Baby baby bebe.

My well-meaning boyfriend said that maybe I should start writing about other things other than myself… so that (from what I understood from his explaining) I wouldn’t sound so… redundant. Or something like that. I think he just didn’t want my writing to turn bland or stagnant. And I don’t think he likes that I use “appease the dissonance” often.

Of course, after his having said that, my defense alarms immediately went off. (Because obviously, I am the type who needs constant appeasing.)

Ok. Last week, at the Pinoy Blogfest my company held, I learned from one of the keynote speakers that if you wanted to blog, just make sure you put some disclaimer stating that you are a blogger and not a wanna-be journalist who tries to pass information off as true and credible.

So everyone, I’m a blogger. And my blog is a [not-so-personal] personal web log. It was meant for me to write about… well… myself. And if I sound redundant then… I’m sorry. But I don’t think I could ever get sick of myself. And besides, working as an editor for a magazine that comes out monthly is what I consider my recommended dose of “formal writing.”

…..

Now this morning, I was all love and giddiness and rainbows and sunshine. I was in the bathroom seriously pondering my next lovey-dovey blog about how great it is to be loved in return and to be adored and revered  and all that good stuff. I was thinking about how I was gonna incorporate Friendster as the better social networking site over Facebook because at least, for a time, Friendster allowed you to add testimonials… and those testimonials were probably the best ego-boosters ever (no. 1 reason why I still keep my Friendster account). How it helped my self-esteem when I was feeling absolutely wretched and ugly and uninspired. I began to think about how people used to really take their time to tell you how awesome you are. And how all that is just fucking amazing ---- to have someone/several someones love you. As amazing as a heart beating on its own, with no batteries. It just fucking beats. (Ok, the last few statements where I went all anatomical, I thought about recently and figured the realization was worth sharing despite its misplaced incoherence.)

I was gonna write about all that today.

Then I saw something I shouldn’t have seen. (How the fuck was I to know that the folder entitled “vCARDS" was an address book? I thought they were Valentine’s Day eCARDS, I kid you not!!!)

I had managed to dislocate my chakra.

But seriously… I THINK “BEBE” FOR A PETNAME IS THE DUMBEST PETNAME EVERRRRRRRRRRR!!! Shit. I have a friend named Beb. It was short for Genevieve. But we all ended up calling her Beverly instead because it was funny. And… I call everyone “Beb”… especially the ones whose names I’ve forgotten. It was a default code for John and Jane Doe. (C’mon, don’t act like y’all haven’t done that, too.) I mean, I get “baby.” But “Bebe?”

You have got to be kidding me.

(Sorry to those who are someone’s “bebe” girl or “bebe” boy. I think it’s stupid. But hey, I ain’t gonna hate on love.)

Tangina that.

 

How can you have a relationship with fucking gums? Ugh.

Shoot.

Maybe I should start writing about something else.

 

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I saw Eric Fructuoso a few weeks ago at Music Trivia Night over at Attica. It was the most surreal thing. HE WAS 1/3 OF THE GWAPINGS, YO!

I totally went into a flashback 90s vertigo.

Then I remembered my first ever Filipino crush.

PATRICK GARCIA in…

 

ROLLERBOYS.

(Oh shit, I just found out that Eric Fructuoso was in that movie, too. Ahihihihihihihi.)

 

Then it was Spencer Reyes. HAHAHAHAHA! (I bought a wallet-sized picture of him at the palengke when I was 14.)

But apparently, it wasn’t as bad as what our Ed. Asst. did…

She wrote Patrick Garcia a letter, using the address provided by the local “teen beat” magazine.

Everyone had found out she’d done it when the mail was returned to her. All the while, she thought that Patrick never got around to responding to her or that her mail had gotten lost. HAHAHAHA!!!

 

The things you do when you’re young.