It's been a while.

I miss you.

I miss everything. I miss your eyes, your scent that used to play around my nose every time you come near me--like the uninvited thoughts of me wanting to kiss you that very moment. I miss your hands, your long, slender fingers that you always used to run through your hair. I miss your face that was especially made by the hand of God. I miss the string quartet that always plays on the back of my mind every time you're near me. I miss the songs that we used to talk about. I miss your voice accompanied by a thousand singing angels every time you speak. I miss your laugh, a low chuckle designed for quite a reserved person that you are. I miss your smile especially when you do it for me--the single, most effortless act you can do to render me incapable of feeling nothing but sole adoration towards you.

I hate you.

I hate your eyes that you direct towards people who don't care about you. I hate that even through your peripheral vision you can't seem to see that I am here looking at you the way you look toward the girls you like. I hate the insecurity that this brings, the feeling that I will never be good enough--and it creeps through me like the way your scent used to linger around my senses: unwelcome but nevertheless coming through, like a shot of poison that is slowly killing me. I hate the songs that we used to talk about and how I would instantly be reminded of you the moment I hear them play. I hate how I would sometimes even hear your voice at the back of my head singing those songs and how I would secretly smile to myself, but let that smile instantly fade away because I know i am supposed to forget it. I am supposed to forget you. I hate your thoughts that speak of nothing but words that you know will hurt me. I hate that I feel you have done all those things intentionally. Most of all, I hate how I know you will treat this letter as nothing but an awkward confession of love and rage from someone you couldn't care less about.

I hate the fact that I am now in the process of convincing myself that I am supposed hate you and everything that reminds me of you because it's the only way that I know to finally get over how I feel.

I want you.

I want you to tell me that everything's okay, that all those evil theories I have constructed in my mind from those years of infatuation and hatred swinging back and forth are not true. I want you to show me that you are not a bad person, that you are still the one that knocked me off my feet the moment you first smiled at me and did a mock salute as a gesture of "hey, nice to meet you". I want you to tell me the truth, no matter how hurtful you think it would be. I know I can get through it someday.

I love you.

I just know that I love you. Still. Always. I still love you because it was so easy for me to write the first part of this letter and how hard it is to write the second one. I still hope and wait for the possibility of the third part of this letter coming true. I love you because even after I was clearly hurt, the hope that you will find someone that will make you happy triumphs over the negative feelings I have towards you. I love you and I don't want you to push the people that care for you away, because I don't want you to be alone.

I love you so much that it has come to the point where I don't feel anything anymore. I love you so much that I am starting to doubt the power of the very feeling that I have and whether it really exists. I love you so much that I know that what I have will never be enough. Maybe all unrequited love will somehow come to this, where the person simply gets tired of showing affection to someone who doesn't feel the same. Maybe the person did not really grow tired--she had just become aware of the fact that the more she gives, the more it will hurt in the end. I am not really sure what happened in this case; maybe both. And I fear the day that I'll start to forget you; because I know that all I have now of the love I used to treasure are the memories that time is slowly evanescing away.

Originally written November 28, 2012

My creative muse is summoning me in a rather unusual time of the day—for the normal person, at least.

It’s 3:30 A.M. and I am currently in a McDonald’s having a meal of cheeseburger and fries which serves as my lunch. It’s the first day of my week-long vacation leave and my messed-up body clock forgot about it, so I am here following an American time zone… or that of Mogadishu, or freaking Timbuktu. Whatever. Fact is, I just woke up and suddenly wanted to write something.

My fries are hard, stale, and tasteless. The Sprite tastes of floodwater. The cheeseburger is too oily. A gang of call center agents are sitting in front of me talking in their maximum volume. Dave Grohl is one of the coolest people alive. I dreamt that a group of Filipino artists formed an Oasis tribute band and it was unspeakably rubbish… not that I am attacking the artists per se, but they chose the wrong people to do the job. I mean, Top Suzara as Liam Gallagher? What the actual flying f---? The Kurt Cobain book I recently purchased talked to me in an email.

I can barely remember what I was listening to before I started listening to Oasis. My memories that Noel Gallagher would not be happy about were abruptly flushed down a Champagne Supernova and replaced by a lot of British bands that my friends haven’t heard of. I am not sure if I really want to continue writing at this time and in this place, or just watch my recently downloaded episodes of New Girl instead. If someone would ask me who my girl crush is, it’s most definitely Zooey Deschanel.

I really want to write something. I’ll organize my thoughts. My muse is distracted by the laughter of these call center agents talking about a trip to SM Baguio. As in THE SM Baguio. Why take a trip to nature’s serial killers, I thought. But they won’t listen to my opinion because they don’t know me.

