ES2PIDO|Estudyanteng Pinoy Dormitorian

No. Not Noynoy.

Some of my classmates told me about a book that interprets people’s personalities in birthdays using different astrological media. To tell you the truth, each time I read these forecasts, I am usually heard saying, “Ganun? Muolleh? Keure? Talaga?”–either of these four.

————-

When my classmates people ask me about my birthday, I’d say “Same as Ninoy Aquino’s”.

Three of us eldest sons of the family have the same birthdays with some notable heroes in the Philippines.

My eldest brother, Prince, whom I’m not in good terms with (which translates to ‘no casual conversation’, ‘no tone of reverence in replying’, and ‘no talking to him when I don’t have to routine so just talk to my lawyer if you want to read my last will and testament, ok?’ routine) celebrates with Gregorio del Pilar, a young but intelligent general of his ages. No wonder both of them are intelligent and stubborn.

Henry, brother next to me, doesn’t talk too much because he’s suplado and he has a lot of energy to save for having too much admirers. But the Ama ng Wikang Pambansa (Father of the National Language) ex-Pres. Manuel L. Quezon popped out of Maria Molina’s pussy the very same day as my brother’s. I guess my brother will be a blabbermouth later on, but knowing my brother as a Casanova? Hmmm, I’ll ask his third generation namesake descendant.

The youngest, Teri?
Nah, he envies our patriotic birthsakes.

And finally, me? Yours truly? Should I be proud of having the same birthday as the husband of an Orocan elementary teacher turned forgettable President and the father of an intelligent but voluptuously barbaric coño flirt hag Kris Aquino and the grandfather of a clinically proven retard son-of-an-action-star? (what a run-on ^_^)

Of course, yes. I wanna be on TV.

Subconsious speaks to Neil: Oh, so you’d like to see yourself getting killed in your next international flight which I presume would be one of your TV guestings in the US? Cracking your face on the concrete floor from a two-storey high airplane would make you ugly on your crematory rites. Well anyway, you’ll be pulverized in extreme heat, so vanity doesn’t make sense.

I need a class of water.

———

Had some remarkable firsts during most of the previous birthdays I passed through.

1. First field trip, November 27, 1997
2. First gift from a girl, November 27, 1995
3. First gift from a boy, November 27, 1994
4. First watch, November 27 year of something
5. First trip to Baguio, November 27, 2003
6. First perfected periodical exam in Statistics and Algebra, November 27, 2004
7. First Starstruck, November 27, 2004

I planned to finally go to Enchanted Kingdom today. But unfortunately this year, we have no money. I have no trasportation allowance this week. Zero balance. I’m supposed to attend our French 1 class but I’m still here in Dasma. I need a hundred pesos to go to Indang.

Hmmm… seems like I have to wait another year before at last I could set my third world foot on a place where no Filipino kid has missed during their educational field trips…

Joyeux anniversaire à moi.

———-

… I guess my Dad has forgotten about my birthday.

Oh well, I’m already used to it.

Hmm… he said he didn’t. I told him. Now, he will not. ^_^

Categories: Personalan

I was lucky to have enrolled with full academic scholarship two weeks ago (though ironically I have to pay a thousand pesos–full academic scholarship, huh?) According to my astrological profile, this month is sweepingly devastating for finances.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS

How I wish I can search for the Gameshark codes of “Unlimited Money” in Gamefaqs.com tweaking my PS game called “Fate”.

My younger brother, Henry (haven’t told you about him? I’m second among my three brothers; Henry’s third) has to stop schooling for a year. I asked him why he insists. We cannot afford to enroll us all, he said. Besides, we have to pay for the grandiosity of my Kuya’s nursing curriculum where we have to allot a whopping 20 thou for his Nursing exam review next month, enough for me to buy a new Smartphone which I broke last month (thank you =_=). I cannot afford to compromise his schooling–Philippine Nautical Technological College strictly implements regular-enrolled students. That is, Henry has to wait until the second semester next year for him to enroll in the regular curriculum.

