Can’t Confuse the Perpendicular with the Curve

 

In the academy where I used to work, I had a smart, well-educated bosom female colleague with regular facial features that were quite appealing and more importantly, a curvaceous figure that could make any man forget his name. Let’s call her AJ.

Although I was a decade older than her, we would heartily exchange stories about love, life, and men while inside each other’s room. When she finally broke up with her on-off longtime boyfriend who, she complained, kept taking her for granted, she set her sights on one of our male colleagues named Cammy.

Before continuing on, please understand I’m not trying to sound smug here. But my internal detecting device for men who are gay and men who aren’t functions perfectly like any present-day gadget made in China. For example, I knew it the very first time George Michael exuberantly sang and danced on “Wake Me Up Before You Go-go” MTV. Undeniable. When Brooke Shields started dating him, I thought “Who were they fooling?” Yet she claimed some years later she did like him and suffered heartbreak out of their brief fling. Incredible.

Likewise, long before the rumor was confirmed by Hollywood insiders, my suspicion had already begun as soon as I came to note the manner Jeremy _ opened up a window in a scene from the movie Mission Impossible 4. I was like “Wait a minute…”

Bear in mind, Jeremy is still one of my most favorite actors and George Michael had composed and sung some of my best-loved songs. My male best friends were mostly either bisexual or every inch gay. They are remarkably fun and pleasant to be around with.

My point is, my radar works fine. Maybe it’s a special gift granted to me by the heavens above. So when people around want to know if the man they’re curious about or interested in is gay or not, they come and seek my opinion. First I whisper “Make him move or talk for three seconds and I’ll tell you.” One two three. “Aha, definitely gay.” Saves the ladies time and effort without question.

Actually, I’m kidding; many others are much sharper than me. Although it’s surprising many have poor perception in that area, too. They won’t be convinced unless they’d see hard evidence. Such as when the man arrives for work wearing bright face powder and pink lipstick. Also, not a few believe they could somewhat reverse things under specific circumstances.

Similar to the case of my female colleague AJ. This was how one of our conversations went:

AJ: I think our friend Cammy is cute.

Me: Don’t you like muscled guys? Cammy looks like Popeye before ingesting his can of spinach.

AJ: It’s okay. He’s fair-skinned due to his mixed heritage and I like that. We were sweet together last night strolling at the mall. I want to ask him out.

Me: To where?

She gave me a naughty wink. Uh-oh, I thought. She had been ventilating on  some “action” missing in her life.

Me: Hey, he’s gay.

AJ: Maybe. Although I felt a particular hardness from him last night and I almost asked… but I wasn’t straightforward enough.

I didn’t dare query her on the “what she felt” part as it was creeping me out.

Me: You know, if we grabbed Cammy firmly around his ankles and turn and shake him upside down repeatedly, he’d still scream out for only men as bed partners.

AJ: (feeling confident nevertheless) Cammy is the ideal one, temporarily. No other prospect in sight yet. Just wish me luck.

The very next day.

Me: How did it go?

AJ: (Not smiling) He simply said it was time for us to go home.

Told ‘ya. No, I didn’t tell her that. I kept my silence.

Update: AJ is married now to a straight guy and they have a two-year-old daughter. Happy ending.

***

The Girl Was Really Pretty – The Power of Beauty (2)

My (bisexual) male friend had been narrating to me the story of how their district’s congressman fell head over heels for a married woman and subsequently used his power to have her all to himself. In philippine politics, that’s just heinously appalling. My reaction: “He must be crazy.”

My friend’s reply: “But then, she was really pretty.”

I was like, “Huh?” Pause. “Oh yeah, right.” (secretly rolling my eyes)

I don’t know. But wasn’t that justification more than a bit shallow?

In all candidness, some guys unconsciously utter something exasperatingly superficial their fairygodmothers would no doubt flick a finger against their comatose heads. And it’d sound like “Toink!”

Another time, I was talking to my (straight) male business pal about my shock in learning a customer committed suicide because of heartbreak. “Why would he kill himself over a girl?” I blurted out.

To which my pal responded, “The girl was really pretty, you know.”

Toink! Toink! Toink!

C’mon… I mean, can’t they think of a more sensible ground to account for men’s actions other than their single-minded absorption to women’s physical attributes?

