The big 2-4

While filling up a form, a friend of mine practically carved the number 20 into the paper in the space designated for her age. With a huge frown, she looked like she was on the verge of tearing up the offending (though totally innocent) piece of paper.

I don’t get it why nearly everybody I know gets so riled about entering their 20s. Perhaps this is because I haven’t reached the so-called big 2-oh yet.

I wonder how my friend would react if one day she would wake up and realize she just turned 30. Now that would be a rather scary sight (and probably, really hazardous to my health).

I could only just imagine what would happen to me once I turn 30. In one of my past columns, I talked about career paths and how I’d probably end up writing international bestsellers and running a magazine (if I keep my fingers crossed really, really tightly). Wouldn’t it be great if that actually did happen to me once I turn 30?

Now if that really did happen, I’m sure I’ll have that beach house and champagne in no time at all. Hey, whoever reads my columns will get free invites to all parties I’d be hosting at the imaginary beach house – the parties of course, shall strictly be poetry readings, literary and journalism discussions.

As appealing as that all may sound, I highly doubt that that beach house shall pop up by the time the clock strikes midnight, signaling my 30th birthday – right now, I shall continue to dream.

Speaking of celebrations, Sun.Star is celebrating its 24th year anniversary. With all the talk about what I’d be when I turn 30 (prophesizing, in other words), it makes me wonder what I’d be doing when I’m 24.

Turning 24 is not only a significant number to Sun.Star right now, but also to me, because this means that I would only have one year to go before I would have a quarter-life crisis (which is hilarious to think of) and I’d already be working at that time (hopefully).

I fell in love with print media once I stepped into college, first taking up Mass Communication before majoring in Media Communications. By the time I turn 24, I certainly do hope that I would work in the field of print media as a writer.

Journalism is exciting, something I have learned in many journalism classes from some of the best journalism teachers I have encountered.

Beating deadlines, getting sources, writing articles and typing away furiously is something I have fallen in love with and I would love to establish a seriously relationship with all of it once I turn 24 (or even sooner).

Now, I can’t wait to turn the big 2-4.

In school

There’s no turning back now. The signature says it all, the stamp confirms it and your faith has been sealed. The schedule doesn’t lie. You are now in and there are no escape routes or fire exits anywhere. You are trapped.

School is in.

Ah, I make it sound as if school were a torture chamber. There’s really nothing to worry about. As long as professors don’t wield axes and pull out huge iron maidens from behind the blackboard, school won’t be that painful.

Sure, we cringe at the sight of red marks on our essays and the sight of test papers puts us into psychological turmoil but we got to look at the bright side of if all. We are learning.

Doesn’t that just make your brain cells tingle? Can’t you feel your brain actually grow and the dust that has accumulated over the weeks no activities disappear as your cerebral cortex goes into full swing?

C’mon people! Put on your thinking hats and for once be happy that school is in full swing!

I’m sure somebody out there must be nodding his head in agreement, while others are just about ready to pelt me with rotten tomatoes.

But before you pelt me with rotten produce and learn my route pattern and find out where I usually eat dinner, let me show you some ways of how to get you to school on time, make your stay there a bit more bearable (and less like medieval torture) and hopefully make you less allergic to the word ‘school’ (and then you can shower me with your rotten vegetables).

Stop coming into class late. There is nothing more than annoying that hearing (and watching) you come in late into class, it not only disturbs the class and the teacher but obviously, you have also just missed 30 minutes of valuable class time.

If you are a consistent late comer, try to make an effort to actually come on time for once. Set your alarm clock and wake up when it rings, owning an alarm clock and hitting the snooze button at the first ring and going back to sleep defeats the purpose of owning one (especially if you hit the snooze button three more times).

Have something to look forward to. I’m sure something in school motivates you. If it’s not your extremely cute crush in your algebra class, then it must one of the meals in the canteen. Look at it this way, even if you flunked your history test, you might as well just pig out in the canteen and eat your sorrows away (though, this is not advisable).

Find a subject you actually like. I’m sure out of all the subjects you are taking this semester; something has got to appeal to you. That’s motivation enough to get your behind into school and hopefully not late for your classes.

And lastly, be happy you are in school, you are lucky to be in school.

Go on, bring on the tomatoes!

Stalked

If stalking were legal and not psychologically disturbing, I’d happily stalk Johnny Depp. Not to mention, if I had enough money to spend on plane tickets, bus and taxi fare, food and camouflage clothes, I’d easily pitch a tent in front of his house and gawk at his royal Deppness.

But in reality, I live on the other side of the globe, thousands of miles away from this wonderful eye candy. Plus, I do not have the time and more importantly, the money, to fly over to America (or wherever Depp is) and follow him around – if I did, I’d just prove one thing: I have no life (and I need a psychologist).

It amazes to what extent stalkers will go just to get a piece of their object of obsession. It just seems so wrong (not to mention psychologically disturbing) when stalkers begin to steal personal items of their so called victims.

Seriously, why on earth do you steal used chewing gum, underwear, or a pregnancy test?! Cloning quickly comes to mind, but that procedure is just too expensive and cloning human beings is just a big no-no.

