For those of you not in the know, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood is a revamp of the hugely popular and successful Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi). Basically it’s the story about two brothers, searching for the fabled Philosopher’s Stone. Sound simple enough? Okay, let’s add a whole mouthful into the mix. The brothers are alchemists, people who can transform one thing into another thing. They inherited it from their alchemist father, who abandoned their family for no particular reason but most probably due to the Philosopher’s Stone of which he is researching on, which made their mother wither away and die an early death, which made the young brothers desperate enough to perform the ultimate taboo in alchemy–reviving a dead creature back to life. While in the process, the alchemy backfired, taking the younger brother and an arm of the older brother as the exchange. Fearing the loss of his entire family, the older brother then sacrficed his leg in exchange for his younger brother’s soul, which in a desperate attempt, he binds into a suit of armor with his blood. The older brother is then fitted with automail parts for his arm and leg, and the younger brother is condemned never to eat, sleep, cry or feel pain as he is basically an empty suit of armor with a human soul. Now the brothers swear on finding the Philosopher’s Stone which has the power to enhance alchemy a hundredfold so they could regain what they both had lost.

Not so simple enough, eh?

What did they do. What did they do. They committed the greatest taboo in modern television. They remade something which was already perfect to begin with. Why did they have to retrace their steps and erase everything that had happened? That’s exactly like performing human transmutation. It’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong. It’ll just end up as a vengeful homunculus lusting for blood and power. Creating your own demons.

I know it’s too early to whine about the show, but this is ridiculous. Why does it feel as if I’m being bullet-trained along the show? The flow is so hurried that it’s losing all the drama which made the original anime so fascinating. All the poignant parts have been made into a gelatinous mass of third-rate mush. When Al and Ed fought at the hospital, the story of Nina, the revelation of Ed’s pocketwatch, most especially the death of Maes Hughes. Why were they all reduced to a pathetic attempt of a sob story? That hits so low, it’s not even funny.

Granted, the art style is almost unmistakable to that of the manga. Granted still, this is the original storyline which the mangaka had written. Granted that this is the most anticipated anime of 2009.

But this is just a BIG letdown.

Somebody undo their mistake before they all end up losing an arm and a leg.

I keep thinking if this is all worth it. All the uncertainty, all the dashed hopes, and all the false promises could never make up for those few, fleeting moments of euphoria that you bring. Why is it that when I look at you, I secretly weep inside? Is this the cosmos’ way of telling me that I am asking for too much?

I keep thinking if this will finally be the end of it. I guess, deep down inside, I’ve been secretly waiting for you… waiting for you to go ahead and tell me the words which will finally set me free. I’ve been chained to you for too long; too long for me to notice, too long for you to even care. Do you even care? Do you even care that I care? Do you even notice that I care?

Or it doesn’t make any difference to you at all?

I keep thinking… do you love because you love me, or do you love me because I love you? Are you here by my side because you want to, or is it because you can’t bear to see me alone? Are you here because you still believe, or are you just an illusion that I want to keep believing in?

You’re so near, yet I can’t touch you. And when we do touch, you feel as if you’re so far away.

I keep thinking… what is there left for me? How many painful partings will there be in store for me? When you do let me go, will you be happy? Will I ever be happy?

Or will we both wander through life, wondering about all the ‘might have been’s?

I keep thinking… should I keep holding on?

Or was I falling right from the start?

Do I keep on clinging, guided by blind hope…

… Or does hope only deludes the heart?

And yes, I keep thinking…

The future is so bleak…

Virtual human development game

www.human-age.com

I was at a friend’s house earlier on this morning, and after eating a simple lunch, we retired to her living room to watch a movie. It just so happened that we finally concluded to watch a kid-friendly movie: Disney’s Meet the Robinsons.

I’ve always been a kid at heart, because I’ve always associated myself with non-kids who wear frowns on their faces and all that crap. Of course they have issues, but doesn’t everybody? Like I always say, you’re not the only walking tragedy around, so don’t feel so special that you’re the only one entitled to grimace at everyone who comes along. We all have problems. Suck it up and laugh. Who knows, it might even solve one of yours.