I promise I’ll be writing decent, coherent thoughts on my next entry.

Actually, I don't know what "Happy Birthday" means.

I feel sorry for myself that I loved a heartless person.

I don’t even know how to start. I don’t know what to say. All I know is I hate you. No, not hate. I am disappointed. I am disappointed with myself that I continued to hope that you will change. That I can still expect something from you.

That the day will come that you will care for me enough even just to know when my birthday is.

And my birthday is the blimmin’ fifth of November, the day that a movie you like tells you to remember.

A lot of people I barely know got out of their way to send me a message on Facebook or text me just to wish me a happy birthday. My birthday is written all over the world of social media. Even the moderators of various websites I never even used greeted me with an automatically-generated email. These are people I know little to nothing about.

But I got nothing from you. You who I have given blimmin’ romantic advice, you who I have encouraged to go on when you thought law school is not for you, you who told me what he wants to be, you who I have shared the best songs I knew with, you who I have dedicated my flippin’ undergraduate thesis to! God, if I only knew how you’d just throw all of these away and act like you never knew me at all.

I don’t even care anymore if you don’t love me that way I do about you. Well I still do, partly. But it has come to the point wherein all I wanted is to just hear from you. Anything from you.

A ‘happy birthday’ would have sufficed for me to know that you are still there. That you are not just a lifeless avatar on Facebook that I check every now and then to see if there are any updates.

I am disappointed with how I expected you to call me, because I asked you to do so many months ago when I told you I love you and I want to hear your response, whatever it may be. I feel sorry for myself because I kept assuming that you value my feelings and one day you will say that you do. I feel sorry for myself that I believed that you are a kind person.

All I wanted for my birthday is a response from you for that email I sent five months ago.

I feel so stupid for thinking that you can’t make the situation harder than it already was. I feel so stupid for saying I love you for the third time, and still nothing.

I feel so stupid for believing that you are still the person that I wrote stupid letters for. That the love I have faithfully nurtured and collected for over two years will be appreciated by their recipient, but you just spat on them and threw them out of the window.

I feel so stupid that even now that I am writing this, I am still hoping that I am wrong. That you are not as bad as the person I thought you are. That you have an explanation to all these things.

I feel so stupid that I cannot not love you, and it has come to the point that it made me devoid of any emotion. I can’t feel sad, because I forgot how it is to be completely happy. I already forgot how it is to feel over the moon because of someone.

I don’t even know what the word ‘love’ means anymore. It may exist, somewhere, but all I know is that it will screw you over for caring too much. Let that person inspire you to the point that you can almost do anything, and watch your innocent little heart be taken away and chopped finely until it disappears into thin air.

It is nothing like what you see on movies. It is not something to be believed in.

I don’t really know if I still feel about you the way I did before. Maybe I don’t. But there’s still a part of me that remembers you when I see cars inside malls or when I hear 30 Seconds to Mars. I still hope I can climb mountains with you, or travel the world together, or go to an Oasis gig when Noel and Liam get back together. The thought of ending up with you still feels like home, although this time I am not sure if I am welcome anymore.

I just miss you so much. I can feel the pain run from my throat to my chest with the thought that this is how the story of us ends. In the words of The Smiths: I know it’s over and it never really began…

Writing to Reach You

I miss you.

You know how it would go if I try to tell you this, right? You will laugh in my virtual face at the apparent absurdity of it all, then leave me without an answer. Just that. Just a laugh with no meaning.

I love you.

Even more so with these three words. Oh, the foolishness of it all! You what? I don’t understand. I love you. Three absurd words that you never understood.

I love you. I miss you. I f---ing love you. How foolish of me to say these words again even upon knowing of their miserable fate. I said these words to the same person, expecting to receive a different answer. Ludicrous!

What makes I love you so hard to understand? We were once friends and shared a lot of friendly moments together. Remember when you’re trying to hold my hand or attempt to ask me out for lunch? Those were the times that an I love you could have been more bearable. Premature, but bearable. I knew it then, I could have said it, but I wasn’t so sure. You were too good to be true, a ready answer to my dreams.

And dreams do not easily come true, do they?

I have told this story a hundred times before to people I have bothered too much that they stopped giving a fuck. It has also come to the point when telling the stories—even the ones I treasure the most, became too old and tiring; when the sweet memories have already gone stale and lifeless.

