tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77876828402871566262024-03-20T06:05:30.691+08:00Tick-TalkativeIsahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-82857005811032503002012-11-07T23:51:00.001+08:002012-11-08T00:22:09.391+08:00The Art of Second Thought <div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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By Robert Ryan Valle</span></div>
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Get a pen and paper. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Start writing about the first thing that comes to mind.
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Stop after exactly one minute.
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We were asked in class earlier today to do the same thing. I wrote about writing and came up with two sentences and a half. Others griped about not having enough time in an attempt to buy more thereof.
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It was hard. Writing is hard. (You can’t imagine how much I am squeezing the words out right now.) But the exercise was harder because we didn’t have time to think. Or rather re-think. Up to this point I have edited the sentences above an average of three times.
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Re-thinking is something we do everyday albeit quite later. We say and do things rashly without a care in the world (or for the whole damn world). And at the end of the day we realize how stupid we were. Replaying scenes in our heads. Imagining what we could have done better.
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Writing gives us the chance to think and re-think. How many angry texts have you planned to send but opted to delete or edit instead?
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We can check and re-check our spelling and grammar. We don’t have that luxury when we’re in a screaming match and thus risk sounding very stupid.
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That’s why writing may be a measure of a person’s intellectual capacity (or at least it should be!)… which is what the exercise in class may have been for. I don’t think our professor wanted to see what we thought of the first instant but how we developed the first crazy sentence that came into our minds. Mine was:
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What to write?
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Now that I think of it I should have written a whole treatise on the craft. Or a six word story. Or a haiku. But it’s too late. I will be judged by the next words:
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I remember the </strike> I have been writing for pleasure since early childhood. I remember
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Maybe now my professor is thinking how weird a child I must have been (“writing for pleasure” sounds real sick now dunnit?). Or maybe how disorganized my thoughts are. Or how I’m still clinging to the past with all the remembering and talking about long ago. I’m no expert.
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That’s why before actually writing a handwritten letter (it’s more personal me thinks), I type and re-type in a word processor. I end up sounding so smart.
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And I never trust the spell check on these things. Because “pubic concern” won’t raise any flags for a spell checker but will most probably disturb most readers.
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So give it a thought. Even a second thought.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>(Ryan is a betel-quid chewing frustrated painter and guitarist. When he is not playing with his animal bone and teeth collection, he busies himself with rearranging his room.)</i></span></div>
Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-2305955919011042622012-09-13T00:00:00.000+08:002012-09-13T00:00:03.501+08:00Chances, chances, and more chances.<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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By Isabel Rodriguez<br />
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“And I also regret not writing more when I was younger..”, I told my father. And just as those words escaped my mouth, I realized; I had so many regrets.
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I used to think that getting older leaves you with less chances, as if time has the power to turn you into a a withered, helpless pulp.
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As I struggle to find myself considered as an adult, I realize that there are no missed chances, just the fear of trying. Far too many times the fear of losing to the odds, to life, to circumstance envelope those who dare to take these challenges on, but it seems that those who succeed are ones who are brave enough to try. Remember: Bravery is not the absence of courage, it is saying, with your head held high, that I will try anyway.
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I am late. At twenty four, I seemed to have shied away from all the things I could have done, could have been. There are times I find this idea stuck in my head and those are the slowest, lowest days I have. But then, you see, age and time has never let anyone stop those who did not let them. I am learning this now.
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It was Og Mandino in his book The Greatest Salesman who said, “Failure will never overtake me if my determination to succeed is strong enough.”
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I intend to follow this advice.
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So I write, to get better, and I will never stop.
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(Originally written on <a href="http://sisasaid.blogspot.com/">Sisasaid</a>, Isabel's food/fashion/personal blog– and yes, she isn't sure which category fits best, she's still deciding)</i></span></div>
Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-17030226290424012042012-09-10T23:14:00.004+08:002012-09-10T23:14:43.603+08:00Manong Driver<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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By Jacob Clavano<br />
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It was a humid afternoon when I took a cab home. Like many others in the city, the cab didn't look too clean and comfortable to ride on. And like many others in the city, I didn't mind because I was used to it and I wanted to go home already.
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From the client's office, we took to the back streets--the many little arteries that support life in this dirty city--and within moments we were already along the expressway to the suburbs. The ride was uneventful until the cab driver embarrassingly told me that he did not know the way to Alabang.<br />
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Initially I didn't know how to react. I didn't know what to say. The person driving this dirty white box on four wheels didn't know what exit to take on the expressway. It took me about two seconds to respond to his statement. Told him which exit to take, the directions he needed to get me home.
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I was tempted to ask why he didn't know the way, but first I asked him why he took me as a passenger.
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"It's my job," he said. "It's my job to take passengers to where they need to go."
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I'm not one to strike a conversation with a complete stranger, but his answer made me want to ask more; to understand why he didn't say no like the many cab drivers in the city; to get to know the man behind the wheel better.
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Unfortunately I didn't get his name, but I called him Manong.
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Like many others in the city, Manong began as an overseas Filipino worker. He was an OFW and he worked as a family driver for a wealthy family in Saudi Arabia for 10 long years. It was a difficult decade for him because he rarely got to see his family. He gets to see them in the Philippines when there was a break from work or when he could afford the trip. Usually Manong would be with his family in Rizal for 2 weeks. Sometimes he'd stay for a month. And every time Manong left, it was the most terrible thing for him. But he knew then that leaving was necessary to feed his family, which was thousands of miles away, and bring his children to school.
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But everything didn't go as well as he hoped. Like many others before him, Manong was cast out and jobless. Seeing that staying in a foreign place whilst jobless hardly made any sense, he decided to go back home with what little money he had saved almost two years ago. He was the only breadwinner and his eldest child was a Mass Communication student in her third year in UP Los Banos. Manong also had his other children to worry about.
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Unfortunately, the vicious system commonly accepts the young, the new graduates, the idealistic, people like me, to work from the wee hours of the morning until late at night. Manong was already old, and even if he had experienced working abroad and a pretty decent English, too, he knew that he wouldn't stand a chance against the younger, thirstier, hungrier generation. But he sends his resume to companies regularly hoping he'd get a break.
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When I asked him why he didn't hesitate to take me to Alabang, he said that it's his job to take me to where I want to go.
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"I can't be choosy. These are difficult times and if I choose the people I take, I might lose an opportunity to earn something or learn something from those I didn't take," he said. "Besides, I'm doing this for my daughter in college. I want her to finish her studies."
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Manong's daughter is currently a scholar at UPLB. Although she's doing extremely well in her academics and she's not paying a single centavo for her studies, it's the rent and daily allowance that she's asking from her father every week. Most of us have been through this and we know how difficult it is to budget our money and pay the rent when we're living away from our family. Manong still has a year to support his daughter. Another year before he sees her on stage with her diploma. And he will gladly drive his cab any time, anywhere just to see that beautiful day.
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When we've reached our destination, I thanked him and gave him an extra 100 pesos. I gave him that much for three reasons:
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1) For taking me to Alabang though if he didn't know the way;<br />
2) For being a good father to his family and an honest person to me;<br />
3) For the journey home.<br />
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It's not every day I get to meet people like Manong who is both honest and hardworking. We're all hardworking, I believe, but not all of us are as honest. And sometimes when we do get to meet someone who's honest enough to admit that he does not know the way, but has worked hard enough to get us there, he deserves a pat on the back and a tip to make him realize there are people who care and appreciate him for his efforts.<br />
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<i>(Originally posted on Jacob's <a href="http://cobyisms.blogspot.com/2012/06/manong-driver.html" target="_blank">blog</a>.)</i><br />
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Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-56702628482399853802012-09-01T00:00:00.000+08:002012-09-01T00:00:10.054+08:00On the things I've become<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Isabel Rodriguez<br />
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I was reading an old friend’s blog when I realized that I’ve reinvented myself so many times. (Admittedly, it wasn’t just the blog. A barrage of old photos that have surfaced because of Multiply closing down, added to the discovery of my first blog’s password may have amplified this recollection.)
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From all the other personas I’ve taken on (there was highschool delinquent me, depressed writer me, emo rocker me, and even party girl me– a far cry from the DIYing, outfit posting me of today), one in particular has always made me feel like I’ve just listened to Coldplay’s X&Y album, every time remembered.
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That was the College freshman (or should I say frosh?) me– a doe eyed, naive, black t-shirt rocking, cap wearing version of myself. I am then reminded of my unreasonable hopes for the future and great mistakes made in the past. It’s hard to read a blog post dated 2005 recounting the first day of college which I was part, when I am still in college now.
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Of course, people usually ask:<br />
<i>“What happened?”</i><br />
<i> “What took you so long?”</i><br />
<i> “How did it come to that?”</i><br />
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But those questions are not ones that I find important. The significant question would be one I ask myself every time this period of my life is dug up:<br />
<i> “What if?”</i><br />
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Obviously, there is no way of knowing. Wallowing will only leave me depressed and distracted.<br />
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And then there’s this: no matter how overdue, I am happy now. There’s a wonderful lesson certain agonizing events in our lives teach us, and I may just have learned mine.<br />
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But, College freshman me still leaves a dull pain at the bottom of my stomach every time remembered.
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Though I’ve always thought that Coldplay’s X&Y evokes in listeners a good kind of pain– if there is such a thing. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>(Originally posted on <a href="http://sisasaid.blogspot.com/">sisasaid.blogspot.com</a>, a product of one of many sleepless nights.)</i></span><br />
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Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-37974893313685628482012-08-30T10:30:00.000+08:002012-08-30T10:30:19.516+08:00#YOLO<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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By Henrick Batallones<br />
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Apart from a few times when I can claim to be one of the first to know something - most of which happened during a past life as an American television pundit - I’m often late when it comes to trends. It took me a year to join Friendster, two to join Facebook, and three to join Twitter, although to be fair, I considered joining that site when I was still in college, but didn’t because I thought I wouldn’t have time to tweet.
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Yes, I can be terribly late. I don’t spend my time watching trends, more so following them. You won’t find me falling in line at the newly-opened milk tea store just so I can tell my friends that I’ve had a noun and it’s an adjective. (I’m not saying I’m beneath trying something new, though; I just tend to wait until the crowds dry up, because one of the worst things about living in the metropolis is having to deal with a multitude of people who want to be first.) I don’t scour the Internet for the latest budding meme or the next big catch phrase, and I certainly don’t have the urge to do something just because everybody else is. Had milk tea? Check. Rant against Globe? Nah, no problems here. Shot your friends with laser guns? I have nobody to shoot.
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One of those clueless moments came a couple of weeks ago, when I found my Twitter timeline inundated with this one hashtag: #yolo. A new battle cry, I assume. A new meaningless yet loaded battlecry. Or maybe the name of some reality celebrity’s baby, I don’t know.
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“Ano nga bang ibig sabihin ng YOLO?” I asked a friend who just used it, perhaps for the first time.
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<br />
“You only live once,” he said.
