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Friday, 27 April 2012

  • Thank You!!!!!!!!!


    I never know what exactly to do with all those people who'd post “Happy Birthday!” on my Facebook wall.

    Do I ignore them? Do I “like” the comments? Or should I really write a short and sweet and generic “thank you! :)” note on each and every one of them?

    I don’t want to, but its kind of awkward when you thank and message back a few people, and then leave the others ignored… so I ended up spending about an hour and a half typing different ways to say “thank you”.

    By different ways, I meant the number of exclamation marks.

    Also, my “kilig moment” of the day isn’t from my boyfriend, but from a girl from grade school who greeted me and called me her “best friend from grade 5”.

    Glad she admitted it first.


  • FML.


    Today is my birthday, which means I will whine, bitch and moan, as usual.

    So I have had a bit of money. Unlike most people, when I have money, I do not immediately run off to the nearest shopping mall. No, I think I've grown up a bit, and my money goes into my films and shoots and weed and candy.

    My money was all meant for this film I had to shoot at a train station this weekend. Being mostly a producer, I am quite frugal when it comes to budgets. I will not spend, as much as possible.

    Having had quite a few experiences running away from cops and security guards with a film crew for guerrilla shoots, it would be real easy and quite fun for me to shoot it this way. However, I managed to snag a big name actor, and I would like to work with him again. I couldn't bear the thought of having him run and hide with all of us in public.

    I decided to this the legit way. I was going to go to their office, properly get permits and pay the fees. Get it on paper and signed.

    Within a few minutes, I managed to get the location and get the price way down, and I was asked to return to get the permits and pay the fees. I was hesitant, as it was my birthday. Actually, not hesitant -- I DID NOT WANT TO. Since there was really nobody else who'd do it for me, I agreed anyway.

    Really, the last thing I want for my birthday is to be traveling to a godforsaken place, in this Manila summer heat and pollution, an hour and a half away from home. That, and cancer.

    So this morning, I had to drag myself out of bed. I didn't even bother taking a shower, because I knew as soon as I get home, I'd be scrubbing myself for a good 30mins again. When I got there, I was greeted with bad news: "Hey, turns out, we can't give you that low rate we promised you yesterday... So we're going to have to double it."

    I was about ready to flip, but instead, I tried to talk to them, in the calmest, most professional way I could. Maybe, if I ask them again nicely, maybe if I explained why I'm doing this, maybe if I tell them that this all came from my birthday money. Maybe.

    I've always been quite good at talking to people, but it seemed like they were out for money. The lady was quite firm, and insisted I pay double the price. The pressure of having to shoot in 2 days, the travel I had to go through from home to their office in 2 days, and celebrating my birthday in an old, seedy looking office where I am basically being robbed, brought me on the verge of tears... and I do not cry easily.

    "It says you're a producer/director! How can you not have money?!" -- I do not know where it came from that producers and filmmakers all have money. No, we don't. More often, we're broke, unemployed fucks.

    It took another half an hour of groveling when she agreed to shave off at least a thousand off the 'double price'. I was tired and dirty and sticky and annoyed and aging, and I just wanted to go home... So I let them win and said yes to their price.

    What ticked me off really bad, wasn't just that... While paying, I saw them all give each other these looks, I don't know if I was just being paranoid, but it felt like I was being duped by these people.

    Look, if you had the power to lower the price in the first place, why did you have to let me beg for an hour? Why give me a doubled price? And why are you telling me I can't get my deposit back? And why do you have to keep repeating: "This money won't go into our pockets" so many times?

    They handed me the letters and permits and told me to pay at the cashier. I was walking out of their office to the cashier when I was tempted to make a run for it. I already have the piece of paper with signatures, so screw the payment.... but I decided to be the decent person and just go through with it.

    All the while, I was thinking -- THIS, is why the lower people take bribes. Why people would rather pay low workers on the sly. Rather than give your money to the higher ranked corrupt people, give it to the one who needs it more. I was tempted to do that before. Pay off the guards instead, because it would still come out cheaper, but nooooo. I decided to do the right thing and just got screwed over a couple of thousands.

    Happy Birthday to me.



Wednesday, 18 April 2012

  • STFU.


    I usually like to keep to myself.

    You don't talk to me, I don't talk to you. I probably won't even talk to you much when you're talking to me, unless I really like you.

    So on Facebook, it works that way too. I won't play your stupid game requests, I won't comment on your status updates, I won't care if you and our friends have turned my status update into a chatroom. I delete you or I ignore you.

    So this guy, who I've known since college and worked and hung out with several times after we've graduated is on my list. I'm well aware that we've passed the acquaintance stage, but we've never reached the "friends" stage. The middle ground, where he is currently at, is what I call the "I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-you" stage.

    So out the blue, while I was playing Scrabble with Facebook geriatrics, he messages me with an: "OMFG!!! ^_^"

    See, when you message me with something like this, I expect all that to be good news that concerns me -- Do I get a new project? Do I get paid? Are people talking about me behind my back with disturbing admiration? Did you hear of our college batch mate that got pregnant and fat? Only then, I'll let it pass that you use those stupid smileys.

    So I give my minimal response of "sup". I won't even bother with proper grammar, spelling and punctuation… because that's how I roll.

    The dude then turns into a complete spaz and bombards me with news of how he just got hired to teach in our college for the TV Writing class. And when I say bombard, I mean at least 20 sentences, no stopping, flooding that itty-bitty Facebook chat window. I didn't even bother to scroll up and read.

    The only thing I could say was -- "cool." To which he again, replies with the same amount of fervor.

    I don't know how some people are so clueless, that they don't realize the obvious that nobody wants to or cares enough to talk to them.