OTOH, if those guys had done what they did and the ladies looked like Hilda the Beast, it would’ve been more perplexing. I guess I get it.

Still, what if some male colleague asked me, “She’s a blackbelter. How could she have gotten herself raped by him?” – and my answer would be, “Easy. The rapist was one hot-looking dude.” ??

Alright, scrraaap that. Makes no sense. Duh! 🙂

*****

  *No selfie of me available yet. Don’t worry, I look exactly like them. ^^ just kidding…

don’t take it seriously, honey

Watch my finger push a button. Click — oh, you’re there. Another push of the button. Click – hey, you’re gone. Just like magic. Now I see you, now I don’t. See, it’s quite easy.

My posts are rarely about anyone in particular. As I keep repeating, I basically write for myself. I’ve long stopped inviting readers and nobody needs to come here if they sometimes can’t stand the things I talk about.

To bid people online to refrain from dropping by your place is bootless as well. The only solution to that is to go hiding – just like what I do (turn my blog private) whenever I wish to become invisible across any radar.

What’s the big deal anyway if I take a peek at what you have to say? I do it, too, on other blogs. The problem is, they’ve all stopped blogging. And you’re the only one left. So have mercy and don’t shoo me off. 🙂

I also had religiously followed a former computer programmer’s assorted everyday thoughts for two straight years. As in I visited his site and ran through his blog index to reread and review his posts more than twice a day. It all ended when his bitterness and breakdown over Donald Trump’s success became unbearable to witness. But then, he had constantly been reminding his readers how much of an as$h*le he was. I didn’t mind that at the time actually – I simply wanted to digest his smart pieces and credentialed language skills. Same with a previous dear (black) chatmate whose daily hits would reach around 60 – nearly half of which could be attributed to me because I never use wordpress Follow. He said he was grateful. 🙂

That’s the kind of reader I am. I get attached to blogs I’ve come to like. Besides, let’s admit it, we’re always on the lookout for other writers’ style. And I do like learning from the finest ones. Feel happy instead that you’ve been inadvertently mentoring me because I’m one of your, ahem, admirers. If in the future I discover somebody new whose writing flair surpasses yours, hah, you’ll be totally replaced. Kaput. And you’ll probably miss me… 😉

In the meantime, it makes me glad to have you foremost in my heart in this realm in spite of not very pleasant words which had been hurled. I’d still willingly cheerily lovingly hug and squeeze you. Consider it a privilege, honey.

Peace… Ok, ok?

—–

She Should Have Slept Around

My elder sister and I with the whole family are having lunch in a restaurant. She’s narrating her recent trip to Germany where she underwent stem cell treatment — something she goes through every year (partly as an aftermath of her choco addiction) with my brother-in-law, her husband. While the conversation progresses, he stands up and goes out to take a phone call. My sister turns to me.

She (with eagerness): My German doctor. He’s cute and I think he likes me.

Me: He is? He does?

She: He’s been sweet and extremely attentive to me. And I believe I’m the only female patient he kissed on both cheeks when we said our goodbyes.

Me: Ooh… (nodding). Inner Me: Of course he’s that nice. You’re a customer! No, I can’t say that to her; I won’t dare refute the giddiest hunch of someone who allows me to live in one of their apartments nearly rent-free.

Me: Aren’t you happily married? I teasingly remind her. Because she unmistakably is.

She: Yes, very much, but I watched the movie “Same Time Next Year.” Interesting to be in that two-timing couple’s situation, I imagine. My sister’s smiling.

My eyes secretly widen in bewilderment; I need a drink quick as I search for any server passing by. “Uh, Waiter, a can of Coke Zero please!”

“Is he single?” I proceed to ask her.

She: Well, no. But blah blah blah…

Inner Me: Excuse me, sis. If he’s married, there’s no but. There can never be a but. (Sorry, though, to confess I previously broke that rule twice in my life. Don’t worry, Karma already made sure I paid the heaviest price.) I go on listening to my sis and keep nodding dumbly while she rattles on how maybe her doctor is gonna welcome some sort of fling with her regardless of both their connubial status.

She: The part where he injected (the goat, I mean sheep cells) bulged a bit so that became an excuse for me to email him. I had to ask about the swell…

Me: What did he say?

She: Well, he didn’t reply at first. So I had to email him again. He responded then. I think he’s just being cool and cautious because Joey (my sister’s husband) is his patient, too. But I can sense my doctor does like me as much as I like him.

