipino!" or "Proud to be Pinoy!" and all the other countries were shaking their heads at us - and honestly, I sided with those other people. I don't remember the video anymore though, so don't ask.

I understand all these, but the main point of this really long article was this:

Like, dude. Really? Can I kill the person who did this? This is too much. Really. Even for my standards.

Because maybe, I don't know, Filipinos can be students too, and other types of workers? (Note sarcasm.)

I'm not saying I don't get the reference. If there was a joke about Filipino domestic workers with a witty enough punchline, I'm not saying I won't laugh. But for God's sakes, this is obviously a children's book. Are you really teaching children to identify Filipinos as domestic workers, or vice versa?

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Maya Angelou

I've personally never heard of Maya Angelou, which means I'm probably one of the more ignorant people in this world. My condolences to all the lives that she had ever touched.

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

The Secret Fourteen by KelingChai

So a friend of mine's made up her mind to write a story.

Here are the links to chapters one and two. Also check out her other posts while you're at it.


One, Two
Three and Four
Five, Six.

You're number Seven.

Trace the red markers around the body.

This isn't as sharp as others,
So I have to dig harder than I used to.

And they say sociopaths have no emotions.
I get angry too.

Especially when you call me that.

*I wanted to first cook up the victim Hannibal-style, but I realized it's kind of been overused, so I'm sticking to the carving-with-poor-knives style.


It was the night when you decided to end it all -
That we wouldn't be;
That we couldn't be.
Not anymore.

A breath away -
A distance once too close,
Now too far,
Going farther
And farther -

An inch;
A foot;
A meter;
I counted.

All in twenty-one seconds.

You looked back,
Why won't you ask me to stay?"

My face swollen from the tears
(A face you once called ridiculous,
But undoubtedly pure)
I opened my mouth
And said the words that you used to love.

I managed a smile.

"Make me."

*Oddly enough, this was inspired by Michael Faudet, I thought of that last line first, but I realized that I couldn't be daring enough to write a sexual poem. So that last line really has a hint of sexual innuendo, though not totally.

Time Passed

An image at the corner of my eye...
Beautifully distracting.


A minute too long,
A kiss too deep,
A mark that cannot be undone.

Not anymore just

An image at the corner of my eye...
Beautifully destructive.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014


Pointer, pointer,
You exploiting finger.

Second out of five,
Always blaming,
Sometimes lying.
Always getting people into trouble.

One day I'll mess that finger up,
Just as much as this finger is.

Third out of five,
The only truth teller.

Monday, May 26, 2014


I stretch my arms!
I hug the air!
I bask in the morning glory of sunshine.
I sizzle under the sunlight's godliness.

Breathe -
Feel -
See -
Hurt -

I am under sunshine nudity,
Then I am inside shameful shade.

Why is society always telling us to hide, hide, hide?

Hide your smiles.
Be meek!
Hide your vices.
Be proper!
Hide your body.
Cover up!
Hide your true selves.
Feel shame.

Death to the painful system of made-up truths.
Death to the painful system of truthful lies.
Death to the ignorant society of tie-wearing baboons.
Death to all the cover ups that cause us pain.

Death be to the human race.

*Now if you've read my other poems, you'll pretty much memorize the disclaimer. I am not a serial killer. Just having one of my moods. I rushed this. So by the time I'm writing this, I'm actually still wondering if I'm making sense.

A Twitter Move

"This is the way the world changes, sweetheart. Good people raising their babies right." - Catherine Avery (Grey's Anatomy S10E24)

Just wanted to share. It's a beautiful line.

Grim Reaper

Find a ribbon of your own choosing.
Wrap it around the neck.
Squeeze a little more for security.
Tie a knot by the end.
Tighten it a little more.
Then form loops with your fingers
And intertwine them with each other.

I look at my piece of work.

I knew it.
I always wanted to use ribbons.
Scythes are too big to carry around.

I laugh to myself,
Since sexism doesn't end in death...

I should go buy some ties.

Goes the Clock

I look at the clock.
I hum to the tune
Of an ever-steady beat.

Then every ten beats,
I ask the same question.

"I wonder when momma will come home?"

I look at the side,
And as I chant and I hum to my tune.

I wonder again,
This time in my head.

"I wonder when that body will stop rotting?"


*I wanted to try the whole Lang Leav thing and write an extremely short poem. Apparently that's the shortest I can write. Inspired by: Lang Leav, Fifty Shades series, and Frozen.

Post-Writing High


I type.
I think.
I write.

I am in a fine fine trance.

I wonder if this is the high
People get from drugs.
I wonder if this is the intoxication
From exotic wine.

This high and intoxication,
From your own words.
This transportation to another world
Of your own making.

It's beautiful.

A personal secret you keep from others.
Not deliberately of course.
Only that,
They will never experience
This exact same high.
There is only one true author
To a piece of work.

My writing may be simple.
It may not be genius.
But the approval,
And the appreciation,
That comes from the self.

I giggle.
I feel like flying.

And when I close my eyes,
I realize.
I have never been so free.