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<br />
Apparently some rapper guy said that word - it’s a word, apparently, not just an abbreviation - in one of his songs. “Yolo!” Like “yo” with an extra syllable. I guess that’s the in thing nowadays. Anyway, I sound like a pedant. Yolo. “Yolo”. You only live once. I guess that rapper guy explained what his gibberish utterance meant. I don’t know. I don’t listen to pop radio anymore, what with crass presenters and limited selections.
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“Ah, why should I listen to you?” Hypothetical Radio Executive tells me. “You’re not an ordinary listener. And besides, what you call shit programming attracts a lot of people. We can’t go after you when we have all these people behind our tails. We have to be successful. We have to be profitable. We have to keep this up. Yolo.”
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My brother used that hashtag one night. He sat in front of a computer, on the last night of a long weekend, and decided that he’ll wing one of his reaction papers. He spent the weekend playing basketball and texting people and, you know, pretty much acting like it’s the weekend. And after all that, he has a paper to write and, I guess, no idea what to do. “My paper only has two pages,” he tweeted, and by that I assume he has to submit at least five. And then he used that so-called word. “Yolo.”
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And then it dawns on me. You only live once, so why worry about the small stuff? Perfectly sensible thing to say, if only because everybody else is saying it. Go, make mistakes. Fine. People have told me that a few times. “Don’t worry if you don’t get things right,” they’d say. “What’s important is that you learned from those mistakes.” But no. That’s not what people are thinking exactly. You only live once, so why worry about the small stuff? All right. In fact, why worry about anything at all? Umm, okay, go on. Just do what you want. Everything that you want, at least once. You might never get the chance to do it again.
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Hypothetical Mother: “Anak, huwag kang magdu-drugs, ha? Masama ‘yun.”
Hypothetical Son: “‘Nay, experience rin ‘yun! Yolo.”
Hypothetical Mother: “Anong kagaguhan yang yolo na ‘yan?”
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A few years ago I decided to try my luck as a writer. There was an open try-out of sorts for the Philippine Star’s Supreme section - you know, that one edited by Tim Yap, less said about him, the better - and I went along with a friend. One of the things we were asked to do is to write about something we passionately believed in. I did not have an idea what to write about. Damn it, I thought, I should have come prepared. After three minutes, I started writing a slightly impassioned 50-word aside on being very sure about something before you take a plunge.
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<br />
Obviously I did not make the cut. I remember Tim Yap being a bit patronizing and telling us that we did well, we can still contribute, yada, yada, yada. While envious that a familiar face - not my friend’s, but someone else, one with official “writer” status of some sorts - got through, I was thinking that my 50-word aside doomed my chances. After all, have you met a pop culture expert of some sorts who was very cautious about which thing to dip his feet into? How can I become one if I refused to check out those milk tea places (until a few months ago) because I thought they’re overpriced compared to Chowking’s long-standing offering?
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<br />
I don’t remember what I wrote at all, but I’ll try recreating it here anyway. Maybe I’ll do it better this time.
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If there’s one thing I believe in, it’s making sure you’re doing the right thing before actually doing it. Everybody keeps on saying “just do it” nowadays. They just get in there and do things without thinking about the consequences. “Bah, who cares?” they go. “Just go have fun!” I want to have fun too, but it’s not fun dealing with the fallout that might result. Call me a guy who doesn’t get anything done, but there’s no better happiness than knowing that you’ve weighed your options, made the best choice, and know that nothing wrong will happen, at least for a while.
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<br />
Okay, that didn’t work. It’s more than fifty words. More than a hundred. And I definitely didn’t write it like this. Then again, it’s been almost three years since I took a stab at defining my philosophy in life: To not be reckless about things, to make sure you’re doing the right thing before you do.
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Only I’m not doing exactly that. I’ve been known for doing some rash decisions - mostly purchases, really - and when it comes to the more important stuff I feel I’ve been left behind. I liked someone. It took me two years to say something - although, to be fair, she did have a boyfriend at the time. I think.
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<br />
But imagine just telling her that I love her, or maybe just like her - see what I mean? - without thinking things through, without knowing what you should do once you tell her everything, without a back-up plan for when you inadvertently pin all your hopes in that one announcement and everything falls apart, just because I should take chances, I should do one thing that scares me every day, I should not think of the consequences and just let things be, because I only live once, yolo, yolo, yoloooo! Bullshit. And yeah, maybe things could have gone well, but they haven’t, and I haven’t said a single word yet, as far as I know. So, no, I’ll stick with my philosophy. Don’t be reckless. Think things through. Take forever if you have to. Just don’t take the plunge for the sake of taking a plunge. And all of you teenagers, you may not want regrets of the “what if” kind, but that’s better than an actual problem on your hands.
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<br /><i>
(Read more of Henrick's thoughts and musings on <a href="http://upperblog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Upperblog</a>)</i></span></div>
Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-158964768941549942012-08-23T23:43:00.004+08:002012-08-23T23:47:00.810+08:00Cheers to all!<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />By Isabel Rodriguez
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I’ve gone a long way. There was a time in my life when hydrating meant grabbing a beer, or whatever had enough alcohol in it and every occasion was a cause for a drink. You passed a subject? Cheers! You broke up with your boy toy? Cheers! You flunked out of school? Cheers! You found your earring? Cheers! You wanna beer? Cheers!<br />
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That was the story of my every day.<br />
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Then again, drinking was not that bad. Surprisingly, there were instances when it saved my as$ from an irreparable mistake– like the time my friend Sab and I cut classes to get tattoos only to end up drinking instead (thank God that one beer for the road that ended up into couple, lest I be sporting matching friendship tattoos with Sab now). But, more often than not, it was the other way around.<br />
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Those days, a hangover was trophy you showed off and I was counting <i>lasing</i> bruises on my legs with pride.
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Drunken idiocy was mistaken for grand adventures and God knows how much I wanted an adventure.
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I was in the car with my sister the other day when she mentioned something that almost made me involuntarily hit the brakes in surprise.
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“Hindi na kasi tayo uhaw sa paglabas at pag-inom eh</i>”, she said.
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My gobsmacked reaction to that statement was a big, hearty laugh.
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But then again, I was driving along Alabang on a clear blue skied Saturday morning without a hangover and I haven’t gone out in months.
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Oh how things have changed. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, a photo of me drunk, on my twentieth birthday a few years back.</td></tr>
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">(Isabel wouldn't even be thinking about the dark, drunken, glory days, except she had fallen into the trap of reminiscing because of attempts to rescue her old photos from Multiply.)</i></div>
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Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-51202426724260150542012-08-15T18:16:00.001+08:002012-08-15T18:16:23.700+08:00A letter from my 20 year-old self <div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Gabe Brillantes<br /><br />
Dear 18 year-old self,<br /><br />
I remember you looking forward to reaching your legal age, you couldn’t wait to do a lot of things! You thought you were old enough to do absolutely anything you want: get a job, have your own place, drive a car, get a boyfriend...yet it seemed to me like none of these things have come to actuality. This does not necessarily mean that the future is turning bleak for you, it just means that all these things take time. Well for the boyfriend part it mostly depends on you, on whether you want to go for that guy who has been bugging you nonstop-just kidding-there is no guy. On the brighter side, you have your friends who are always up for anything, what more can you ask for? They were there for you during your first heartbreak, they were there when you celebrated your debut, and they would most likely be there for you on your wedding day. Don’t you think it is a little too early to think of such things? </span><br />
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Enjoy singlehood as much as you can! You have all the time in the world and the freedom to do anything you want. This is the perfect time for you to pursue your dreams. You want to achieve high grades? Then study hard. Set aside all the distractions and do what you must. You want to look your best? Then take your time to mix and match and inspire yourself with the current trend. Make-up is fine, as long as you don’t go overboard. Do not forget to dress appropriately for the occasion. You want to stay fit and healthy? Then sign up for activities that require you to move – join the dance troupe of that org you are a part of or do campus runs with your friends or your sister. Devote all your time and effort in becoming the person you dream yourself to be.<br /><br />
I know you have a lot of apprehensions as to what will become of you in the future, but remember the quote, “nothing can be gained between worrying now and then”. Do the things you love with the people you love for you are only given a limited time with them. Don’t waste your life waiting for someone to complete you, you have so much more to give by being incomplete. Accept life as it is, in a year or two it wouldn’t matter whether you get that thing that you wanted. What matters is that you know how to bounce back. Always have something to look forward to so you will be excited and motivated to work on it. Constantly remind yourself of these things so there will be no time for worry or regret. <br /><br />
There is no point of wallowing in misery and contemplating on things that you don’t have. Have a thankful heart. Take time to notice the beauty of the things happening around you. I know these things are easier said than done but they will make you happy. You have so much more to learn about the world, so much more to experience but take heed and do these things one step at a time. You have always had an idealistic mind. You want to be remembered to have done something magnanimous and heroic that it flusters you when you compare yourself to others who seem to be leading more productive lives. But this life is yours and you are responsible for whatever the outcome is. As cheesy as it may sound, the future, your future to be exact, lies in your hands.<br /><br />
From,<br /><br />
your 20 year-old self</span></div>
Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-7903693792642312542012-08-09T15:36:00.000+08:002012-08-09T15:36:18.422+08:00“When will it be your turn?”<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Sara Almario<br />
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I believe I read this quote at Facebook once. I tried looking for it again but since I can’t find it, I’ll paraphrase it:<br />
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“(For girls) When you finish high school, you go to college. When you go to college, people ask you, ‘when will you graduate?’ When you graduate, you get asked, ‘when are you going to get a job?’ When you get a job, you get asked, ‘when are you getting a boyfriend?’ You get a boyfriend, you get asked, ‘when will you get married?’ After you get married, people will then ask you, ‘when are you getting a baby?’”
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<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
Yes, this is the never-ending cycle of dissatisfaction in life. When you reach your 20s, you are in a state of limbo that will eventually lead to “the rest of your life.”
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According to your elders, the “rest of your life” consists of the following things: a degree, a job, marriage and kids. No one ever mentions the in-betweens of wanting to travel, wanting to enjoy your new-found independence or of the glory of spending your own hard-earned money.
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No, the norm is to have a degree, a job, marriage and kids. Going outside the norm will lead you to never-ending questions of “when will it happen for you?” And if it doesn’t happen yet, it seems like a giant failure on your part.
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My interpretation of the question “when will you get married?” is equal to “how come you’re not married yet?” I saw my friends who are couples getting married at 20, 21,22… I just turned 24 and I just got engaged. For the longest time though, I had this overwhelming pressure of needing to keep up with those friends who got married younger.
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My fiancé Ray and I are different from them. Our friends who got married young were ready. We weren’t. Our commitment for each other, our maturity and our career situation kept us from getting married at that age. I do remember attending each of those friends’ weddings and the annoying “when will it be your turn?” question kept popping up.