I never wanted this to happen. I really wanted to preserve those scenes I have always kept in my mind, like when you made me your personal secretary even when I didn’t want to, or when you played with my hair and I asked you if you are gay. Those were what used to be my so-called shoes-with-wings moments (i.e. moments that made me feel like I'm flying) that I regularly play in my mind--too often that they have lost their meaning, simply because nothing else came up after that. That doesn’t change the fact that I’d give an arm to live those moments once again.

I miss you. God knows how much I miss you. I have tried everything to ease the pain and forget you but nothing seems to work. I started collecting rock band memorabilia, got into what I believe is brilliant music and shoved the ones I/we used to listen to down the forgotten pits of my music playlist (I know it's sad but I refuse to listen to Incubus anymore), even tried writing songs—but in my mind I still dream of doing them with you and being like Paul and Linda or the White Stripes. Everything reminds me of you and it’s disheartening.

It’s raining outside but my heart is heavier than the clouds. Rain falls down like heartbreak and trickles down even to things and places you don’t want to. My platonic romance with my job is now getting worn-out and I can’t appreciate anything I do. When your heart is broken, nothing else seems to matter.

Even my mom noticed my indifference. That I only care for myself—the only thing that I seem to do yet can’t do it well. If only she knew.

One of my friends told me to just cry this out. I want to, but I am afraid there are no more tears to cry. I am so tired of this—of putting my feelings to words because nothing I do seem to reach you. Nothing works. If they do, I should have known the answer to the only question I have: Do you love me too?

So that's how you treat people who care for you, huh? You're so dense and indifferent it's unbelievable. I just want a damned answer and until now this is what I get. Silence. Fucking silence.

Nobody ever deserves this, Kevin. I wonder where your fucking manners have gone. You are asked for answers, give them. Even kids know that. So that one's fucking soul may go in peace.

I just hope you don't treat others the way you treated me, because as much as I wanted to get even and make you feel even at least half of what you made me feel, I don't want you to end up being alone. Because I care for you, and if you find that offensive, I'm sorry.

First Anniversary with Alex Mann

If I am to follow the plans I have laid out for myself when I got here, this is the part where I'll be leaving.

But I won't. I have realized that a year is just too short to accomplish a lot of things you have set up. A year just flies. Like that. I now understand that a year is just too short to nurture you and prove yourself.

In that one year I was part of a team, lost it, built another one, yadda yadda... Seriously, that one year is actually the longest and the shortest of the 21 I have spent on the face of the earth. Times were the longest during those moments that I cried inside bathroom stalls. Enough of them already.

These times are for celebrating.

Celebrating the fact that although I still haven't proven myself in the past year, I still am happy that I am here. Thank God for landing me exactly in the place where I am supposed to be, where I will grow intellectually,  emotionally, even socially. I never realized I could be this happy and contented in the company of friends and people. It kinda gets awkward saying this to my mates all the time, but I really love them to bits.

I guess one will always have a certain emotional to all the firsts--in this case, my first workplace, first office mates, and first line manager.

While I write this I am in my usual spot--and there are some things that you'll never really outgrow I guess--I still have a messy desk (complete with Noel Gallagher's photos) and a bunch of CDs on the pedestal, just like what I had in college. My desk. My home for nine hours the least. And I am happy... and proud to know myself enough to tell you that this is not some form of cognitive dissonance.
And having a Rookie of the Month Award, a Contributor of the Quarter Award, and several projects on my belt--for the first year and on the first job, I think it's just fair to say that I'm on the right track.

Here's to many more, Alexander Mann.

Onwards.

Week in Post: Re-branding Me, Tagaytay Brekkie, and a Geeky Fight Scene

Yes. I just had one of the best weeks in a long time, I can't believe it. It was mental.

It started just one of the regular weeks, really, until Thursday when I had a re-naming party. It's the first time you probably heard that, I as well have never realised I'd have a party thrown for me just because I'd be changing nicknames. KC is dead. At least the KC they used to call here in the office. They're supposed to call me Karen from now on.

I had the need to change names because we are supposed to have a new team member called Kaycee, and blimey, she can't have a nickname because her name is a flippin' nickname already. I can't imagine anything else you can derive from Kaycee. So having two first names for an alternative, I was *quite*forced to be the one to adjust my name. I'll be Karen instead.

People in my hometown (ooh I sound like a delusional rock star) and my family call me Karen so there's no big deal out of it. I'm just not used to people I just met calling me Karen, but I guess I'll be used to it soon.

They threw a party for my name change and Nadine's birthday. Partied like it's 1989.

