Reputation - n.

1. The general estimation in which a person is held by the public.

2. The state or situation of being held in high esteem.

3. A specific characteristic or trait ascribed to a person or thing: a reputation for courtesy.

 

Character - n.

1. The combination of qualities or features that distinguishes one person, group, or thing from another. 

2. A distinguishing feature or attribute, as of an individual, group, or category.

3. Genetics A structure, function, or attribute determined by a gene or group of genes.

4. Moral or ethical strength.

5. A description of a person's attributes, traits, or abilities.

 

***

I've always had a reputation. Actually, I have a lot. But truth be told, I never gave a flying fudge about them because reputations will always change and it's just that - an estimation of my image. People will always have a different opinion about me. Others will say I'm evil incarnate. Others will claim I'm an angel (debatable), a whore, a slut, a know it all, a self-absorbed egotistical megalomaniac and everything else in between.

You know what? I. DON'T. CARE. Say what you want about my reputation because I don't give a rat's ass about it. You want to know what I care about? I care about my character. My character is worth more than my reputation and I don't need anyone else to teach me or show me how to do that. My middle class education and family afforded that for me. My working class life has given that.

***

So, have a go at my reputation. Please. My character will always trump my reputation. Every. Single. Time.

I think I know now why the service that PLDT and SMART gives is horrendous. I mean, between the poorly trained agents who have no idea what they're doing (and are only reading from the screen with random bits of information that have absolutely no relevance to the question posed) and the fact that they're such scam artists who double charge you every time and wouldn't do anything unless you loudly complain about it, I don't  understand how this company is still afloat!

MVP or Manny Pangilinan, PLDT head honcho has had his speeches plagiarized for YEARS now! This is just preposterous! Thanks to Jessica Zafra and her website, we have links to the speeches, both original and the copy. MVP ha....kakahiya ka. I hope you're going to do something about this. Maybe this will restore our faith in your company's services.

He delivers a speech to the graduating class of Xavier. This speech has been lifted from this speech and this one too.

Then post Ondoy, he makes another speech for Corporate Social responsibility ekek which I think is so hypocritical. He says this:


“From the streets of Marikina to the flooded plains of Pangasinan, Filipinos should write the next chapter in their stories. Together, we should ensure that the legacy of a terrible storm is a country that is safer, and better prepared, for the tragedies that may come. That’s what CSR is all about.”

Which, oddly enough, is the same thing that President Barack Obama said:

“From the streets of New Orleans to the Mississippi Coast, folks are beginning the next chapter in their American stories. And together, we can ensure that the legacy of a terrible storm is a country that is safer and more prepared for the challenges that may come.”

Then he does it again this year when he was invited to open the new Ateneo library. Here's his speech and here is the original one.

If you find it so easy to steal speeches, it should be easy enough to steal your customer's money, right? Ang magnanakaw ay magnanakaw kahit ano pa ang nakawin niya. (A thief is a thief regardless of what he steals.)

I'm moving to a different phone provider now. I can't trust a company with my services if the CEO himself steals. Would you?

Anyone who knows me knows that I have issues with religion and the organization of any religious groups. I'm not against Jesus or God. In fact, I think Jesus was a great man and a great leader. He preached about charity, love, brotherhood, paying it forward and loving every one regardless of race, age, sexuality and beliefs. I think Jesus and God would be might pissed if they came back down on earth and saw how their Catholic churches have been treating the people.

First off, the church and the state should be separate. The church has long been meddling in the state's affairs and honestly, it's evil. It's purely manipulation and it's shameful. "We'll give you our support and tell our church-goers to support you but you have to do something for us, such as maybe delaying or stopping the distribution and campaign on contraceptives" Why are you so concentrated on the contraceptives and family planning bill? Surely you understand why. Reading this article right hear just sickens me. How dare you even use the memory of Cory for your insipid and short sighted campaign.

Here's a question for you: Why do you keep your church doors closed at night when you know very well that there are tens of hundreds of families on the streets, just outside your church doors that are hungry and cold and are sleeping on the streets? You decorate your walls with pure silver and gold and yet still ask your parishioners for donations because you don't have enough money to fix your roof but you state that you can't help everyone because you don't have enough funds. Do you think Jesus or God would be pleased when they see that their "house" is all pimped out but his people are dying of hunger and cold? Yeah...good values you're teaching our kids.