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What I found interesting is that those questions were directed at me, not him. For a man, it’s acceptable to be single until he turns 30, but for a woman who will be 25 soon, she’ll die as a spinster if she’s still not married.
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I was unhappy with my relationship status for a while because I thought Ray’s commitment level is not up to par to what was expected of us. The thought of him taking his time and deciding for himself when he’s ready to propose marriage to me, did not even cross my mind.
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I’m happy to report I am currently blissfully engaged. This was done at our time. Ray proposed at his time. I should have ignored the pressure and frustration I felt when I got asked that annoying question.
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Now there’s a new question I dread: “When are you planning to have a baby?” Ray and I always answer, “In a couple of years.” Some people leave it at that. Some ask, “how come?” I admire my friends who have babies in the first year of marriage, but I’m not mature enough to be a mother yet. Ray and I are currently enjoying each other’s company and enjoying our careers to even think about having children immediately. Ray always tells me, “Let’s plan the wedding first OK? One thing at a time.”
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Exactly. One thing at a time. And it will be on our own time and when we want it to happen. It could be in a couple of years or ten years from now, I don’t care. I am thoroughly satisfied at our current situation to let any “when will…” question bother me right now. It’s just annoying when I have this weird pressure to abide by what’s considered the “natural progression of life.” Ummm… YOLO. Seriously. You Only Live Once. I’m enjoying the present situation. I don’t need to know when “it” will happen to me.</span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-42183047942892550252012-08-07T22:13:00.000+08:002012-08-07T22:13:00.242+08:00Romantic Comedies<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> By Stargirl<br />
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I’ve always been a fan of romantic comedies. I devoured the formulaic plot with so much passion. Awkward girl meets interesting (yet complicated and enigmatic) guy who immediately catches her eye. Imperfect world ensues, and for some reason sets them apart. Girl finds herself in the arms of an equally gorgeous, loving, stable, (yet plain and predictable) man-- who also in the end selflessly lets her go and wishes her happiness with interesting guy. Well, it is something like that or some close derivative. (Think “The Notebook”, “Sweet Home Alabama”, “Serendipity,” to name a few)
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<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />You're bored Allie. You're bored and you know it. You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something missing.<br />
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Perhaps the reason why I crave romantic comedies so much is that sometimes, my life is like a romantic comedy. I know that I’ve only gone through about a quarter of my life. But I feel like being in 20’s, I’ve already gone through a lot—in life and in love. My child-like wonder, openness, enthusiasm and honesty allow me to experience life in its entirety. To traverse unfamiliar territories. To explore and meet diverse personalities. To challenge myself into doing something new. And sometimes to be brutally honest even if it hurts.<br />
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Stay with you? What for? Look at us, we're already fighting<br />
<br />
College was the place for me to dive deeper into the depths of who I really am and to be open to sharing this with someone. I found my first real crush, my first real relationship, my first “thing,” and finally my first real love. (Yes, they are all different.)<br />
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But, unlike romantic comedies, love in life is utterly raw and uncensored. With the glitters and the sparkles of love and sweet words, come the possible pain of abandonment and disillusionment, of betraying and being betrayed, and finally, of moving on. Unlike romantic comedies, these experiences don’t pass overnight. They don’t get cleared up after a few sobs or tears, instantly after a phonecall from your bestfriend or a hug from your new beau. They come and they leave in their own time, sometimes catching you off guard and off script, as life intends them to. Days, months, years… <br />
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Well that's what we do, we fight...I'm not afraid to hurt your feelings.
The maturity and freedom that went with exercising my passion and earning my own paycheck didn’treally eliminate these emotionally-laden events. Trust me. I may be wiser and more experienced than before, but finding new love and transitioning from the old still came with its accompanying heartache, as fresh as I experienced it the first time. <br />
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I guess that’s how it is when you’re passionate about life and love, when you’re honest with yourself and when you’re brave enough to disappoint another just to be true to your own soul. It’s honest but it’s never easy, it’s messy, it’s intense, it’s emotional and it’s downright heart-wrenching. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, I didn’t mean to hurt you. (Yes, you.) You have been nothing but kind and loving and selfless with me even until now that I did hurt you. And I’m sorry. <br />
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There is no easy way, no matter what I do, somebody gets hurt.<br />
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Obviously an (ended) chapter in my romantic comedy-like life is still open. Never as I have imagined it and just as sharp as I experienced it. But maybe that’s just how it should be for now. (‘Cause it’s just how it is, and no amount of mental gymnastics can ever instantly change that.)<br />
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But. I also have faith that time heals. Not romantic-comedy-fast, but slowly and steadily. I have faith that it will all make sense just like how it does now,when I look back at my seemingly-ages-ago college years, and the lessons and gems they added to my life.<br />
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I believe in serendipity, in choices and chances, in the help of friends, in the hope of new love, and (blurry as it may be for now) eventually happily ever after.
So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this everyday, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, everyday. Will you do something for me? Just picture your life for me? 30 years from now, 40 years from now? What's it look like? If it's with him, go. Go. I lost you once, I think I can do it again. If I thought that's what you really wanted. But don't you take the easy way out.<br />
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</span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-53535653343628701032012-08-03T20:57:00.000+08:002012-08-04T18:01:59.610+08:00A hypothetical scenario: the effects of dopamine and the effects of the lack thereof.<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Isabel Rodriguez</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
Long ago, I decided that I was going to be with you. <br />
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I was walking towards that place I’d always see you at, but I wasn’t hurrying like I always do when I was about to meet you; I knew you weren’t there. I was happy, almost skipping in my step (You see the things you made me do? You made me almost skip!) because last night we had that conversation about our dreams and I felt like we connected. Never mind that the future you seemed to build in your head had not included me, I’ll make space for myself. There is hope for us yet!
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I was walking and I could feel the smile on my face (How goofy! The reactions I have to thoughts of you!). I wondered how it felt to hold your hand. I wondered how it felt to touch your face, to run my fingers through the creases of your forehead, and those lines that form when you laugh. I wondered how it would be to stare at those eyes, and have someone look back; those magnificent, almond eyes that see right through me. I wondered if through time, our breaths would synchronize into a single gentle rhythm, the inhales and exhales. I wondered how you’d touch me and reach for me when you finally needed me. I wondered how you were when you cared enough, felt enough, or loved enough; or cared and felt and loved enough for me.
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I adore you!
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“My darling boy,” I whispered. I wondered how I ever got myself into this mess of being into you. The world stops, and all I have are thoughts of you.
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I know what I decided then, when I decided to be with you but..
(I once heard that all statements said before the word “but” are irrelevant)
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I wondered how I got myself into this mess.
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And while I hold your hands, while I touch your face and trace those lines on your forehead (the creases that have grown deeper through these years with me), I wonder where your laugh had gone. It seemed to have disappeared along with those lines that form around you mouth, those lines that I found so endearing. You look back at me with those deep, wonderful eyes, a pool of expression and I see what you see (the crease above your eyes furrow more). In the eternity of the moment I could feel both our shallow breathing, alternating into a gentle hum. While you hold me in your hands with a weak grasp and a familiar touch, I wondered.
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My darling boy, that was when I decided that I was not going to be with you.
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(Inspired by this article: <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/200909/the-plunge-pleasure" target="_blank">The Plunge of Pleasure By Deborah Blum</a>)</span><br />
<br /></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-30993237866210526282012-08-01T00:44:00.000+08:002012-08-01T23:20:47.570+08:00The Last Summer<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOqgdFY6WKF_K0eZLNzGwuq8httCbdFpzAFALVnVnMaZu3LrnAqncPsvN1pr0xKKX6hKskRYzlEv8NSSbzDnDBS1UO4a411bPZDpC-VUP2pOBwAuePU9NXJnjDAYDn2rmWkibWElqD8U/s1600/blogbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcOqgdFY6WKF_K0eZLNzGwuq8httCbdFpzAFALVnVnMaZu3LrnAqncPsvN1pr0xKKX6hKskRYzlEv8NSSbzDnDBS1UO4a411bPZDpC-VUP2pOBwAuePU9NXJnjDAYDn2rmWkibWElqD8U/s200/blogbanner.jpg" width="106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
By Isabel Rodriguez</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
The last summer I’ll ever have was quick, fleeting, and unappreciated. I had just finished two semesters at a school I just transferred to, and my transition back to the south from the center Manila had not been a smooth one. I missed the busy, confusion of the metro; the buzz and the rush of the city. The suburbs of the south seemed too slow, too quiet, almost too relaxed. I figured it was just a matter of time before this point in my life passes so I decided to look for something to do in the meantime. I busied myself with work (a summer job). Time passed, and the summer was over. </span><br />
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Thinking about it now, It seemed that the end to my summer days seemed so anti-climactic, it was almost sad. I mean, wasn’t I girl who prayed for summer to come? Didn’t I once attempt to create an unending summer that one time I decided to go on indefinite leave from responsibility? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
How or why I let my last summer end as it did is still a question I keep asking myself. I wracked my brain thinking of what I could have, should have, or would have done had I realized I would never have a summer to myself again.
<br />
Years back, my summers always seemed so.. magical. It was my time, filled with decisions I made (most resulted in disastrous scenarios, yet, I put high value on being able to decide on things.) I did what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it, and learned from the mistakes (there were a whole lot) I made along the way. It was time for me to get to know myself (in between adventures, late night drinks, and juvenile, idiotic antics, of course.) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />Summer was when I learned of what true friendship was, or when I experienced the first semblance of falling in love with a boy. It was whe</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">n I found my love for words and writing. It was a time of growth and discovery. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I forgot, I guess, that there was more to life than getting to where you want to be. I kept on going because I needed to, because I was afraid of being late (more late than a 23 year old who’s still in college could get). I glossed over things hoping I’d catch up to where I should be. Instead, I lost that last summer. I lost it to my carelessness– charging towards the direction of where I thought I was supposed to be. </span><br />
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I’m taking it one step at a time, now. With the realization that one should never let time just pass, I now understand that the right time matters more than we ever account for it. And, that we will all get there (wherever ‘there’ is), in our own pace. </span><br />
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Next summer, I am to face the world as a graduate (finally). </span><br />
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Maybe I will continue on with further studies. Maybe I will work 9-5 without ever seeing another summer ever again. Maybe I will finally find that one thing I am to do my whole life. Maybe It will be like a never ending summer: a time to learn and do things for myself. Maybe it won’t. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />We’ll see when I get there, I’m still living out the days before the summer I’m not supposed to have, comes.
</span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-5558974469130849522012-07-31T03:04:00.002+08:002012-07-31T03:06:49.369+08:00Love the Morena Skin You're In!<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Lornadahl Campilan<br />
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Skin whitening and weight loss advertisements and the huge space allotted for such products in shops always make me want to cry. Why is it damn hard for us to love the skin we're in? the extra sexy body we’re in? Why does it have to take foreigners to appreciate our naturally sun-kissed skin?
