stolen sweethearts

The Rejected Field Trip Article

There’s Sand in My Pants

(How to Survive the Wheels of the Bus Going Round and Round)

I never expected I’d be asked to make a travel article, I don’t  think that’s in my area of expertise considering that I can’t survive the turning of bus wheels. Or the turning of any vehicle’s wheels, for that matter. But I might as well try. Hi, this is The-Girl-Who-Almost-Threw-Up-But-Didn’t and we all just went to Ilocos together!

As I’m sure you’re aware of, *insert school name here* took time off the busy schedule to play – er, I mean to go out and seek knowledge – during the days of *insert two day dates here*. And where better to learn about culture than the Home of the “Hey, isn’t this where they shot that scene from ____?” Sights: Ilocos Norte and Ilocos Sur. To those who were not part of this EXCEEDINGLY BRILLIANT AND MUST-NOT-BE-MISSED 48-hour adventure, go be a masochist and read on; it’s going to hurt.

Experience #6: Each and every time we go off to some foreign land, there is a constant debate raging within each and every one of us: to eat or not to eat. We are plagued by questions such as “Do I really want to take a bite out of that empanada-disguised egg ball?” or “Why are these sausages tied to each other? Was this really cooked? Is that string edible?” Or maybe you’re one of those rare types who have the stomach of a mighty Spartan warrior and have no trouble dining in hell. Of course, the people you share a bathroom with, also hope they can stomach the hell you’ll be unleashing afterwards. They have orange empanadas; we have browns. They have really weird tasting vinegar; we have our trusted Datu Puti. We say po-tay-toe; they say po-tah-tah. There’s really not much difference unless you’re digestive tract is as sensitive as Sheldon Cooper’s wherein even the smallest nibble of new food sends your systems to go haywire.  I was on the safe side of things and went to the vintage McDonald’s in Vigan.

Experience #5: If, by any chance, you were as unfortunate as I was during the stroll around the abode of the Marcos’ and you had to listen to a sceptical, schizophrenic water buffalo, you were probably bombarded by his exclamations of wonder like “Hey, is that real?”, “He did what? REALLY?!”, and “Oh! Is *that* real?!” And you’d think he’d respect the peace inside Marcos’ burial place, but NO, he gets even more annoying. If you had a conversation similar to the one that follows, there’s nothing else to do but bang your head against the wall.

Hulk (because he’s a buffalo and the guy who played Hulk in The Avengers was Mark Ruffalo, get it? GET IT?): Oh, is that Marcos? Really?

You: Yes, really.

Un-Green Hulk: Is that really real?

You: Yes, it is.

Brown Hulk: REALLY? That’s real?

You: Oh, for the love of – YES, it’s real.

Non-muscular Brown Hulk: I’ll bet you it’s not real.

You: THE TOUR GUIDE ALREADY SAID IT’S BURIED UNDER SEVEN LAYERS OF WAX.

Hulk: Are you sure it’s real?

You: Oh, deities that art thou in heaven. Do YOU want to be BURIED UNDER WAX, YOU LITTLE –

Hulk: *points at spears* Cool! Are those real?

You: Let the head-banging commence.

That aside, the Marcos residence was a sight to behold. I don’t get what was so special about Imelda’s filipinanas, though; sure, they were better than my prom dress and stuff, but they looked kinda’ sorta’… plain. Appreciation for Marcos was definitely built up though. Another sight to behold was the Malacanang of the North and it’s man-made lake. Unlike Imelda’s dresses, the Malacanang of the North wasn’t too shabby. Also unlike Imelda’s dresses, the structure was beautifully constructed. Teenagers don’t necessarily care much for museums and old stuff, but those two places really hit a mark.

Experience #4: How do you sleep when there are drunken male strangers who have a strength that exceeds your fragile, feminine body outside your very door? Easy, you don’t. After the initial shock and fear felt by most – oh, please don’t tell me I’m the only paranoid parrot around here – of the female population who were dropped off at the ALLAD resort, the panic subsides after a period of time. That and the realization that the men have left by 11 o’ clock really helps soothe the nerves. But for those of us who were still paranoid to sleep in a resort’s bed sheets – for reasons I can not say in hopes of keeping this PG-13 – thank heavens the television set was there to keep our minds at ease. We watched, uh, we didn’t really watch a specific show, yeah? We just kept channel surfing until we found something… and no, we didn’t find anything. No, sir-ree. I can’t say much about how the freshmen and sophomore spent the night, I wasn’t there. Go ask someone who was.