If you're so against this, why don't we do it like this? PNoy (Though I don't really like him) will stop pushing the Reproductive Health bill and the distribution of contraceptives if you promise to care of the children that will be the fruits of unsafe sex. You will pay for their pre-natal care, their hospital bills when they're born, you will support the parents and give them jobs to help sustain this life in accordance to the child protection laws and you will make sure that this child gets educated, fed, clothed and sheltered. It seems that it's an equal and good enough trade, don't you think? After all, you truly believe that a child is a gift and should be given an opportunity to love. Surely you don't want that child to live a life of suffering and hunger, right?

For the love of god, stop acting like dicks and start doing your real job! HELP PEOPLE! Stop poking your fingers and noses in other people's business and do your god's business instead. I hardly think God went to you in a dream and said "expose the jueteng lords!", "Talk about Kris Aquino!" or "Stop the government from distributing condoms!" Trust me, they're not going to go to your church if they've got 5 mouths to feed. They'd rather work than listen to a boring and self-patronizing sermon.

Can we get a priest or a bishop to answer this?

****

Will write review when my head feels like it's not going to explode.

All our lives, we live for that one elusive pursuit - no, it's not fame or riches, even if you debate it until you turn blue - it's love; to be loved, to love back and to experience the immeasurable and undefinable feeling of love.

Little girls have been trained very early in life to crave it, to desire it. All those fairy tales about princes and true love and true love's kiss has gotten them wanting to meet the man of their dreams. They'd write it down in their little diaries with a #2 Mongol pencil, defining and determining how he would be: "He'll have beautiful eyes and he'll be very handsome. He'll be kind and he'll kiss me and we'll live happily ever after!"

Yeah, right.

Well, these little girls grow up to become teenagers and the definition and qualities of Prince Charming changes. Now, he needs to have a cool car or a sweet ride. He must be able to play the guitar or rock it out onstage. He's got to have a killer smile. All these qualities change as often as they change TV channels. They eventually meet a boy who rocks their socks off and claim it to be true love.

Oh honey, that's not true love. That would be hormones and your indulgent not to mention underage consumption of alcohol.

Then you break up (or stay together a little longer) and go to college and start your life in the real world. You meet more boys who eventually turn into men. You get introduced to the pleasures of dating and the thrill (or humiliation - depends on how you feel about it) of one night stands and the complexities of intimate relationships.

Suddenly, your list of qualities for Prince Charming has become a list of compromises: "He's very hardworking so I don't really mind it if he ignores my calls. He's probably in a meeting." or "He's just stressed about his job that's why he forgot our anniversary/my birthday" or "He's financially stable so that makes up for his emotional incapacity."

Uh-huh...

At this point, you either decide that you've had enough or you'll realize that you've got more patience than a saint in a torture chamber. Either way, you end up being jaded and put down because the concept and ideal of the Prince Charming you've had when you were a little girl isn't the reality you were hoping for.

I've got one word for you. Stupid.

This is the reason why I never let my daughter fall for those pansy ass Disney versions of princesses. I want her to grow up believing in her own capability of being a complete woman - a righteous individual - without having to depend on dumb ass romantic love and the unfortunate accessory that is known as Prince Charming.

See, my mother taught me this valuable lesson. She said that love can make you do crazy things. that's why we don't want to fall in love all the time. My daughter will learn the same lesson and she will also learn the fact that there's no such thing as Prince Charming. In my opinion, the more charming a man is, the more chances there are that he's either gay or an asshole.

Trust me, you don't want Prince Charming. He does not exist. Now, if you want to hook up with the witch or the evil stepmother...

It's getting more and more frustrating to live in this world and in this society. More and more people are starting to be jaded, cynical and cruel. More and more people are starting to lose their sense of humor, or just lose sight of humor in general. And still, more and more people are becoming mentally unstable. Is this the kind of life, the kind of society and the kind of world we want our children to grow up in?

I happened upon this blog, Shakesville and read this article. It left me shaking in anger and frustration.

Rape is not a compliment. It's not something you can joke about either. It's not a topic to be taken lightly and fuck you if you think otherwise.