I envy Henry for not being indulged to loads of academic requirements where twenty pages is the least amount of paper to review for a short quiz. But I am so frustrated, thinking that my scholarship’s motive of lessening this month would be of no use.

I was surprised–ultimately–to receive the grades from our instructors. I’ve been delinquent and irresponsible, but I was lucky to have accumulated a GPA of 1.46. Full academic scholarship starts from 1.5 for a 24-unit semester.

It could have been better if my one half cup of disinterest in my course and two tablespoons of diluted laziness and chopped cramming were cooked properly.

MCOM 22 - Communication Theories - 1.50

I communicate a lot, not with other people but with my subconscious. Don’t ask me how, but I know I can.

I never reached all our MCOM sessions on time. Thirty minutes late is my Filipino time, and our intelligent professor got used to it. I used to make absences, but I didn’t fail. I love misplacing all my handouts, and everything I know about this subject is everything that I only understood. Reviewing my photocopied handouts made me sleepy in all our unholy hours.

I guess our professor thinks I am smart.

FAVC 2 - Basic Photography - 1.25

I know I can handle my SLR camera very well. In this subject, I crammed. But I didn’t have the nerve to cheat even if all our deadlines were the last hours of my life. Honestly.

Issues about some of my classmates’ photos resided after my classmate created a documentation candidly revealing how my classmates acquired their exposures–sharing extra photos for those who lacked. But one thing was revealed to me–someone actually got pictures from a photo studio and claimed it as hers (very abhorring to me–I detest that act… gagawin ang lahat para lang magka-uno >:-( )

Because of that, our beloved professor (she’s so respectable and kind and loving, we even made her a cartoon portrait with her body resembling Danaya of Encantadia in her birthday) was disappointed. She cried for so much heartfelt disrespect in her profession as a teacher. She required each and every one to write a confession letter whether we cheated our photos or not. And we understand. We love her. We cannot afford to disappoint her more.

SOSC 6 - Rizal - 1.50

What? 1.5? Where the hell our instructor based my grade as 1.5? And someone not deserving got 1.25 because she used to make fun of our instructor all the time? The nerve… he didn’t even looked on his class records to compute our grades. Brr.

CISM 60 - Visual Basic - 1.25

Ok. I never reviewed all my handouts. Everything was spontaneous. I passed all my hands-on exams. I always finish first in our drills. I didn’t get high grades in objective tests, but my professor gave me 1.25. (evil laugh)

CISM 65 - Management Information System - 1.75

I’ll solely not comment on this one. First, our professor teaches this subject for the first time. Second, she’s not a good teacher (but she’s compassionate, but not a good teacher). Third, she follows her curriculum strictly. I topped the class with this grade. I have nothing else to say (burrp!)

CISM 70 - Data Management - 1.25

I love Ma’am Nosa. We all love Ma’am Nosa. And you don’t know her. She’s practically not making all her explanations hard to digest. I mean, we’re Mass Comm students but IT language is Martian (except for me. Lol). But she made it easier for us. We understood her subject very well. She’s been very generous in giving us more time to conduct our case studies.

I impressed our instructor and the rest of the IT faculty in our case defense. Actually, your truly is the only one who spoke eloquently and intelligibly for the group because I am the only one who created the documentation. And we got the highest grade. Haha. Storm signal no. 5.

JOURN 55 - News Writing - 2.00

Nah, Jun del Rosario was guessing.

FOLA 1 - Nihongo - 1.25

I didn’t fail his exams. I bested. And I didn’t make sipsip (because someone does… we all know about it. Haha.)

ENGL 6 - Speech Communication - 1.50

Our instructor loves me. Haha. He just loves me how I speak. I never got serious in his subject, but he loves me. I didn’t review his handouts, but he loves me. I got high grades. And his highest is 1.50. He really loves me.

But I hate his diction.

————-

PACMAN packs for politics?

That would be the most stupid thing he has ever planned. If he does have the plan or he just made his responses to our exaggeratedly super-excited media of pseudo-humility and coy.

