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The Bombastarr: On Its Sixth Season! Out now on Blu-ray and DVD!

It just occurred to me that my blog turns six this month. Six years old. A lot can happen in six years. Just look at any TV show and observe the hair, the wardrobe and the apparent change in love team set-ups. Six years. That seems like ages in Internet years, doesn't it? I feel like I should go and do something different to celebrate, like give away iPads to random fans or finally buy a domain or publish a book with all my entries- something- but unfortunately, I don't have the necessary funds nor the ego to do that, so maybe instead of a wild virtual boozefest, I'll go with something more cozy and intimate: a nice and quiet little blog entry. (OH I bet you didn't expect that AT. ALL.)

I don't know if I should be proud or ashamed that this blog is the only consistent form of writing I have- I have no secret notebooks with a collection of short stories and I don't have unfinished novels on the backs of yellow pads. If I become famous and my memorabilia find its way on eBay, (nonexistent) fans would not have the luxury of bidding for my diaries and poems on old napkins. I simply do not have anything of that sort to prove that I did write outside the walls of the academe.

Which is kind of sad, really, because how can I be a writer without any kind of actual writing? I hear the dead poets/fictionists/essayists of yore turning over their graves in dismay over this. Ahh, technology has ruined you, they say. Well, I do have bits and pieces of sentences on the backs of my notebooks. But nothing of the literary sort. Only a refrain or two from the sexiest man with an acoustic guitar, John Mayer. And a lot of doodling of my name and someone else's. (Oops. But no surname changes, I assure you.)

I try. I really try. On the bookshelf above my bed and on my study table, I have a dozen or so notebooks waiting, just waiting to be used. How sturdy and wonderful to the touch the covers are, how vulnerable and alluring the pages seem. And yet I cannot find the words- no, the words are always there- I cannot find the courage to vandalize them. I cannot. I really can't. I try, but it doesn't happen. The magic doesn't occur on the fancy, frilly notebooks with ribbons and lines and wood-scented pages.

It's ironic that I have all this love for pens and notebooks and school supplies but I never really use of them for literary writing, more for academic writing. I get a high from taking down notes, making sure my bullets are aligned and important words are written in script. But when it's time to put into words what my characters need to say, the pen doesn't cut it for me.

The alchemy begins when my fingers graze the keyboard, when I find the dark blue header and the bright orange logo awaiting my return like a loyal pet dog, when instead of empty lines my hands are welcomed with small, distinct squares; the words, the punctuations, the feelings, the frustrations come out. I don't know why. It just does that way. And often that happens when I blog.

So I guess it isn't to say this "typing" is not some form of writing. I've said this before and I'll say it again, if it weren't for this blog I wouldn't seriously consider taking up Creative Writing. Despite my constant thrill during English class and a number of essay-writing contests, I just didn't feel like I was 'practiced enough' to consider myself a writer. I wasn't even a part of the school paper. Blogging was literally the only type of writing I've had going on for me- and maybe that's a sucky excuse for getting into this course, but so far I haven't been regretting my decision yet.

This blog is a culmination of the six years I've been letting my fingers do the talking for me. I'm not saying everything that has been created thus far has all been profound or coherent- heck, I'm certain for the most part they're all just clumsy attempts of putting down whatever it is in my head. (And quite frankly, a lot of them I still cringe on when I look back on to them.) But for what it's worth, it really is all I've got. And I can't say I'm not proud of it.

It's been a wonderful six years. I don't think a lot of people can say they've had a blog for six years. Happy birthday, Bombastarr @ Blogspot! I hope this doesn't end just yet :)

P.S. So yeah, I guess you still won't be seeing me flooding your Tumblrs any time soon.


Of cheesiness and/or bitterness.

People overusing the "less than" sign and the number 3. Friends exuding the aroma of dark, black coffee. Teddy bears shooting up in sales. Beer and alcohol shooting up in sales, following the rejection of aforementioned teddy bears. The repressed cheese trying to break down the walls of my amygdala in an attempt to flood the rest of my brain with its virus. Yep, it's that time of the year.<br /> <div><div><br /> </div></div><div><div>Unlike the few who revel in its celebration, and the many who look forward to its end, I never really attached myself to Valentine's enough to warrant a strong opinion on it. Sure, flowers may have been sent my way a couple of times before, and yes, I have experienced going through this day (literally and figuratively) alone, but I haven't really felt like I belonged to any one side of the social spectra this so-called holiday has divided us into. I was never the bitter, crying-in-one-corner-while-I-contemplate-on-jumping-off-a-cliff kind of girl and I shudder at the thought of being over-the-top mushy. It just isn't <i>that</i> big a deal for me. I'm the girl in the middle. The only thing I look forward to on February 14, really, is having an excuse to rape the replay button of the acoustic version of Panic! At The Disco's "Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off" on Youtube.</div></div><div><br /> </div><div>Being someone's Girl<i>nospace</i>friend somewhat thrusts you over to the "Must Celebrate and Be Romantic" side, however. Society coerces me into thinking that I <i>should</i> receive flowers, I <i>should</i> eat at an expensive restaurant, I <i>should </i>expect a surprise inside a cake or at the bottom of the champagne glass. But I won't. And I realize, in a relationship or not, Valentine's Day doesn't change its effect on me. I'm still in the middle ground. It's still just a day. A Monday. In fact, he has an exam tonight. I have an exam and a paper due tomorrow. The world doesn't stop on February 14. </div><div><br /> But that doesn't mean I didn't add a couple of more asterisks to a particular emoticon or that I detest seeing any hearts today. That doesn't mean we won't see each other today to prove we're not <i>that</i> kind of couple. That doesn't mean I can't close my eyes and hope for an extra tight hug at the end of the day. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate the thought this holiday is really pushing for. Any day that makes people feel more grateful for having someone is not a bad day at all for me.</div><div><br /> </div><div>Maybe Valentine's is not about the flowers you get or the expensive dinner you eat. Maybe it's not about hating on the guys who didn't call. Maybe it's not even about your relationship status. Unlike most other holidays, Valentine's Day is fastened on such a human emotion. It's not about your god, or your country. <i>It's about you</i>: how you feel, where you are, what you want. Maybe for that alone, it should be a cause for celebration. Because for all 365 days of your busy year, this one forces you to look at yourself and think about where life has brought you. It's either you end up feeling thankful for having someone to hold your hand or you appreciate your independence (and awesome set of friends)- I think both ends are perfectly alright.</div><div><br /> </div><div>Here's to hoping your Facebook news feed gets just the right amount of cheesy and bitter today. Nobody wants overkill. Happy Valentine's!</div>


