Whenever my dad watches the charitable Filipino gameshow, Wow wow wee, he always has something nice to say about the lady dancers. He compliments their bodies. Oh how beautiful they are, he says. He shouts out, “sexy!” All the while they dance around contestants just in case the audience grows tired of them and decides to be in awe by the sexy dancers. They really remind me of how the sirens were to Odysseus’s crew. My dad is no Odysseus. Well, he is a little, I’ll admit.
I personally don’t mind my dad’s vulnerability to his male dominant side, shall we say, when faced with such tempting sights. Some of those ladies are indeed sexy, I may say myself and if those dancers were sexy guys, I’d be thinking the same thing. Although, unlike my dad, I do not have a significant other. But precisely because of that point, Steph gets upset with him whenever he yells those compliments at those only-for-show sexy lady dancers. [Just as a side note, I think this is the first time I said sexy in a blog and I’ve used it so many times already. I better take advantage of this moment. Sexy, sexy, sexy, sexy, sexy]. She thinks that kind of behavior is inappropriate and uncalled for since our mom should be more than enough to satisfy him.
Sexy, sexy.
But we all know that my mom is no sexy dancer. And who says she has to be? Let's say she's SEXY ON THE INSIDE because, according to Steph, my mom, like everyone else who feels good about themselves, has inner beauty.
What is inner beauty, exactly? Is it an actual physical look? Healthy organs? Hmmmm . . . I’m thinking nope. So if it’s not physical, it must be something deeper. It is an image but the actual image itself isn’t important. It’s the lens though which the image is seen by the host. It’s how you see yourself positively. Inner beauty is a compilation of all the good things – the positive things – about you. It’s an upper perspective of that compilation (by upper, I mean that it lifts your spirits; it doesn’t bring you down – oh heck no!)
So someone who’s sexy may not always have inner beauty. They may be a kind of person filled to the brim with negativity or nothingness or immorality (however way you define it. I like to call immoral people, meanies or people who have a bad case of the dirties. Whenever I think of the word/image of immoral people, the first thing that comes to mind is mercilessness. Or a person who did something bad and I can't believe it and I can't believe also that they're smiling about it. Almost like they have no sense of guilt, conscience is never really there, kind of satanic. That's sort of my very, VERY, general description of immorality; Oh Gosh, there are so many facets to that word! It's not as clear cut as it appears at face value, ha! But I digress; hehehe, just couldn't reisist having a go at immorality). They may not see their shining light or they may be shallow. On the other hand, a person may not be sexy, but may have inner beauty. In my book, those people ring the strongest. They don’t care how they look or what others may think of them (except for their significant other). They wear their inner beauty proudly and loudly. And finally, on yet another hand, there are those who are both sexy and beautiful on the inside. That’s the ultimate combo.
So which one am I? I am the strongest one. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s true! I am Bern and I am not sexy, but I have inner beauty. Or in the words of a one Christina Aguilera, “I am beautiful in every single way.”
One time, Ate Sherry, Steph, Jeremy and I were in the library, studying for our finals, and guess who came scouting around. Recruiters from Gilly Hicks. Their job is to look for attractive young ladies and ask them if they’re interested in working at Gilly Hicks (the “cousin” of Abercrombie and Fitch). This is how Steph got the job, actually. Way before what I’m about to talk about, she was accosted in the cafeteria at Stony Brook University (SBU is very close to the mall where Gilly Hicks is, so recruiters target college students) and Steph accepted – very easy. So anyway, we were in the library and recruiters came to our table. They saw Steph and of course knew her because she works there and they engaged in a little small talk. Steph introduced me and Ate Sherry. “These are my sisters.”
“Hi, my name is Bernadette.”
“Hi, I’m Sherry.”
They indulged in a little more small talk with Steph and were about to leave just as quickly. But just before setting out for good, they looked back at Ate Sherry and asked, “Would you like to work at Gilly Hicks?” Ate Sherry, a little flattered, told them how she already had a job at the hospital. With polite rejection on their faces, they turned to me. Like an open opportunity, I thought. But then they said, looking at me, “uhhhh, . . . ok, have a nice day, you guys.” I gave one quick flick of my hand and a fake smile to indicate a bye-bye . You know what? I don’t even need to work there to prove I’m beautiful. I don’t even want to work there.
Also, you know how before I described the ultimate combo – sexy and inner beauty? That’s Steph and I’m proud of her because that’s not luck. She works at Gilly Hicks because she likes it and they’re paying her. She’s kind to all the customers and was, in fact, employee of the month (no monetary bonus, but a whole lot of respect and recognition).
So what am I saying??!!