And the Atienzas? Kiss Lito Atienza’s son’s ass, Pacquiao. They are using your fame, Pacquiao. I know you are not stupid. Or maybe I am wrong.

Father? Father his ass. Can’t you see Singson and Atienza dogging you since you won over Morales? And they don’t act as your second fathers. They just want you to be their wife.

You wave your hands and they do the same, even if they didn’t contribute greatly in your fights but to influence other gamblers to bet millions for you. They ride the same cars and glitter on the same motorcade like Precious Lara Quigaman even if they don’t have bruises on their freakin’ monstrous faces like yours.

And Arroyo? Ha, the nerve to act more like Boy Abunda to chit-chat with you than our Vice President who smirks each question. Showbiz. Can’t you see her pretenses?

Your popularity has been dwelt by macaroons of politicking and opportunity-taking of their incumbency. Hellouer? That son of Atienza (who looks like a squid) wearing the same gay red polo and braargh, the leis he placed on you before you reached the lower grounds of NAIA? Blasphemy. Super gay. And nakilandi ka naman, Packy?

You swore not to run, Pacquiao. Or else, you’ll never see us patronizing you as one of our fellow countrymen who wished politics would turn your multi-million assets times two.

Screw you, Pacman for being stupid like Fernando Poe Jr.

My posts are supposed to be funny. I created this blog basically just to make fun of myself, to conjure all my misadventures in life though worth to be snail-mailed to Maalala Mo Kaya. I dunno if you laugh your hearts out on them. I created this blog just to cream out my tickle zones to alphabet. Or maybe I was assuming too much. Hmm, I guess I am right. I assume too much.

My apologies for posting again after 48 years. You know, I was busy dealing with people whose sexualities are questionable… just read on.

———–

I never had a best friend. Ever.

(I told you I’m not friendly. K? ^_^)

I told Juice one time (Oh great. Now I’m pretending to be one tangibly close friend of Juice who has now mesmerizing her unforgettable moments in a place called Disneyland HK, I so envy her I wanna sell my soul to her. Lol) on one of her (tribute to her bestfriend–hey, her ‘living’ bez) posts.

Friendship is one hard to deal with. For me, it’s like the spaghetti you order in a fastfood where you decide whether to scoop it up at swoop it into your throat or to roll it using your fork and chew it before the sauce explodes into your mouth. Or you just omit the fastfood thing and eat the spaghetti bought in some shanty carinderia in your neighborhood since spaghetti is so delicious, I want to add more condiments in my next order. You get my point?

And once you liked the spaghetti, you crave for other recipes, and return where you bought the spaghetti in the first place, aiming for some promo of discounts or cheap freebies in the likes of stuff toys, kiddie ballpens that run out of ink after 5 uses–practically useless, etc, and then once you liked it, you make that fastfood or carinderia a routine. Confident that it’ll never sneak Hepatitis into your digestive track and look like Tweety Bird. Or nothing’s gonna change because you looked like Tweety Bird since my birth.

I always love to eat. But I don’t overdue myself with some similar cravings everyday with the same recipe I should eat. It just makes my stomach upset.

Same thing with befriending people.

I am not so sure, but I can’t trust anyone with full confidence. In fact, I have never ever disclosed even to my closest friends about the names of people brought to existence in my memory because of premature academic infatuation. Neither initials nor any single clue. Ever.

Skeletons remained skeletons. And I am patient enough to have it fossilized for a thousand years.

But I know how to have a best friend. I know that I am capable to have one. But I always think otherwise. Perhaps, I just can’t give all my trust to anybody.

Trust just obscures the demarcation line between my professional well-being and the casualness of the context of our text messaging. Like, hey, I am your friend. I can kiss your ass and do nothing, not worrying about the hell of your failures because I fail too. So let’s bark and smuggle the beans in hell with Dante.

It just ruins everything. Obligating, I guess provides a little bit of trust, but not the trust which I fully depend everything to someone.

