Okay. Drooling. Definitely.

And don't you just love the purple silk dress shirt? How in God's name can he make it look sexy as hell is beyond me.  

The red-on-black eyes, I am told will be added post-prod. They better. Or else I am going to walk out of the theater and incite a massive, violent protest rally that will make Wolverine proud.

I am still somewhat concerned about Gambit's accent. I haven't read anything definite on whether or not they'll be keeping his accent. It would be a terrible, unforgivable sin to do a Rogue-accent massacre all over again.

Seriously. I will personally write a scathing complain letter and mail it to all the right people. I still haven't forgiven everyone involved in the last three X-Men movies for the way they screwed Rogue's character over and for what? Just so I can see her and Bobby Drake (of all people!) fail massively at on-screen chemistry.

Anyway, Taylor is hot as Gambit. There is still something right in this world.

The sun has recently set and I just awoke from a massive food coma because some Einstein decided that it would be a good idea to have TG dinner at 3:00 pm.

I know it's cheesy, but I've always wanted to put a Transformers emblem on my car.  So I spent half the morning online looking for an Autobot emblem because there is an actual Autobot in the new animated series that transforms into what I have parked in the garage.  Problem is, they're all generic. and to have one where I want it, I'd have to get it custom made.   

In the past, you've had to contact me to set your own custom domain. This is no longer the case - I've added a new page in the control panel (Settings > Set Custom Domain) which lets you set your own domain name. I've updated the documentation page with instructions on how to set-up your Tabulas to use a domain name.

Fully Booked hosts La Piazza Nel Cinema

It's essentially, a free screening of Italian movies that show piazzas as the backdrop for the unfolding of their story. For more details (screening scheds and film summary): clicky.

Two cups of hot caramel machiatto and in between them, five, possibly six bottles of beer.  That’s exactly how I spent my Saturday evening and Sunday morning.

Being out all night usually constitutes some sort of life altering moments all strung together and maybe it’s one of those nights. Or maybe it’s just me trying to get some semblance of actual living as opposed to the usual weekly twelve to sixteen hours of comatose-like sleep.

The drinking myself into some sort of stupor from 4am to 9am, Sunday morning is pretty much usual.

Sadly, I think I’m the kind of girl who can drink anytime, anyplace and probably with anyone. As long as they are funny. Although on the second thought, that's not even a legit requirement. You see, the amount of alcohol consumed is almost directly proportional to how humorous a person or a situation can be. Utter drunkenness almost always equal inane, utter hilarity. Trust me. This particular theory, if not observation, is based from years of experienced drinking.

Anyway, there isn’t much to tell about my latest beer-drinking spree since I’ve pretty much documented all my drinking days. Emabarrassingly enough, they all end almost the same way: me, asleep on the couch, everything beneath my back: my purse, my phone, my key, painfully digging into my ribs.

Sometimes, my pants’ zipper is down. This is because, usually, the last thing I’d ever do before succumbing to alcohol-induced sleep is a trip down to the bathroom and a long, stimulating pee. And then the stumbling into oblivion. Yesterday was one of those days. I think.

So, the question is, if I had been drinking during the wee hours of Sunday morning, watching the sky bleed from dark-black-blue to the breathlessly infinite sky-blue-sky, what had I been doing from 9pm until 4am?

Scamming and scheming. Not in the illegal sense. Well, maybe. At least I don’t think so. I hope.

I realize that doesn’t really mean anything and it sounds impossible muddy and absolutely whacked and I am okay with that. The uncertainty of it all. I am doomed to fail at this new endeavor, but at least, as stupid as it may sound, I can say that yes, I’ve tried it. You only live once, right? So, toss caution to the wind and do whatever.

I am used to failing and quitting. Preferably done all the same time, actually. You know, get it over done with sort of thing.

I am currently reading Doetoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and for some strange reason I feel like a pretentious little fucker. Especially since everywhere I go, everyone I see is reading Twilight.

Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing to be ashamed of with being pretentious, or little, or even a fucker for that matter, but if you put them all together, well it just doesn’t seem like the most flattering thing to be thinking about oneself, you know what I mean?

So, what’s a girl to do? Finish Crime and Punishment as quickly as I can and pick up something less… “heavy”. Less college-sounding. I’m thinking maybe… ah, yes, Twilight.

And then hopefully, I’d feel like I’m back to my usual, pretentious little self. I know it’s the same, but at least I wouldn’t be worried about people pointing out that to me.

I’d like to keep my self-awareness, to myself.

I have not written anything for quite some time now. I am back to school to finish the las sem I dropped last year due to familial crisis. I am happy to be back in school and finally get my darn degree over with. I want to go to med school. But med school means money, time, hardwork, perseverance and a lot of sacrifice. I have all of those except money. So I think I should just work my ass as a nurse first and save up on med school, anyway it's like grad school, no age requirement. The darn lottery won't make me win even a penny. I only need about a million and a half to finance med school expenses including internship, residency, fellowship until finally I am a consultant and I can charge professional fee for my service and expertise. A million and a half for all that and that is way cheap for a decent and comfortable lifestyle. I am not asking for more though. Just a million and a half and I'll be fine. Well of course I won't be able to produce a million and a half in a year, so med school's a bit far fetched. For crying out loud, nursing here in the Philippines' declining fast. All the major hospitals stopped hiring nurses. A lot of supply for a very low demand. Abroad? Can't find a job there unless you have experience here already. And I am having second thoughts on leaving. Before I was so convinced to leave this country and work abroad and earn lotsa money to get a life I wanted. But things changed, I met someone and he can't go abroad coz he has to finish residency for 5 long and agonizing years. I don't want to leave, not that i don't trust him, I just don't want us to be not around fr each other. Given his job description and mine too, time's a luxury and if I leave the tiny time we have for each other would be lost. I don't want that. So maybe I'll stay here, work twice as hard, save up all I can save, wait for him and then we can leave together and come back with enough to start with and live a comfortable life.