I’m not saying that Gilly Hicks is a place for superficial people, for I do believe the workers (or I want to believe) are nice people with inner beauty. Like Steph. I just don’t like their recruiting system. That’s all. Part of my inner beauty is seeing the best in others, even when they kick you down (yes, even in the library).
Eh, one more time. Sexy.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
An unlikely class
Once I was forced to take an accounting class. My dad wanted me to take it; if I didn’t he would have been very disappointed in me. He said something along the lines of how I would need it for my future. I took that class three years ago, in high school and I gotta tell ya, I don’t remember anything at all from that class, except the saying, “debits on your left, credits on your right.” And I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. I think the reason I don’t remember anything from that class is because of how I learned the material.
Ironically and surprisingly, I, having no interest in that topic, did the best in my class. It could be the fact that my dad helped me a lot (since he was the one who wanted me to take the class and he’s an accountant himself). It could also be the easy-to-read textbook and spongy brain I had at the time. Oh man, I really quietly hated that class, so much so that I was pushed into my auxiliary mode of learning, that is, that whole school year in that class, I was in robot mode, so I didn’t really feel anything. Everything I did was automatic and void of real interest. Passion in the subject matter was a separate entity. A separate and lacking entity.
That’s not the kind of learning that I like. I mean really it’s, well, I was about to say that it’s unhealthy learning, but now I’m thinking it’s just a kind of learning that will get you by temporarily. In the end, you don’t really learn anything because it all goes out the window. And you know the ride wasn’t fun anyway.
Fortunately, for me it was kind of fun. Not the learning part but just the conversations held between my teacher and classmates that were unrelated to accounting. Like camping trips and vacations and school fights that had recently happened or stories about my teacher’s kids, and stories about past field trips to the county jailhouse. It was also fun watching my teacher struggle with the reluctance of the other students to learn when more and more seniors in our class (I by the way was a senior, then) started cutting class or when spring break was coming soon. My teacher too grew lenient. Sometimes, as a class, we’d try to distract her and make her talk about her children and what’s going on in her life so as to avoid learning. I think we were all in the same boat then. That day, in that class period, I escaped with a total of eleven minutes of actual learning (each class period is 42 minutes long). Yes, I was constantly checking the clock and looking out the window.
Anyway, just wanted to share with you one of the most unlikely classes I’ve ever taken.
Ironically and surprisingly, I, having no interest in that topic, did the best in my class. It could be the fact that my dad helped me a lot (since he was the one who wanted me to take the class and he’s an accountant himself). It could also be the easy-to-read textbook and spongy brain I had at the time. Oh man, I really quietly hated that class, so much so that I was pushed into my auxiliary mode of learning, that is, that whole school year in that class, I was in robot mode, so I didn’t really feel anything. Everything I did was automatic and void of real interest. Passion in the subject matter was a separate entity. A separate and lacking entity.
That’s not the kind of learning that I like. I mean really it’s, well, I was about to say that it’s unhealthy learning, but now I’m thinking it’s just a kind of learning that will get you by temporarily. In the end, you don’t really learn anything because it all goes out the window. And you know the ride wasn’t fun anyway.
Fortunately, for me it was kind of fun. Not the learning part but just the conversations held between my teacher and classmates that were unrelated to accounting. Like camping trips and vacations and school fights that had recently happened or stories about my teacher’s kids, and stories about past field trips to the county jailhouse. It was also fun watching my teacher struggle with the reluctance of the other students to learn when more and more seniors in our class (I by the way was a senior, then) started cutting class or when spring break was coming soon. My teacher too grew lenient. Sometimes, as a class, we’d try to distract her and make her talk about her children and what’s going on in her life so as to avoid learning. I think we were all in the same boat then. That day, in that class period, I escaped with a total of eleven minutes of actual learning (each class period is 42 minutes long). Yes, I was constantly checking the clock and looking out the window.
Anyway, just wanted to share with you one of the most unlikely classes I’ve ever taken.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Here we are
I am standing outside in my backyard at mid-day. I stand with a pick in my hand and there’s a root on the ground, staring at me, tantalizing me. I will defeat you, I say in my head. I reach in my pocket and take out my ipod shuffle. But before sending musical signals to my brain, sending waves of goodness around my aura, I stop and think: do I feel like listening to music while working in the yard, or do I feel like thinking? I role up the headphones around my ipod, stab the pick into the Earth and walk over to the shade where I lay my ipod on the table. I decide to think.
Before reaching for my pick and finally getting rid of the root, I notice the sky’s blueness. Summer blue. I lie down on the ground, arms spread out, legs spread out. I look up,
at the sky.