Now I’m resisting the urge to dip my fingers in my glass of cold H20 and sprinkle some on her face.

“Dear dear sister of mine, you’re telling me he has seen your 50-year-old butt (the needle went there, btw) and now he helplessly finds himself having a crush on you. Listen, a good-looking well-moneyed medical practitioner like that will get carnal only with the best-looking female  WHO’S HALF HIS AGE. Get real!” Again, no, I couldn’t tell her that. She’s paying for the whole meal.

My sister, in sudden mild reflection, continues: In our earlier years, Joey fooled around. Those were very stressful periods for me. Maybe he doesn’t anymore but I’m not quite certain. Now I realize I should have “hanged around” with other guys in the past.

I understand. I look at my sister keenly and start pondering as well. This is what happens when a woman has bedded only one man her entire life. I’ve gathered she’s just had the same discussion with our mother; how she feels sorry for herself for lacking “substantial experience” with men. I remember when she and I were in our earliest teens, our parents would lecture us till midnight not only about prioritizing our studies but more on the value of preserving our “innocence.” Our mother went so far as to insist our first boyfriend should end up as our husband, too, and should be the only male we’ll ever sleep with. Sister took it to heart (She and our mom have always been soulmates). Me? Inside I was like “Yuck!” The rebel in me at the time had already been emerging so my stance was “One dude in a whole lifespan? Not on your life.”

Anyway, my zany brother who’s been partially listening to our sisterly chat strongly butts in: Ho ho, jumping to conclusions! Too much chocolate again in your system, sister. The three of us laugh. My brother-in-law walks back to our table.

What is the moral of this blog piece? Sister should have slept around and all women should do so during their unwedded era. Unequivocally. And it matters little whether the men were fucking dickheads or not.

Wait, did I just say that? Give me two weeks of good night sleep to take it back.

******

++my brother, bro-in-law, sister and me in that most recent outing++

******

Yep, another old favorite love song (ad nauseum, I know) from way way back. This Dionne W’s deeper gentle version I surprisingly unearthed on YT as it was rarely played on the radio.

 

One Job Down – End of Another Era

Man oh man, January was a crazy time indeed. I finally gave up on my teaching job (gasp!) last January12. After ten long long years. Yeah. Now my remaining occupation is as a government agent. I wish I could say I were the stealthy Miss double Oh-7 working for the British Secret Service. Alas, merely an agent that helps generate online 20-peso tickets to gambling freaks is everything I currently am.

Several considerations led to the decision. The dominant factor, however, was the impending off-peak season (which is start of February), when my bosses’ preschool and gradeschool children will be back. And all of us teachers will be forced to serve as their nannies again.That was what had been tormenting me. I’m talking about those four bratty small children whose ages range from 4 to 8 years old. Heaven save mister macaroons.

Two of them is a four year old girl who screams at the top of her lungs out of the blue to elicit attention, plus the seven year old boy who’d swiftly touch his teacher’s boobs all of a sudden (#%!& grrr… seven year olds…). We, six properly educated permanent winsome teachers, would report promptly for work in our lovely dresses and shoes and accessories wearing pretty makeup – only to be each assigned to any of the four little rascals who’d make us look like Hilda the Beast by the end of the day.

Have I forgotten to mention I am not that into children? (except for my own child I raised, of course)

me on the left wearing green feeling tipsy after downing only a bottle&1/2 of Red Horse. girls night out.

I used to handle only adult or university students. But my boss has become frustratingly more and more detached as our manager that his fellowmen from the entire nation of unremorseful canine-eaters have come to learn how he literally sits in front of his computer watching k-soap operas all day long. So for the last two years, no worthy students had been turning up following the return of bunch and bunch of indolent middleschoolers to their homecountry every end of peak season.

At least I’ve proven to myself that once in my life I was able to hold a job that long. Ten years. Wow. To think about the dear people to me that got sacrificed within that period. Three beloved casualties. The third one I might not have talked of before was the best female friend I’ve ever had who began suffering from health ailments and for whom I couldn’t be there because I was constantly preoccupied with the low-paying teaching job of mine. My bad. Our 20-year friendship, as a result, went down the drain.