You know this feeling that you want everything to be done by yourself and if you have someone to do it for you, when you’re not satisfied with his work, you don’t complain and instead mumble by yourself, blaming his failure to yourself by trusting him?

Trusting your family members is different. It’s a mutual responsibility.

I can’t clearly define what having a bestfriend is.

….

But I think I know what having a bestfriend looks like.

Now the weird part of the scenario…

Ok. I live in this apartment with 2 boys, 2 gays, and 4 girls. But it doesn’t have something to do with my inquiry.

Do bestfriends, male or female, kiss and hug and kiss under the blanket?

I don’t know if I am the only one who thinks awkwardly. But when I see these girls or boys during sleeptime, or even within the most ordinary hours of our weekdays inside our apartment, they were like, oh you’re my best friend, I can kiss you and hug you intimately and err, I don’t know what they are doing under the ‘kumot’ but I sense hito and talakitok (fish variety).

Should they?

When I was a kid, I hardly followed my parents’ orders.

Image a kid of his early toddler years looking provocatively to every creature in the world, cynical to every word humans say to him or speak on his behalf.

I was Gaara. I was a monster ten years ago.

I am the black sheep of the clan, the stars told me when I was sleeping ten years ago.

I can’t seem to figure out how my parents raised me–changed me to what I am right now.

There really are some people who does not want to agree on anything. Ads of ‘Catdog’ on Nickelodeon will tell that to you. It’s not merely of the promising differences that parents see on their child to keep them abiding the wants and the tantrums of their kids that’s why parents do what they want while kids conform otherwise. I don’t know. The theorem is rather confusing.

I remember, I was told not to poo on my diaper. I know that I should not. But I still did. I am very much aware of everything. Maybe I have mild symptoms of Lesch-Nyhan syndrome which i had avoided because I was cynical and negating and opposing for its existence in my genes. OMG, now I am a God.

I was told a hundred times not to point on anything when we stroll inside supermalls. But my parents end up half of their wallet swished to dimwits while I have the swells on my cheeks. Oh, and don’t forget the Miniature Horse collection by Davidson and Company.

My dad wanted me to eat vegetables. I want to eat cereals. Or eggs. Or meat. Or just anything except the vegetables. I threw up a glass of Eight o’ Clock because of talong, ampalaya and kalabasa and swollen my lips to punishment.

I wanted to be awake during afternoons. Superstitions forbade me. I force myself to keep my eyes naturally shut as possible. But err, I’m no cheapipay actor like LA Lopez who’s whiny pimpsqueak acting torched his queriness. But that’s a different story. Hands squished my eyeballs. Oh, I thought I was slicing onions.

I was a proud retard. I couldn’t read properly. I couldn’t count accurately. I couldn’t talk eloquently. I was a lefty.

My hands promise Caravaggio and Da Vinci but my brain foretells Patrick Starfish. If I am to count how many times my mom smacked broomsticks, belts, beltlocks, dusters, etc on my arms for not using them properly but to draw X-Men and Darna using red ballpens, I might give you prepaid loads 1000 each and will never expire. I am right-handed already. Not only that my abilities shifted from left to right, my photographic memories as well. Think about the location of Russia and North America the other way around which I fought with my gradeschool teacher and nearly forwarded yours truly to the Principal’s office.

I am bobo ever since. A mild manifestation of ADHD so to my own speaking.

I have a persona of childhood retribution. I commemorate the memories–sweet memories of my short-hand entries to Fate distorted by x and y.

Glad that I am far more different now.

Categories: Personalan

PRELUDE

Don’t click this… please…

“Boom tarat tarat… boom tarat… tararat… tararat… BOOM BOOM BOOM”

Eeeeerghhh… Last Song Syndrome disturbs me…

Oh please, stop Willie… stop… aaaargh

“Boom tarat tarat… boom tarat… tararat… tararat… BOOM BOOM BOOM”

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Days have passed and nothing has changed.