The green leaves of the trees contort the blue and the clouds make their wispy contribution to the developing image. It’s moving with the wind. I close my eyes and immediately see a darker shade of the shape of the sky, like an afterglow. With my eyes closed, I hear my heart beat louder. It has a steady thud, bouncing off of the ground, perhaps even following the beat the internal Earth radiates with its natural energy.
All things natural come to me. I imagine my shed, getting hit by a lightening bolt, sending the lawn mower running out screaming, crashing into the deck. Then Saturn’s rings cut through my shaped sky, as if by a Roman gladius, making the clouds dissipate like a panic-stricken crowd. I step on its rocks and pebbles, noticing the design of the rings as I look down at my feet, my backyard in the background behind them. From the telescope the rings look as if they were made by sharp, clear strokes from crayola markers, but up close they are thousands of organized islands stuck in traffic, flowing around a big gaseous ball. I jump back down and run behind a tree before the stampede of animals trample all over me. In the nick of time, I had seen the animals crush my neighbor’s steel fence. Rhinos, hippos, T-rex, zebras and . . . flamingos? The coast is clear and I come out of hiding, stumbling on some rocks. In the remaining dust, come shadowy figures. What now? All the people I’ll ever meet, I’ll ever create relationships with, whether it’d be close and personal, personal and distant, or just acquaintance-like. They are people I’ve met in the past and that I’ll meet in the future and that I see almost every day. Family, relatives, friends, strangers and some uncomfortable tissue. There they are, standing before me, quietly naked, created by dust. Shadows on the floor tell me they’re moving closer to me, and I to them. Eye contact. Shoulders, legs and arms. Faces, necks and chests. No words spoken, only feelings giving tokens. Of what, though?
Gone.
I lie down on my mother’s ground, in the steps of the people. And look up,
at the sky.
My goodness, it’s still there, blue, green and white. The sun’s light carries the colors. I close my eyes. My muscles relax and each breath flows out like a lullaby. My breath sings out softly in harmony with the wind. And then I open my eyes. Sitting up straight on the ground, I bend my head and look down at my hands, filled with dirt and scratches. To my left, stabbed in the Earth is my pick. I look at it and stand up. After reaching for my ipod, I grab my pick and make one big heave.
Before reaching for my pick and finally getting rid of the root, I notice the sky’s blueness. Summer blue. I lie down on the ground, arms spread out, legs spread out. I look up,
at the sky.
The green leaves of the trees contort the blue and the clouds make their wispy contribution to the developing image. It’s moving with the wind. I close my eyes and immediately see a darker shade of the shape of the sky, like an afterglow. With my eyes closed, I hear my heart beat louder. It has a steady thud, bouncing off of the ground, perhaps even following the beat the internal Earth radiates with its natural energy.
All things natural come to me. I imagine my shed, getting hit by a lightening bolt, sending the lawn mower running out screaming, crashing into the deck. Then Saturn’s rings cut through my shaped sky, as if by a Roman gladius, making the clouds dissipate like a panic-stricken crowd. I step on its rocks and pebbles, noticing the design of the rings as I look down at my feet, my backyard in the background behind them. From the telescope the rings look as if they were made by sharp, clear strokes from crayola markers, but up close they are thousands of organized islands stuck in traffic, flowing around a big gaseous ball. I jump back down and run behind a tree before the stampede of animals trample all over me. In the nick of time, I had seen the animals crush my neighbor’s steel fence. Rhinos, hippos, T-rex, zebras and . . . flamingos? The coast is clear and I come out of hiding, stumbling on some rocks. In the remaining dust, come shadowy figures. What now? All the people I’ll ever meet, I’ll ever create relationships with, whether it’d be close and personal, personal and distant, or just acquaintance-like. They are people I’ve met in the past and that I’ll meet in the future and that I see almost every day. Family, relatives, friends, strangers and some uncomfortable tissue. There they are, standing before me, quietly naked, created by dust. Shadows on the floor tell me they’re moving closer to me, and I to them. Eye contact. Shoulders, legs and arms. Faces, necks and chests. No words spoken, only feelings giving tokens. Of what, though?
Gone.
I lie down on my mother’s ground, in the steps of the people. And look up,
at the sky.
My goodness, it’s still there, blue, green and white. The sun’s light carries the colors. I close my eyes. My muscles relax and each breath flows out like a lullaby. My breath sings out softly in harmony with the wind. And then I open my eyes. Sitting up straight on the ground, I bend my head and look down at my hands, filled with dirt and scratches. To my left, stabbed in the Earth is my pick. I look at it and stand up. After reaching for my ipod, I grab my pick and make one big heave.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Narrative of my second drink
We’ve been wanting to sleep over my brother’s place for quite some time, Steph and I, and we thought what better opportunity to do that than on July fourth weekend. Logical, no? We had planned on doing some running in central park or just anywhere there, perhaps my brother’s usual running route. We also wanted to walk around the city and do a little shopping.