I've changed my name on Facebook. For those of you who can't keep up with my status changes (Yes, Del...I can hear you saying that I change it every hour...) the reason for such a change is that I've gotten to my tipping point when it comes to explaining to people - strangers, if you may, that I am indeed a woman. A REAL woman and not a "woman".

As I have stated previously, I sometimes love my name in all its masculinity but there are times that it just pisses the hell out of me that it makes me want to physically maim someone and render them incapable of even lifting a finger to scratch their own nose.

It also doesn't help that I am not endowed with breasts that are bigger than a cup A.

However, here's the clincher: I finish taping today and went over to Del's place for a little de-stressing activity. Going back, I took a cab to which the driver immediately says "Saan po tayo, bossing?" (Where to, bossing? Bossing is usually used as an urban lingo counterpart of "sir") I ignore that comment and tell him where I wanted to go. About 20 minutes later, he says "Tramo po ba tayo or Mia Road, chief?" (Do we take Mia Road or Tramo, chief? Again, chief is usually used for men) I tell him to take Mia road. About another 10 minutes pass and he goes "Lalampas po ba tayo ng Zapote, sir?" (Do we go beyond Zapote, sir?)

It was at that point that I looked at the rear view mirror just to check how I look like to him. I saw that I still had the same clothes as I had when I left Del's place: A green halter top, make up, dangling green sparkly earrings and jeans. I'm pretty sure I didn't look like a man. Then it dawned on me...the fucking driver probably thought I was a tranny! I was ready to give him a piece of my mind and a few choice words when I again realized that he was running through every pot hole and speed bump on the way like they were put there as an after thought. Either the driver was suffering from night blindness or he's just doing that on purpose because he's a freaking homophobic bat. Either way, he was grating on my nerves and he was starting to rearrange my internal organs. I started giving him a terse reminder if there was a speed bump or a pothole. "Speed Bump" I'd say, or "Butas" (Pot hole. I swear I was close to changing the word pot into another three letter word)

Oh, but the killer was when I finally got home. I finally paid the dude and was more than ecstatic to leave his vehicle when he said "Salamat, Kuya!" (Thank you, older brother!) The fucker was probably 14 years older than me!

I'm seriously starting to develop a complex here...

If you'll excuse me, I'll just cry myself to sleep while you laugh at my expense...

You and I are apparently gluttons for punishment, never needing a reason but aching for it, feeling like you're missing a limb when we're not feeling pain.

It's a freaking cycle, a perpetual circle of inflicting and taking; trading blows and punches. I call you in the middle of the night and ask if I can come over even though I know I'm going to hate myself after everything is over; even though I know it's going to be such the stupidest thing I ever do.

You always say yes though. You let me come and open the door with a displeased face and a tired sigh. But you always - always let me in. Maybe because you are used to the constant and anything new, anything that deviates for the norm terrifies you. You'd rather do resentment than work with change.

It's the same set of questions left unanswered and I never tire of asking them: "Why can't you love me? What else can I do? What else can I be for you? What does it take to make you change your mind?" You always answer with silence and a kiss. Like the kiss is my consolation prize. Fuck that. No one fights to win the consolation prize.

Tonight though, when I called you and you said I should come over, I knew something has changed. Your bravery has shown its face. Your spine is straight and strong - like the sword you are about to push into my chest. I ask you the same questions and tonight...tonight you said "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Baby. I'm so very sorry."

Then you kissed my hair and brushed my tears away.

-inspired by Maria Mena's song "Sorry"

On nights like these
I want to lie
on the unmade bed
right next to you
not moving
not sleeping
but just breathing you
seeing you
touching you
knowing you.

On nights like these
I wish I could
drown in the
bright fluid sound
of your laughter
A million
tiny deaths
are always sweetest
by your hand.

On nights like these
I curse the sun
for it will come
and take you away
and you both leave me
with a cruel uncertainty
of your return

On nights like these
we dance the tango
between "when"
and "if"
and I laugh
as you step on my toes.

On nights like these
you say my name
like it's important
like it's enough
like it means something
like it means everything
But I need you
to tell me more.

