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The morning after pill.

It was all a blur, last night. Bits and pieces of the Wednesday that was come to him one by one as he bites into his hastily made peanut butter breakfast. He wasn't supposed to be there last night, 2 a.m., pants undone, hair unkempt, his pulse beating heavily against her dirty white marbled floor. He was half sweaty, half cold. His back was damp, so was everything else within the realm of his skin; he could remember feeling his entire upper body heaving in a gentle but overwhelming frenzy while she breathes on the sides of his neck, then down his chest, and up again, spelling his name across his torso one letter at a time. She was mad, he recalled, mad at something - mad at her professor for not accepting her late exam, mad at her best friend for throwing away her cigarettes again, mad at her missing eyeglasses, mad at him for coming over, mad at him for not letting her go. But she let him hold her, after he knocked on her door. She slammed the door to his face, but came back and opened it a good six seconds later - he knew because he always counted her reaction time to anything that involved her ending a sentence with "away." She buried her face onto his shirt, asking him if that's alcohol she smelled and whose tongue was he sticking down his throat just nineteen days after they broke up. He liked it that she counted. She pushed him out the hallway again, but not before making sure he wasn't going to leave by tossing her hair just the right way, and he didn't, he didn't leave. They talked, he knew they talked about something outside the two of them, but he couldn't really remember, not with the toxicity still lingering in his breath this morning. But he was sure they talked, and talked, and talked some more, until the words got tired, but their mouths didn't and sometime between her being unsure of taking advantage of his poor, drunken state and him assuring her he will never regret it, their hands found their way to buttons and hair and legs and light switches and oh God, it was all a haze to him now, but his shirt falling nicely on top of her dress was clear inside his head, among all the other things falling nicely on top of other things. Why he loved the sea of her pores, her uncertainty, the intensity of her fragility, he couldn't say. Why he could never completely pull away from her, why he always felt the warmth underneath her icy skin of indifference. He shouldn't be thinking of her anymore, not after he woke up, on the same floor, with the same chill running down his spine, but without her legs holding him down, without a note telling him goodbye. He tries to wash away the thought, with a swig of coffee and two aspirins, hoping for the headache to go away, but not the girl behind it. How he adored her, still, always, that one last image of her and her hair dangling, swinging, leaping off her chest with reckless abandon in the heat of friction, his hands holding her, pushing her away but always bringing her back.



I am

a frustrated being.


I'm still alive, actually.

It's Quezon City day today, which means for the first time in a long time, I once again get a much-needed break. Allow me to stretch my arms and yawn and relish in the moment of still being in bed at this time of day - aaaaaaaaaaahhh. There.

This month has turned out to be the most stressful in the semester so far. (And I'm sure it's just bound to get busier.) I have been extremely occupied with so many things, with my thesis in particular. It's taking up so much of me, not just my time but even my mental state - just the thought that it's here, waiting to be finished, demanding to be perfect - daunts me. I also still have a teleplay to rewrite, a take home exam to answer, a report to make, and a screenplay to formulate. Yes, hello permanent eye-bagahe.

I'm so exhausted, really. I'm tired from all the writing I have to do, which really takes a toll on me physically and mentally and emotionally. But then, that's something I have to do as a part of my course. It's a given, so I suppose it's a kind of pain I've gotten used to. What I'm more concerned about is the feeling that this weariness is trickling down on everything else, leaving me discontented and miserable even in the littlest of things. It's a vicious cycle of feeling bad and getting tired.

But silver linings are what keeps me together and yesterday, I found one in Incubus. Thank goodness for songs that find their way to me when I most need them to. There's nothing more comforting than knowing that your being messed up is congruent with someone else's.

"What's wrong with you is good
For what's wrong with me
And I think maybe we should stick together
Because in the end, we are friends and lovers."

All will be well soon. Oh look, sleep is still beckoning. I cannot refuse.


Dearest Boyfriend,

Happy, happy birthday!

I love you more than I love Oreos, pancakes, <i>and</i> ice cream combined :)</div>


A message from a Senior citizen.

The news on TV and my news feed on Facebook and Twitter are abuzz with updates about the UPCAT. Tips, complaints, traumatic experiences, dreams, futures - all suddenly sprawled before us. The virtual air is filled with a harrowing mix of excitement and tension, and I can't blame them. I can still remember the feeling after all - and very vividly at that. My memory serves me well especially in times of great anxiety. (It helps that I blogged about it, too.)

But how could I ever forget that day? More importantly, how could I ever forget the impending feeling of nauseousness taunting to break itself free into some gooey form of indistinguishable substances out my throat? I was that nervous. It was, undeniably, the biggest examination of my life. Sure, the ACET mattered. Sure, DLSU-CET mattered. But this was UP. The University of the Philippines College Admissions Test. No other exam gets as much coverage, as much anticipation. And no other university has thrilled the private-school-girl-waiting-to-get-liberated in me the way this one did. In my mind, it was the only thing that counted. I knew I could never forgive myself if I didn't get in. I was dying to bleed maroon.

Flash forward to four years later, and I am in fact, dying. Bleeding to death. In this maroon university. Awfully sleep-deprived. Body clock gone whack. Hormones berserk. Brain cells zapped to exhaustion and/or death. Pimples threatening to hold a revolution any moment now. I thought the UPCAT was the biggest hurdle I had to face - turns out, it would be the easiest. Unlike the UPCAT which only lasts for five hours, this torture has gone on for about hmm, four years now. And for some that extends to an indefinite amount of time, even.

Getting into UP would seem such a great achievement, at some point in one's life. But you know what? It's leaving it (with a diploma, of course) that's more challenging. Getting out alive is the battle you really have to be prepared for. Trust me, no amount of review centers can groom you for that. But the whole process of just being here, fighting your way out of this combat zone (filled with professors armed with machine guns of insults, people with enough brains to annihilate your self-confidence, readings and exams that could detonate your mental capacities, etcetera, etcetera) - it will definitely make you stronger. It's only when you've gone through the victories and the losses, wounded, but hopefully still intact, will your departure be truly worth the taxpayers' money. And your time.

UPCAT takers, I hope you don't look at the exam as the end - it's just the beginning. Surviving the test is barely a fraction of the battle. Getting into UP shouldn't be your goal - it's to be a future UP graduate that you're supposed to be aiming at. Not only that, a deserving, honorable and excellent UP graduate. Only then will it all matter.

Good luck, kids. The long wait looms ahead.

(Oh God. Do I sound like a college lola?)