The plan: Arrive at my brother’s place on Friday night, but before that, eat at a Chinese restaurant with my family. My parents would drop Steph and me off at Kuya’s place, afterward. On Saturday, we would paint the town red and Steph and me would be picked up on Saturday night. Then Sunday is July fourth and there’d be a bbq at our parents’ house, except Kuya would go back to the city and see fireworks while my parents, Steph and I would watch the fireworks on a hill in Ocean avenue.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention our covert plan: my 21st birthday part 2??!! – Friday night, drinking.
Now, if I were to compare the first time I drank to the second time I drank, I’d say the second time was a lot worse, A LOT WORSE, than the first and I have some potential real reasons why. First off, the first time I drank, if I were to be honest with myself, I was much fitter. It was during the school semester, I was always going to the gym, either before classes or after classes, studying hard, working out hard, playing myself all around, nice and even. HOWEVER, the second time I drank was during a sickly context – I had just gotten four wisdom teeth pulled out (pain in the mouth) and an annoying cold from someone who will remain unnamed. Mind you, I can take in a lot more alcohol when I’m fitter than when I’m not. So, the second time around, I wasn’t exercising or working out a whole lot, just feeling lazy, tired and weak, but itching for at least some fun . . . and my eyes immediately looked toward that seemingly bright and enticing Fourth of July weekend at my brother’s place and whatever I could do without my parents in sight.
The first time I drank, on my 21st birthday way back in November, I was able to down 9 shots in about 2 hours. Not bad. I just felt a little dizzy and a little off, nothing much else. I went to sleep and the next morning I played tennis (yes, in the cold, but sunny November morning). The second time I drank, during that Fourth of July weekend, I was only able to take in 7 shots, however, I did that in less than 1 hour. I don’t think I even remember what I took.
Oh, you should have seen me. It was horrible.
The second time was so much scarier than the first. I think I passed out, I couldn’t move any muscle at all, on my own will. I just remember little snap shots of what was going on. I remember saying in a tired, airy voice and half shut eyes, “zero percent muscle.” The weird stuff I say when weird stuff’s happening to me. We were all standing and talking, I think, and laughing and all of a sudden, I just fell backward onto my brother’s bed. The next thing I remember is when I was throwing up in a small garbage container, hearing Steph’s encouraging words as she wiped my neck with a cold, wet towel: “Good girl; you’re such a good girl; you’re doing the right thing; good job.” And I was just throwing up all that vodka and baby bok choy (from our Chinese dinner). I was helped to go to the bathroom to continue throwing up in the toilet. Closing the door and locking it, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. But after throwing up in the toilet, I just fell to the floor and felt my muscles grow even weaker, which I thought couldn’t happen because they were already weak enough from all the alcohol I had consumed in such a short time. I guess some time had passed because I remember, barely, opening up my blurred eyes and hearing voices telling me, “Bern, you have to open the door, okay.” To tell you the truth, I was in no condition to get up, at all. They finally came in (Steph had told me the next day that they used a penny to unlock the door) and found me on the floor, next to the toilet, in a fetus position with my eyes closed. From there, I don’t know.
Later the next day, I was told that Kuya had picked me up from the floor of the bathroom and brought me to my makeshift bed.
I just remember waking up at around 3:30 in the morning, unable to move. Can you believe, I couldn’t even turn on my other side so as to not sleep on my own drool? Yes, I have to admit, I was a total mess. Steph was on the couch, my brother and Liz were on Kuya’s bed and I was on the floor in my sleeping bag, next to the garbage. I noticed that my glasses were off, as were my socks and my watch. After about another hour or two, I was able to walk to the bathroom, Frankenstein style. To make a long story short, I kept throwing up on and off from around 4 in the morning to around 12 noon, the next day. My stomach felt unstable, my esophagus burned and I wasn’t hungry, nor thirsty because I knew that if I ate or drank anything, I’d just throw it up again and feel sick. I wanted to sleep, not eat, but everyone kept telling me to eat. Steph bought me oatmeal and zico (coconut water) and Liz tried to give me water and cranberry juice. Both of their attempts were to no avail. I was a stubborn, sickly baby.
Then Kuya turned on the TV so we could watch the Wimbledon final. Serena had already won! I was both happy and sick, but then more sick. After she said her speech, they replayed the match where Nadal played against Murray. But I couldn’t follow that one, both because I just felt so sick and because I still didn’t have my glasses on (nor my socks and watch). I just lied down with the garbage next to me.