Plus my job situation was making me more and more unhappy I would console myself by eating at pricey buffet restaurants on the weekends; not to mention the many instances I’d go down to 7-11 during school breaktime to snatch an unhealthy delicious snack to make up for my miserable condition.

My booth operator also had asked me a few months ago,“What are you still working so hard for? You have long finished sending your son to college and he now has a fine job.” Good good point.

It was an intention I had expressed late last year to my family –my mom, my sister and my brother: the aim to quit my 9 to 6 livelihood soon, which periodically changed whenever I told myself “just one more year” so I’d be able to save a bit more to finance my future objective to go back to Europe for another brief recreational voyage.

But I came to figure the amount I had managed to save could already be enough. My sister even asked, “Why not Japan or the U.S. the next time?” to which I replied, “No more Asian countries for me and there are too many Latinos and Asians in America. I want to see mass and mass of blonde hair with matching ultra delicate fair skin. Why would I want to see what’s in profusion here in our country?” Besides, my trip in Europe had been a magical one which I look forward to undergo again. Wait, I think I just digressed right there. 🙂

Anyway, perhaps this time there’ll be ample opportunity for me to definitively study advanced grammar, read outstanding literature, take up yoga seriously, get around to watching the much-talked-about Game of Thrones series, habitually entertain myself with young pretty pole dancers and sundry other stuff on You Tube, kick off doing charcoal-pencil art again, stay relentless at my pathetic attempts composing cheesy juvenile romantic poetry, hook up in passionate abandon with the hottest-looking, brawny rum drinker available around the neighborhood (just kidding), and sign up -before it gets too late- as FHM’s next cover model representing the sultriest lady approaching her 50s (kidding again).

A lifelong nightowl that I am, staying up late and not getting up early have been the sweetest payoff so far. I’ve stopped popping the low-dose doctor prescribed anti-allergy pill to fall asleep at weeknights. I admit, though, of two or three mornings when I woke up feeling mild panic realizing I am not bound to get up for work anymore. Nice thing about holding a job is it gives your day a sense of structure. But, ultimately, I just can’t have it all.

I haven’t told my family yet because they might soon ask me to run errands for them. I realize I haven’t taken pleasure having the apartment all to myself since my son moved out more than a year ago. I worked steadily like a robot, soldiered on my daily affairs like a zombie. I’m taking things precious and easy now. Plus there’s lots to do and, er, clean.

At least, too, there’ll be no more furtive pinching of my nose whenever “those peeps” (at work) are around, them keemchee-eating species….

And if ever I’d feel regret about giving up the job I’d held for 10 long years, I’d simply remind myself this: The ewoks are comiiing!

*****

My Romantic History (Tongue In Cheek)

 

For ages, the bashful side of me couldn’t allow for the substantial expose of my romantic past here because of the number of blog buddies I had gained then. But it’s already been five years so this memoir of mine must accomplish its goal asap.

My problem is, the inspiration to spark off the ardent schmaltzy prose I’ve been intending in my documentation won’t happen. How could I when my feelings for those dudes had long gone kaput. Another thing, I’d rather allude to my ex-Romeos who made me cry as A#1 A#2 A#3 and so on… (don’t ask anymore what that A stands for).

Just kidding. I still do adore men. Very much.

I’ll use the letter J instead (Again, no questions please) 🙂 . My enumeration of erstwhile lovers according to period as follows:

#1: college boyfriend. Sweet, although brief – the relationship, I mean. Not a J. I was.

J#2: my ex-boss. More than 10 years my senior. I was informed he died in a car accident years ago. Ho-hum.

J#3: my “ex-husband.” Father of my child. The sweetest I’ve had, I admit.

#4: country guy, best-looking one. Er, more than 10 years my junior. Yes, my mother wasn’t happy. Nice lad, in fact.

J#5: my son’s music teacher. A former buddy I’d been fond of.

Can’t go on. The last was another musician – not worth mentioning. Insignificant and more of a mistake. Big big Jerk, to be frank.

I became jaded as time went by till I lost interest, declined invitations and dodged at any onset of probable connections because men and liaisons with them started to all look pretty much the same to me. And I ain’t putting on airs in saying that.

Contrary to what some people think, the aggregate of men I had been physically intimate with do not exceed the fingers on my one hand.

Okay okay, so watch my all five fingers go up – uno dos tres quatro cinco

But that’s it.