Experience #3: Pretend I’m Dora. That was fun last time! What was YOUR favourite part? [Awkward silence ensues] That was my favourite part too!

No, seriously, the Bangui Windmills would win my vote any time. No, I don’t care for the windmills. The dumb windmills were the inspiration for our on-field trip assignment. No, no, there is always a more romantic idea than that. I liked the…body of water found there. That was the sea, right? I’m no daughter of Poseidon – for reasons too embarrassing to be shared – but the blue hue of the waters, the soft lull of the waves, the slightly retarded laughter of my peers as they run towards the edge of the shore then run away from it as the wave crashes in; I liked that stuff. And I know you did too. And we were all just dying to jump into the water, as if we were Hylas and water nymphs suddenly got a huge crush on us and were baiting us near the water so that they can grab hold of us and be able to kiss us. As deathly as it may be, we wanted to be sucked in.

Experience #2: There’s sand in my shoes. And in my shirt. And in my pants. And in my hair. And, oh merciful gods, in my eyes. And, as though the sand was a virus, YOU HAVE THEM TOO! Yes, ladies and gentleman, the time has come. WHO ELSE WAS SINGING “PEDRO PENDUKO NA NAMAN” IN THEIR HEAD WHILE DANCING LIKE JANO GIBBS WHEN THEY WERE IN THE SAND DUNES? No one? Really? Gosh, you guys suck. Fine, who was thinking of that scene from that Filipino love story movie thing? Good for you. Of course, I don’t think anyone was thinking straight while riding those badas – uh, awesome-looking – 4x4s. Like life, the 4x4 adventure had its ups, its downs, its slipperies, and its omgimgoingtodie moments. Here is where we experience just what it’s like to be in possible danger, the fact that the 4x4 tends to make this nerve-wracking noises when making a turn helps that cause! Here is where we grab onto the railing, grab onto each other, grab on to other people’s hair, and grab on to anything for dear life. Here is where we shout, loudly, at the top of our lungs, obscenities we have never dared utter before. Here is where we get all those new bruises that we’ve never seen before. Here is where our soul dies little by little until there is nothing left and we have been reduced to crippling vegetables. On the Brightside, there is a gorgeous view of the sea near all this mayhem and that is our only consolation.

Experience #1: Not in a mansion nor in a house, but in the bus may we find our salvation! In the painfully long 6-hour ride to and fro Ilocos and back to Nueva Ecija, and the moments in between when we were cruising through the (almost) whole of Ilocos, my peers have managed to start a Tap Tap competition, hold a concert while majority of the bus residents were sleeping, WAKE ME UP to ask what Heath Ledger sung in 10 Things I Hate About You (to which, I groggily replied “At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m Alive…” and so forth then proceeded to go back to my drug-induced slumber), persuade Sir Marlon V. Nolong to  sing, hold a competition for Best Pick-Up Line, play a game called Guess the Song, WAKE ME UP AGAIN by pointing a flash light to my eyes, twice (if you’re curious, the culprit received a well-deserved punch in the back), eat everything in sight, whine about the lack of gravy, whine about how lost we got, whine about pretty much everything, sleep, make non-pick up line jokes, tease each other of how bad they were at telling jokes, tease each other about how often they sleep, tease each other about everything, persuade a certain Junior boy to write them a fan sign from the bus next to ours, and finally, feel dramatic about how this was the last one.