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Just like most of you, I spent my childhood and teenage years being told that white is right, and brown is macho, and thin is in, and stout is out. It doesn't help either that my mother and grandmother take pride in their complexion and slender figure (back then) and whatever better treatments they enjoy for such. My father, similarly, calls foreign seas as his home most of the time. His stage father moments involved cheering me on for my dramatic monologues and other performances. Anything but beauty contests - official or mere role-plays.
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But the most damaging for any 7-year-old kid to hear was: <br /> "<i>Di ka kagandahan, di ka maputi, di ka payat at wala ka ring alam sa gawaing bahay. Iwasan mo na lang magka-peklat para makapag-asawa ka pa balang-araw</i>".
[You're hardly beautiful, skinny, fair-skinned and domesticated. You might as well avoid getting skin blemishes so you'd get hitched someday,"]
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That statement robbed me of a child's zest for misadventures. I never got curious about riding a bike; all I could imagine was falling from it and getting bruised. I never donned neon prints, sleeveless and/or midriff-exposing tops either as I imagine I would be the laughingstock in class. I even had episodes of allergies and palpitations for trying various skin whitening and weight loss products, respectively. Evidently, I spent the rest of my salad days in bondage and negativity. I felt sure that better days will never come to pass. For being unable to attract suitors and being unattached until I reached 29, I may be proving my grandmother right. (Of course, she’s far from right. I’m currently in a relationship with someone who can return the self-love and acceptance I radiate, even during very bad hair days. And so, what if it were His will for me to be single for the rest of my eventful life? It’s still a happy ending, you know.)
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I couldn't stand my appearance in all angles. There was no way I could deny my belly rolls and <i>pango</i> nose, the dark contours of my lips, my dark skin, and everything else that goes with my Pinay identity. But, this self-loathing magically ended after back-to-back encounters with inspiring strangers back in 2005. I was 22 then– I can't pin down what exactly made me realize that brown is beautiful and extra pounds are sexy, but I felt that there was nothing inferior with my kayumanggi skin and Coca Cola-in-can figure since being exposed to fellow carefree and comfortable-in-their-own-skin kolehiyalas in UP-Diliman. To sum it up, I, too, was created after God’s beautiful image and I’m not allowing anyone to dismiss me as unpretty.
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Now my skin grew darker than before. But I won't trade each beach bumming, sunbathing and trekking opportunity for anything. My closet? You'd have to put on your sunglasses before you unlock it. A wide array of bright colors await! My skin had earned too many battle scars from the past months, too. Again, I wouldn't ask for substitution during any of those heated badminton games and out-of-town adventures with friends. Most importantly, I can't wait for new adventures to try and see how it will reflect on my skin. As for my big body, I learned to accept it and, instead of being resigned to its current condition, I started a healthier diet by giving up on red meat and I've embraced an active lifestyle by making sure I spend quality time on the mat, on the dance floor and on the boxing ring. And of course, finding reasons to laugh at life and at myself.
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(Quick to laugh, Lornadahl Campilan takes her inimitable joie de vivre to her blog writing, aimed to spread the word of body acceptance and self love on <a href="http://extraseksi.blogspot.com/">Extra Seksi!</a>, encourage Pinays to travel solo on <a href="http://hindi-kami-nag-iisa.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Hindi Kami Nag-Iisa</a>, document the hilarity of commuting on <a href="http://tambucho-tales.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Tambucho Tales</a>, share her adventures as an overpacking amateur on <a href="http://travelingdahl.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Traveling Dahl</a>, and ramble about everything on <a href="http://scorpionsyrup.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">ScorpionSyrup</a>)</i></span><br />
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<br /></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-31732131097737121132012-07-30T14:24:00.001+08:002012-07-30T14:46:33.133+08:00What you should do before you turn 3-0 thirty.<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Chrystel Ilano</span><br />
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Make as much mistakes as you can.
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Now that we’re at our twenties, this should be the best time to take great risks and make mistakes. Stop being scared about the outcome of everything! This is time where we should do what we want and explore everything and anything that we want to! It’s better to look back ten years from now knowing that we were able to do everything we wanted.<br /><br />
“A person, who never made a mistake, never tried anything new.” –Albert Einstein
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“Never be afraid to do something new, remember, amateurs built the arc; professionals built the titanic.” -Unknown
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Take on as many jobs as you want.
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We’ll never know what we truly love unless we get into if not all, most of the industries that we want to enter. This is the time where we can try and try as much careers as we want! Want to write? Be a producer? Or even make your own business? Never be scared to do what you want so by the time you hit thirty, you should know or at least have an idea of what you want to do the rest of your life.
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“Do you want to spend the rest of your life selling sugared water or do you want a chance to change the world?” – Steve Jobs’ famous question to John Sculley, former Apple CEO
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“Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” - Confucius <br /><br /><b>
Travel, travel, travel.
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There are so many things in this world that we should experience and they always say you get richer by traveling; well not financially, but experience wise this would be the best time for you to learn about different cultures. Try living in another country alone! It will teach you to be independent and even make you realize how much you love your own country. The thought might scare the hell out of you but how bad can it get? Experience is the best teacher so go ahead and do it!
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“Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer” –Unknown
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Start keeping a journal</b><br />
Wouldn’t it be nice to look back on your journal after ten years and know exactly what you’ve been doing during your young, wild, and free days? I’ve kept and written on my journal religiously every single day for four years straight now and it’s really nice to just read through it and remember all the memories– good or bad. Makes you realize how far you’ve come and how different your perspective in life was. It’s never too late to start jotting down your life so start today!
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"Be a collector of good ideas, but don't trust your memory. The best collecting place for all of the ideas and information that comes your way is your journal." - Jim Rohn
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Make your own dream board</b><br />
I’ve recently signed up to Pinterest.com and I’m addicted it! It’s like my own virtual dream board where I can save all the ideas that I’ve found and even all the things that I would love to have in the future. Make a dream board of your future home or even future wedding! You’ll be surprised at how much time you can spend browsing through pictures and saving them in your own little virtual board. You can even do it by cutting out pictures and making your very own board, just the way you want it. This way you stay focused on what you want to achieve, how you can achieve it and believe me, it would feel so good to take one post out of your board once you achieve one of your goals.<br /><br />
“If you can imagine it, you can dream it, if you can dream it, you can achieve it.” -Unknown
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Get your dream body</b><br />
At your twenties, they say you can eat as much pizza as you want and not gain weight the next day. This is the best time for you to start on your exercise routine since our bodies will be quick to respond to any workout that we do. Ten years from now, our metabolism will get slower and slower so start being healthy now to look like J.Lo when you’re 43 (or hopefully even just close to her killer abs!). Make a commitment to yourself before it’s too late. Start boxing, do yoga, go running, get to the gym or just do any physical exercise that will get you closer to your dream body. Don’t forget to put it in your dream board so that one day you’ll be able to proudly take it off. Always remember that you have to work hard to get what you want, not just for those killer abs but for whatever you do in this lifetime. It’s just feels so much better and fulfilling that way.
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“Don’t find the time for what’s important to you, make time for it” –Unknown
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Fall in love as much as you can.
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Go out on as many dates as you can, make new friends, get into new groups!
That way you’ll find out who and what kind of person you would want to spend the rest of your life with. Never be afraid to get your heart broken! Yes, it may and will feel like the end of the world when your heart gets broken but life goes on and one day you’ll find yourself laughing at all the stupid things you’ve done for a guy who is not even close to deserving someone like you. You end up realizing how much you’re worth and how lucky a guy should be to have you. Stop whining about how you won’t get married or how you hate being single. You are too young to even worry about marriage! There will always be that one special person you’ll meet and eventually spend the rest of your life with, believe me. You may even realize how happy you can be being single and young!
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“Not to spoil the ending for you, but everything will be OKAY,” - Unknown
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Just stop, breathe, and be thankful.
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Start realizing everything that you should be thankful for. Simply waking up today is something you should be grateful for. There are so many people fighting for their lives and you’re just lucky to be alive and healthy. Be thankful for simply being you. If you can be grateful for the small things that you have right now, what more when you are able to get everything you dreamed of?
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“There will always, always, always be something to be thankful for.” -Unknown
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Make every second of your life count.
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Do something with your life and do it with greatness! It’s better to take that risk and be one step closer to achieving your dreams than not doing anything at all. Yes we may not take life seriously right now but never let yourself settle with what you have right now because you’re too lazy! We are the authors of our own lives so why not fill it with heaven and hell type of memories that we should learn from so by the time we reach the big 3-0, we can pretty much say we’ve been there and done that.
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“Just do it!” -Nike
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Start believing that every little thing happens for a reason.
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Every single moment or experience, good or bad has a reason. We may not know it right now but in time we will remember these moments and be thankful for them. Live your life with no fear of mistakes or rejection. There will be doors slammed right at your face and it means that there are better and bigger doors that will be opened for you.
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“Things fall apart so greater things can come together” – Unknown
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i>(Chrystel explains: This was inspired by being surrounded by thirty year olds constantly complaining about how they wish they were in their twenties again. Don’t make the same mistakes!)</i></span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-17323465622633396572012-07-29T00:36:00.000+08:002012-07-29T00:36:17.999+08:00A note from my father:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Your dad did tell you that, while the law allowed you to vote at 18, it did not follow that, at 18, you knew whom to vote for and why. At 20, you thought you had the right to stay up late and come home at 3AM; but your dad did tell you that, unless you earned that trust and confidence, you will not have that right even if you're 30.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> He realizes now that you have not been listening; but that you've learned after all.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He loves you enough to share his toys with you. He will never give up on you even if you continue to curate ramblings of forty-somethings.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Neither will your mom."</span></span></span></div>
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</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-62584661975107564612012-07-28T00:17:00.002+08:002012-07-28T00:17:45.202+08:00What happens when you're emotionally stable.<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmdMlmPAnvisj6_AzqEtR30zu6W9pFH1kmUwh5PYe_XZ7NLlWj43jHSByB_SopDqf7kGcD7LbHxlZJBDPLX9x9gbs3ccic5afpJnRR9vutKU7ctNYFhkL1UGoeh7YUo1TZiXugmjBNPE/s1600/blogbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRmdMlmPAnvisj6_AzqEtR30zu6W9pFH1kmUwh5PYe_XZ7NLlWj43jHSByB_SopDqf7kGcD7LbHxlZJBDPLX9x9gbs3ccic5afpJnRR9vutKU7ctNYFhkL1UGoeh7YUo1TZiXugmjBNPE/s200/blogbanner.jpg" width="106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By Isabel Rodriguez</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I say emotionally stable, I mean sort of. I mean the end of your adolescent rage and the need to feel depressed about every single thing. Rising up from the ruins of your emotional suicide and walking away.