Granted, I can’t bring myself to wax poetic about my former love affairs, maybe I should start getting down to the sex part. Ooh… Lots to say and share on that. I’ve been so looking forward to using the line “fry my eggs.” ( Actually, I just borrowed that from somewhere and can’t catch what it faithfully connotes)

The problem again is, my son may come to read all this someday soon. The whole sex disclosure emerging from his mother will definitely embarrass him he’ll no doubt expel my name the soonest from his birth certificate.

I guess my personal Kama Sutra diaries will have to stay deep inside my big wooden box much longer.

Better luck next time.

*********

FLASHBACK:

Samantha Fox. Now that’s the name I would wish to have for myself in our parallel universe.

Samantha Fox was a British singer in the late 80s who kinda fit more in a porn flick. This was her only song I liked. Watching the adorable male dancers plus Miss Fox’s cool black backup singers in the video never fails to make me smile. Some real corny dance moves, yeah, yet I wish they had polished the filming of the dancers and backup singers better. There was no You Tube in those ancient times I was totally clueless on the brief R-rated scene at the end, believe me.

 

 

I am a bundle of…what?

There exists an unforgettable dear blogging buddy from my past. Why unforgettable, you might ask? He had gone reading and commenting over many of my oldest posts and subsequently dropped this bomb of an observation, in a friendly manner…maybe: 

“geena, you’re a bundle of contradictions.”

Hmm.

My preliminary internal reaction was like “oh okay.” But after a day or two of deep cogitation, it was: “wait, I am a … whaaat?”

Listen, bundle sounds like bungle. So how can this turn good.

It was the first time somebody made such an assessment of me – considering my more than 40 long years of existence on our planet. He’s introspective and a blogging icon so his every input had been meaningful for me. I wanted to knock-knock on his blog and politely question him as to what he meant exactly by his remark. Of course I chickened out because he’d be then quite convinced how lacking I am in comprehension. I couldn’t risk losing the camaraderie.

I tried googling it. Not much luck. The precise meaning of “a bundle of contradictions” and its aptness to my essence as a living entity remains nebulous. Diaphonous. Amorphous.

It’s been three years. The ex-buddy had since dropped off from the face of blogearth when he found a job and got busier. Yet I’m still wondering and scratching my head as to how many or which of my posts led him to believe I’m a “wad of mismatch and variance” (Darn, I really should stop using this lousy thesaurus of mine).

To be continued……. (don’t ask me when)

*************************

 

 

My Current Fixation on America’s Presidentiables – specifically Donald Trump

The Americans are a truly fine people – it’s what I’ve come to believe my entire life. They’re sensible, friendly, and compassionate (even to, or most especially to, animals) – something I can’t say about citizens of other nations. That most likely explains why I love English — not to mention my passion for reading almost anything in that language.

Recently, while surfing sites on updates about the Bennifer-nanny scandal, the news of Donald Trump’s rise as a Republican nominee caught my eye. Whoa, the first time I learned he’s running for POTUS, I thought: who’d take him seriously? – keeping in mind that Americans are both refined and fussy when it comes to their choice of their number one leader.

A woman becoming the most powerful person on earth has long been an anticipation and I had thought Hillary would be the one as she is clearly the most qualified within my gender category. We know now she just might not make it because of the email controversy that’s expected to bring her down — so the wish of mine to behold a woman as U.S. Chief Executive in the near future has been scratched of late. Ah, not easy…yet we ‘gotta move on.

Back to my favorite subject: During the very first few weeks after his official announcement he’s targeting the most powerful seat in the world, the media and the intellectual elites had only ridicule and unpleasant coverage for the Donald. They would even post nothing but unflattering photos of him, the majority obviously intended either to elicit laughs or make him look absurd.

Then came the debate (which I gather he didn’t win) that I wish I had watched, just to get a view of the man and his controversial style amidst the traditional ones.

You see, in my teens I thought “Donnie” was quite appealing. His tall, blonde looks did have resemblance to Robert Mitchum’s son Chris who happens to be my all-time crush. Besides, females generally like their males strong, handsome, rich, smart, and funny. His personal affairs, notwithstanding, which were such a mess plus his penchant for bimbos turned me off. I followed the whole debut series of his Apprentice show, though. I have also consistently thought of him as an awe-inspiring businessman.