I’m sorry if I seem self-absorbed, darling reader, but you have your memories and I have mine. I do hope you like yours as much as I like mine. If you’d permit me to be sentimental, then yes, yes I did enjoy the field trip. I didn’t enjoy it for the sights, no, we could’ve gone and got ourselves lost in nowhere and I’d be good. If the field trip were a book, I’d rate it a mere three stars for lack of action and lack of wisdom in the characters. But it’s not. And while books have thought me everything I know, it has not thought me companionship. No, that’s a lesson learned in the real world. And to my dear companions, nothing can take the pleasure of sharing this memory with you from me. Not sword, nor blood, nor tears, nor Alzheimer’s. And while I may not believe in an eternity, an infinity, a forever in the numbered days, I will allow myself to believe in “as long as we can.” And I know that’s not the most romantic idea out there, but it’s what I can promise. This memory, these people, this familiar warm and fuzzy sensation of contentment… I’ll make fun of you, I’ll tease you, I’ll argue with you, I’ll laugh with and at you, I’ll trust you with my life, I’ll love you.

 For as long as I can.

And for as long as you’ll let me.

askthedeatharcana:

WH— *He chokes a bit before taking a moment to compose himself.*

I-I’m sure they’re just rumours! That’s all they’ve got to be. I hang out with them all the time and if something was going on between them, I would know!

After all, he’s my best friend. And she’s…

He wouldn’t…

Random moments and why I’m on a hiatus…during summer vacation.

My plans are ruined. I was going to type a really long post here but it seems we’re going somewhere in a few so… I will be away from Tumblr from now until May 9 because of my reviews for college admissions. SCREW THE POLICY! 

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, A review.

I never wish to stay up late and wake up at 5 in the morning to finish reading a book again, the consequences are great, but if it’s for a book like The Fault in Our Stars, I can bear with the pain with a little help from an Advil. 

When I read the Goodread’s summary of what the book is about, I had already expected a lot of things. I expected to cry, already having a theory at how the ending will turn out (I was..kind of right, I just got the character wrong). I expected to smile idiotically to myself because I could already feel a love story coming up. I expected to laugh, somehow knowing that a book that is centered around “a match made in cancer kid support group” couldn’t possibly be filled to the brim with sad moments, hey, everybody deserves a good day sometime. And last but not least, I expected to look up the meanings of words (don’t laugh or you’ll be disturbing my soliloquy) 

I was not disappointed by 6 o’ clock this morning when I actually, finally, finished the book. But I did not know the intensity of these feelings once I finished the book. I was expecting that I’d still be crying right about now but I can’t. I’m filled with so much warm fuzziness (and I can’t believe I used that phrase) inside that I can’t do anything but smile to myself. 

Though the ending of The Fault in Our Stars was supposed to be a sad one, I can not bring a tear to well up in my eyes. Somehow…don’t get me wrong, I’m not religious or anything, but somehow I just felt that everything happened because they were supposed to happen. We deserve one great love and regardless of what the movies say, there is a chance that we get disappointed in the long run if that great love actually lasts (example, Van Houten and how his true form is sadder than what Hazel has conjured up). Remember how “People get used to beauty”? I think the ending was, in a way, portraying that, while we are extremely saddened by it, the greatest beauty is one that is lost - one that we can never hold no matter how we wish, one that lives only in our memory. 

The Fault in Our Stars was a beautiful novel. Masterfully spun and deeply-touching. It made me happy in a way the simplest acts of kindness by a stranger can. 

Of course, I may be spouting nonsense. I am only 15 years of age. Pardon me, please.

A Letter.

Disclaimer: Purely fictitious. The muse/topic of this letter does not, in fact, exist. No amount of pheromone perfume will get me to write something like this for a real person. Purely fiction, purely practice writing. I need to stress this once more for the thick-headed: NO, I AM NOT LOVEDRUNK.

You,

Quite frankly, I don’t know why in the world I’m even spouting these ever-so sincere words from the heart that must sound like absolute gibberish to you. Just give me a second, okay? You are not leaving, neither am I; I hold no special place, in fact, probably no place at all in your heart or in your life. These words are but honest nothings that you can easily brush off and forget – if only I could do the same.

I have never been sure of my feelings up ‘till now. I actually think it was rather shallow, how I came to realize that I harbour such admiration for you. It was only when other girls kept shouting such nonsense to catch your attention that you unconsciously caught mine, and may I just say; my eyes have long lingered over no one else but you. Perhaps, now that I think about it, everything was caused by a series of overheard rumours and flirty females. I never would have taken you for anything more than a childish face had I not overheard you actually liked someone. You never would have piqued at my interest over anything but trivial matters had it not been for your sudden increase of fangirls. The matters that started this was shallow, but please believe me when I say that everything that will come after this is whole-hearted and sincere, I beg you.

