THE NUN

               Ok, somebody’s been stealing my favorite seat in my favorite class and I cannot shout at the culprit’s face like I usually do on similar cases becaaaauuuuuuse, she’s a NUN for Christ’s sake, swallowed in her sacred white costume!!!!!! And I’ve told her once kindly, humbly, to get off my chair coz it’s mine ever since the first meeting but she kept on hurling her fat, holy ass back on MY chair everytime she comes to class earlier than I do. And the odds are like, 1 out of 10 that I’ll beat her ahead of time. In fact, I hardly even make it to class on time! I don’t think it’s enough to motivate my tardy ass.

                   Why oh why does she have to be a nun?! She ought to be in the convent, not in my seat!!!!!!!!! (dba dba)You see, I have the greatest view from that spot: our HOT prrrrrofessorrrr (teehee!) who often rests his hand on my armchair *shudder* and winks at me whenever he could *aaawwww*.

Yun lang.

haha!

Love, it taught me to hate: POETRY.

FUCK FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Monday’s always a bitch. Of course I was late, 30 minutes of lumbering tardiness to be exact, what else is new. But the thought of a freshmen-block section somehow brought me a feeling of deliverance. Why? Because they’re much easier to bully and push around (nyahaha!). I was wearing this thick bundle of voodoo bracelets with my pekpek mini skirt and sporty signatured top, somewhat to have a bully aura. Ha-ha! Nah, I was too annoyed with the early schedule to mind my stupid classmates and stinking reputation.

 As I entered the classroom, all heads turned on me. The attention was prophetic. My huge lola shades stayed glued above my nose with smugness written all over me. I looked like an action star. A pestered one. The male professor greeted me a loud and cheerful, "good morning, late comer" despite my conceit. I said HI, blankly. Again, the attention was prophetic. And then I remembered, oh yeah, freshmen, geez.

I sat at the center of the aisle because it was the only seat not occupied with a freshman butt. The hinges of the chair were perhaps loosened and being the clumsiest earthling on this side of the planet, there was a loud thud as I plopped down gauchely. Their tiny heads synchronized toward my direction. So I stood up again and gave the rickety chair a quick fix, more of a quick shake. Another piercing thump. I gave up on it after realizing that the armchair was a hopeless case but instantly forgot about its damage in a millisecond so I dumped my huge puckered ass on the seat rascally and then bang, I almost fell backward. And was I ever glad I did not remove my sunglasses! I chuckled and apologized under my breath but obviously, my professor did not find my comedic act entertaining. With a frown and furrowed eyebrows, he asked for my last name like a thunderous demand. I composed myself and heaved a clear and audible, "TANJI, sir." As if a sacred mantra of some sort, my last name seemed to have a massive, phenomenal impact on my stupid freshmen classmates causing a circulating chorused buzz. "Sabi na!", "Sya yung Girl ni sir Ahmad!",  "Ahh sya si Djai!",  "Sya pala, hindi maganda…" (Pakshet ka! Whoever you are. hehe)

Sheesh.

Now I know, a bunch of St. Agnes high school graduates/bitches some of them were and half are either my fans or my detractors. Shocks, I could never escape them. But the teacher with a mega phone implant smiled at my direction and gave me a sort of nod of approval. Approval for what? That, I don’t know but the sound of my last name seemed like a good omen for him. I hope. Maybe he’s a fan of my articles, editorials and poetries (naks. dream on!haha).

The group of Agnesians furtively kept their wide, chismosa eyes glued at me, somehow undressing with amused conceit and prying facial expressions. I played along, I stared back, not dropping even a single blink that it almost made my eyes itchy. It’s fun to be in the hot seat amid a horde of dribbling spectators but it sucks not knowing what kind of thoughts they’re hitting at you.

You see Ahmad is a sought-after piece of rockstar ass in St. Agnes where he works as a Guidance Counselor/ Psychometrician and part-time pacute. Its a private school mostly for future cheerleaders and jocks. Any Legazpenio will agree. So need I say more? Of course being the significant other of their HOT Sir Ahmad, I was given the privilege to be loathed at (sarcastic undertone). If only they have the power to ban me from entering their posh gate, they could have done so but boo-hoo, the school directress is my ninang. Nyahaha!

Even grade 5 midgets leak a good deal of saliva in Ahmad’s account and giggles as if they are being pricked with hundreds of needles on their private organs, just by the mere sight of their ever gorgeous guidance counselor whos also a renowned band guy after school hours. Even the irony of his jobs they find it sweet. So just imagine how it made them feel to actually find the girl of their obsessive object of desire practically stumbling her way in the classroom and sharing the same armchairs with them. Oh, the glory of mocking her! I mean, me. They would have all the time looking at my blemishes, looking up close at my pimples or see what kind of tacky outfits I might be wearing. All my faults and flaws they’ll find amusing and would make me less deserving to be their crush’s Yoko Onno. A classic female disease. I used to have the very same infliction when I was in grade 5 and loved to mock, alongside with the rest of my female batch mates, the girl friend of our cutie student teacher. 10 years after, I was playing the role of the well-criticized girl friend. Tough luck, huh?