I remember watching Meet the Robinsons for the first time. I thought it was a movie everyone could enjoy. I thought it was a movie all non-kids should enjoy. Life isn’t about successes, it’s about failures and how you deal with it. Because, let’s face it, success is only a by-product of an el grando failure. Nobody succeeds in the first time–if there are, chances are, that success was originally a failed attempt at what they were intending to happen (case in point: the scale of G Major. And chocolate chip cookies).

I think there should be more kid-friendly movies for the masses. Kid-friendly movies are enjoyable, and educational, since kids watch them. Oh, sure, there are enough educational movies for non-kids out there, like I Am Sam and A Beautiful Mind and Empire of the Sun, but who watches those, anyway? Non-kid kids, like me. Kid-friendly movies are well-suited for non-kids, since they’re not required to think out too much. The by-product of a kid-friendly movie is enlightenment.

And I was enlightened the second time. Suppose I had a time machine. And I used it to take a peek at 10 years into my future. Suppose I found out that my future self was deliriously happy with her life. Suppose that I met my future family. I bonded with my future kids, impressed my future husband, and met my future self. Suppose that everything’s where it should be, and that all’s well in the world… except that, my future husband isn’t him.

And then I think. What would I do?

… What would you do?

Will I go back in time and accept my destiny, knowing that the relationship I have now will not last me a lifetime? Or will I risk that perfectly blissful life in the future for something as unfathomable as the present? What would I do? What would you do?

The music stopped. The end credits rolled.

Stop the madness; there is no time machines here. Back to reality, girl.

Let’s get back to the now.

It was Sarah who called. She was asking me about our date for our seventh anniversary. She was so excited, talking in that girlish voice of hers about that new restaurant downtown… I had a long day at work, so I just agreed to whatever it was she had planned.

It was not an easy relationship. She was the only child of my father’s business partner, and we were “introduced” to each other when I was still in college. Father had quite pointedly told me to “make a good impression” and to be “careful not to shy away the girl” beforehand, so I kind of expected what was to happen to us.

A business deal. A relationship for profit.

But Sarah was a nice girl. She was charming, witty, and rich, and we got along well, so I just squared my shoulders and got along with everything, thinking that it would all go along well. And for a time, it did. One year passed, then two, then three, four… it was then I realized how pointless all this was—to love someone you don’t actually love. But what could I do? Sarah, over the years, has learned to love me. True, I don’t feel anything for her, but she has never done me anything wrong… I couldn’t break her heart.

It was in a clear day in February when I met Janine. I was going to have lunch at the small restaurant below our office while talking to Sarah on my phone. She had me listening to her until I was about to enter my car. Then all of a sudden, I felt a small tap on my shoulder, and I turned my head.

“Excuse me, do you have the time? My watch stopped, and I’m afraid I might be late for my meeting…”

She kept talking in her professional accent while I just stood there, Sarah chatting girlishly in my other ear. I didn’t think anyone could make me speechless in an open-mouthed state at my age, but apparently, someone could. Janine was tall, model-skinny, and wears too heavy makeup, but god…

I’d like to think that it was love at first sight, but in all honesty, I would have to say that there was no love between our relationship. Still, Janine and I saw each other for the next couple of years. At first, I had this guilty feeling that kept nagging at me, but I felt that I was too burned out and exhausted that soon I found myself telling more and more lies and more and more excuses about me cheating on Sarah.

And so, there we were, in my car, on our way to some fancy new restaurant, to celebrate our “seventh anniversary”, while in my mind, I was already weaving more lies to excuse myself early so I could meet with Janine later on that evening.

Sarah was talking animatedly, something about wedding gowns and the like—I couldn’t be too sure, I wasn’t entirely listening. Then quite suddenly, she became quiet that it suddenly brought my attention back to her. I asked her why she suddenly stopped talking.

She looked away from me. “Rafael,” she said softly. “Are you happy with me?”

I kept my eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

It was a long while before she finally answered. “Because if you aren’t… I’d understand.”