Steph and Kuya went out to go running while Liz and I stayed. I guess I brought my sneakers and sports clothes for no reason then. Afterward, I heard their plans to go shopping. I just wanted to sleep and get this hangover over with. I woke up at 3:30 in the afternoon and actually felt better, somewhat. Thoughtful Steph had changed the channel so that “The Universe” was on and the episode was the one where they show how Earth was formed. I woke up and it caught my attention, I having a slight interest in astronomy. Not realizing that I was speaking out loud, I said, “that was during the period of bombardment; that’s how Earth got the bulk of its water, from comets.” Kuya heard me and said, “look everyone, Bern’s awake!” Liz, Kuya and Steph crowded around me and I took off my blanket in conquering way and stood up. My stomach now only felt a dull pain. Kuya said, “You can go shopping with us? To the city?”
“Sure!” Sounds like a full recovery. WRONG! I felt good temporarily, I found out, because after I showered and cleaned myself up (when I woke up and checked the mirror, my hair looked like Alfalfa’s) and when we were in the subway ready to go to the city, my stomach hurt, yet again, and I was scared that I might throw up, but this time in public.
The train ride was long and painful. I felt like any minute I could erupt. So what did I do? In my head, I said the Our Father and ten Hail Mary’s. Then I heard a baby sing Beyonce songs followed by a rumble in my tummy. I said the Our Father again and this time seventeen Hail Mary’s. I was really praying to get myself out of this mess and I think it helped because Kuya, Liz and Steph took real good care of me and were really considerate when we were in the city.
They let me rest on a bench for about a total of 30 minutes (at least). Kuya got me pizza and water. Steph’s carried an empty yogurt bowl just in case I had to throw up in it and Liz stayed on the bench with me while Kuya and Steph got the pizza for me to finally eat. They all walked at a nice, slow pace and looked for places where I can rest, whether that be at the furniture and bathroom area at kmart or the furniture area at Urban Outfitters. By 8pm, I was feeling a lot better and it was marked by my saying inside jokes and being my old self again. The pain grew dull, thank goodness, but I still had a headache, in addition to a stomachache.
So what did I learn? I don’t like drinking. That’s what I immediately thought the next morning after drinking and passing out. I didn’t want to drink any more for the rest of my life; I didn’t want to see another beer can, or shot glass or smell anything alcoholic. I didn’t want to drink anymore, period. I hate hangovers.
But what did I really learn? I can drink, but I have to pace myself. I will absolutely not do 7 shots in less than one hour anymore. Perhaps I’ll do just 3 or 4 shots in one hour. That would be like 6 or 8 in two hours, which is kind of close to my first 9 in two hours. I will drink when I’m fit. Or in the words of Kuya, I’ll do more push-ups before I drink, hahaha.
Before I leave you here, I want to make sure that you have a correct image of me. I do not drink often, only occasionally. In fact, I’ve only drank twice in my life. That third time was nothing really, it was just hard iced tea, so that doesn’t count. I’m a pretty chill person as someone once told me. I’m no alcoholic. I’m just describing my experiences because I don’t really mind to; don’t worry I know when I cross the line in terms of what I leak out in writing – that being said, I didn’t write absolutely everything that happened during those two surreal days.
I hope you enjoy this second narrative (but don’t expect one each time I drink!) =)
The plan: Arrive at my brother’s place on Friday night, but before that, eat at a Chinese restaurant with my family. My parents would drop Steph and me off at Kuya’s place, afterward. On Saturday, we would paint the town red and Steph and me would be picked up on Saturday night. Then Sunday is July fourth and there’d be a bbq at our parents’ house, except Kuya would go back to the city and see fireworks while my parents, Steph and I would watch the fireworks on a hill in Ocean avenue.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention our covert plan: my 21st birthday part 2??!! – Friday night, drinking.
Now, if I were to compare the first time I drank to the second time I drank, I’d say the second time was a lot worse, A LOT WORSE, than the first and I have some potential real reasons why. First off, the first time I drank, if I were to be honest with myself, I was much fitter. It was during the school semester, I was always going to the gym, either before classes or after classes, studying hard, working out hard, playing myself all around, nice and even. HOWEVER, the second time I drank was during a sickly context – I had just gotten four wisdom teeth pulled out (pain in the mouth) and an annoying cold from someone who will remain unnamed. Mind you, I can take in a lot more alcohol when I’m fitter than when I’m not. So, the second time around, I wasn’t exercising or working out a whole lot, just feeling lazy, tired and weak, but itching for at least some fun . . . and my eyes immediately looked toward that seemingly bright and enticing Fourth of July weekend at my brother’s place and whatever I could do without my parents in sight.