You are a boy with messy enough hair, although a bit lacking in the maturity department, you are still something of a school heartthrob for one reason or another. You are a fan of computer games and other things that involve a laptop which you fondly call as a ‘gift from the gods.’ You are but a brat with an innocent face, far different from the guys I usually fall for – well, thank you, life, for making my list of things I look for in a person completely and utterly useless. You are an annoyance. And me? Well, I’m the girl who fondly looks at you through a huge amount of bangs just to see that heart-melting smile of yours and to check if you, from time to time, grace me with your heart-wrenching gaze.

Do you know that awkward moment when you’re chest is burning like all hell but all you can do is bury your face into your pillow and smile like an idiot? Do you know that anxiety-fuelled feeling when your heart does a tiny backflip and the butterflies in your stomach won’t obey your cries for them to calm down? Do you know the guilt of feeling like a complete stalker to a person who can actually be called a complete stranger? Heck, do you know the feeling of going goo-goo-gaa-gaa over a complete stranger?

Alright, I’ll stop. I’m sorry I’m getting a bit complicated, okay? It’s just that…well… I love you, there I’ve said it. I love you and I absolutely have no idea why it’s like that, don’t worry, I’m a hundred percent sure of it though. I would’ve told you sooner, but honestly, what difference will it make? We aren’t close, I wish we were but we are not. You never seem to be interested in anything that’s not seen on your laptop’s monitor. And I, troubled soul that I am, am too shy and prided to ‘make a move’, if you will. It’s a lady’s natural conduct not to do so, or at least TRY to be hard-to-get. Either trust that I am an avid believer of ‘rules are rules’ or that I just wimp out; as I’ve said, it makes no difference.

After today, I will forget you. I promise I will. Why? Because I see no desperate desire on your part to even befriend me, let alone try and reciprocate my feelings. I’m fine with it like this, I never was expecting anything from the beginning anyway. Do you want to hear a story? At the moment that my heart first thumped then thrashed wildly inside my chest - just aching to be set free - whenever I looked at you, I heard no bells or an organ playing Here Comes the Bride; if we’re being completely honest, the only things I heard were my heart’s heavy beating and the sentence, “Oh dear God, I’m screwed,” running over and over in my head. It makes one think, doesn’t it? The certainty and uncertainty of everything.

I like you but after today, you probably won’t even remember it or me, for that matter. I really honest-to-goodness like you.

Leaves, Charcoal, and Dingdong Dantes.

Each and every day children are born into the world; that is a fact universally known. What some of us are probably still ignorant to though, is how these children turn up years after having been pulled – or raised, if you prefer thinking that a caesarean birth is more common than a natural one – out from their mother’s wombs and slapped on their buzzoms until they scream their tiny little lungs out as a morbid way of saying “Hello, world!”

I prefer to think that most are as lucky as us, mediocre people with mediocre parents who earn mediocre salaries and live mediocre lives. Some, blessed as they are, are born into ridiculously wealthy families and are privileged with the chance to show off mommy and daddy’s money by being on equally ridiculous shows like Teen Cribs. Funny how those tiny pieces of paper that seem to make the world go goo-goo-gaa-gaa are in the hands of those who already have plenty of it. What they don’t show you on Teen Cribs – and every shallow show on MTV- are the homes of those less fortunate than the celebrities. No, not us, mind you, there’s absolutely nothing interesting about us. I’m referring to those who are actually less fortunate. Please direct your attention to a scene presented by a documentary entitled Report Card by GMA.

A boy – his name is unimportant, not that I would remember it even if it was - wakes up in the morning, puts on school clothes and walks out of his house. He lives on the mountains, and his school is only a few steps away from his home. His class has about 7 or 10 students in it and the class next to them – keep in mind that the two classrooms are only separated by a thin object that can’t even be considered a wall – has the same number. Their teachers are two volunteers in the stage of early, if not mid, adulthood. Their papers are non-existent and they instead use leaves as things to write on.  Their supply of chalk is empty and they instead use charcoal to write. After class, the students – along with their teachers – head out to find more leaves to use for the next day’s lesson. I think by now you’ve realized from my well-detailed narrative is that the boy is not the main focus in this story, but his situation.