I glanced at her, my pulse starting to race. Did she know? “Sarah, what are you talking about?”

She looked outside the window, at the colors trailing blurry lines as we sped past. “It’s been seven years… I know you never did like me when we met. I knew right from the start; I could feel it.” She paused. “But then I thought, ‘Why not? People change. Maybe he could learn to love me in a couple or so years just like I did.’” Then she sniffed, and I knew she was crying.

Too stiff and hardened by years of lies, I shook my head. “I don’t want this kind of talk. Stop talking nonsense, Sarah, it’s our anniversary.”

But she didn’t stop. “But I guess I was wrong. You never did love me, Rafael. Not even once.” Her shoulders shook, and I kept glancing at her, wanting her to stop. “But I still believed, isn’t that funny? I still loved you. Even now, I still love you.” She laughed, and her laughter came out like sobs. “It’s so funny, it hurts…”

I faced her. “Sarah, what are you talking about?” I demanded.

Then she looked at me, and for the first time in seven years, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. “I’ve known about you and Janine all this time, Rafael…”

The sounds stopped. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. It blocked Sarah’s gentle sobs, the soft humming of my car’s engine, the blaring horn blast of the speeding bus…

Time stopped. And yet, all the colors seemed to spin around me, spinning faster and faster. And then they faded, and then everything was white…

The doctors said that it took me four months to finally wake up. The sunlight was blinding at first after that long period of darkness, but when I looked around, I saw Janine, and so everything was all right.

Everything, except for Sarah.

“Nurse,” I said, calling the blonde lady replacing my dextrose. “What happened to the lady who was in the same car with me?”

She straightened, thinking. “Oh, you mean Miss Wong. She woke up five days after the crash. She had minor cuts and bruises, but her left leg is paralyzed and the doctors had to take away her eyes.”

I sat up straight. “Why? What happened?”

The glass shards from your broken windshield penetrated her pupils.”

I felt guilty. All those years of unfaithfulness piled up and weighed down on me like a heavy boulder on my shoulder. “Is there… can anything be done?” I asked softly.

The nurse faced me and shook her head sadly.

Curiously enough, it was Janine who suggested I should go and visit her. Funny, people would think if they knew, I know, but after hearing about what happened to Sarah, all I had was this empty feeling inside, a numbness that crept from my feet up to the top of my head.

I visited her the next day. They cut her hair short—to stitch up some cuts on her scalp, possibly—and besides the bandages wrapped around her eyes, she was practically the same.

I sat down beside her quietly. “Sarah.”

She jumped slightly at the sound, and tilted her head towards my voice. “Rafael?” she said. “You’re finally awake? How are you? How are your injuries?” even then, I could still hear the love in her voice.

“I’m all good,” I managed to say.

A big smile crept across her face. “I’m glad,” was all she said.

Over the next two weeks, I made good recovery, Janine visiting me everyday. I also visited Sarah, but it was becoming less and less frequent. Sure, I’m heartless… but what can I possibly say to her? After all, all of this was my fault, and I couldn’t think of anything to atone for it, except maybe love her back.

“Don’t be stupid,” Janine snapped at me one night. “Do you really think she’d like that?”

“What do you mean?” I asked glumly.

“She’d been suffering since you and I started seeing each other. Now you want to continue with your relationship even though you know you still don’t love her? My god, Rafael!” She placed her hands on her hips. “Tell me honestly. Do you love her or not?”

I couldn’t answer for the longest time. “I don’t know.”

“See?” she said. “That proves exactly what you’re feeling. If you love her, you’d say yes without a moment’s hesitation.”

I swallowed. Is that true? Is what she’s saying is true?

“Besides, think about it,” she went on. “She’s basically bed-ridden, and not to mention permanently blind. I’m very sorry for the poor girl, and not meaning to be rude, but… she’s useless now, Rafael.”

She then sighed and went over to wrap her arms around me. “Look, I know it’s hard for you both. You’ll just prolong that pain if you decide to go on with your relationship with her. She loves you, Rafael; she’d want you to be happy. So, be happy.”