So when I say emotionally stable, I really do mean it in the mildest way possible. I don't mean being Mary Poppins-- that would be something to be depressed about. <a name='more'></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you are emotionally stable, you are unable to write. That gift of feeling and perception coupled with depression and agony is the perfect formula for heartfelt writing. Take it away, you're left to write about sunshine and rainbows. Eek.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sh*t gets real. You see things as they are and not through that distorted drunk emotional haze. Suddenly the night doesn't seem so epic. Life talks and emotional melodrama induced by alcohol rarely happen now, as opposed to the abused every night, all nighters you used to pull off.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Songs have less power over you. They cease to be knives that pierce through you with razor sharp feelings. A bad dose of melancholy and a dash of emo. That, or you start listening to the happy stuff. You are now able to cycle through your playlist without collapsing into a pile of emotional rubble.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You do not have the same passion and amor for people anymore. The guy you just met is not your savior, nor your redemption, he's just another dude. He's cool, he comes, he goes, you meet other people. You learn, you let go. You don't write a blog on how he magically touched your life like no other (for the nth time), and surprisingly, you don't feel the need to.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some friends drift away, and that's okay. You realize there is only enough space in your life for so much people. Those who matter will be there.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Idiocy and youth become two very confusingly similar terms. You are annoyed, then again, there will always be older generations who say you're the young idiot, and younger generations to call idiots.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You finally get that tattoo you've always wanted. Or don't ever.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you're emotionally stable, it feels good. The birds sing, the sun shines, and everything seems nice. But seriously, you don't want to write about that. So, channel your inner depressed soul and listen to Taking Back Sunday and wait for the tears to fall.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When they don't, congratulations! You're turning into a grown up.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>(Originally posted on <a href="http://sisasaid.blogspot.com/">sisasaid.blogspot.com</a> during one of Isabel's mini quarter-life crisis.)
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</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-52909217965871959652012-07-27T00:29:00.000+08:002012-07-27T00:29:09.482+08:00Breathe in, Breathe out<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOT-w97YE5cdlt0G6MWYiHkFpRx8t7_LkDSt1teg9QLfA0TuBP9jbfwatutzxfaZav7mW-R6LxUOCw845yzTzf5PlbezTaB9Kp8o7Z0ciTVZ5chbDaQVr59E9xPwzsn3NHZjFQB_Fn1U/s1600/janessa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOT-w97YE5cdlt0G6MWYiHkFpRx8t7_LkDSt1teg9QLfA0TuBP9jbfwatutzxfaZav7mW-R6LxUOCw845yzTzf5PlbezTaB9Kp8o7Z0ciTVZ5chbDaQVr59E9xPwzsn3NHZjFQB_Fn1U/s200/janessa.jpg" width="106" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">By Janessa Villamera
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Turning twenty can be a big deal to most people, especially for my case: I'm about to end my last teenage year.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Others say that age is just a number but why should one fear getting old if, in fact, it's not the same as growing up? Indeed, maturity doesn't come with age; that's why a constant reminder of acting your age is essential yet again, it's not enough. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I tend to contradict the decisions and plans that I make for myself. Basically, I know what I want to do and how it should be done but most of the time, I end up doing things that are based on sentiments rather than considering the proper state of thinking.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Come to think of it, at this point in life, I have gathered the most essential thoughts that could help me (and probably others) as I go on to becoming a twenty-something. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">1. "Take possession of yourself" - First of all, it is important for you to know who you are and by doing so, keep in mind that you take yourself as yours. Speak your mind and guard yourself from harm to let people know that nothing could happen to you without your very own personal permission. True enough that nobody could step on you if you do not allow them to.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">2. "Choose your battles" - It's given that we go through hardships and with this, we usually forget how classy we should stay, how educated we are and how proper our reactions are meant to be because of letting the simplest things slip away. Like the old adage that says, "mind over matter." Well, let me put it this way: there comes a point where I get tired of arguing even about the simplest detail - not to let go of my defense, but it's just nonsense.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">3. "Choose your friends" - To admit, I am really independent that I can go places by myself. Considering that I'm the eldest among three daughters, I learned not to depend too much on others. I choose to keep only the ones who are worth keeping. They might be few but at least, they are for real. Few friends means less drama, right?
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">4. "Career vs. Love" - If there's one thing that I could ever tell my 10-year-old self, that would be the fact that "feelings often lie." Never settle, indeed. Why not be busy with making a name for yourself instead of stressing over why you're the only one who's single in a room full of couples? After all, opportunity only comes once in a lifetime and if that's true love, it could wait forever.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">5. "Step out of your comfort zone" - When was the last time that you did something for the first time? Have you been sticking to your habits? It's never too late to do anything new to know more of yourself. Clear your heart and mind and remember, spontaneity is the key. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe the reason why I forget the basics at times is that I have never been afraid to get hurt. I say that I would limit myself to this and that but after all, I end up considering the things that life has to offer. If I didn't, I wouldn't be where I am today.
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">(Janessa is turning twenty in less than a month. [Fact: Her birthday is on August 19, same as her mom's.] As part of her preparation for the change, she maximizes her last teenage year by doing things that are definitely out of her comfort zone to finally face the label of being twenty-something.)
</span></i></span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-63131513072431168092012-07-26T12:18:00.001+08:002012-07-26T12:58:38.710+08:00Confessions of a Homemaker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DO1mbRrhYPwX3h684RuNwdrY2EAmhsBKucjQT6UJfv4qtY9yO1Dr2IEqIqA34unNmyC3xyJj6OEDd_2G-EGcJSJnoRiC5cBKsFeb8XY8zVOvJdHBjTT3qylXDvSOhlRIXw-RwIuh4Sk/s1600/reg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2DO1mbRrhYPwX3h684RuNwdrY2EAmhsBKucjQT6UJfv4qtY9yO1Dr2IEqIqA34unNmyC3xyJj6OEDd_2G-EGcJSJnoRiC5cBKsFeb8XY8zVOvJdHBjTT3qylXDvSOhlRIXw-RwIuh4Sk/s200/reg.jpg" width="106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
By Regine Orme
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Several bewildered people have felt inclined to point out how young I look. As young as 12. They are taken aback and never believe me when I say I'm already almost 24. Doubtful, they insist I'm younger and they give me a stink eye for being married and a mother. Apparently, I'm lying about my age.<br />
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Some days I feel like I am only 12. Am I old enough to be a wife? Am I old enough to raise a human being? Am I even mature enough? I find myself asking these questions as my husband Ryan and I battle in Street Fighter X Tekken on Xbox 360 while our 5-month-old baby stares at us in awe, perhaps having thoughts similar to mine. Are these people really my parents? Are they really supposed to be raising me? Are they mature enough?</span><br />
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I wake up in the middle of the night to a hungry, crying baby. After feeding him, he fills his diaper with yellow, mustardy, digested breastmilk, and I wake my tired husband to burp and change him. He groans. Half-asleep and with only a few hours away before he needs to get up for work, he complies as I stumble back to bed. Two or three more bouts of this scenario, and voilà, baby Ryder's wide awake - cooing and smiling and letting us know it's time to pick him up - but wait! I look at the clock and it's only 05:30. <i>Oh Ryderrr...</i> I pretend I don't hear him, waiting for Ryan to get up, who thinks I'm clueless that he's also pretending (c'mon Babe, you suddenly stopped snoring). We both wait a little longer, but neither are really sleeping because for some reason, when you become a parent, you can never fully fall into deep sleep when you hear your baby making noises. Though groggy and annoyed, I realize there's no point in staying in bed if I can't fulfill its purpose. <i>Good morning BabyRyder, good morning handsome! </i>My annoyance disappears when I see his smile, how happy he is to see me. I put him between me and Ryan and he continues to coo; he rolls over and touches Daddy's face. <i>G'mornin' Ryderman.</i><br />
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After driving Ryan to the metro, I come back home and decide what to do with my day. I plan dinner, making sure that everything's ready by the time Ryan comes home. I either clean the house (with the exception of the bathroom - that's Ryan's task) or do a few loads of laundry. I play with Ryder, watch TV, go for a swim, take a stroll in the park or go shopping. During Ryder's nap times, I hurry and take a shower, eat, read a book, go online, catch up with friends, do our finances and worry. When Ryan comes home, he takes out the trash and the laundry out of the dryer, plays with Ryder, and we take turns eating our dinner (we've both said goodbye to eating our meals hot and at the same time when we officially became parents) and keeping Ryder entertained because by this time, around 19:30, Ryder's winding down (a.k.a fussing) for his bedtime. Ryan washes the dishes and cleans up in the kitchen, while I feed Baby and he falls asleep. <i>Good night sweetums...</i><br />
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We watch TV or a movie or play Kinect, give each other massages, and talk about our days. We say our prayers, retire to our bed, I look at the clock one last time - it's 22:30 - I close my eyes for about 5 minutes and Ryder wakes up again, hungry and upset with tears rolling down his cheeks.<br />
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When I was 12, I never imagined my life like this. I didn't even think I would learn how to cook. I just assumed I'd be in the Philippines my whole life and I would, like everyone else, hire a househelp or two to do all the things I never learned to do. I never imagined myself to travel and live in different parts of the world, experience different cultures, learn new languages, eat exotic food, make new friends of various hair and skin color, graduate as a cum laude, meet the love of my life, create a precious human being, have my own little family. It all seems surreal. And yet, I am living in the dream I never thought I had, the life I never knew I wanted.<br />
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I was almost 22 when I announced my engagement to family and friends. Both our families were thrilled. All our friends were happy. My relatives thought I got pregnant.<br />
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<i>Clara, bata ka pa. Mag-aral ka muna. I-enjoy mo muna buhay mo.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Buntis ka ba, ineng?</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Bakit ka nagmamadali? Marami ka pa namang time. Magtrabaho ka muna.</i><br />
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Yes, I am young. I look young. I feel young. I am not saying otherwise. I don't pretend to be a grown up. What does "grown up" even entail? I do know I have responsibilities because of my choice. I choose to be married to my best friend for time and all eternity, and together, we made a conscious decision to bring forth a sweet, little baby.<br />
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Evidently, I have all the time in the world. I'm not rushing anything. It just so happens that everything some people don't get to have in their lifetime, I got when I was 22.<br />
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Raising a child is work. I admit some days, I feel like I'm just babysitting and I wait for his real mother to come get him. All days are remarkable, fulfilling days. I get to watch my baby sleep, hear his laughter, soothe him when he's crying, hold him as he falls asleep in my arms, play with him, be there for him. I get to see and be with my one true love day in and day out, share my thoughts to him, laugh, play, make love.<br />
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My husband's work provides income, which is sufficient for our needs; and therefore, I don't have to do paid labor that society deems as the only acceptable work. I do have a whole future ahead of me and in that future Ryan and Ryder are included and I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
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And no, I didn't get married because I got pregnant.<br />
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<i>(Regine Orme spent 14 years of her life in the Philippines, 8 years in Norway, and 2 years in the States. She graduated with a Psychology degree in 2011 in Hawaii. She is happily married to her husband since 2010, and a devoted mother to her 5-month-old baby.)</i></span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-20534535710055474022012-07-25T00:01:00.002+08:002012-07-25T11:01:48.170+08:00DETOURED!<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By Sara Almario</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hate detours. As a driver, if I see a detour sign up ahead, I end up cursing everything and everyone that I can see. That’s how much I hate detours. Why? Because instead of going straight to my destination using the usual road that I take, I end up following detour signs that lead me further and further away from where I’m supposed to go. Also, since I have a horrible sense of direction, I always end up getting lost in the process.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well… That’s where I’m currently at in my professional life. I’ve been detoured from my “dream job.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was very young, I was told by my parents and my older relatives to study well and pursue a degree doing something I love to do so that I can do it for a long time and thrive at it. I knew what I wanted to do at an early age and I made sure everyone knows it. I wanted to be a journalist (a sports journalist to be specific).</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So in order to fulfill my dream, I took the necessary steps to be a journalist:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1.) Joined my high school newspaper club.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2.) Pursue a degree in Journalism.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3.) Join the college’s newspaper club.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4.) Get internships relevant to the field.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5.) Graduate with honors (or at least good grades).</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did everything in that list. I graduated within 3 and a half years, had over 50 articles published in my schools’ newspapers and one in an ESPN affiliated magazine. With all this hard work towards the “dream job”, I honestly thought that I had great qualifications in the field of journalism. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The economy said otherwise. Getting hired out of college was almost impossible.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was realistic about the situation. After graduation, I took up an unpaid internship as a production assistant for a nonprofit organization so that I can get more experience and hone my broadcast skills while waiting for the perfect job opportunity.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To make ends meet, I worked two retail jobs. I knew the situation was only temporary and I was very optimistic about my future. Lo and behold, I got an interview for a sports reporter position. The position was entry-level and the pay was not as big as my retail gigs, but it was for a major newspaper that’s known nationally. I was very excited about it.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I prepared for the big day by reading all the local sports stories, preparing my portfolio, practicing my handshake, etc. I got to meet with 4 editors in the sports department and they all gave me promising smiles at the end of the interview.