The first time I drank, on my 21st birthday way back in November, I was able to down 9 shots in about 2 hours. Not bad. I just felt a little dizzy and a little off, nothing much else. I went to sleep and the next morning I played tennis (yes, in the cold, but sunny November morning). The second time I drank, during that Fourth of July weekend, I was only able to take in 7 shots, however, I did that in less than 1 hour. I don’t think I even remember what I took.
Oh, you should have seen me. It was horrible.
The second time was so much scarier than the first. I think I passed out, I couldn’t move any muscle at all, on my own will. I just remember little snap shots of what was going on. I remember saying in a tired, airy voice and half shut eyes, “zero percent muscle.” The weird stuff I say when weird stuff’s happening to me. We were all standing and talking, I think, and laughing and all of a sudden, I just fell backward onto my brother’s bed. The next thing I remember is when I was throwing up in a small garbage container, hearing Steph’s encouraging words as she wiped my neck with a cold, wet towel: “Good girl; you’re such a good girl; you’re doing the right thing; good job.” And I was just throwing up all that vodka and baby bok choy (from our Chinese dinner). I was helped to go to the bathroom to continue throwing up in the toilet. Closing the door and locking it, I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. But after throwing up in the toilet, I just fell to the floor and felt my muscles grow even weaker, which I thought couldn’t happen because they were already weak enough from all the alcohol I had consumed in such a short time. I guess some time had passed because I remember, barely, opening up my blurred eyes and hearing voices telling me, “Bern, you have to open the door, okay.” To tell you the truth, I was in no condition to get up, at all. They finally came in (Steph had told me the next day that they used a penny to unlock the door) and found me on the floor, next to the toilet, in a fetus position with my eyes closed. From there, I don’t know.
Later the next day, I was told that Kuya had picked me up from the floor of the bathroom and brought me to my makeshift bed.
I just remember waking up at around 3:30 in the morning, unable to move. Can you believe, I couldn’t even turn on my other side so as to not sleep on my own drool? Yes, I have to admit, I was a total mess. Steph was on the couch, my brother and Liz were on Kuya’s bed and I was on the floor in my sleeping bag, next to the garbage. I noticed that my glasses were off, as were my socks and my watch. After about another hour or two, I was able to walk to the bathroom, Frankenstein style. To make a long story short, I kept throwing up on and off from around 4 in the morning to around 12 noon, the next day. My stomach felt unstable, my esophagus burned and I wasn’t hungry, nor thirsty because I knew that if I ate or drank anything, I’d just throw it up again and feel sick. I wanted to sleep, not eat, but everyone kept telling me to eat. Steph bought me oatmeal and zico (coconut water) and Liz tried to give me water and cranberry juice. Both of their attempts were to no avail. I was a stubborn, sickly baby.
Then Kuya turned on the TV so we could watch the Wimbledon final. Serena had already won! I was both happy and sick, but then more sick. After she said her speech, they replayed the match where Nadal played against Murray. But I couldn’t follow that one, both because I just felt so sick and because I still didn’t have my glasses on (nor my socks and watch). I just lied down with the garbage next to me.
Steph and Kuya went out to go running while Liz and I stayed. I guess I brought my sneakers and sports clothes for no reason then. Afterward, I heard their plans to go shopping. I just wanted to sleep and get this hangover over with. I woke up at 3:30 in the afternoon and actually felt better, somewhat. Thoughtful Steph had changed the channel so that “The Universe” was on and the episode was the one where they show how Earth was formed. I woke up and it caught my attention, I having a slight interest in astronomy. Not realizing that I was speaking out loud, I said, “that was during the period of bombardment; that’s how Earth got the bulk of its water, from comets.” Kuya heard me and said, “look everyone, Bern’s awake!” Liz, Kuya and Steph crowded around me and I took off my blanket in conquering way and stood up. My stomach now only felt a dull pain. Kuya said, “You can go shopping with us? To the city?”
“Sure!” Sounds like a full recovery. WRONG! I felt good temporarily, I found out, because after I showered and cleaned myself up (when I woke up and checked the mirror, my hair looked like Alfalfa’s) and when we were in the subway ready to go to the city, my stomach hurt, yet again, and I was scared that I might throw up, but this time in public.
The train ride was long and painful. I felt like any minute I could erupt. So what did I do? In my head, I said the Our Father and ten Hail Mary’s. Then I heard a baby sing Beyonce songs followed by a rumble in my tummy. I said the Our Father again and this time seventeen Hail Mary’s. I was really praying to get myself out of this mess and I think it helped because Kuya, Liz and Steph took real good care of me and were really considerate when we were in the city.