And so, I did. I decided what would make me happy. The very next day, my release papers were signed, and I went to Sarah’s room for one last, final visit.

“Hey,” I said.

“Rafael!” She exclaimed happily. “I’m so glad you finally decided to visit. I thought perhaps you’ve forgotten about me.”

I laughed softly. “How could I possibly forget you, Sarah?” I walked over to her bed and sat beside her. “Sarah, I have something important to tell you.”

Her body stiffened.

“I’m very sorry about what happened. It’s my fault you’re like this now.”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault, Rafael. No one wanted this to happen. I don’t blame you for it.”

I was silent for a moment. “They released me today.”

She turned her head to me. “Really? That’s great! I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here for a while, though,” she made a face. “My leg muscles aren’t responding to the medicine they’ve been giving me, so the doctors are looking for alternatives. But it’s wonderful that you’ve fully recovered—”

“I’ve decided to go on with Janine.”

She stopped completely, the smile falling from her face. “Oh.”

I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. Strangely, she did not pull away. “I know I should have been honest to you right from the start, but deep down, I honestly believed that we could make it work. Believe me, Sarah, I tried. Honestly, I tried.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“I guess we were too young when it all happened,” I sighed. “Had we met at some point in our adult lives, perhaps we could…”

“It’s all right, Rafael,” she whispered.

I lifted my head and looked at her. Her face was calm, almost set in stone. Her breathing was measured, her voice unwavering. It was as if she knew all of this would happen at some point, and she had practiced all those nights of loneliness about what she was going to say.

Sarah knew me all too well.

“I understand perfectly.”

“Sarah…”

She turned to my voice and smiled. “I also tried to fight for you, but I guess I lost…” she said sadly. “It’s okay. I understand your decision. Be happy with her.”

I held on to her hand for quite some time, wanting to say more, but oddly not finding the words to say what they were. At last, I sighed heavily, murmured a useless apology to her, and walked out the whitewashed hospital room, never to return.

A year has passed since then, and many things have happened. Sarah’s father, my own father’s business partner, died of a heart attack after finally breaking down because he couldn’t take the condition of his only daughter. And with Sarah still unfit to take over her father’s responsibilities, everything reverted to me, now the boss of the company. Janine, now my fiancée, quit her former job and worked for me since then.

Then late one night in December, I received a phone call from the hospital.

Ms. Sarah Sophia Burnett Wong died in her sleep.

I put down the phone slowly and stood right there beside my bed, my shoulders slack. Janine, who was in the showers for a quick hot bath came out and saw me standing still. “Honey,” she called out to me. “Who was it?”

“Sarah died,” I said numbly.

She stopped toweling her hair and took a small breath. “Oh,” she whispered.

Over the next few days, Janine and I decided to take care of her funeral arrangements, have a talk with her family lawyers. Janine personally made sure her lawyers worked out her holdings, and how it would be legally divided with her cousins and family.

I then went to her lonely apartment to gather up her documents, and some other things her family might need or want to keep before her things were taken away. The ghosts of the memories of the few times I spent with her there kept accompanying me I was walked from room to room, imagining how she once lived and talked and cried there.

Until I finally ended in her room, and in front of her dresser where her phone stood, where she spent so many nights talking to me, asking me when I would visit, what I’d like to do for the weekend.

I took whatever things I might need, and, sweeping one last glance over her lonely apartment, I went out the door, locked it, and put the key inside my pocket.

The next day, Janine and I went to meet her lawyers in their dimly-lighted legal office.

“Everything’s organized and prepared, sir,” said the oldest lawyer. “Her properties will be given to her family after her funeral.”

“That’s good,” I nodded. “We want to make sure everything will go smoothly.”

“It will, sir; Ms. Wong was a very organized girl. She had prepared for this moment years before.”

Janine sighed beside me. “Still, it was so sudden that she died. I thought she was recuperating still in the hospital.” She turned to look at me. “Did you manage to get the autopsy reports? I’d kind of like to know exactly how she died.”

