Virtual Post-its

Mood: wala lang
Listening to: Mr. Kevin Brett, my seatmate

     after 2 months of self-imposed datelessness, i finally went out with a friend on an impromptu girls' night-out. now, i hope you understand the gravity of the situation. in 2 months time, i have never ventured 3 feet away from either home, office or the grocery. no movies, no strolling along the boardwalk, no dinner dates (or any kind of date whatever). pathetic, right? nah! more like catching your foot on the last rung on the social ladder and plunging head-first to rock-bottom.

     upon reaching the only hot spot for hotties on a saturday, my friend & i were literally blown off our feet. it's not because of all the cuties roaming around but more of the fact that we literally don't know how to socialize anymore. oh, to be in your mid-20s and not know how to flirt and date... :( the realization hit us when we found ourselves tucked in a corner in one of the bars, sipping warm beer and basically looked like wall flowers. attractive, smart, available wall flowers. *sigh*

     a major cutie was hovering nearby, garbed in a leather jacket with the word STOP plastered all over. and when you do look at him, your breath will literally stop. i dunno what's gotten over me or my friend but neither made a move. i didn't know warm beer could immobilize one's limbs. imagine! i couldn't even bring myself to bat an eyelash out of sheer fear of him laughing at me with the mental note: "Poor girl... that tick she got is really weird and annoying."

     finally (and thankfully), someone did approach us before the night wore out. cool guys (although the other one looked old enough to be my dad), rather a bit the plain boy-next-door, but cool nonetheless. however, as the night deepened, our cinderella-like delusions were dashed when mr. prince charming picked at the french fries with his pinkie extended to god knows where. the longer he talks, the closer he comes out of the closet. merde! another sister in the making... he keeps saying that he can never comprehend why pretty girls like us don't have boyfriends. in true women's lib fashion, we defended our god-given rights to stay single and unburdened by the bane called mankind/manhood. and in the process, came to realize that it is NOT  a neccessity to have a man in your life.  

     anyway, the night did not completely end on a sad (or gay) note. mr. stop passed by and said goodbye. that was enough to feed our imaginations for 2 more months. i can go back to work, home and the grocery with the full awareness that life is what you make it. warm beer or not, cinderella at the ball or at home. i'd rather be me, in all my single-blessedness. :)  

   

Mood: bi-polar
Listening to: voices around me, voices inside my head

what is a good sign that you're getting old?

will it be a physical, tangible change (like crow's feet and wrinkles and bags beneath your eyes and white hair sprouting where there were previously black/brown ones) or will it be a lot subtler but definietly more nerve-wracking (such as hormonal imbalances, memory loss, and, god forbid, incontinence)?

i had my eyes checked today and from a grade of 4.00/2.50 (no astigmatism), it skyrocketed to 4.50/3.50 (1.50/1.25 astigmatism). for a split-second there, i felt old. i keep hearing my classmate in 3rd grade say: "it's the eyesight that goes first when you're about to die."

crazy, right? not really. i've been feeling "old" for several week now and i don't know if it's because i'm beginning to lose steam regarding everything -- and i DO mean EVERYTHING (lewd thoughts included). or it just might be that the fact that i'm turning 27 in half a year is actually staring me right in the face (i've a calendar beside my bed and it's the year-long one). a bitter pill to swallow in the precious hours before i go to work. get outta bed, live another day, live closer to your dying day.  

oh well... so much for the thought of dying.

anyway, the bright spot today is the fact that i can see the world clearly again. it's literally seeing the world with lenses (though not rose-colored ones). it's the only thing that actually lifted my ever-dropping will to get outta bed. 

imagine! i ACTUALLY see the stereotypes of beauty ever-present on billboards and posters strewn around the city. a guy i've been ignoring at the office actually looks kinda cute with 4.50/3.50 contact lenses on (on me, i mean). i can type without pressing my nose to the monitor, leaving oil marks in the shape of chernobyl-ed butterflies. i can say hello back to someone i know waving from accross the street without having to ask my companinons, "who in the hell was that?!?" (and that is after i've waved hello back).   

the bad thing, though, is that i can see the small zits and whiteheads on the tip of my nose 10ft away from the mirror. i realized, i've been seeing myself as a goddess for a few days now, only to realize that i've been shedding skin, hair all over the place, and the dimples on my cheeks were actual zits. myopia can do more damage to the ego than to your health, if i should say so. and to top it all of, the guy at the office you've been batting your eyelashes at actually looks like jim carrey with 20/20 vision. jim carrey in THE MASK.  a big punch to my self-esteem, really.

so, the question of the day is:

"do you see the glass half-empty or do you see it half-full?"

my answer and personal favorite?

fill the glass with beer and gulp it down. everything will look lovelier after 3 bottles. no contact lenses needed.