On nights like these
when you say "hello"
it actually means
"goodbye"

It's shocking that she could blurt it out like that - like it's as common as going to the crapper or as uncomplicated as eating a freaking happy mean. It happened to me 17 years ago and it's still hard for me to even think about it, more so speak of it. She spoke of it in such a casual tone - like there's no hurt, no pain, no anger, no regret and no desire for revenge.

I'm angry at her. I'm angry at her for being so casual about it. I'm angry at her for not feeling what I'm feeling. I feel betrayed. Shouldn't I feel happy that she's handling this in a way that is ideal and quite frankly, perverse? It's not her fault that she doesn't know what happened to me. It's not her fault that I refuse to talk about it, but still, I feel some sort of betrayal over it. It's like she blabbed the secret password to our secret club.

I can't look at her the same way again. I can't feel her sincerity. I feel like I've been fucking had. The worst part is, I've been conned by a fucking amateur. I just can't understand how she can just say those words like they don't sting. Her nonchalant air disturbs me. It's either she's the most well adjusted person on earth or she's lying about it.

I can still feel the shame, the disgust and the anger. I can still feel his hands on me. I can hear him grunting as he pushed into me. I can still feel his breath on my neck. I scrubbed myself raw after that. I rubbed and scrubbed until I had scratches and deep red marks all over my body. I can still remember his words about how I can't tell anyone because I'm just a slut, a whore and nobody will believe me anyway.

And I believed him. I believed that fucker. I believed that statement to be truth for the next ten years. I let him control my consciousness. There were so many attempts at self inflicted death. There were so many men in between. I hate what he did to me. I hate what I did to myself.

So, for her to speak of it as if it were a freaking punchline angers me. She has made the experience and the pain so fucking insignificant.

I'm not a whore. It's not my fault. I know that now, but that doesn't mean I'd like to talk about it or casually mention it over a crude humorous conversation. I don't care what she says, she's not part of the club.

It seemed
that any and all
emotional breakthroughs
between her and
her lovers
signaled
the relationship's definite demise.
She is so perfectly flawed
and undeniably common
that these things are inevitable.
Her beauty is plain
her intellect, bearable,
her talents are usual
and her creativity, shallow.
But she can feel.
She felt the weight
of the world
on her shoulders.
All the names
and criticisms hurled
at her, made her bleed.
She felt the knives
plunged on her back
and welcomed them
as though they were
family.

It usually takes a lot to offend me. I've pretty much seen a lot of things and gone through a lot of experiences that certain tactless remarks or offhanded comments don't really affect me all that much anymore. There are, however, certain things that will irritate me and it can push it to the next level called annoyance and will eventually, offend me.

1. I often roll my eyes at how people air their dirty laundry all over the internet. It's insulting that they use technology this way. Here's a thought: It's a private matter, deal with it in private. Trust me, people don't want a status report every 2 minutes and they sure as hell don't care if you've got some STD you can't spell because your man is a lying cheating scumbag who'd screw anything with two legs who'd stand still long enough. Have some dignity, please.

2. I'm very particular about the written word. I get berserk when I read SMS language on the internet. I mean, seriously? It's not a T9 keypad, it's a freaking keyboard. Keyboard. Are you really that lazy to type a few extra letters to make it into a proper word and not just a freaking vowel? (see u vs. you) Here's a mini grammar lesson for y'all:

Your - pronoun, second person. Used to signify possession or ownership/
You're - a contraction of "you are". Contractions are shortened versions of certain phrases, created to make writing more condensed and succinct.

Don't confuse the two. It's annoying and it's offensive to me. When in doubt, double check the context and implied meaning.

3. I'm pretty sure there's a number 3...I know there is... DAMNIT! Stupid cold drugs are making me all woozy and wonky...

I hate viruses.
I hate chat and text language.
I hate feeling all blotchy and sneezy and dry and hoarse.
I hate misspellings.
I hate incorrect word usage and incorrect sentence structures.
I hate bacteria.
I hate not being happy and positive.

I think I've had enough practice and experience with the realm of unpretty for a good three decades now. I've pretty much got my expectations leveled and my ego and self-worth at bay. I know what I am and what I'm capable of. I know what I look like, what to expect and what not to expect from people.