“The doctors gave us her medical records,” said another lawyer, fishing for the documents and handing them to me. “Here, sir, take a look.”

I took her hospital records which almost became her second life and scanned through them. It was stated that her heart stopped one night in her sleep; no overdose, no heart attack, no complication whatsoever. It was almost as if it was just her time to die, and so, she did.

Janine sighed again. “So she really died in her sleep…”

I nodded absently, flipping through the pages. There were lab reports, medicine intake reports, progress reports from her leg exercises…

And then to the second to the last paper in the bundle, I stopped.

There was a note attached to a special paper. Please don’t let Rafael know about this…

I felt the breath that I had been unconsciously holding leave my body.

It was in my hands. Agreement of Donor for Eye Transplant.

I couldn’t understand.

There was a phone on the desk. I snatched it and dialed the hospital’s number. The receptionist answered. “Hello, I would like to request for Doctor Smith, please? Tell him it’s his patient—Rafael San Diego.”

Minutes ticked by, and Doctor Smith greeted me on the other line. “Hello, doctor? May I ask… what were my injuries after the crash a year and a half ago?” I asked, the anticipation evident in my voice.

He said to wait until the computer had retrieved my records. Growing tense by the minute, I was about to suggest me coming there myself when he finally spoke again. “Let’s see,” he said. “You had three minor cuts in your head, one cut with fifteen stitches, bruises all over your body, severe traumatic concussion…”

I was holding my breath and not noticing I was doing so.
“…and eye surgery. Had to take out your eyes due to glass shards penetrating the pupils.”

In the dim light of the table lamp, my hands trembled as they clutched the document which proves Sarah’s love for me. After everything that has happened, after everything that I’ve done, she even managed to give up her own eyesight just so I could have mine back.

The sounds stopped. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my blood pounding in my ears. It blocked Janine’s worried questions, the soft humming of the lamp, the droning voice of the doctor on the other end of the line…

The moment time stood standing still, in the single instant the world stood frozen, the colors, somehow escaping eternity swirled around me, spinning faster and faster. And in that one moment before the senseless colors blurred before my eyes, I felt a feeling of inexplicable pain and loss. It was as if the world, still frozen in time, was taken away from me… when all the colors faded away, until all I could see…

Was white.

And who can say that they are to blame? When teachers and professors are ramming down Rizal’s novels into their students’ throats that way, there would be no wonder that there’s no more room for enjoyment. True, Noli Me Tangere is indeed a political and anticlerical revolution, but it’s still a novel designed to be indulged and to be enjoyed.

In the short reading entitled Lusty Passages from Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere, Ambeth Ocampo highlighted several snippets from the said novel that could… arouse, for a lack of better term, or pique the curiosity and interest of its readers. Among them was the fire-and-brimstone sermon of Padre Damaso, a priest in the story well known for his, uh, enjoyments. In that chapter, he was preaching about cutting off the part of your body that is causing you to sin. And so we read about two contemplating students who know fully well about Padre Damaso’s exploits: Will he cut it?

Another one is a heated discussion about whether one’s son should become a doctor, or a priest. Not the most philosophical discussion around, perhaps, but the debate was whether which profession was more beneficial. Doctors are paid more, said one. And, they are well-respected. More importantly, doctors can get their hands on, ahem, restricted female body parts during their diagnostic procedures. Well, retorted the other, being the priest is just the same, albeit more. Priests get paid through generous donations, they are well-respected enough to be considered as living saints, and they also have access to restricted female body parts during their… spiritual diagnostic procedures. What differs is that doctors require more years in training, and priests require less effort and minimal grasp of the Latin language.

Ambeth Ocampo ruminates whether or not he over-reads Rizal’s novel. He makes a final note of the fact that the women in Rizal’s time, given to such modesty, could never give in to their desires. And the men, for that matter, had to resort to time-old cunning tricks and plans to get what they want. For instance, the chapter about the picnic, wherein by some obscure cosmic accident, a boat with five girls mysteriously gets five holes in which five men use their feet to plug into. That part was easy to understand, but did he have to use those exact terms?