If I have failed to bring you to tears yet, take another story from the documentary. The eldest son of a poor family is, unlike some or most of us, fond of attending school and his classes. But there’s something in the way of his studies, aside from having to attend school, he has to help his mother out in selling whatever it is she’s selling and that’s probably not a bad thing all by itself but the boy actually misses some days of class because of this. If that wasn’t hard enough, the boy has to walk with his siblings from their house to the school which is practically miles apart. Let me emphasize that, he has to walk.

But, of course, I know what you’re thinking; so what? Poverty and such stories have become so commonplace in our society today that our hearts seem to be immune to the sympathy we’re supposed to feel.  We have kept our fears, our dreams, and our loves; but sympathy for strangers of lower status has been ripped out of our system and lost in the tides of our thoughts, if not completely sunk. For once, I am not here to throw upon you the ideas I so preciously hold close to my heart, I am merely here to review – review a documentary I barely even paid attention to.

            There’s a spell behind documentaries, you see, one way or another, it’ll always finish without you paying the slightest attention to it – considering you haven’t fallen asleep yet, that is. And I tell you now, Report Card is different, for me anyway. Mainly because when I watched this, I couldn’t help laughing at the strange duo of narrators that were Dingdong Dantes and Mike Enriquez. I speak the truth and the truth only; I don’t know if it’s because I’m not fond of documentaries to begin with, or because I seem to automatically dislike anything made by GMA 7 or maybe even because Dingdong Dantes has a certain aspect about him that makes me just turn away and will my ears to drown out his voice – whatever the reason, I did not like Report Card.

            I’m not saying I don’t sympathize with the poor, I’m saying I didn’t like the documentary. Documentaries are supposed to be eye-openers. Oh, Report Card was definitely an eye-opener – but not in the way you’d expect. The calm and controlled voice of Dantes came to me as indifferent and being read from a script. Sure, the documentary showed him with the children but unless there were no cameras or scripts or his already-lacking acting abilities, he won’t be able to convince me that he was actually sincere. Also, it may just be me not paying attention again but what exactly was Mike Enriquez’s role in the documentary? Because all I heard was Dantes and his boring slur. In all honesty, I would’ve appreciated something like Wish Ko Lang more, at least they actually did good for people instead of just observing them and putting on smiles. The camera did no special things, as expected of a documentary. And to sum it up, the documentary was fine, sure.

How to: Tell A Girl You Like Her.

How to tell a girl you like her.

In the words of Ron Weasley in A Very Potter Musical, “You don’t tell a girl you like her, it makes you look like an idiot” But in the case that you are one or just want to completely disregard the King’s words – in which case, may I reply; how dare you defy the King? – then go ahead and pour your inner most feelings out to a person who – most likely – will reject them.  You are going to crash and burn, dollface, don’t worry though, I’m here to make sure you fail with flare.

1.      Shower her with compliments.  Nothing says “I really like you” better than telling her in discreet little messages how much you appreciate her. A sure fire way to win her heart is to tell her how supermegafoxyawesomehot she is, if perhaps, she gets the reference I just made, introduce her to me as a thank-you gift for helping you.

2.      Give her gifts. If she is as dense as hydrogen solid, give her gifts; from extravagant bushels of roses to little things like Fres candy that has cute quotes at the back like “Smile for me.”, “I love you.” And other corny things that’ll send a smile to anyone’s face, either because they’re happy at the effort you put in or because you just look like a laughingstock to her, either way, at least you made her happy, right? On the side note, that Fres candy thing is actually a true story for the Juniors at the current time of writing this.

3.      Share her interests. Know what she likes and at least try to know them enough to be able to use them as references in proper conversation. Yes, if she likes Justin Bieber, you have to get over the pain and embarrassment that comes with having to read about him and worse, listen to some parts of some of his songs! I can’t bear the agony of thinking about trying to come up with ways to possibly contemplate on the intellectual secrets lyrics like ‘Baby, baby, baby, baby – um, what was next? Oh, that’s right, ‘BABY’  can hold! On the Brightside, you can always argue with her, I don’t think you’ll want to go down that road though.