Again, I'm not self-pitying nor am I asking for compliments. Puh-leaze. The only time I go fishing is for real fish. So, let whatever it is that you're thinking go.

However, when certain unmannered individuals who don't know the meaning of subtlety and discretion start pointing out the painfully obvious, I do have feelings that get hurt. Yes, I have feelings, thank you very fucking much.

Of course you find them pretty. I do too. But it's bad manners to single me out. Ask for all their names, everyone next to me and around me, except me. And the other chicks that aren't hot. (Read: fat, dark, curly and unpretty) Yeah. That's not cool. It's downright chauvinistic, sexist and archaic.

I used to be 99 pounds. I used to have a waist. I used to have better skin. I used to have youth.

I now weigh 120 pounds. I've got hips so wide they need tail lights. I have stretchmarks and I still don't have boobs. I deal with it everyday with a shrug, a grin and a sense of humor.

I can still lose the weight. I can have surgery for the rest. You, however, will always be an asshole and there's no cure for that.

"Depression is merely anger without the enthusiasm."

Fight not with monsters lest you become one yourself. Stare into an abyss and the abyss stares back at you.

Maybe I am a monster. I've always known it. I've always told people I am.

I just wish they'd stop telling me that I'm really good deep down. How deep do I have to dig just to find that good part then?

"What's your birthday wish?" She asked. She truly was curious. It wasn't about implying something else, I mean she didn't know me from Eve.

I couldn't reply - not because I didn't have a wish but because I stopped believing in wishes a long time ago. Wishes are cruel because they give you hope. Hope is cruel because it makes you believe in things even if there's nothing left to believe in.

"I don't have one." I replied. "But if I did. I'd wish that wishes can come true for those who'd need them."

I stare at the face that won't let me miss it, the lips that won't let me kiss it. We have arguments we're not fighting, laws and unspoken rules we're not abiding and words, phrases and sentences we're not verbalizing.

You're my reluctant gift. The dark tinted mirror gilded in gold; the savior dictator. And now, you're leaving me.

Let me whisper to your deaf ears, in hushed urgent tones; how your new lover can't give hypocorisms to your skin. She can't call the creases, can't provide an identity to your parts that were mine. These secrets are mine alone. Well, ours, but only because I chose to share them with you.

I know you think of me as beautiful - in a way that dead things are beautiful. That's okay. I'll take what I can get.

Even if you don't want to, you are allowed to remember me. You're allowed to go and reminisce on how my clothes were thrown haphazardly around your room and your floor. You're allowed to speak about me in terms of sexual conquests, categorizing me into condom preferences. You're allowed to fantasize about me. You're allowed to long for me.

Don't tell me that you can't just because you think you've changed; that you're different now. You're the same as the first day I saw you, met you, kissed you, fucked you and loved you. You are the same body I undressed. You are the same weight on top of me - the same writhing, grunting, moaning body over, under and inside me.

But this is this and we are what we are. This is what you want and this is all that I can give.

It has become a habit more than anything. It used to be a joke, an action that took her mind off things she didn't want to think of. She writes letters to no one in particular; sometimes she writes to her lost loves, to her mother, to her unborn children and to herself. She leaves these letters in small spaces in between bus seats, cracks on walls, on bus stop benches; practically anywhere she can.

Her letters were commentaries: a diary of her years/days/hours and of her internal life at that moment, captured in the minutest detail. It was a confessional. It was an escape plan.

It's symbolic that she squeezes these letters into these open spaces, as if filling the voids between with words that she cannot verbalize (even if she had a capacious vocabulary). She was no stranger to open spaces, to places full of unspoken words that begged to be released. Yet, all she can do is to fall silent and write these letters.

She always found herself in the same kind of place, sitting in a booth where the plastic seats used to be a darker color and without any cracks. The plastic sign hangs cracked and says "Op'n" instead of beckoning passersby to come in.

She always ended up in one of these places. She didn't know why, but for some reason, it made her comfortable - safe even. The noise of the place lulled her into some semblance of security: it was the waitress looking bored, sighing her weary away; the cooks at back, laughing at some sexist joke; the after party kids coming to sober up before they got home and got grounded for being out way past their curfew. It was constant, never changing and always the same. It was such a comfort because it's not like her life right now - well, if you count that phone call. That phone call is probably the only thing that's constant in her world right now.