And so we are forced to think: Was Rizal mocking his own ideals? Or was he just being human? Personally, I think it was a nice turn of events. Sure, we can think that that was still Rizal’s way to mock the clergy, fight the oppressors, and so on, but one thing remains: a book was never meant to be plowed through; it’s meant to be enjoyed, savored—like a good, hearty meal. And if while reading the Noli, all you could think about was how the book was used as an instrument in the revolution and that it’s a valuable tangible piece of history, and that you have to turn the page because you have to finish the chapter for the exams, it gets to be seriously tedious reading, honestly. And, as Mr. Ocampo said it, looking at the Noli in a new light makes for a lighter, more refreshing, and definitely more enjoyable reading. Now we can actually read the whole thing, and not simply go through it, then afterwards use it as a paperweight, or as a doorstop.

… I don’t use my copy of the Noli Me Tangere as a doorstop anymore.

I, therefore, am in constant fear of my brain. I fear of the amount of useless drivel I feed it constantly. I only have one brain, and, naturally, I’m particularly attached to it.

Flipping through channels. Geez, I missed the Powerpuff Girls. Don’t know why, but I do. They have freakishly huge eyes, which means that they must have freakishly huge heads. Was that a result of a mutation due to the mysterious compound chemical X? And do huge heads equate to a bajillion IQ points? I sure hope not, since I wouldn’t trust Bubbles for beans, and her head’s as big as they come. I wonder if Ms. Sarah Bellum has a ginormous head to be always cut off from view. Must be, since she’s the only one with an actual head.

Wow, season 4 of CSI: Las Vegas. Officer Sanders in trial! One of the jury person looks hot. Was that a bloody scratch on his head? Much like the victim on the other case, who smashed her head on her glass panel doors, hemorrhaging her brain. She was feeding her brain oodles and oodles of nicotine and alcohol anyway, so she probably was numb to all that pain. And here the doctor shows off a slide of a bloated brain. Why are they pink, I wonder. If the brain gets constant supply of blood, it would automatically take on a more reddish hue. Is it true that the brain’s color is actually grey? Or is that a result of constant cerebral abuse and disuse? Hmm…

I didn’t know they showed Dexter on FoxCrime. Dexter’s a perfect example of a modern-day Lecter. He kills not because he’s a deranged psychopath, or because he doesn’t have any choice, or because he actually likes it… he kills because he’s a deranged psychopath who doesn’t have any choice… and that he actually likes it. In this episode he disposes of a body he butchered and forgot to clean up afterwards, therefore risking him of his unwanted unveiling. He is seen hauling to a motorboat two huge black garbage bags, and on am eagle’s view shot of the camera, we see an exposed filleted hand, and… well, what do you know, brains.

Channel surfing again. … served with some fava beans and a nice chianti… aah, yes. Mr. Hannibal Lecter himself. How was I to forget the brain of the operations, pun intented. Watching him alone makes me hungry. Then I remember that it was time for dinner. I worry about my brain some other time, as it was practically screaming at me to go get something to eat–with or without a nice chianti.

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

“Cow brains. Pull up a chair.”

Wow. Is the cosmos giving me a sign? Now that’s a head case.

Aside from the memory of that legendary moldy sandwich, Cha and I share a common denominator elsewhere: a certain Mr. Insensitive Jerk. (You probably never read my posts, and by association you probably know who you are, but I’ll humor myself. Besides, it sounds much more mysterious this way). It just so happened that this Mr. Insensitive Jerk was the object of my demented affections when I was in high school. What happened was that Mr. IJ and I parted ways, and I suffered an agonizing death, leading much to my emo and angst-ridden tendencies. However, things have turned a 180 and Mr. IJ and I are on good terms again. And so learning of that, Cha asked me the fairly inevitable question, “What if you and so-and-so got back together again?”

Well, first of all, we were never “together” to begin with, so by default, there wouldn’t be any “again”. We were, in all aspects, friends, and remained friends until we had that childish misunderstanding. I’d admit that there were idiotic moments of my life when I fantasized about “us”. But, as what have been said from another blog I’ve read, “there’s only ‘you and me’, but there’s never been any ‘us’”.

