This hand are made for

I am typing this while trying to rest my tired and swollen right hand from doing that cursed thing everyone expects me to do so. It's past 12 midnight and the urge to continue just gets manic.

The usual recourse is to blame my mom. Back in fourth grade, my elementary school offered a special class for penmanship. Now, whenever she criticizes my handwriting, I tell my mom that her insistence that the program was nothing but a capitalistic plot of my school is a ghost of the past that follows me everywhere. She just laughs. Maybe because I have better handwriting than my two younger sisters.

Which lead me to this childhood stereotype my aunts and uncles tried to impose on me.

"You have bad strokes. Be a doctor."

Well, I seldom listen to anyone. I always thought my hands are special (well, I discovered later on its real heavenly specialty). And to determine your future based on how your pen moves with your hand is ridiculous.

"Hey, you're daughter's pretty, she better be a prostitute when she grows up."

Instead, I chose a profession who boasts of its good handwriting and neat papers. Well, I still haven't received any comments from my professors from my blue books. But I admit, I am excited to see one. Then maybe, I'll consider taking medicine.

PS. I am just actually handwriting cases and laws which our professors required us to do. I am starting to feel frustrated by how my perception that my handwriting is not bad decreases as the hours pass by.

PPS.If its not mandatory, I would be doing something different with my hands now.

Limbo

"It's not about boredom anymore. You're looking for variety," she said.

It's been almost a year since I last saw D. The moment she left law school, I know my life would be doomed.

We were the perfect law school partners- we never studied, got drunk after class, texted inside the room with no worries whatsoever of bad recitation. We talked about movies, music and TV shows all night when we were supposed to be studying for our Consti exam. We were both eager to leave law school and join the advertising world (or in her part, return). She left, I stayed.

"Then what am I supposed to do? I am stuck", I said.

We both agreed we both were in limbo on our worlds. I was left with geeky classmates whose life is just law school, and those who talk about TV and movies delve into Gossip Girl and 90210. She was forced to work for a team whose creative juices are that of an annoying orange.

But the night was young and spending the night asking stupid question is a no-no. We had some nice chat at Mozu, then had some catching moment with other law school barkada in Barcino. We talked about Midnight in Paris and how we love Woody Allen. We were carefree, just like the old days.

I don't know the point of this entry. It was just nice being with people you get along with, especially now when the world's treating me like an outcast. It's like waking up from a bad dream from a bad dream.

Edging

It came out- well, almost.

It started with that Lady Gaga song. Rainy Thursday night, traffic along Quezon Avenue and endless happy songs on the FM radio. The three of us were not supposed to go out since we spent some fortune for good food last week and an out of the country trip for October was planned. But nevertheless, we met without any plan in mind.

So there we were, Nikki, Joy and I, stuck in our seats when the repetitive Gaga song played. We went crazy. While typhoon Kabayan was busy hitting Luzon, we were hitting wrong notes and misplaced lyrics.

Only after all the hype of singing out loud has faded and the rain has slowly waltzed its way out did we realize the common denominator that connected us that night. Within our inner circle, we were the only ones without romantic commitments.

But then who cares, we thought. There's Lady Gaga to sing with, Papa Jack to listen to late at night to release our inner jologs, and there's the time and money to spend without any restraint from someone not your parent.

"At least mine's a personal choice," I said.

The thing is, coming out is not as glorified for me like how other people treats it. I perceive the darkness inside the closet as incomparable to the darkness waiting for me outside. Most close people have the ideas and hints, but that's it. No confirmation.

We did not delve into our personal cynicism and angst anymore. It was a good night to be wasted. So Lady Gaga was back on track.

It was not until the clock reached 12, with our bellies full of Chinese food and tea, did we decide to fill up some blanks left that night. We just dropped off Joy in Katipunan. Nikki was to drop me somewhere in Quezon City.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the annoying callers asking for pesky love advice on the radio. Or maybe it was just the spur of the moment. But I actually thought of coming out.

Maybe because we started talking about serious stuffs. The idea of leaving the country. The idealism of actually making a difference in this world. Commitments dilemmas we always had. It was unclear. It was one of those few moment when you actually think of doing something you have always feared.

The red lights along Quezon Avenue were fading so fast. The jeepneys and buses were busy making noise in the middle of the highway.

Inside, there was a green light blinking, actually encouraging me to go and say those words I've always dreaded. It was too loud for me not to notice.

But before I knew it, I was almost thrown out of my seat. The car in front of us collided with a motorcycle while beating the red light.

Hello, are you still there?

I didn't even have the slightest idea if there's someone on the other end of the line. I just kept on talking and talking and talking till the urge to lick my lips and pause arose. Only when I decided to stop and listen to the silence did I begin to question if there is any presence on the other line at all.

Things have been better since my last post here, which is a distant six months past. Law school is still a pain in the ass and the unending social dilemmas of people around me still pester me. I also managed to squeeze a part time work courtesy of a college professor. But things have been working out on its own.

Too busy to actually study or work, I started to read my previous entries. The feeling was unexplained. Thinking of those entries made me grin.

It was then that I realize its not about having someone on the other line to talk to, it is the feel of comfort in expressing yourself free, the possibility of storing delusional memories and living a world without restraint that made me talk.

So there, I trace the unscathed memories and picked up the dial.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

Whether you'll be spending next Monday with someone special or not, try to read Danton Remoto's article that came out last week. He quotes Yeats and Neruda so please take time.

http://www.abs-cbnnews.com/insights/02/04/11/love-actually

My cinema OC-ness clarifies though that Il Postino is nominated in 1995 and not 1997:) Plus, he referred to Andy Garcia reading Neruda's classic poem. I did some search and found this:

Enjoy the mall sales everyone!:D