Not when I lay awake at night,
And bear all the troubles I had for the day.
Not when I force a smile,
For all of my loved ones.
Not when I write a prose so thought of,
That I worry for grammar and predictability.

This one.
This one's for me.
This high I feel,
I have to record it.
Without thinking -
Without knowing.

I'm reading it out loud -
Slurring the words
Like a manic junkie.

This one is for that
Previous poem I wrote,
That transported me,
Into the void
Of black and white.

This is for all the words
That made me become somebody else -
Someone deep,
In someplace else,
And even more probably,
Existing as a murderer.


You say you're white.
Then a moment later,
You say you're black.
You claim you're neither,
And then say
You're either.

Which is it really?

The complex tune you play,
Messes up the steady beat of my life.
And yet,
It is all the more beautiful.

I have seen the colors that I once not knew.
I have seen the shapes of a million sides.
I have grabbed the essence, of that which is abstract.
I have held your hand,
You monstrous angel.

I cannot comprehend
Those stripes in your brain.
Is it black?
Is it white?
As I ask myself these questions,
I see.
Your stripes...
Become swirls.

I am so confused.

The mad beauty of genius art
Pales in comparison
To you
Oh, you.
You unreal creature.

Is it so strange,
That I memorize every line
On your face,
On your fingers,
And even the feel,
Of your fingertips?
And yet,
When I close my eyes,
I cannot envision you.
I do not know you.

But wait.
I do.

You are

(With tiny sprinkles of color within.)

You are either black or white,
And at the same time, Neither.
Pity that you are color blind,
Because you can't see yourself,
Much less recognize it.
Mirrors are useless,
Terms are useless.

In your world,
You are Black and White
Put together,
Existing as either,
Negating both.

You exist as extremes,
Pushing each other past their limits,
Past your limits.

You cannot see.
I can.

But for you,
I will be blind.

I will love White,
and I will love Black.
Even though you are both and neither.
I will know your true self,
Without letting you know.
So that this love,
Won't force you to hurt,
And question yourself.

I will hide Gray,
I will love White.
I will love Black.
I will love you,
For you.
Together in your world.

*This poem was inspired by the bipolar disorder - and most especially by this new show I watch, Black Box. More than in any other shows where I've encountered bipolar characters, this show lets me experience her life, her mind, and its fine madness. In fact this poem may actually be entirely dedicated to Catherine Black, an exceptional character, and my interpretation of her. Kelly Reilly is a skillful actress with (personal opinion) almost perfect delivery of a complex character.

Internet Speed Non-rant.

A picture says a thousand words, ika nga. We don't only have the slowest internet speed in all of the ASEAN countries, but also the crappiest speed/price ratio.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

No. Words.

Random Thought of the Day

How is it that when people remark on the fact that something is "humbling", it's actually them saying that they're feeling proud and good about themselves?

Not in a narcissistic way of course. That must be the reason why the word has such a nice ring to it. I do understand that ultimately it's supposed to describe the feeling of understanding that things aren't all about you -  that you're something small in this universe - and that it's alright. It just struck me as ironic that when the word is used, it's oddly directly proportional with the pride that you feel about being so honored about something. Huh.

Thursday, May 22, 2014


So I caught a metal thingy just now and it grazed my skin. It hurt for a few seconds and then nothing. After ten minutes, my mother told me to get something. Obviously, it involved me putting my hands in front. Woah. There was blood. I had a mini-slice brought about by the metal thingy. I was so shocked and immediately washed it. It throbbed a little and the pain lessened. After that as I walked around trying not to think about that random slice on my palm, I could still feel the pain from the wound. Then I realized something. That's life. Even though something that could pain us already exists, it doesn't really start to hurt until you know about it. That's why people lie. Especially to themselves.

So basically:

Oh well.
Walk walk.
Hands up.
Wash wash wash.
It still hurts. </3
"Why is life like this???" (joke)
"Life is like this!"
I'm so fucking deep.
Let's write this shit down and make it seem like I thoroughly thought about it. Let's also confuse people by writing it all in one kinda lengthy paragraph and then explain it again in the simplest way possible.
I'm still deeper than Adele.
Maybe not. But I'm pretty close.

*I actually did say "Why is life like this?" out loud. Yes it was a joke. But thinking about it, that joke lead me to a really deep realization. Sometimes, the smallest step is the most important in achieving the biggest things. WOAH. Dude. I'M SO FUCKING DEEP.

*Why the hell am I typing in all caps while using a small font size? O.o This blog is getting weird........

What Am I?

Blood-red lips,
A small cute nose,
Almond black eyes.
Six inches tall.
Made of wood.
Painted with a kimono.


A wooden display
At a bright office
At 10 am.


Goes the head.

A scar.
Across its face.

Free at last.

It blinks.

Ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki.

*Suffice to say I am not a horror fan. No idea why I fucking made this. I'm disturbed. Never again.