It is also a widely-known fact that I do not take to affections quite well. I am, above all, a very emotional being, and it shows, much to my chagrin, most of the time. When Mr. IJ was the object of my demented affections, even my unsolicited brainwaves screamed the fact that he was the object of my demented affections. How could I hide, when there was nowhere I could hide? He did the math for me: he was the one who hid away from me.

But what would happen if you found out that… he was in love with someone else?

I was wondering if what I was feeling at the time would change. Another widely-known fact was that I, aside from being an emotional being, was–am–a martyr. I live for others, as cheesy as that may sound. So in retrospect–even though it would probably hurt me–I personally believe that there’s not a thing that would change.

With that in mind, how would it be possible for me to care much less give a flying fig about that now that I have a new Object of My Demented Affections?

… But that’s another story.

I think the root of all these amounts to the issue that… Mr. IJ has a thing for Cha. Honestly, I couldn’t be much happier, except for the fact that Cha already has a boyfriend. In all fairness, what was I to hope for, having a nonexistent relationship from a relationship that was as shaky as the nonexistent one was to begin with? There was no “us”. And now, I’m not entirely sure if there even was a “you and me”.

It’s just as my mother said it. “Mom, Mr. IJ’s birthday’s coming up. I might be invited to attend his party, if he decides to have one.”

“And so, who are you to be invited to his party?”

Yeah. Story of my life, baby. Story of my life. Who the eff am I?

Wow, I’m not late for the test. Wait, is this a test? It looks so damn easy.

Wow, that was easy.

Grab. Search. Grab some more. Search, search, search some more. Crap, I left my phone at home. Now how am I supposed to text my master?

He’s late. Why are they always late on math exams? And my calculator is going nuts. Please don’t make my calculator go nuts while I’m taking my test. And he’s 10 minutes late. He’s not going to shorten our exam time, is he? Crap, he’s fifteen minutes late. If he gave us one of those impossible 1-hour problems, we won’t be able to fin–oh, wait. He’s here.

This is a Stat exam? Looks too easy for a stat exam. Is this a trick? Someone must be tricking us. Must remember to read the questions twice. Nono, thrice.

Read the questions twice. Nono, thrice. It still looked too easy to be a stat exam.

DAAAAAAAAAAAAMN I KNEW IT WAS TOO EASY TO BE A STAT EXAM!!!

What a lousy day. Where the hell’s my phone? Fiddle. Search, search, random oath. Dismantle, search, rummage. Rummage some more. Random oath. Dismantle, curse at leg of chair that stubbed a toe, rummage some more.

Damn, I think I lost my phone.

Must text Master. Must tell him I misplaced my phone somewh–OMG MASTER’S TALKING WITH THE GUY WHO FOUND MY PHONE.

Whut. Chris found my phone.

AND HE’S TALKING WITH MASTER.

Rush of blood. Stiffen. Mental breakdown. Incoherent mumble. Faint.

“Good Morning, Master! *(‘.-) kiss!”

Blogging is also good stress relief. Bad day at work? Fillet your boss here. Had a spat with someone? Plot into exquisite detail the tortuous ways of revenge you fantasize here. Blogging about personal rants and peeves are so addictive, and the thrill of being caught (or being concealed by the bajillion more blogs out there) adds more to the excitement. Ah, pure nerd heaven.

Blogging is also accessible. Well, for my case, it is. Come to think of it, almost all nerds will have/already have a PC. Almost all nerds are tecchie geeks, anyway, so blogging’s a good excuse.

But I think the bottomline of this is that… nerds love to read. And write. And nerds have all the free time in the world to comtemplate about the more essential things in life: ice cream, furry pets, the obscene weather, assasination plots, world domination, stuff like that. We’re just so full, we can’t contain all that necessary information to ourselves. And so we blog.

Here’s to the nerds. And here’s to our ultimate intellectual and artistic orgasmic experience.