What made me accept the name change is this, to be honest:

Special message all the way from England <3

THEY KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE NOEL GALLAGHER!!! (I even have this photo on my Wonderwall in my flat).

CS Global Shared Admin Team, you are the bollocks.

***

Saturday morning I was dragged to an impromptu breakfast. It would've been acceptable if it's just a McDonald's breakfast or somewhere near but no--- it is in feckin' Tagaytay, way way south of Metro Manila. And I don't even have cash with me. Good thing there's an ATM across the restaurant.

The breakfast was nice but I am afraid I didn't get my P310 bucks' worth of food. I just had friggin' bacon and omelette all the way. But it's better than what my other friends had; they took a lot on their plate but can't finish it. They had to cut their day short and made a trip home to the toilets instead of enjoying Tagaytay. Poor blokes.

Look ma, empty plates!

Scenic view outside, Nestor doing quite a pose there...

But for the laughs, I must say that it was the best trip ever! We had Micmac, one of the team leads, as the driver (meaning we didn't have to pay for gas and toll mmhm).

When we passed by the area near the airport, one of my friends Kris pointed to the sky and said "look, there's an airplane!" the airplane looks like it's flying a little toooooo low, and the next thing it was coming toward us. Good thing we still saw it on the other side and I am not blogging from my grave as of the moment.

After having our breakfast we picked up some pasalubong from Rowena's, home of the best apple pie ever! Seriously, try it guys. I'm also happy that I finally got a hold on a jar of choco flakes. Quite expensive compared to when you get them straight from Baguio though, but still nice.

Also dropped by Nuvali and let our friend Kris indulge at the Aldo outlet shop there. Meanwhile I enjoyed a tall serving of Lemon Yakult Milk Tea from Serenitea.

On the way home was the cherry on top of the blimmin' awesome cake. SLEX is being quite a right bast*rd because of the traffic, but then Kris noticed (you might notice that she's always the one who take notice of things, right) two men on Darth Vader and Optimus Prime masks, just roaming around the expressway like it's the most normal thing to do in traffic. Just freakin' roaming around!!!

Being cheeky freaks that we are, we waved at those lads (they're on the lane to our left) and asked them for photos. They waved back and pointed the camera to us -- they have been filming the entire scenario all the while!

When traffic was finally moving, albeit slowly, the masked men's car was right beside ours again, and we must make it a point from hereon that Micmac's car is actually a Mitsubishi Strada pickup with an open back. Those bright lads rolled down the window and shouted at us: "bukas ba 'yang likod nyo?" (is the back of your car open?) to which we answered yes. We all knew what will happen next.

"Pwedeng pasakay?" (can we ride with you?)

Not minding the impending damage they might cause to the car if ever, Micmac let them do it. Or so i thought. The next thing I remember is Darth Vader and Optimus Prime hitching the back of the car we're in, again--like it's the most normal thing to do while in traffic.

Surprise! That's a flippin' Transformer at ya

This--a Star Wars-cum-Transformers Mashup

We can barely contain ourselves and we laughed throughout their entire stint. I even took a video (you might wanna turn down the volume):

Best strangers ever.

All in all, a top week. Got to attend my cousin's wedding on Sunday and was the veil sponsor for that one. Don't wanna show photos because I sport horrible eyebags from the day before (no sleep, you see). But I'd like to believe that the weekend did me good.

Onwards.

That awkward moment when you know you've written a song but don't know how to put a tune because you can't play any instrument aside from a blimmin tambourine

Now I know how Liam Gallagher feels. I need a flippin' counterpart to Gem Archer to help me make this a proper song. Otherwise it's just a piece of useless rhymes. I now surrender and acknowledge that everyone can be a writer, but only a talented few can be a songwriter.

And for me, music is some sort of a moody kind of thing-- sometimes it's about the lyrics, sometimes it's about the tune. Sometimes lyrics that mean nothing, when mixed with a good tune can somehow mean everything to you. Try listening to Supersonic and Champagne Supernova you'll know what I mean (not to mention that until now we don't know what a Wonderwall is).

Earlier I was reading the Noel Gallagher NME special and it dawned to me, what do Noel and I have in common? Yes he can play the guitar and build his one-man band and I can't, but does that mean I can't be him in my own way?

So I started a revolution from my bed. Literally. I got up, got a pen and paper and started scribbling down what seems to be lyrics without a definite tune on my mind. I'll leave that to a friend that can help me (although I still don't know who that person is).

I finished writing in less than an hour. I pity myself that I can't play the guitar because my fingers are too short, but having started my little stint, I think I'm gonna try once more.