Moving on, moving out.

I have this unexplained tendency to easily attach to things. I cannot let go of old reviewers, I cannot throw away meal stubs from Geog camp, I cannot say goodbye without looking back and asking for another hug. It could be a good thing, I guess, if I was the type of person who makes scrapbooks for fun. Or if one day, I become super famous and get some sort of cult following (HA. HA. HA.), I'm sure my old blue books and dried out highlighters could be worth a few hundred (or thousand?) bucks on eBay. But more often than not this attachment only leads to an unwarranted sense of nostalgia for things you could have easily discarded. And a whole lot of clutter.

For the past few days I've literally been immersed in clutter as I packed my stuff and prepared to move out of the room I've called my home for the last two and a half years. It's been a place that took me quite a while to get used to but eventually became my sole place of comfort in this land far, far away: Diliman. It was spacious and cozy, quiet and inviting. And the best part: it was always chilly there. Even during the summer when I took advanced classes, I only had to set the ceiling fan at 1 because I'd get too cold to take a bath in the morning. Seriously. It was effortless staying there, and what made it easier was that I had friends (classmates since Grade 1!) living there with me. That room had a lot of good memories, from sudden brownouts to surprise visitors.

But as always, life happens, and sometimes the places we hold dear to us slowly become the places we fear the most. At first I didn't want to admit it, but a part of me was feeling incredibly estranged as days went by. I tried holding on to the room, to the familiar setting it once was. But it was difficult, especially because I couldn't really do anything about it. It was home, it's not like I can escape it. But it certainly didn't feel like home. Eventually the alienation just became too much; I had to get out.

And so despite my deep attachment to the place, I've decided to move out. And as a precedent to my exit, I had to pack up and sort out the things I was to bring with me. It wasn't easy having to discard a lot of things I hold dear to me, especially when they were so utterly useless now. But I had to. And in a lot of ways, that whole packing ritual was a detoxification of sorts. I had to throw out the junk. I needed to get rid of the bad vibes. I had to let go of the memories I can no longer take back.

As Monica from Friends puts it, it was the end of an era.

Moving out may have been difficult, but I forgot how exciting moving in actually was. Saturday was the monumental Moving Day. It took a surprising turn, but it actually already made a happy memory for this room. It was exciting seeing the new shelves being filled with books, the bed being covered with new sheets. There's a different kind of rush in getting a new set of keys duplicated and meeting friendly and welcoming of people. It was fun. And I needed that. I needed the fun, exciting feeling of coming home to a place I actually liked.

Everything's back to square one again, I guess. It's like getting a new haircut- it takes a while to get used to, but I'll get there. I'm feeling incredibly positive about this place. It's bright, pleasant, and really cozy. And yep: Wi-fi! Oh be still, my Internet-dependent heart.

Now, here I am, typing away in my comfortable, lovable new space. It's different from the one I left, but it's equally inviting. I look around the space on my shelves, above my bed, on my closet, and I think to myself, I can't wait for it to feel like home. I can't wait to fill this place with my clutter.


The Kids Are All RIght.

I just finished watching this movie and right now I am just so moved, touched, and really emotional. It's just such a bittersweet, sincere and unapologetically honest way of looking at a family- a modern family, at that- but regardless, a normal one with typical issues and quirks. Annette Bening and Julianne Moore make such a cute, believable couple that it kind of makes you forget they're actually a lesbian couple because of how natural the family dynamic presented was.

Okay, allow me to digress here for a bit. I don't want to spoil the movie for anyone, but can I just say that Annette Bening covering Joni Mitchell's "All I Want" in one scene was enough to give me the goosebumps and the waterworks. It's just the way I've always imagined the song being sung in an actual context inside my head- so true, so painful, so real. I really had to pause the film and let myself reach to my box of tissues after those tender, blissful two minutes.

I know Natalie Portman and The King's Speech or The Social Network would probably be getting the Oscars (based on the predictions I've read) but this movie deserves to be recognized for the quiet, moving honesty it tells. It's a must watch, I tell you. One of my favorites now, actually.

And really, any movie that proclaims great love for Joni, and particularly the album Blue, gets an A+ from me. That alone just made this movie priceless.

Oh I hate you some, I hate you some
I love you some
Oh I love you when I forget about me