Unfortunately, due to the economic status of 2010, the newspaper laid off employees, and killed off the position I was applying for.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fast forward to 2012, I’m now 24. I’m working for a small company as an administrative assistant. I’m basically doing secretarial duties with a little bit of marketing and public relations. I’m trying to grow in this company but this is not the position that I pictured myself being in at this age. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. There’s just a big part of me that is saddened by the fact that I spent 12 years of my life trying to get to the “dream job,” when I could have pursued something else more worthwhile.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some people tell me, “You’re only 24. You can still get there one day.”</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes I can, but I don’t want to anymore. I’m currently engaged. In a few months, I’m going to be a wife and maybe in the next year, I’ll be a mother. I can fulfill my hopes of being a sports writer but I won’t have the sense of stability I can provide my family now. If I do push to be a sports writer, I will have to sacrifice my salary and the peace of mind of knowing I have a job in this economy. I’m not giving up on my dreams; I’m just being practical about life.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At 24, I look back to the 14-year-old girl who fantasized about being a successful writer, and I feel like I let her down. I tried my best to make my dreams come true but I grew up and faced the realities of life instead. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m currently lost in this big detour but I’m OK. I don’t know where I’m headed to, but I rather drive to a different direction than aim senselessly towards the original</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">destination.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>(Sara Almario grew up in the Philippines then she later moved to America in 2006. She graduated with a degree in Mass Communication and Journalism in 2010 and has been working non-Journalism positions ever since.)</i></span></span></div>
</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-82796435106260913832012-07-24T12:09:00.000+08:002012-07-24T12:09:54.580+08:00That’s not ours: A quick reminder that pandesal and basketball is our culture, not apple pie and baseball, or Kimchi and Starcraft<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By: Micah Andres</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I blame America for all of this anxiety and depression we feel. Their dominance of popular culture has engrained itself into our collective psyche, forcing us to live life through their eyes. I think it’s no stretch of the imagination if I say that most of you reading this come from the middle-class and up.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(And before you cry “elitist!” or “putangina kang burgis ka!”, you cannot, and should not, deny that social stratification based on economic background affects not only the kind of rearing that you have, but also the culture that you swim through. The problem with us Filipinos is, pikon-talo tayo. When you hear the words “middle class” or “upper class” or “lower class”, we immediately attach positive or negative connotations to it, when really it’s being used as an adjective. In the economic scale, you don’t rank in the upper class. Deal with it. It’s not a bad thing. Neither is it a good thing. It’s just, a thing.)</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Anyway, going back to my original point, the West has convinced us that their life, their culture, is the norm. Any deviation from it is the philosophical Other, that strange, alien culture that is just beyond the reach of their understanding.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fortunately for us, I think that the 20-somethings of our nation are lucky enough that, while being exposed to western culture and media as children through HBO and Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network, we still had a rich treasure trove of local culture to simmer in. Sure we watched Bill Nye the Science Guy, but we balanced that with Sineskwela. Sesame Street? We had Batibot. Friends? Gimik, bitches. And I’m not talking about the shitty, social climbing, badly written, badly shot, sorry excuse of a remake that you’re seeing on TV5 now. No, I’m talking about the ORIGINAL Gimik, with Judy Ann Santos and Rico Yan. Don’t even try to deny it asshole, you watched that show with your sister and you liked it as much as she did. Stop lying.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With the passing of Dolphy, I can’t help but be reminded that, hey, we have some pretty good pop culture. Yet, it seems that nowadays, people don’t want to believe that. It feels as if most of what’s on TV is just an imitation of western shows parading itself as “Filipino” when all it’s really doing is replacing the language and not contributing anything to the definition of Filipino culture.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Using western culture to propagate our own isn’t a bad thing in itself. It becomes bad, however, when you try to replace elements of it rather than amalgamating it with what is truly ours.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Everything now feels like a parody of the West. Unfortunately, it’s only a parody if you INTEND it to be a parody. “Ang Dating Doon” was/is a smart, hilarious sketch because it knows that it is taking elements of one show (Ang Dating Daan) and amalgamating it so as to portray their message (though personally I don’t think there are any hidden political messages there, I just think they’re being funny).</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I’m sure you’ve noticed the decline of Filipino action movies in the past decade. Remember when we were kids, in between commercials for Dakak Beach Resort and Dragon Katol, they’d show trailers for action movies on ABSCBN or RPN9? There is a reason why they were ridiculous, and I think it’s because we were copying what we saw from Hollywood, then exaggerating it.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To a certain extent, our pop culture now is so engrossed with the foreign that it seems to forget what it really is. And yes, there is a difference with what we’re doing now, and what we’ve done in the past. In the past, we amalgamated the foreign and integrated it into ourselves. Now, we don’t even bother with that, we just flat out replace ourselves. Your contact lenses may be blue, but you’re still brown.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Nationalists will most definitely disagree (and hate me, then again a few of them already do) when I say that Spanish, Chinese, Indian, Malay, and a bunch of other cultures ARE an integral part of what it is to be Filipino. And yes, even America had a hand in shaping who we are. Somewhere down the line, we seem to have forgotten that we are a melting pot of a whole lot of cultures.</span></span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-30780181878708577482012-07-23T12:33:00.000+08:002012-07-23T13:24:44.992+08:00Who says growing up isn't cool?<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Patricia Louise F. Villarica</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>(Editor’s Note: This is a 19 year old's thoughts on turning 20, on the prospect of hope and all that she could achieve. On the next quarter-life crisis you’ll be having, this will be a refreshing read. Go on, inspire yourself with Patricia’s optimism.)</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I promise I'm not that weird, I'm just a 19 year old girl who simply can't wait.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don't know if I can call myself a miracle baby or not since I almost died when I was born, but one thing for sure is that I am thankful to have reached 19 years in this world. </span></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was younger, my teachers would always ask me, "What would you like to be when you grow up?" Honestly speaking, I don't really know what I want in life. Right now I want to be a media practitioner. But what about when I graduate? </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some people don't look forward to moving past the "teen" stage and joining the 20+ crowd; or think about leaving behind friends to go hunt for a job. I, for one, cannot wait. I want to be part of the world, to travel & experience culture that you'd only see in your in-flight magazine, and start my never ending bucket list that consists of food binges, opening up my own production house, and going to all Disney theme parks (it's childish but I know you have this on your list too!) The list goes on and on and on. I guess you could say that I want to be part of something I can be proud to show off to everyone and say, "Look, I'm only at this age in my life but I already accomplished so much!" </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Some might call me crazy for wanting to grow up, but the thing is, we got to accept that we WILL grow up. We just have to do it gracefully. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Besides, who says growing up isn't going to be fun?