I won't post what I've written just yet, but what came out is a marriage of Oasis and Dashboard Confessional. At least that's what I believe it is, because two of the best songwriters for me is Noel Gallagher (obviously) and Chris Carrabba.

If you know how to play the guitar and can help me out with this, send me a message and let's form our own happy band and I will be more than pleased to write lyrics for you.

I'm serious.

The Good Fight

Life only revolves around three central topics: Love, Faith, and Death. The first can be shrugged off as non-existent, but it does, at the very core of each living being; keeping the second will always be a constant struggle until we are brought down to the third, which is inevitable.

I grew up in an environment of boys. I used to play more toy swords and ninjas than teddy bears and Barbie dolls. I spent the summers of my childhood selling ice pops around the village and playing video games with my all-male gang. There has even been a point in my life that I absolutely thought I was a boy too, so I pee standing up. All my childhood experiences wouldn’t have been as colourful as they have been without my brother, my cousin Dawe, and a family friend, Kuya Onel.

Kuya Onel was the oldest among us. I remember he was already in high school when I was in kindergarten, and with that my parents always trusted him to take charge of all the little ones. My mother took him in as an assistant back when they still made bags for our living and sent him to school in exchange. He wasn’t really too old, I guess he never had enough of his childhood and he still played along with us. We even have our names carved on the old wooden closet that was given away a little before we moved out of our old house. “May Marc Karen Onel. Bubble Rangers For Ever.” It was the 90’s, and while other kids the same age as kuya Onel got into glue-sniffing, we were addicted to Bazooka bubble gum. They were both sticky, all right.

We were not blood-related, mind you. But the relationship that we had stuck like those chomped-up Bazooka under our wooden sala set. When I was in grade school, kuya Onel moved out and lived with his family in the city where they simply made ends meet. We rarely got to see each other, but he and his sister ate May (who was also part of the Bubble Rangers) remained to be the closest ones to us.

It was when I was in high school that I had news of kuya Onel having been diagnosed with severe Tuberculosis, a recurring illness in their family. With the disease having already killed their grandmother and an uncle, kuya Onel was determined to fight it off. He wanted to live a normal life, and though thin and sickly as he had always been, he still managed to build a family and have a bright and bouncy son named Russell.

His lungs never got any better. Every now and then we would receive news that he was rushed to the hospital, being on 50/50 for more than once, and we provided assistance as much as we could. Some days he is better, but on others he was so weak he can’t walk. But still, he was determined to fight it all off, still giving words of advice for ate May whenever she runs to him with her problems, and keeping the faith he always had. He trusted God and if he is to go, he’s ready.

Being ready, however, does not necessarily mean he wants to. If only he could, he would stay for a little longer, watch Russell grow up and spend more time with his family. These are things that we could only wish for. These are things that we all wished to have happened, but did not. One sunny afternoon in May, Kuya Onel breathed his last, from the suffering lungs he dealt with for the longest time.

I never cried upon his death, nor am I crying now. I haven’t even got the time to visit him on his thin, frail body’s last days on the face of the earth, before it was buried deep into the ground. Though I knew that he wouldn’t last as long as we hoped he would, I still can’t concede to the fact that I will never get to reminisce with Kuya Onel again—the one who I spent happy weekends and summers with, the one I grew up with, and the one who I roamed around the village with whilst selling ice pops and buying a lot of corn cheesedogs from the change.

I remember his face as I write this, and I am glad that I cannot imagine seeing him on a sad state. I will always remember his toothy smile, and his eyes that shrink as he does so. Kuya Onel has always been happy. He stayed positive. He held on for as long as he could. He kept the faith.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day —and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. 2 Timothy 4:7-8

You are missed, kuya Onel, but we know that you now have the peace you deserve… in a place where there is no pain or suffering. I’ll never forget. We never will.

Let me tell you about an article that I just published...

I recently had the privilege to write an article for the company magazine. Ergo, an article that would be read not just in Manila but all over freakin' Europe and several other countries. Scumbag article got to London even before I did. Anyway, it was published on the AMS website the day it got out:

Believe me, I am over the moon. It's been a while since I wrote something... err... professional and actually readable and understandable by many--as opposed to my heart-wrenching/fangirling blog entries here that are only understandable by a handful (not to mention are only found by a handful, as this is an almost non-existent blog no one actually cares about).

So I took the chance to screenshot it and paste it here so that it will live on forever--or at least as long as this blog exists. But what makes it even more special though, is an email I received from my boss's boss that I have took a screenshot of as well:

"We love having you"---from my boss's boss. Enough said.

 

I f*cking love it here.