Well, whatever. I'm counting years down the road. I still need one and a half million to go to med school.

One of my irresponsible siblings has this disorder that causes to her to frequent pet shops (reference, Mr. Rabbit).  She's like the grim reaper for pet shop merchandise.  First there were the parakeets, at least twenty Bettas, countless goldfishes, and the list goes on and on.  A trip to heaven is like a swirly ride down the toilet.  And because I have the slightest bit of a heart -- I end up acquiring an extra mouth or two to feed.  

This week, I unwillingly spent over a Benjamin on a new tank set-up for a pair of Red Eared Slider hatchlings because they've grown substantially larger than they are in the photo taken during the summer.  I call them The Brothers.   I remember having a hatchling for a pet when I was three so I don't mind them that much, but they're hella higher maintenance.  Initially, I was going to let them go into the wild after they've reached a certain age or size since sliders are native to the region, but after reading up a bit more about them, that might not be a good idea.  

Or: One of The Reasons Why I Need To Get A Life

For the past week and a half, I’ve been watching the first two seasons of Dawson’s Creek.

Now I know that there are a lot of new, amazingly well-written series (Pushing Daisies comes to mind) that I ought to be checking out, nothing like the present, right? But you see while that particular saying is true, it is also non-debatably accurate to say that there is also nothing like the past.

Or at least in relieving certain moments from our past.

So why, of all the shows from the years gone by, this particular interest in Dawson’s Creek – granted that I never even saw the very last three seasons of it? – because Dawson’s Creek was my past. I was sixteen when they were sixteen. Struggling with all the big words, like sex and love and family and future. I was in college when they were all in college. And even though their sordid life-long, six seasons worth of dramas were in no way parallel to mine, I still felt some strange sort of affinity towards all the characters. Embarrassing as it may sound.

And, surprisingly enough I am actually learning to accept the more embarrassing parts of my youth. Watching Dawson's Creek then (and now) included.

I'm digressing. What I wanted to say is that I may have at some point, during my confused, angst-ridden teen aged years deluded myself into thinking that I could relate to the story and characters and the multi-syllabicatted lines. And worst, during those same confused, perpetually boring adolescent years, I have tried to emulate the lives of the characters I have been watching on TV, and not just Dawson’s Creek, I mean all of the shows that I’ve been particularly taken with. It's kind of pathetic.

Well, not kind of really. Like a lot.

It took me years, actually, just now, when I was re-watching the show, to realize that I am not a self-aware Dawson-type. Sadly, not the sharp and witty Pacey-type either. Not even worldly, cynical Jen. And I’m certainly no Joey Potter who men fall for in droves. And to be honest, I haven’t lived any of the lives that they’ve lived. Never experience even half of what they did. And maybe some people would scoff and say, well, yeah, who does?

(And believe me, I once thought, yeah, who the hell goes through everything in life at such a young age? Maybe not everything, but the sex during the ages of 15-16, highly unlikely. Right? Well it was only just recently, after being told of an old high school story about a girl two boys and hand job did I realize how quite mistaken that notion is. I am such a virgin and apparently, probably the oldest in our batch. Which is probably a lot better than being the class slut, but still...)

Anyway, my point is... I don't exactly have a point. Just that, I've heard Mark Schwan (One Tree Hill, Creator) say that: "TV is hyper reality."

And it maybe so, but it’s still, at the core, based on reality.

So, okay I may not have lived even the tamer version of that “hyper-reality”, but I have brushes of it. Very vague glimpses of it. I’ve very gingerly, haltingly stepped unto the fringes of life. I mean, no point in denying it, I do vicariously live through my friends.

Friends who smoke pot and occasionally pop ecstasy pills; friends who agonized and ask questions about if and when it's okay to sleep with their significant others; friends who are in a same sex relationship; friends who engaged in unprotected, pre-marital, often misguided, sex. I know friends who have divorced parents. And friends who drink themselves into complete, utter, blacking-out stupor. I have friends who have stolen boyfriends or girlfriends from their own friends. Yes, I realize that it’s more like a freaking Melrose Place and not exactly sunny Capeside, MA.

It’s funny how when I was young, I had wanted so desperately to experience the darker, dirtier, scummier side of life and I think only now that I’ve gotten older that I actually feel thankful that I never did all those young, stupid mistakes. I do regret the not smoking pot part, but other than that, I am quite happy to live in a very sheltered 1956 almost-picture perfect life.

Okay. Screw it. I still want to. So badly. I don’t understand why I have some of twisted, romanticized idea about living a perfectly squalid life.

The grass is always greener, right?

Fuck that. I can so easily do it. Just throw everything away and just do it.

Live, you know. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Get stoned. Get high. Get low. Get down and dirt. Instead of watching old TV shows. I just... I’m scared shitless.

I can talk the cynical-talk, pretend to be a cold-hearted bitch but deep down, I’m a scared twelve year girl who still thinks that life on TV is so much more better than real life. How sad is that?