</span></span></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-52613643058589927882012-07-22T01:00:00.000+08:002012-07-22T01:00:57.249+08:00Halfway through halfway through<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3kwT4rvDxuB4to1tQvlCy6FhyKFZ9vPw-eP96rSX_rxY8cO3aupLjAvBGVj2X3FntfMpa6sesSV5nK7LJt3ICia5WqjctLLfjrHejeBFXjhcTGNao-jNWEgrMQuR_j1DU3_FcQhAVLY/s1600/henrick" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3kwT4rvDxuB4to1tQvlCy6FhyKFZ9vPw-eP96rSX_rxY8cO3aupLjAvBGVj2X3FntfMpa6sesSV5nK7LJt3ICia5WqjctLLfjrHejeBFXjhcTGNao-jNWEgrMQuR_j1DU3_FcQhAVLY/s200/henrick" width="106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Henrick Batallones</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Dear friends, family, and just about everyone who loves me: I want a Baby Alive for my 23rd birthday. It's on the 18th of February. Thanks."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"23 na tayo. Wah."</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> It should be a breakthrough for me. Somebody else is turning 23 at almost the same time as me! I was, after all, always surrounded my people a year older than me, thanks to me skipping a year of pre-school. Sure, I know people who are also the same age as me, if not much younger, but here's where my propensity to pull myself down comes in: it still feels like they're older than me. Definitely more mature.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hazel may want dolls for her birthday, and I may be completely aware that she was born five weeks after I am, but the feeling remains.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Tapos two years na lang makaka-experience na tayo ng quarter-life crisis," she answered back. "Wah back at you."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Akala ko 'eto na 'yung quarter-life crisis natin?" I answered back. "Humihingi ka na ng dolls eh..."</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Um, um, for collection purposes lang!" she countered. And then, a late realization. "Shiz, oo nga ano..."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm turning 23 tomorrow. It would be almost four years since I graduated from college, four years since I entered the labor force, four years since I started making a fool of myself without the concept of "I'm still finding my way through life" protecting me. (Then again, this started way back.)</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm not exactly sure what I should be doing now. I've made the best of my circumstances. I have what you'd call a steady job, even if I know it's not going to last long and I have to go somewhere else sooner or later. Socially, nothing's really changed. I go out, mostly by myself. I talk to people, and they'd talk back only if they're interested. I make friends, only to turn my back on them. And I'm dealing with it by going on shopping binges at bookstores.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The past year saw my corner of the bookshelf in our home grow. In the past three months alone I got seven books - five in October, one in November, and one last month, my sister's first Christmas gift to me. It's her first year as part of the labor force.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Yesterday I was organizing my old magazines - a big pile of music magazines collected over the past few years, plus a couple of others, mostly men's magazines, to fill my "more substantial read" quota. I don't have use for much of them now - in between conversations with Jeany and incessant listening to 6 Music, I've become a muso, and a terrible one at that - so I've put them all in a plastic box for storage elsewhere.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I realize that that's the sort of thing I should've been doing when I was still in college: make the most of my weekly allowance by buying everything in sight. Sure, I did that before, but not as much as I do now, when I'm earning my own money and, thus, have some financial responsibilities around the house. (I don't have much, but if I can, I do.) After that shopping spree a quarter of a year back - I spent almost five thousand bucks on five books and three CDs at Fully Booked - I felt a bit guilty for spending so much money. But it felt right when I was doing it, I'd think. I deserve a break after all this, right?</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In Hazel's case, it's collecting dolls, possibly staring at it from afar, remembering when she was still young. But I can't possibly speak on her behalf.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm writing this after reading the fourth of my seven new books - and it happens to be Andrew Collins' second autobiography, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now, covering his college years, so my perspective is going to be a bit skewed here. He went to college and had the mix just right. He studied, he experienced things, he had fun. Me? I worried my way through college. Worried about the future, worried about the present, and maybe worried about the past even. Same </span>pattern of things when I started working (shoot, bitches for colleagues, a very familiar thing to think, whyyyyy?) and, pretty much, every other time since.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And now I'm compensating for all that I've missed out by buying all these books and magazines and fairly hard-to-find CDs and wallowing in the experience of having an ever-expanding collection of something. Well knowing, of course, that I've still missed out on a bunch of nights out with friends, and perhaps a couple of girlfriends, by worrying about what they'd think if I did push through with these, you know, things.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And Hazel's just collecting dolls, definitely staring at it from afar, remembering when she was still young.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm turning 23 tomorrow. And, in case I haven't noticed it before, I'm in the middle of my own quarter-life crisis.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I'm worrying about it.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>(<span id="goog_54575693"></span><a href="http://upperblog.blogspot.com/2012/01/halfway-through-halfway-through.html" target="_blank">Originally posted on the Upper Blog</a><span id="goog_54575694"></span> on 1/8/12, a day before the author's birthday. Henrick has since then gotten another job. Read more on the <a href="http://upperblog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Upper Blog</a> or e-mail him at henrikbatallones@gmail.com)</i></span></div>
</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-70633836975816579742012-07-21T09:00:00.000+08:002012-07-21T09:00:00.293+08:00Journey to a 'happily ever after'.<div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By Nathalie Naval</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s every (almost) young girl’s dream—to meet your prince charming, to wear your white long dress, and to walk down the flower-infested aisle. I don’t speak for every girl out there, but I believe majority of us, in some miniscule part of our childhood, thought of this scene as our ideal love story. Who wouldn’t, right? After all, we’re surrounded by countless fairy tales with all the princes, princesses and their ‘happily ever afters’. Well at the very least, that was the case for me, who was born in the ‘80s.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I’m 23 now, recently married, working as a professional web designer, and currently living with my husband in our own condo in Manila. I’m now living in my own ‘happily ever after’. </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But you see, it was a long and harsh road before I reached this happy place. Before I uttered the words “I Do”, there was a time that I stopped believing in love & relationships. I was one of many who eventually cursed fairy tales—simply because relationships when you’re 15 rarely turn to something. More often than not, it is the time you’re supposed to make mistakes, the time you learn lessons the hard way, the time you get your heart broken, the time you get betrayed and feel you’re at the bottom of the world, the time when your life seems like it is ending. Fairy tales doesn’t really include a handbook for surviving heartbreaks and betrayals. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> … </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> … </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> … </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then I blew the candles on my birthday cake for the nth time. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I eventually learn to accept things and deal with them. Sure, it doesn’t happen overnight, and it also doesn’t mean that it happens to everybody, but I guess it did for me. Some may call this being jaded, in some way, maybe it is, but I’ve learned that it is much easier to enjoy life by accepting and dealing with all the things that are happening to me– I’ll have sooooo much spare time to think and do something else. </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I lived my teenage life in reverse. It's ironic that I spent my high school days crying and weeping over boys and all the harsh things they do, and all the things that I can’t control, to then realize that I spent my college days playing RPGs, watching animes, going out with friends for coffee and just enjoying life. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Enjoying my life gave me the perspective, the attitude, and the experience I needed to meet my prince charming. All the lessons I’ve learned from my past relationships are still there, guiding me through, acting as a shield so I won’t be hurt again. But then, my new-found hobbies are what enabled me to spend more time with my boyfriend just having fun. </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Fast forward to 10 months ago, I announced my engagement to my friends and family. Most of my family and relatives were surprised mainly because they think I’m too young to get married. On the other hand, most of our friends thought he knocked me up. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We got married not on a whim, not because I'm pregnant, not because I could finally celebrate my own wedding, but because we want to be husband and wife. It’s not about age, but of perspective. It may sound cliché, but the saying is true that you will feel it in your gut when you’re ready to get married. </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some say that getting married is a grown up decision. Surely it is, but do I feel any different when we were in college as boyfriend and girlfriend? Nope. Not at all. Sure I wake up beside him everyday, and sure, I cook, wash the dishes and do the laundry now, but at the same time, we still play RPGs, read our manga, watch animes, and do childish things. </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During my wedding day, I realized that fairy tales aren’t real, but love stories are. It might take awhile, but if I really continued on without believing, without learning anything, I won’t be in a happy place now. You got to love the perks of being 20+ huh?
As for family? </span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let’s re-visit that after 5 or more years, shall we?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>(Read Nathalie's blog here: <a href="http://amoensia.tumblr.com/">http://amoensia.tumblr.com</a>)</i></span></div>
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</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-68895489416583171622012-07-20T11:00:00.000+08:002012-07-20T11:34:57.999+08:00A note to all the 20-somethings who are still in school, and a little bit about me.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillLnOM4eKX7B4M7D2KwQnOhlx4gP67QtxBU2YdrQT56yHOgxfaGw_uahiSai63U4QTs8VX9lm1F77oxkXPcFY8GWn5y4HFZ5XBWVm6X6OACpckBhQzfV6imFOLBb_Cwkn57KIVbwchxo/s1600/micah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillLnOM4eKX7B4M7D2KwQnOhlx4gP67QtxBU2YdrQT56yHOgxfaGw_uahiSai63U4QTs8VX9lm1F77oxkXPcFY8GWn5y4HFZ5XBWVm6X6OACpckBhQzfV6imFOLBb_Cwkn57KIVbwchxo/s200/micah.jpg" width="106" /></span></a>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By Micah Andres</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>A note to all the 20-somethings who are still in school, and a little bit about me.</b></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Whether by choice or by accident, you somehow found yourself at 23, still in college, still trying to pursue that pesky diploma as if your life depended on it. Of course you will never have a shortage of people who will not stop reminding you of just how important, crucial, beneficial, life-or-death-changing, a thing that college degree is. Aside from that, you also have to deal with high school batch mates and college batch mates from god-knows-when who will dole out (with much gusto and smugness) their experiences with work and how you have it so much better because “you have NO idea, as in, NO idea, what work is like”.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It takes some getting used to. The getting-talked-down-to, the strange look people give you when you mention that you’re almost at your mid-20’s but still “almost” a freshman in college, the hushed voices your family uses when describing you to other family or friends, or using ambiguous terms so people can think that, while you may be in college, you may be working there?, that sort of thing. (Eh si Micah kamusta na? Ahh…uhm…ayun nasa [insert school here] hehe…). But you already knew that.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And of course you know that, and I know that, and a whole bunch of other people know just exactly how you feel. What I’m saying is: You’re not alone. It’s true. There are a lot of us out there, 20-somethings who cringe whenever their classmates call them “kuya” (or, god forbid, tito), who feel just a tinge of shame when asked what they’re still doing in college.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are a lot of reasons why you’re still in college, and chances are, not one of them includes family staples like “eh kasi puro inuman ang inatupag” or “nagbabarkada kasi eh” or, rarely used but is not unheard of, “baka special ka anak?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A lot of us, of course, are still where we are because they didn’t have the financial resources to go through a 4-year bachelor’s degree in a prestigious school with a prestigious name and prestigious students and alumni. You have to remember, a big percentage of our nation live below the poverty line. But you’re not one of them, no. You’re in the middle class, like most of us. You live with your parents, some siblings, a maid maybe, a family car. You can afford luxuries, not often but it’s no rarity. But for most of us, saying that we were too poor to go to school sounds like a better alternative than the truth. Because we know it sounds stupid, or it’s lame, or it’s an excuse, or a whole other list of adjectives your parents drilled into you when you left your second (or third) college.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yet, the question still stands: Why are you where you are, when you should be somewhere else?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s a tough question to answer, just typing that sentence down made me sit back and wonder about my own station in life, made me reflect on the decisions I’ve made over the past seven or eight years.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Like most, if not all, of us, I had no idea what to put in the “first choice, second choice” line in the numerous college applications we had in high school. My mother wanted me to take business, but I sure as hell had no interest in that whatsoever. Psychology maybe? I always liked giving (mostly unsolicited) advice that people seemed to enjoy. History? My forte, sure, but I’m not sure how to make a living with that. Engineering? Not good at Math. Computer Science? Hmm I LIKE computers, but not enough to make it a living.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the end, at the behest of my brother who said it would become a lucrative industry in the (then) future, I ended up taking Multimedia Arts. It was during the second week that I realized I have absolutely NO interest in what I’m doing.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But that’s not the only reason, I think. Maybe I didn’t like the school, or the people. Maybe I had expectations about college that just weren’t fulfilled, because seriously why am I taking Algebra again? I thought I was done with that shit? Uniforms? I’M A GROWN-ASS MAN. At least I got to grow my hair. (P.S, best way to spot a freshman in college is by the acne/long hair combo)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Regardless, I lasted a semester and two weeks before I decided never to return ever again. Because seriously, fuck that shit. I thought college was all about taking up subjects I want, doing shit I like.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> My mom decided to put me on an extended leave of absence to think about what I “really want in life”. A year of that and I had no answer. Not that I did much soul searching, most of that year was spent bumming around at home, hanging with friends when they had time, and just generally slacking off, like any 17 year old would do if he had the time.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Eventually, I was strong armed into entering another school, something more ‘prestigious’ than the last one. My tita had previously lectured there and she had ‘connections’ to get me in, which of course I did. So I entered this new school with expectations lowered and a renewed fervor for college. But there it was again, that wall of doubt, that nagging feeling in the back of your head that says “I’m not supposed to be here”, that urge to stay at home. It wasn’t the schedule, it wasn’t the people I was with, it wasn’t the campus.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It’s not for a lack of preparedness, or being too immature, it was just that, I didn’t know what I wanted. Or, more specifically, I knew I wanted something but I just didn’t know what.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, for the second time, I left. I lasted two semesters this time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At this point, I had given up. I fell into a deep depression, started growing my bangs, black replaced all color in my wardrobe. More importantly, but ultimately the most detrimental to me at the time, I started blaming everyone around. It was my mom’s fault! She never supported me in ANYTHING I wanted! It’s my sisters fault! She was too strict! It was my brother! He didn’t give a shit! No one was spared. It got to the point where even emo songs stopped becoming about women and it became about how my family didn’t love me, or no one loved me, wah wah wah. I had excuses left and right, never ran out of them.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, after some time, I realized that the problem wasn’t the school or my family.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The problem was me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, by the time I realized it I was 19 and had given up on the idea of school. Fortunately though, my mom did not. Back then, she was working for a big bank in Hong Kong, and she decided that it would be a good idea for me to strike it out on my own there. I had my doubts but, ultimately, I decided to go.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The plan was for me to take a short 2-year Associates Degree course (of my choosing), and then continuing a Bachelors Degree after it. I had my doubts, but I ran with it. Before I knew it, I was back in school. Prestigious school too, I don’t know how I got in but there I was. And for a time, it was good. I was doing something I sort of liked, the people were friendly enough. But as usual, I found another excuse. Since I was the only foreigner in class, the professors decided to do all the lectures in Chinese and gave me handouts in English.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After a year of that, I left. I convinced myself that this time I had a valid reason, but looking back, it was just another flimsy excuse.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I turned my back at school for the last time. It’s just not for me. I spent the next 2 years partying, working odd jobs here and there to support myself, partying, not caring about a thing in the world. I hung out with great people, but I also got mixed up with bad people. This was also the time I discovered hard drugs and alcoholism. Man, those times were fun. Messed up like crazy, but fun nonetheless.