4.      And lastly, show jealousy. As wrong as it is to admit, it works. You’ll find out why soon enough, mainly because laziness is taking over me like a fast-spreading virus and truth be told, I have no self-discipline!

That is all; carry along with wallowing in your self-pity for wasting four minutes of your life in reading this article filled to the brim with gibberish. Good luck crashing. 

Behold my most interactive day ever.

Today is a special day in our school, by that I don’t necessarily mean it positively. But before I get to that part which I dread having to recall, I’ll tell you about the rest of my day and how it is definitely my most interactive (by this I mean I talked to strangers) day.

Earlier this morning as I was on my way to school by tricycle, I was fixing my hair up in a bun since the wind tends to rape it and make me look indecent by the time I reached school grounds. When I was prepped and certain my hairdo was making my cheeks look absolutely fat, I went ahead and read an e-book. So I read. After a while,  when we were on the high way and were only two minutes away, the tricycle swerved to the right, surprising me. The driver looked at me apologetically and explained that there were LTO near the university meaning he would pretty much get caught. We took a different route. Heaven knows I was already running late but since there was no other tricycle within a few more minutes of where he dropped me off, I had to walk. At first I walked in fast strides, trying to make it to school within five minutes but then I heard a voice to my right.

“Summer na?”(“Summer already?”) asked an elderly lady walking on the other side of the road. I was the only one she could’ve been talking to. I smiled, looked in her direction and nodded. Since (1) I had no clue whether she was asking if our classes where over or if she was making a remark about my red and white striped long-sleeved shirt and (2) she looked harmless, I said in return “Pero may klase parin po kami.”(“But we still have classes.”) 

“Alam ko.”(“I know”) was her confusing reply. She then proceeded to tell me about herself. How she was a Roxas and was close relatives with Mar Roxas but her family sort of shunned her because she married a hampas-lupa (don’t know the translation of this, basically a poor man with low social standings) How she was going to visit her younger sister who had some sort of sickness (I didn’t know if it was appropriate to ask) How she was from Manila and was a student from UST (during high school, I think) and that she was muse back then.

Our conversation ended once we reached an intersection that marked that I was finally within the official reach of the campus. She headed north and my destination was whatever direction the right was and we parted ways. I proceeded to walk until I hailed a tricycle and gone to school.

The driver chatted with me during the ride from time to time, a  fact that scared the hell out of me for fear that we might get in an minor accident but something that eased my growing worry for the following events of the day. I got to school, got out, realized the smallest amount of money I had in my wallet was a 50 peso bill and apologized to the driver because he didn’t have change for it. He smiled brightly and said it was fine, I could just pay him when I see him again.

The rest of my day went on as usual. Nothing special until the clock reached 4:00 pm. Let me give you a very brief background history. My school is a so-called ‘science high school’, whatever the frock that meant. The passing grade of a student is 80. If you get below 80 by the end of the 4th Quarter, pack your bags and get out, the school kicks you out for…some reason. To keep the average GPA high? I don’t really care anymore. And today, ladies and gentlemen, is what we poor students like to call “judgement day”. The day the teachers announce who’ll be leaving. We’ve all dreaded this day since enrollment. 

I am a junior in high school. We have one year left of high school to enjoy. It was supposed to be that after this year, we’ll only have to worry about graduating. This was the last small stone that we needed to leap over to get to stable ground…and they decided to decrease our lowly numbers from 58 to 54 (the people going abroad included) So yeah… today was eventful. There was a lot of crying and all that jazz.

Round and round it goes.

Alright, I’m at this again. Serves me right for not thinking straight, I guess. Originally, I had already finished this post in an earlier version of this blog but after realizing I couldn’t switch between my main blog and my secondary blog, I needed to make one on a separate account. 

Anyway, the name’s Gail. I am (currently) fifteen years of age, the time of writing this is 8:30 a.m and I am still groggy and sleepy. In a few minutes, a classmate’s going to come here to do a project so I need to finish this up quickly. Later this evening, I need to be at a school concert/event thing and I’ll maybe post something about it tomorrow along with a proper introduction of myself but for now, I just need to type in a first post. lol.