Just then, at the middle of their stares and whispers, a red-clad figure who’s more like a lost prostitute in school smacked with a red glossy lipstick which is visible even at 10 mile-radius entered the class. She stole the attention. I was neither annoyed nor relieved; I just kept gaping at her even if I knew it was rude. My God, another fashion victim akin to that blonde-streaked, Dollar spokening bimbo in my Eco class! Geez, what happened to you dear Ateneans?! Its much better to come in school in your pajamas or pam-bahay get up than in your pang-side line outfit (if you know what I mean) just to feel "in." At least my mini skirts are inborn and that makes me an exception (teehee).

The new girl was a walking abstract. Ok, I have a knack for abstract paintings so you must think I ought to appreciate her style more but hey, she looked LETHAL. In caps lock. Her navel was showing which is a major no-no in first class meeting. Fuck first impressions but hey, that’s philosophy and this is life. Her dark maong pants was morbidly torn to achieve a rugged look. Blech! And again, she was sporting the most pretentious style of shoe ever whom lowlife bitches usually exploit, the spice girl boots. Yaaaaaaak! And da lipstick?! It was a screaming fuchsia!!!

But that is not the worst part of my story yet…

My sick-o Theo prof transferred the late comers, there were three of us, to another fuckin section because of some insignificant reason. It was this one cute guy, me and the lost prostitute. Shit, Mondays always a bitch. As we made our exit toward the door, all eyes fixed on our asses. Their thoughts were almost audible.

We were assigned to thread the next building. After a full bucket of sweat, we knocked to another freshmen section and the professor with perfectionist written all over her, let us in. Accountancy block! Ugh! Major brainiacs!! Grade-A grade conscious horde. And worse, I had to sit next to the fashion victim who smelled like a cheap perfume kept on those little roll-on bottles with names associated to flowers like, Daisy, Jasmine and all that ka-cheapan. She flashed me a huge smile. Her mamantika lipstick smeared at the sides of her lips. Eeoow. I smiled back.

But as the prof droned on, I learned that we shared a common good: we think the subject sucks. Suckity-suckity-suck! And guess what? Shes slang! hahaha! God, am I a slang magnet? Hers sounds different though, its more of naipit type that goes like this: "Aneng kers me?" (anong course mo); "Tege Nege ke?" (taga-Naga ka?); and "kumuste neyt leyf diteh?" (kumusta night life dito?). I mustered all my might to stop myself from smirking to save my butt from trouble. So with my pursed lips, all I could manage was a shake of my head for a NO and nod for a YES. Although at the middle of her blabbering and my nods, her stories became interesting and she seemed genuinely funny. The wala-akong-pakialam-basta-masaya-kahit-mukha-
akong-pokpok type. And she was looking straight into my eyes as she whirred on which is a good thing for a conversationalist to do and I appreciated.

Just before the period ends, I asked her what place she came from. Quezen Citeh. Oh. And then her turn to pry on, "writer ka?" I said yes and asked how she came up with that question. She said, "you always hold your ballpoint eh as if youre always ready to write. And mukha kang matalino eh, pero weird…"

Wow, ako pa ngayon ang weird. Ha-ha! I dont know if Ill take that as a compliment or not. Weird is a good adjective for me but an understatement in my case.

She’s beautiful in her own pok-pok world. And I realized, so am I… in my imaginary world of vintage and abstract.

Fuck first impressions.

Waiting… Watching… Dreaming…

I do my thing and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations. And you are not here to live up to mine. You are you… And I am I… And if by any chance we find each other again, then it’s beautiful.

I’d rather be hated for who I am than be loved for who I am not…

kaleidoscope eyes: Djai in the sky with the Diamonds

Once upon a festival of the moons, they called me SKYLARK. I am the Prozac schoolgirl gone wrong in an anticlimactic exhibit equipped with a jaded grin akin to a stoned cow, who’d rather stay in the sky with the diamonds. A flower child in her own right with a kaleidoscope eyes and head in the clouds. She dreams to be in the land caught in the pause between day and night. Where the city is drenched in fog, as if the city itself is dreaming and as if the sky of an endless sea of azure blue or pastel gray seem nearer than usual and you can just catch the gassy pink clouds with your sunburned fingers. Someday, this Cleopatra sitting on an imperial litter dreams to build an abode in the highest realm of the ethereal space fitted for a deity where the sand is cold, the sky simmers in colors, days dazzle like a prism, the moon is braver with its color and light taking on, and the breeze is just right for goose bumps effect.

Well, so much for dreaming…

The art I make is Psychedelic. I AM PSYCHEDELIC… only with a juvenile, retro stroke. The blinking retinal blackness with its mesmerizing hue and vibrant abstract you see when you close your eyes is PSYCHEDELIA. Something surreal. Like, a flower power day in a vintage dream. A twilight. A dark background dabbed with multihued bubbles,spirals and stars; and unending curves attuned with ashen waves. Sounds prozac but it’s green. Luv it.

Poetry,art and writing tame me. They make the wolverine inside me purr. Art is such a great thing to lose your shit in and a good excuse for my apathetic, radical appeal. It consigns me to oblivion. Pople can get the better of me during my "dreamer" state for I AM a sucker for whining romance and superficial fantasies that makes me subject to rapid ups and downs, like any other skylarkers…So whatever is eating away at me,I write about. Once in a while I get lost in a great book which is quite therapeutic in my case coz it gets to put me in a stupor….a daydream…a trance of some sort