**Not saying this is scary btw. I wouldn't know. Honestly I'm scared by the corniest horror tricks. I'm no expert.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

May 21, 2014 at Binondo, Manila

Tiny droplets
Hitting the pavements
All at once
So strong
So cold.

But the night air
Though windy
Is terribly warm
With a muskiness enveloping
Loud but Lonely

Someone just died
From these words I read.
It's from the news
But to me
It's as real
As the terminally ill
Dead character
From yesterday's book.

Even more odd
Is that today's book
Is more alive than they
More alive than I.

Scary how distance
Can muddle the line
Between reality and fiction.

More than fiction...
The un-realness of it all.

If humans could rationalize
Only that which they can see.
And if humans can only believe
That which they understand.
Then I guess the line between
Reality and not
Really is only
In the power of a blink.

I cry for the broken souls of the blind as I narrate this.
(And I pray at the same time that they never shall run across this.)

Then again,
I guess it's true.

Out of sight,
Out of mind.

*Again. Not meaning to offend anybody. Just a different persona when I write. With all the depressing things I write, I'm gonna have to stop putting these weird notes at the end of my post at some point.

Blog Update

Haven't written in a while because the net's been shitty. I blame PLDT. (Oh and did I mention how unreasonably angry I am at that one 9gag picture which shows a download speed of 711 Mbps? Yes. I'm serious. If you live here in the Philippines, you'd understand my frustration.)

Here's proof:


A: This cake is
B: Amazing!
A: Yes!
B: No. I mean how amazing is it that they took that deal?
A: What de-
B: My boss told me this morning that
A: I thought we weren't gonna talk about work today?
B: I realize that but
A: Excuse me, Miss. A bottle of
B: I thought this could be
A: Champagne please.
Waitress: Certainly
B: An exception.
Waitress: Ma'am.
A: It's our--!
B: Anniversary. I know.
A: Don't roll your eyes at
B: Then don't talk to me like
A: But you are a child!
B: Can't we just have dinner without
A: No. What use is celebrating an anniversary if we're so tired of each other?
B: Don't over dramatize this, please. I've had enough of this at work.
A: You never listen anymore.
B: Neither do you.
A: I can't even
B: Finish sentences anymore?
A: Yes. No. Yes.
B: ...

B: I'm not tired of you.
A: Then what is it?
B: I'm just... tired.
A: So am I.
B: But do you know
A: What?
B: The thing I loved the most about us a few years back
A: Was when we finished each other's
B: Sentences.


Police cars.
A child.
A knife.

C: Ahh... Silence.

A giggle.

*Oddly enough inspired by the midsentence ending from The Fault In Our Stars reference book AIA. I'm pretty sure it's meant to inspire happier writings but... Maybe next tme?

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Paper Madness

I love the feeling
Of black spreading on you
Forming coherent words
And muddled scribbles.
You inspire
The strokes of art
(Art in strokes)
And pattern in colors
(Colors in pattern).

Lead -
The possibilities are endless.

And yet water kills you
Faster than fire.

I love the sound
Of crumpling as you burn,
That slit slit slit sound
As I tear you up.
That crackling sound I hear
As substitute for pleas and wails
As you suffer and collapse
In the hands of man.

Oh mystical, godly paper
Made from the mightiest trees
That withstand even the
Strongest of storms.
We consume you
Strip by strip
Layer by layer
Rendering you helpless -
Worshiped but enslaved.

This is the rush
That Hannibal must feel
In consuming his victims
Layering them
Into edible meat.

My oh my,
I must be succumbing
To the madness of man -
That which deludes you into thinking
That you are all-powerful.

But no,
Not at all.

I understand so much
That so many things are better than I -
So many, many more
Brighter and more capable creatures;
But not, my fellow men.
Mankind is full of limits.
We are defined by our limits,
And mostly how
We look past them
And I quote,
"Look at the good."

If the definition of madness
Is doing the same thing over and over again,
But expecting different results each time.
Then by proof of observation,
Optimism must be the highest form of madness.

Too pessimistic perhaps?
Ironic - to talk about optimism as a pessimist.
And yet not really unpredictable.

I dis optimism only because
It is the epitome
Of man's delusions of power.
Man is always power-hungry
And the highest of those powers -
Is value.
Both in importance and in ethics.

But I refuse
To give in to that delusion.
I see the limits.
Yes, I do.
The limits I see
Are endless.
Paradoxical they are -
Limitless Limits.

And yet it is in our admission
In the presence of these limits
Where we shall find joy.
Only then can we revel in the glory
Of surpassing them -
Possibly once or twice.

Stripping a majestic tree of its dignity -
Wasting, killing, destroying.
Even its descendants.
Those poor, poor sheets of paper
All gone;
All wasted;
All dead.

The kill.
It's exhilarating.

*Disclaimer (?) (Did I even use that right?) : In no way is the author a sadistic nature-killer. (Okay the sadistic part maybe. *wink* ) The aim in this post is to create a persona of a mad man. This in no way (I hope) contributes to the mindset of eco-hating members of the society. In fact it would help a lot if you find this persona to be repulsive. Thank you.