I was living with three of my friends in a small apartment in Hong Kong when I realized that, this is not the kind of life I would want for the rest of my days.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was living on a month-to-month basis, working just to survive the month, and then blowing the rest of my paycheck on booze and drugs. By that time I was 22, partying like I was a teenager no longer appealed to me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As bad as it may have sounded, my life there gave me valuable insights and experiences. Thanks to that, I had a huge base of friends the world over, and I finally, finally, found that thing I loved. It sucks that I had to go through my fair share of tough situations just to find it, but without that adversity, I wouldn’t have been able to find it. It took a few months of abject poverty, an overdose scare (or two), numerous bar fights, but it was undeniable: I had found my passion.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My mom and I had a long talk about it, and this time the decision to go back to school was mine. After my mom stopped jumping for joy, we planned out what to do. First was for me to move back to the Philippines. Studying in Hong Kong was expensive, and I didn’t want a repeat of the language barrier.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I was back here. Suddenly, going to school and taking up what you actually love, and being there of your own accord, was amazing. I never loved it as much as I do now. I’m two years short of graduation, and I’m getting there faster than I thought I would.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s this age-old adage that I love: There are many ways to leave school, but graduation is the hardest. I never realized just how hard it was until I actually started trying.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that is the key, I think. Your family was right, not about you being a failure or being a weirdo for not being in school. No, the thing they were right about was perseverance. Sometimes, you really do just have to grit your teeth and do it. You never lose if you try. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, here you are, 20 something and still pretty lost. But you know, I bet that if you looked hard enough, you would find that one thing you love, that one thing that gets you up in the morning. It’s a weird thing, I’m sure, and it’s not something that everyone would understand. Maybe it’s writing, or fashion, or music, or sanitation engineering, whatever. Just remember: It’s yours. No one will ever, EVER, be able to take that away from you, but only if you try. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We’re not so different, you and I. I bet if we whipped out our TOR’s, we’d see the same amount of failures due to absences, or disciplinary actions. If college is a battlefield, we’re grizzled war veterans. We know how to read professors, we know the ins-and-outs of the system, we know more than if we had stayed in school or if we graduated on time. If I had a chance to re-do the last 7 years of my life, I wouldn’t change a whole lot. Maybe laid off the drugs and alcohol, or maybe not be a douche to that girl I really liked. But aside from that, I wouldn’t trade the experiences I had, the knowledge I gained, the shit I took. And neither would you. Maybe not all of you, but some of you. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
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Keep trying 20-somethings-who-are-still-in-school. Shit gets better if you try.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-20988972635883898082012-07-20T00:22:00.001+08:002012-07-25T12:01:57.388+08:00Of Pimples and Perspectives<div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPse6GaCOEJD0dY2XXCqTV1NhnYEm62r6YeK0uHOkktuyEMKE_qUz5uGzDbUdWGTc1v3loA2paSzqf5w9fXqtx1q_DKZlWwK7vz55BUueknYwMUQYZNZYbZQzjwNO3IO2Mf2tS8BFHfCo/s1600/jc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPse6GaCOEJD0dY2XXCqTV1NhnYEm62r6YeK0uHOkktuyEMKE_qUz5uGzDbUdWGTc1v3loA2paSzqf5w9fXqtx1q_DKZlWwK7vz55BUueknYwMUQYZNZYbZQzjwNO3IO2Mf2tS8BFHfCo/s200/jc.jpg" width="106" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By JC Villalva</span></div>
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I have not been blessed with the most wonderful, glorious, porcelain skin. But I can say, that I’m lucky enough to not have my face plagued with acne ever since my hormonal days. Sure, I’ve had quite a share of zits here and there, but I’ve never had a time when they would all pop out of nowhere to turn my face into a talking, breathing mountainous range of the Himalaya pimples. What I hate about my skin is that whenever something important like a presentation comes, a zit would tag along with the anticipation. It’s as if that little part of me wants to show everyone in the audience how amazing it is to have bacteria conquer a single pore because I forgot to wash my face the night before. Uhh, right.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> I’ve tried countless anti-zit creams, salves and oils. I’ve even tried toothpaste at one point just to make the pimple go away. A few years ago, I managed to buy an expensive anti-pimple product. It looked very promising with its discreet bottle and an unpretentious label that appeared to me as something someone who was an expert in pimple-fighting technology would put. The packaging alone would have convinced many suckers for good advertising like I am, so I didn’t let the chance pass. I put it in my basket hoping it would fill my need to have an emergency zit kit (which now includes cotton balls and buds, my bare hands, a needle, lighter, alcohol and toothpaste). I got home and literally stared at myself in the mirror looking for a zit. I’ve never had that much excitement for finding a pimple since wanting to break free from being 10 to becoming a teenager. After a few minutes, I managed to locate a sore bump. How fitting! As I opened the bottle, a strong smell filled the room. It reeked of a strong solvent, something so potent it would kill bacteria in seconds. I dabbed it on and let it sit on my face until I went to bed. That night, my dreams were filled with constant action scenes of dying bacteria with Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song playing loudly in the background.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> The next morning, something on face felt like it was burning. I rushed in front of the mirror to find nothing where my pimple used to be. I tried to touch and pinch it to see if the pimple had really gone to pimple heaven (or hell). After doing that, I felt like a thousand baby hedgehogs rammed my face. The pimple visibly wasn’t there. It was just hiding! I wouldn’t have cared at all if the painful area wasn’t on the valley between my nose and my cheek where my glasses sat on, but I did because it gets hit every time! Worse than that, during the middle of that day, the pimple grew out bigger and meaner. It was as if the baby pimple had called the queen mother zit to the rescue. It wanted to take revenge! If that’s not bad enough, that afternoon, I had to report in front of a totally unfamiliar group of people.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> I'm not the vainest person in the world for wanting my face pimple-free, nor am I the shallowest for being conscious about a pimple barely peeking through the rim of my glasses. I just wished that somehow, my skin had moved on from being the pimple-bearing adolescent skin it was to the adult version of just caring for it before it developed fine lines and wrinkles.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> That was when I realized that growing up didn’t mean leaving behind all the oily, blotchy parts of my face, it meant bringing all those and facing (pun intended) more worries ahead. It doesn’t matter if I used expensive shortcuts in trying to make my face cleaner and clearer. What matters is that I prepared for them and faced (intended again) them when they were already there. I still worry about getting little zits and enormous pimples that eventually come out here and there, but I don’t dwell on them as much as I used to. Skin Care 101 doesn’t really have to be something gravely serious. I have learned and accepted that it’s something I will have to go through every day for the rest of my life.</span></div>
</div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7787682840287156626.post-48827084227780657082012-07-19T14:13:00.000+08:002012-07-21T22:40:10.592+08:00Growing up and being 20++<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By Isabel Rodriguez</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I always thought that by 20 I’d have grown into “the person I would be”– a vague idea when being imagined by a twelve year old. Three years into my twenties, and yet the person I find myself to be is nothing like the fictitious, mature self I’d assumed I’d just turn into one day. When you're twelve, no one ever tells you that change is a conscious effort or that growing up is not synonymous to growing old. I was, as Christopher Lao put it, not informed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No one told me, nor could I have ever imagined that at twenty three, my mother would still be nagging me to clean up after myself. The twenties, as I have discovered, is not a free exit pass. Age will not exempt you from responsibility, with the accumulation of years comes with the assumption that you know better. (Boo!)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">At twenty three, I still think that Magic School bus is a cool show, and no, liking it does not make me a dork. I still believe that Bill Nye is awesome, and Tom and Jerry are annoying. I still like Disney films and princesses and sometimes the movies still make me cry. I still go gaga over Lisa Frank. Some days, I still spend my afternoons going around Toy Kingdom checking out all the cool toys my parents never bought me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Being twenty something does not make you feel any different. Personally, I feel like I’ve been walking around with the body I had at fifteen (though other people would certainly disagree). Point is, everything feels exactly as it were. Is this how being a (semi) grown up is supposed to feel like– exactly the same as I felt at fifteen?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Younger, I wondered how my impatient, hot headed self would become that calm, collected lady. I wondered where I’d get that zen. I sort of assumed I’d pick it up along the way as I grow into my twenties. Wrong. What I’ve managed to learn, though, is how to keep my mouth shut when I’m furious. I still make fun of people, I get impatient, and I get mad. You just never hear it or read about it on twitter/my blog.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">At twenty three, I’d have adult Sunday lunch dates with my friends, or wine nights at art galleries and I’d still feel like I’m pretending. “What a grown up <i>this</i>! What a grown up <i>that</i>!”, we’d exclaim to ourselves. And then, we end up gossiping about high school classmates.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The truth is that there is no line or border that separates childhood from adulthood. I always thought of the magical “two-oh” as an exit from my clumsy childhood self, but I find that I am more similar than I am different to who I was years back. What I’ve realized</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> after all those birthdays is that if <i>this</i> is the person I am to be when I do fin</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ally grow up, 20+, or 30+, or 40+, or even 50+, then that’s okay with me.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I like myself when I like cartoons.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Isahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05749544809658555422noreply@blogger.com0