What ever happened to the normal lock of hair, hairbrush or t-shirt stealing? I’m sure building creepy shrines in your clothes cabinet dedicated to your stars is still popular somewhere on the globe.

Stalkers need a life – and a shrink. I do not see the point of tailing somebody who is richer than you, prettier than you, more popular than you and not to mention, won’t even give you a chance in the dating pool. And let’s not forget that these are filthy rich people, they can send the police after you and have your ass. I mean, doesn’t that hurt your self-esteem? That or you are just a total masochist.

I’m no stalker material. Given the chance to stalk (is that even possible?) I obviously lack the resources and I do not have the patience to follow Johnny Depp around and watch what he is eating. And besides, I am not yet that screwed up in the head anyway.

Stalkers should give it a rest. Come to think of it, that was so last century. Ogling people you’ll never meet, talk to or socialize with is rather pathetic. Use your stalking skills for something more productive, like working for the FBI or something. I’m sure your lurking skills will be useful for something like that.

Get a hobby. Play American football, I think you can lurk around and then pounce your opponent at the most unexpected time. For Pete’s sake, do that than stalking some poor person and getting on their nerves.

And one more thing that every stalker (or that person who follows you around and does not call himself a stalker but just a ‘friend’) should know and get into their psychologically damaged heads: get a life.

Halloween

Why parents dress up their children as clowns is beyond me. There is nothing cute about a sickly pale human being, with an oversized red nose and smudgy red lips. Above all else, they just looks really scary. (Let’s not even talk about ghouls and vampires, since, there is definitely nothing cute about monsters, no matter how young they are and how much they drool).

I admit, I am afraid of clowns. They do not amuse me, there is nothing funny about their colorful clothes, red noses and oversized shoes. And children in clown suits should be banned from the streets. Mini-clowns are just as scary as adult clowns and not to mention, twice as annoying.

With Halloween just around the corner, I expect to see a lot more tiny Spidermans, Batmans, ghouls, witches, princesses and dare I say, clowns on every street corner and mall around the city. This really doesn’t help my fear of clowns at all, as I am sure to bump into some baby clown somewhere. My bad luck has promised me so.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Halloween. The talk of hauntings, witches, ghouls and goblins are extremely exciting and not to mention, hair-raising. The feel of goose bumps on your skin and the chill that runs down your spine when you and your friends share ghost stories in the dead of the night just add to the fun factor.

Pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns have always been a must for every Halloween celebration. As a young kid, I remember eating pumpkin pie while being dressed up as a princess.

Yes, as a kid, I did the whole dress-up thing. I mean, who doesn’t? I’m sure, at some point in your life, your parents smother you with costumes and paint your face. I was a princess, a magician, and (I’m having difficulties sharing this) a bunny rabbit.

Yes, with all the candy, pumpkin, and costumes, Halloween is indeed fun.

Though as much as I love the pumpkins, the jack-o-lanterns, the whole scary atmosphere and the ghost stories, I firmly draw the line on horror movies and, well, clowns. I have yet to see a full length horror movie. And I have no plans of doing so, in fear of cardiac arrest or falling into a permanent coma.

I do not see the point of scaring yourself on purpose. I’d rather scare somebody else than purposely subject myself to two hours of pure terror and possible heart failure.

My real reason for never watching a horror movie? I’d rather not like to know what goes ‘bump’ in the night nor would I like to know what hides beneath my bed (do not, by any means, say clowns!).

Yes, I know, I am a chicken. Pass me the chicken suit – that’s my costume this year. Happy Halloween everybody!

Break

After harrowing final examinations, piles of projects and assignments and an extremely good thesis proposal turnout, I can finally rest in peace.

Thank God for the tiny wonder of semester breaks. I wonder what we would do without this tiny blessing of no school, no teachers, no homework, and no tests.

I have promised myself that I’d go into hibernation. For the next three weeks, I shall officially become a bum and do relatively nothing – well, aside from writing this column and continuing with our thesis research (which therefore, defeats the whole ‘relatively nothing’ phrase).

Becoming a sem break bum is a scary thought however. There really is nothing wrong with bumming around, but becoming unproductive and turning into the proverbial couch potato is something that is not on my top ten list of ‘things to do’ during sem break. And as much as I love potatoes, turning into a vegetable is something that does not sound appealing one bit.

With that in mind, I have promised myself that while doing ‘relatively nothing’, I shall still be as productive as I was while being in school – minus the homework, teachers, tests and projects (however, I can not subtract our thesis, since research just never ends).

In fear of having my brain turn into mush, I’ll be sure to read the books I have borrowed from my friends. Never mind the fact that these books I have with me are school related (thesis related even). While on break, I might as well brush up on my Communication theories and continue to drool over McLuhan and his ‘medium is the message’ gig.

To avoid information overload and possible aneurisms, I shall also sinfully indulge myself with movies. Since going to the cinema is just too expensive for me (I am perpetually broke), it’s a good thing I’ve borrowed some great CDs from friends. As I separate myself from reality (and create my own), I will indulge in Kubrick and Kurosawa and wonder if their genes would somehow magically pass on to me.