They let me rest on a bench for about a total of 30 minutes (at least). Kuya got me pizza and water. Steph’s carried an empty yogurt bowl just in case I had to throw up in it and Liz stayed on the bench with me while Kuya and Steph got the pizza for me to finally eat. They all walked at a nice, slow pace and looked for places where I can rest, whether that be at the furniture and bathroom area at kmart or the furniture area at Urban Outfitters. By 8pm, I was feeling a lot better and it was marked by my saying inside jokes and being my old self again. The pain grew dull, thank goodness, but I still had a headache, in addition to a stomachache.
So what did I learn? I don’t like drinking. That’s what I immediately thought the next morning after drinking and passing out. I didn’t want to drink any more for the rest of my life; I didn’t want to see another beer can, or shot glass or smell anything alcoholic. I didn’t want to drink anymore, period. I hate hangovers.
But what did I really learn? I can drink, but I have to pace myself. I will absolutely not do 7 shots in less than one hour anymore. Perhaps I’ll do just 3 or 4 shots in one hour. That would be like 6 or 8 in two hours, which is kind of close to my first 9 in two hours. I will drink when I’m fit. Or in the words of Kuya, I’ll do more push-ups before I drink, hahaha.
Before I leave you here, I want to make sure that you have a correct image of me. I do not drink often, only occasionally. In fact, I’ve only drank twice in my life. That third time was nothing really, it was just hard iced tea, so that doesn’t count. I’m a pretty chill person as someone once told me. I’m no alcoholic. I’m just describing my experiences because I don’t really mind to; don’t worry I know when I cross the line in terms of what I leak out in writing – that being said, I didn’t write absolutely everything that happened during those two surreal days.
I hope you enjoy this second narrative (but don’t expect one each time I drink!) =)
Friday, July 2, 2010
Oscar Wilde's of the world
Do you know what hedonism is? Oscar Wilde (of late 19th century Britain) was a hedonist. He bravely lived art and firmly believed in art as the highest regard in life. A hedonist is a person who makes pleasure the top priority, however sinful and immoral that is. It follows one of the seven mortal sins: lust. What’s sinful about it, is that you start to indulge in pleasure and that takes away your attention from God. How is pleasure connected to art? While I don’t know the exact answer, for it would be a difficult and “essential” (not direct) one, I can take a guess. I’m thinking that, to Wilde, art is pleasure. Pleasure to all the senses: seeing, hearing, feeling, smelling, tasting.
You see, Wilde was very brave for being a hedonist during his time because during the late 1800s, society made it a crime to go against convention by any means, even in terms of sexuality. I kind of commend him for his bravery. Wilde was a homosexual and engaged in homosexual acts with his close friend, Lord Alfred Douglass (better known as Bosie) and the two enjoyed the services of rent boys at their hotel, shall we say.
Now, why would the public be interested in Oscar’s personal life? Why him, in other words. In his day, Wilde was a huge personality. He held dinner parties, where his artful, witty speech captivated all the guests. He wore clothes that were gorgeous on him and the absolute latest fashion of his time. Remember that he lived art. Art is there to both pleasure and entertain. But for him, it was something he needed to sustain himself the way he wanted to be sustained. He said once that he had to “live up to [his] blue china,” which he considered highly for their beauty in the home. Speaking of which, he once toured America (the West), giving lectures on home decoration. You have to please your sight if you’re going to live in it, I guess he thought.
He was a fairly all right writer, but really he wanted to shock people, society and he succeeded in doing so, in standing out, by living as a hedonist, both publicly and privately. Publicly, he was a hedonist in the way he carried himself, his clothes, speech, people he associated himself with. Privately he was a hedonist in his homosexual acts with Bosie. Wilde was safe from a total dismantling of his reputation and life so long as the public was blind to his private life. But of course the public wasn’t totally blind – it was as if they were wearing sun glasses; they don’t get the direct glare from the bright sun, but the sun is till there and they can still see it, it’s just not as bright. The public knew something fishy was going on; they saw the rent boys leaving Wilde and Bosie’s hotel with cigarette cases that had engraved in them: “for services rendered.” So long as Wilde didn’t say it out loud, he was safe.
But Bosie’s father (Bosie, by the way, was 16 years younger than Wilde), a mentally unstable guy, wreaked havoc on Bosie and Wilde’s relationship. He knew what was going on and wanted to do something about it; he wanted to expose the truth. So what did he do? He pressed charges on Wilde. “Gross indecency,” it was called. In the trial, Wilde let out his homosexuality and the graphic evidence was just too much. Wilde was sentenced to two years of hard labor.
You’d think this isn’t that depressing, that he had it coming. And you’re right. But wait; there’s more. Wilde had been going bankrupt, despite his earnings from his writings and plays, because he spent it on lavish gifts for Bosie, fancy food and hotels and rent boys. He spent his money, in other words, on pleasure. Talk about a sad ending for an enchanting and intriguing personality of his time!