   

Mood: bored
Listening to: dsl troubleshooting by team mates

i got this baduy post-it note just within eye-level near my pc. it reads: POST YOUR FREAKIN' NOTES. a post-it to remind me to post my notes. bleagh! redundant and corny, don't you think?

i've been on a career-low regarding how i handle my calls lately. auto-zeroes galore. one every month. it's like your period: as much as you'd like to avoid it -- you can't. *sigh* 

speaking of post-its, i have this weird pre-occupation with these teeny, sticky notes since a major, soap-operatic break-up i had with a romance turned-sour. crazy as it may seem, i used to have neon green, hot pink, flourescent yellow, striped, dotted, zig-zagged, garfield-shaped, mickey mouse-shaped, and even a coca-cola-shaped post-it with the famous last words: *** (previous heartbreaker's name, aka bane of my adult love life) IS NOT AROUND ANYMORE!!! my sister used to tell me she'll have to eventually sweep under my bed just to see if my marbles are in there. i didn't think i was crazy at that time. i profoundly and stubbornly called it COPING. 

coping via post-it works, actually. though it's a bit of a strain on the budget, it's a lot cheaper than buying a new pair of shoes or the hippest hip-huggers every month. it's a lot healthier than bingeing out on double rocky road ice cream and pizza. it's friendlier on the lungs and on the liver as compared to cigarettes and beer. a lot colorful than writing on a plain diary, i might add. and most of all, it's an everyday, in-your-face reminder that literally jumps out at you whenever you feel like wallowing in self-pity and misery when ever you're alone in your room.

now, i suppose you'd like to know if this worked for me.  of course it did! it was easy, really. i'm already over that sorry excuse for a man. it took me approximately PHP1,725.00, 75 sticky pads, 2 years, 6 months, and 17 days. the healing process is a bit costly and slow, but i assure you, you'll eventually get there.

sure as hell beats buying a new pair of shoes a week. 

Mood: harassed, yet optimistic
Listening to: a hill-billy customer

1:58 AM

no calls. finally.

runny nose. i've ran out of tissue. it's my rest day and i am slaving in front of a dell monitor, trying to decipher my customer's dsl problem through the thick layer of his combined southern accent, phone static, and ever-escalating frustration.

for the second time today, i stupidly bumped/skinned my knee against this protruding metal under my desk. and to add the proverbial salt to the wound, i've got a big zit on my face.

not a good night (or day, whatever you're circadian clock dictates).

right this minute, i should be snuggling in my warm, soft bed at home, imagining what my life would be had i more money than the dilapidated 50 peso bill in my wallet. of course, when i do get into imagination/fantasy mode, i often go think about one of my favorite futurama settings. it's actually like having a mental finger stuck between the favorite pages of a book that you've been reading and re-reading all your life. i often zero in on what i'd do if i had more money and what i'd do with a pocketbook that actually contains BILLS rather than COINS in it.

hmmm... now, once i get started, i usually have grand delusions of myself driving a car, owning a state-of-the-art mobile phone, sporting new breasts (hehe), and leaving a trail of minced-meat hearts behind me. not to mention feeling absolute glee at the "am i stupid or am i stupid"  looks on the faces of all those ex-boyfriends who have, in one way or the other, left me out in the cold for a younger, big-breasted, credit-card, swiping hussy. please, not to discourage art and creativity at its finest. allow me to be shallow and petty for the whole duration of my often-disputed 15-minute break on the job.

with these delusions swirling mightily like van gogh's "starry, starry night" in my head, i am, of course, fully aware that all these are the result of a sleep-starved, TV-deprived, caffeine/nicotine overloaded mind. eventually, after a precious 6-hour sleep, my feet floats gently back to reality. i have to eventually wake up and face my self in the mirror. these, i know, are but mere leftover shards from a silly, pig-tailed, 6-year old's mirror, safe in her short-lived disney princess world.

so there.

i gradually flutter back to the land of the PHP372/day and cram my freudian thoughts deep into my mental pockets called "id" and "superego". i blow my nose on my quickly-diminishing stack of stolen tissue from the ladies' cr, take a deep breath, put on my headset and press a button on my avaya.

[silence]

agents on avail! halellujah for small mercies.

not a bad day after all, huh?