I am still the cracked up credo of the family who practically makes himself out by listening to Korean songs and creeping my intestines to starvation by watching Iron Chef. My room is still blue, preserved by the humidity of our bungalow goodness on the hilltops of Cavite. Though some gray scabs the serenity of the hue, the paint does seem to doze with the touché of substandardization–a gesture of carelessness that faded the flawlessness of my previous masterpiece……

…eeew. That was boring. ^_^ I can’t believe I just did that… Lol.

I’ve resurrected from my grave. Too much sleeping, too much eating, too much potato-couching, too much ass-juicing, bleeh…. I still have my hangovers. Some maggots are still squirming inside my nasal cavities that’s why I can’t breathe comfortably. Hey, Mickey! Stop chewing my kidneys, ok? Ouch, (*squish). Oh Jim, it tickles… ugh… (swallowed Combantrin). Squeeeeee!

SUICIDAL

I am a God.

OMG. Superiority complex.

I killed myself many times before I signed up for a blog.

I tried stabbing my stomach with a cleaver. I slide the blade slowly to the right, slicing the pouch of my intestines. Blood gushed faster than the acids that melted most of the gobbles that I thought were my kidneys…

I fainted… but still lived. Hell, I didn’t know hospitalization is that freakin’ expensive in DLSU-UMC.

Then I made a cheap stake out of my online socialite candor–slashing my wrist.

I thought it was not painful. It’s just a cut on the wrist anyway, I gasped. But errgh, blood spewed outrageously from my veins. Crimson stained our mattresses. It didn’t control itself but let flow of its anger. It was gruesome.

I fainted…

… but still lived.

A simple gauze and some blood donation killed my killing.

I was so desperate. I want to make things more complicated to them…

We have this oven. I placed my head inside. Grasping the knob above my neck, I turned it 350 degrees.

The tingling sensation became enormously agonizing. It dried my eyes and boiled my skin. I smell burnt plastic on my head. My hair is burning. My lips are popping. I can’t see anything. I was losing my senses… one at a time.

It was so painful, I can’t almost feel anything. The heat was pounding millions of needles puncturing my face one by one. More pops occurred. I didn’t know what has been going on. Then I slept. I never woke up.

I was successful.

…

I thought I was.

Dreck, WHAT THE HELL IS MANNY AND PIE CALAYAN DOING HERE?

RESURRECTION

I just have some things in mind that I think I’ve done a great deal for putting an end to their years of hibernation.

My Smart Amazing Phone left me last April. So I deposited it to a cellphone repair shop in Indang, thinking that they are specialized in Smartphones. But hell, it took me a dozen “sa Wednesday balikan mo…” before I realized they never had their dirty fingernails touched the keypad of my phone. I never paid, and dreadfully regretted to have landed my godliness in that swamp–only to realize that I can fix my phone by myself.

I attached it to my PC and turned it on. And POOF! It sparked! And booted to Windows Mobile. Sheesh.

Thank you effing much for keeping me waiting for 5 months, suckos in Wurmworks, Brgy. 4, Indang, Cavite. Don’t go there. Don’t go there. I said, don’t go there.

I made hukay the baul of our semi-bodega under my bed and found my very first webcam slash digicam from Creative.

When i first installed this 3 years ago, it can only record videos and snapshots. Now, with the added features embedded on its updated webcam center, it could actually turn into a motion sensing surveillance camera. Haha.

I love Yeng Constantino. I love her. A songwriter, a rocker, a diva, a dancer– a popstar. TOTAL PERFORMER. Complete package. I love her. I love her. I love her. WE LOVE HER.

I’ll spread more love to everybody. Download

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

.mp3. Hahaha! Piracy is the best policy! I’m so mean! Median and mode! Whohoo!

I just wanna make her more popular. That’s all. ^_^

Uh… how come I write this here? Waaah!

The Executive Producer of Pinoy Dream Academy is murdered. Our condolences to the family of Mr. Siervo.

OMG… What the hell is happening to me?

Categories: Personalan, Tsismisan