After watching his biography, I just felt bad for Wilde. He just wanted to live his own life by his own principles – that of art. If only art and pleasure weren’t so expensive (and not to mention costly, regrettable) he wouldn’t have gone bankrupt. But still, in my opinion, he had a bit too much pleasure, and you know the saying, too much of something is a bad thing. It’s an obsession and obsessions are dominating and merciless because they’re blind to their host. But I still feel I have to commend him for his attempt to stay alive in his pleasure obsession and for his staying true to his homosexual self. He truly was ahead of his time.
Even today, people are starting to come out of the closet, professing their homosexuality to family, friends, and even the world. I like to think it is because we have lived with each other – humanity-wise – long enough to share our true feelings. They’ve been itching under the surface, apparently since Oscar Wilde’s time, possibly earlier (they may not have had a name for homosexuality yet). I applaud their bravery and courage. It’s amazing how Oscar has transcended through the times, connecting the past with the present. He broke free from the standards of his Victorian era to be his quirky, risky, philosophical self that mirrors gays and lesbians of our times . . . well, somewhat.
You see, Wilde was very brave for being a hedonist during his time because during the late 1800s, society made it a crime to go against convention by any means, even in terms of sexuality. I kind of commend him for his bravery. Wilde was a homosexual and engaged in homosexual acts with his close friend, Lord Alfred Douglass (better known as Bosie) and the two enjoyed the services of rent boys at their hotel, shall we say.
Now, why would the public be interested in Oscar’s personal life? Why him, in other words. In his day, Wilde was a huge personality. He held dinner parties, where his artful, witty speech captivated all the guests. He wore clothes that were gorgeous on him and the absolute latest fashion of his time. Remember that he lived art. Art is there to both pleasure and entertain. But for him, it was something he needed to sustain himself the way he wanted to be sustained. He said once that he had to “live up to [his] blue china,” which he considered highly for their beauty in the home. Speaking of which, he once toured America (the West), giving lectures on home decoration. You have to please your sight if you’re going to live in it, I guess he thought.
He was a fairly all right writer, but really he wanted to shock people, society and he succeeded in doing so, in standing out, by living as a hedonist, both publicly and privately. Publicly, he was a hedonist in the way he carried himself, his clothes, speech, people he associated himself with. Privately he was a hedonist in his homosexual acts with Bosie. Wilde was safe from a total dismantling of his reputation and life so long as the public was blind to his private life. But of course the public wasn’t totally blind – it was as if they were wearing sun glasses; they don’t get the direct glare from the bright sun, but the sun is till there and they can still see it, it’s just not as bright. The public knew something fishy was going on; they saw the rent boys leaving Wilde and Bosie’s hotel with cigarette cases that had engraved in them: “for services rendered.” So long as Wilde didn’t say it out loud, he was safe.
But Bosie’s father (Bosie, by the way, was 16 years younger than Wilde), a mentally unstable guy, wreaked havoc on Bosie and Wilde’s relationship. He knew what was going on and wanted to do something about it; he wanted to expose the truth. So what did he do? He pressed charges on Wilde. “Gross indecency,” it was called. In the trial, Wilde let out his homosexuality and the graphic evidence was just too much. Wilde was sentenced to two years of hard labor.
You’d think this isn’t that depressing, that he had it coming. And you’re right. But wait; there’s more. Wilde had been going bankrupt, despite his earnings from his writings and plays, because he spent it on lavish gifts for Bosie, fancy food and hotels and rent boys. He spent his money, in other words, on pleasure. Talk about a sad ending for an enchanting and intriguing personality of his time!
After watching his biography, I just felt bad for Wilde. He just wanted to live his own life by his own principles – that of art. If only art and pleasure weren’t so expensive (and not to mention costly, regrettable) he wouldn’t have gone bankrupt. But still, in my opinion, he had a bit too much pleasure, and you know the saying, too much of something is a bad thing. It’s an obsession and obsessions are dominating and merciless because they’re blind to their host. But I still feel I have to commend him for his attempt to stay alive in his pleasure obsession and for his staying true to his homosexual self. He truly was ahead of his time.
Even today, people are starting to come out of the closet, professing their homosexuality to family, friends, and even the world. I like to think it is because we have lived with each other – humanity-wise – long enough to share our true feelings. They’ve been itching under the surface, apparently since Oscar Wilde’s time, possibly earlier (they may not have had a name for homosexuality yet). I applaud their bravery and courage. It’s amazing how Oscar has transcended through the times, connecting the past with the present. He broke free from the standards of his Victorian era to be his quirky, risky, philosophical self that mirrors gays and lesbians of our times . . . well, somewhat.
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