    So I did what every normal person would do -- log out of Facebook, go take a piss, get a sandwich, browse Yahoo! news, go back on Facebook.

    I kid you not --- when I went back, I had 15 messages. All from him. And he didn't stop there. Oh, no, no. As soon as he saw me go on, he chats me up again and continues. I gave him a lame excuse of

    "Dude. internet's shitty. talk next time." then I logged out again.

    After a few moments, I realized… why the fuck am I hiding from this douche? I've told people to STFU straight up. I could tell him that I thought he was highly unqualified for the job, or that he lacked talent to even teach. Or that he has never written for TV o any good script, for that matter to be a TV Writing professor. I could even point out how he's been unemployed for the last few years, or I could've just dropped the old adage "Those who can't, teach."

    But then, I decided to leave it. STFU and ignore him.

    ... and just blog all about it, which makes me sound more of a loser than he is.



Tuesday, 17 April 2012

  • Battle scars.


    For the next few days, I am stuck in bed or the couch.

    I'm not sick, and I don't even have a cool reason like a sprain from kicking someone or a shark bite to the thigh.

    No. I got injured with stiletto heels.

    For the longest time, the grossest injury or wound I got was when I rummaged through my parents' drawer and cut my thumb and thumbnail with an open razor. The thought of it still gives me the fucking goosebumps.

    It beats the time I got a huge gash on my arm after I stuck my arm through a broken glass table and spurted out about a pint of blood.

    It beats the stitches I had on my forehead after slipping on a rug and hitting the edge of a coffee table.

    It beats the time when I went to a freshly hacked field in flip-flops, and accidentally stepped on twigs which went right through my foot, and since I wasn't anywhere close to home, the only thing that helped me was my brother who had to carry me and my dripping foot to the car, a nail clipper to pull the goddamn thing out.

    What I have right now, beats them, I think.

    See, I own a ridiculous amount of stiletto heels. I am comfortable with them, and have worn them in inappropriate occasions, but I didn't care. Me and my shoes were friends. Best friends.

    And then time came when I figured -- fuck it. I will wear flip-flops and sneakers where ever the fuck I go from now on. So I did.

    Yesterday though, I felt like reuniting with my shoes. So I wore them going to a coffee shop.

    A few minutes walking in it, it felt weird. Then it felt really uncomfortable. Then irritating. Then painful. Then, really really painful, like my shoes were stabbing my feet with pins.

    It's like them telling me -- fuck you, for abandoning us in a closet all this time!

    I wish I could tell you that I did the smart thing and went to the nearest store and got the cheapest flip-flops I could find --- I didn't. I decided to suck it up and smile through it the whole night.

    As soon as I got into the car, I took them off and went home. I was okay at first, then I started feeling all squishy under my feet and I realized I got gigantic blisters

    It's not the pathetic small ones you can just pop at anytime -- No. These are at the balls of my feet, with thick skin. BOTH OF THEM, I repeat. Its not the type you try to pop because its the type where you know THERE WILL BE BLOOD. So I have been wobbling and walking weird since and I dread the moment that it pops on me.

    And yes, this post was just meant to gross you out.


Saturday, 07 April 2012

  • Friend, DELETED.


    In 2010, according to a Facebook app, my most used status update phrase was: "FRIEND DELETED".

    I wasn't surprised. Years in Facebook, my friends still don't go up to 500. I can never understand how or why anybody would have or need a 1001 friends.

    I really do not want to care about so many people.

    Am I interested in knowing how HS girls' lives went after high school? Maybe.

    If you're the valedictorian back then, but is now a fat lesbian working at a call center, you can stay on my friends list. Just because you make me feel better about my life choices.

    Do I want to see hot chicks from HS that got fat? Yes. But as soon as they start posting shirtless photos of their ugly husbands and ugly babies -- Remove from friends.

    Do I want to see the dumb sluts in HS that became flight attendants with their countless pics in Paris? No.

    You think theres a plural word for FOOD and spell it as FOODS? No. STUFF as STUFFS? No. We cannot be friends.

    Did you talk about the new Twilight film on your status message? Or the new Star Cinema film? We will stop being friends.

    Change your profile photo into Kony 2012 and posted the video? Deleted.

    Still quoting stupid and cheesy lines from "The Notebook" in 2012? Friendship. Over.

    Ask me to play Farmville? DELETE.

    Ate a Magnum ice cream and took photos with it? DELETE.

    This week, I went on a burning bridges rampage and started deleting friends who think they're fucking food photographers.

    Look, its nice that you and your family or friends went to a semi-expensive restaurant and ordered spaghetti with two perfectly cut and buttered garlic bread. Good for you, but I've seen a plate of spaghetti in my life countless of times, so I do not fucking care what your plate of spaghetti looks like. Please do not bother Instagraming it and posting it on Facebook, because whenever people post their food, all I can think of is -- Oh, this is whats coming out of her ass after 3 hours.

    If we feel the need to tell our friends what we ate or where we ate and with whom, then we're got to start looking for friendship trouble signs right there.

    I do have very shallow reasons for burning bridges, but then if people are going to knock me on that, I'll throw you the same thing -- you have shallow reasons for maintaining friendships.

    I have, in my life, only about 7 friends I absolutely, genuinely care about and two don't even have Facebook. So to say that the other 400++ friends on Facebook are my friends is really a fucking lie.

    They're mostly just there to play Facebook Sims with me.



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Your praises go here. (2)

  • if you were a cactus, why? ....perhaps it's because people want their inbox full of pricks (: did I win the porn competition?)
  • this is where you're supposed to write short notes. don't cramp my email inbox with hi's and hello's. c'mon now! if youre going to send me emails, might as well write something interesting because you're competing with porn in my inbox.
    • Posted 6/22/2007 3:15 AM
    • by weedur

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