It's not that she doesn't have a life, it's just centered around making herself available for him when he needs her. That requires her to be awake when the moon is high in the sky. She waits for his call and it always comes in like clockwork.

***

The first time was awkward, as all first times are. He called and said he was at some two bit bar that has seen better days and better customers. It was full of noisy angry customers and even angrier drunks. Of course, it was natural for him to fall under the angry drunk category.

She took him by the sleeve of his jacket after paying for his exorbitant tab and dragged him to the car. He was breathing vapors and expletives. She let out a low growl, something about "common sense", "cirrhosis", "displaced" and "neanderthal" and other impressively naughty words; sounding cultured and restrained mixed in with her presumably ten dollar jargon that would make a seasoned whore blush.

There, in the safety of his hotel room, he yelled at her, blamed her for his situation, accused her of manipulating him and not caring enough to be honest with him. He cursed her and all she did was to stand there and to take it all in. He ranted until he was tired and passed out. She quietly fixed the mess that used to be called a man, cleaned up and stayed for a while until she was sure he was breathing normally and won't choke on his own vomit.

The next time it happened, he was in a better mood. He called her and politely asked her to pick him up from another bar. He climbed in the passenger seat and didn't say anything but she knew he was two shots away from being 80 proof. She drove him home and he even managed to mumble a 'thank you' before he closed the door.

***

This time, he called from his house, asking her to come over. She drove a little slowly, not really in a hurry to see what she'd have to clean up after. She had to contain her shock when he opened the door to let her in. He was just inebriated but was coherent. He let her in and she jested that he might even let her drink with him. He smiled and downed three fingers of his neat scotch.

"Are you going to let me see the entire process and not just the end result tonight?"

He said nothing and just smiled bitterly. She let out a tired sigh. "Might as well get the coffee started..."

"Sit with me." It's even surprising to hear that softness to his voice, almost like he was pleading. She follows like an obedient puppy.

There is violence in silence, and whatever isn't said between them is bound to come out and will hit them at a velocity that will make them regret not saying anything, thus making them bleed - making their heart bleed. She finally spoke, her words were soft but firm.

"I had to kill her. She was a job. She was making you weak. I had to do my job."

"What if I was the job? Would you have done your job?"

"I don't know..."

"Would you?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!" She stood up and prepared to take her leave when his hand wrapped itself around her wrist.

"Do you know why I'm drinking myself half to death almost every night? Do you have any idea why?"

"I get it okay? You drink to forget. You want to forget the pain. You want to forget that you miss her and you want to forget that you hate me."

"You don't know anything..." He pulls her dangerously close. "I drink to forget that I feel happy that she's gone. I drink so I can easily accuse you of making me feel miserable when the truth is, I feel relieved and grateful that you did what I couldn't do. I drink to have an excuse to have you near, to have you to touch me because that's the only time you do."

He then grabs the back of her neck and kisses her. She's too shocked to respond so he takes this opportunity to deepen the kiss. That's when she pushes him away. She instantly puts up her tough bitch persona.

"You drink so you'll have an excuse to kiss me? That's so fucking twisted even for you. What's next, you drink so you can fuck me without regretting it? You sure know how to sweep a woman off her feet."

He looks at her with hurt in his eyes. She does not back down. "C'mon Romeo...You've had too much moonshine. Time for bed"

***

She gets him under the covers without a fight. He closes her eyes and says a sincere word of gratitude. It's then and there that she has her epiphany.

She wanted that kiss. She wanted him to kiss her, to hold her, to screw her, to fuck her and to make love to her. She wanted it all but he was drunk and that made all the difference.

She wanted that possibility - love, laughter and maybe even happiness. But happiness wasn't available for people like her. Monsters and murderers aren't allowed to be happy.

So, as she walked away from that broken sleeping man, with his drunken whispers and scotch flavored kisses trailing behind her, she thinks. Maybe if the circumstances were different she could be happy.

Maybe even with him.

I walk with my head low to the ground.
I refuse to look up, as it may
require me to fake my way
into social capability.

Thank the heavens
for small puddles from heavy rains
At least I'd know what's up there