I would love to travel for once this sem break. But unless somebody actually plans the trip, tells me where I could stay and how much it all costs, I shall continue dreaming of beaches, sand and the open air. For now, I will content myself with the province air and silently hope that somebody hears my pleas of traveling.

Ah, it’s good to know that I have somewhat planned out my break with doing ‘relatively nothing’, at least now I know I wont be poking my eye with a fork out of complete boredom.

The bag battle

These days, Elementary and Prep students’ bags are getting bigger and bigger. I nearly tripped over a boulder-sized bag while struggling to get through the sea of Elementary students. My foot throbbed in pain as I hobbled down the hallway.

The number of bags-on-wheels in our school is increasing dramatically. It’s hard to navigate through the sea of square bags without hitting your shin against one of their hard corners or having your feet run over by these bulldozer-esque bags. I have lost count of how many times I nearly tripped over these bags (I got run over once, a kid ran down the hallway, his bag hitting me right in the kneecaps and causing me to fall flat on my face).

These bags are health hazards, since these things weigh a ton. I wonder what are inside these bags (which are mostly humongous square contraptions on wheels); surely, there can’t be a dead body inside it? (A dead pet maybe?)

I love backpacks, they make me feel like a student and they are undeniably cool (no matter how much others say that ‘It’s so High School’). I like to know that all my precious books and possessions are safely strapped to my back and not in some big box on wheels, which might loose its balance and topple over.

Speaking from experience, having used one of these bags-on-wheels (a.k.a. ‘The Stroller’), backpacks are way better than strollers. There’s no hassle in owning a backpack, you just pull a strap over your shoulder and you’d be on your merry way.

Strollers on the other hand, are impossible to control, pull up flights of stairs, maneuvering through a crowded hallway without successfully running over some feet and pulling it through a rocky path. Owning a stroller is a workout in itself.

I understand that kids these days get more books than they can carry on their backs and their notebooks now probably come in bulk, so parents resort to purchasing strollers, thinking it’s the easiest way to spare their child of carrying around so many books and notebooks. Yet, they don’t know how hard it really is to pull a heavy box up a narrow flight of stairs until they are in their 8-year-old’s shoes.

Kids aren’t kids anymore. Their bags are constant reminders of the huge workload they have to lug around virtually everywhere they go. Gone where the days were kids would be running down the street, backpack swinging wildly on their backs, dirty from head to foot, joining street games and enjoying the prime of their young lives.

I’d give anything to have my old backpack back. To be wearing it while playing street football, during scavenger hunts and a good round of ‘make believe’.

The way I see it, aside from causing bodily harm and housing books, the only thing that these huge bags are good for, is the fact that they become excellent seats for the kids while waiting for somebody to pick them up. Talk about functionality.

Homecoming

Going home is always like entering the twilight zone. New buildings either popup or disappear, trees are either planted or cut down, banners, fliers, posters are practically everywhere.

A nauseating wave of nostalgia always hits me after a one hour ride from the city – that or I am just really carsick (and am about to barf).

Just to make it clear, I am not homesick. I lived somewhere on the ass of Cebu; I just relocated into the city. Homesick is the last thing I am right now, since after all, I still am on the same island (and last I checked, the ass that I lived on, did not move).

Actually, going home bothers me. Not that I am reluctant of going home, because I am not. I enjoy going home to my family (really, who would pass up a free meal with your family? Unlimited computer access? A comfy bed? Your family, for that matter? And no bathroom fights? If you pass that all up, something’s seriously wrong with you). Actually, it’s the old memories that bother me.

Because, nothing is worse than remembering where you slipped and made a fool of yourself - in public might I add.

Should I mention how people have changed? Not that I like talking about people, but the teens do have changed. Going home is like entering a world of confused teenagers, wearing clothes 5 sizes too big for them, humongous socks and oddly colored handkerchiefs. Not to mention that their vocabulary is limited to ‘yo’ and ‘whatdup?’ – with the occasional addition of ‘man’ (if the brain permits).

Perhaps, I was wrong. The place I lived in has evolved and turned into some kind of ghetto.

Talk about suffering of identity crisis.

During my time, we played Chinese garter, patentero, tubig-tubig and other Filipino games. Now, these ghetto kiddies spend half their life glued to the computer screen playing 3D games that turn your mind into mush and let’s not forget, waste their tparents’ hard earned money.

I went to my old High School a week ago and suddenly wished to drop everything and go back to being an oblivious high school student. Not that I want to relive all the teenage drama that nearly every High School student went through – that is something I can certainly live without and.

It’s amazing how much has changed over the span of nearly three years. The kids that once called me ‘ate’ have suffered growth spurts and are now as tall as trees, plus, they’ve reached puberty (bring on the drama!).

One good thing of going home, aside from the free stuff you get from your parents, is that you come to a revealing realization. Something that slowly sinks in after somebody calls you one too many times ‘ate’ and nostalgia hits you once too often. You are getting old (that, or you think like an old person. I know I am).