Upon catching glimpse of the initial poll results released last July on the standing of Republican nominees, the elitist media and the same people who could only lambast the flamboyant reality star no doubt must have uttered in unison, “WTF, how did that happen?” i.e., while scratching their heads,

In rewind, the following had been a few of the statements which — a number of pundits believe — should have already wiped the brash real estate mogul out of the race:

Mexicans who come to the U.S. are rapists…

Rick Perry wearing glasses to make him look smart is not working.

Megyn Kelly must have blood coming out of her “wherever” when she offended him with her questions at the debate.

Recognizing Mr. Trump’s bluntness and brand of humor, I admit the first two remarks made me really laugh out loud.

Moreover, below are a handful of what his detractors has said about him:

He may become the U.S. version of Stalin and Hitler.

He will make Russia’s Putin look civilized.

Incredible – having Donald Trump and Sarah Palin in one lifetime.

Certain things we must “overcomb.” 😀

Every scribbled comment in defense of the Donald automatically comes from Apprentice alumni Gary Busey and Amarosa.

How interesting it would be to witness Trump coming face to face with the U.N. officials considering his mouth.

What dead animal is that on top of his head?

Aha ha ha…. Never thought the American people are at their funniest in this most interesting times.

On a serious note, his rivals claim Trump’s immigration plans are unrealistic. But many believe, including me, it’s pretty much common sense. I say as well, if one’s gonna dream, why not make it big? Especially with regards to benefiting their country and its bona fide constituents – no matter how long the implementation may take.

Many predict he’s never gonna make it, and that the anti-Trump elements would stop at nothing to obstruct his journey toward the Oval office. I hope they’re dead wrong and won’t succeed respectively, as I am one of those who believe he can make a difference. Frankly, is there any one else out there who has Donald Trump’s strength to make America great again?

Compared to our ridiculously unsound government here, I’ve thought the U.S. state of affairs with its politicos are more of run-of-the-mill; only in movies can you make them a tad intriguing. Not this time. Having Donald Trump in politics is beyond America and Hollywood’s wildest imagination.

During bedtime these days, I get engrossed reading article updates on the most popular Republican nominee without leaving out readers’ commentaries; I have to keep alerting myself I need to get up early in the morning for work.

My fondness for the guy keeps on growing. My disdain for political correctness makes me like him more. Yeah, he may not become the next president of the U.S. But what the heck, count me as a solid fan of the guy from now on.

Blogger Insight and Circumstance

I hope for peace with my co-bloggers all the time.

Nevertheless, an “expal” might have gotten pissed off owing to my observation from some recent period of a particular propensity, leading to the blogger hitting back with a snide remark that I must be seeking desperately for love and attention. My only response was “Whoa…” (insert an eye roll to boot).

But then I’ve seen many a female blogger with my status get attacked in the same vein by others who never took the time to know those women through their blog posts.

Still, shouldn’t one ponder on the following questions before dispensing judgment to someone like me who has been open about her circumstances and life stories in this ethernet we populate?

• Would I go public as to how broken and flawed I am as a human being if my purpose had been to attract the opposite sex?
• In spite of my being deemed sweet, can anybody stand up and allege that I have initiated a connection beyond mere blog friendship?
• Notwithstanding having received emails from a few amiable readers, did I ever give anyone encouragement to cultivate more than plain camaraderie with me?
• Think about it: How can WP citizens imagine of fanciful relationships blossoming when each and every one of us is –now don’t be offended, please– practically disclosing in our respective blogs (oft unawarely) how much of a loser we are?

The blogworld has been my escape from the blistering events that had taken place in my most recent years: It has turned into an alternate world for me. Alright alright, I also admit to not having a life these days. And neither do most of you. 🙂

A month before, I even set up a dummy blog that would have the central purpose of Liking posts and commenting on the newly-found blogs I wish to follow — in as much as I wouldn’t want to unintentionally end up inviting any more new visitors to this site. You can find its avatar on the right side.

No denying I have held dear a few “buddies” — three or four remarkable characters maybe — within my blogging years. Alas, my affection, not to mention my sense of loyalty could be imprisoning — which renders me oblivious of other worthy bloggers. I had gotten attached to some people’s blogs. I had expressed warmth and admiration to a selected few. I won’t deny I had wished I were one of their most esteemed WPress associates, too. That hardly merits a misinterpretation though, does it?

I might have flirted in the past with my first two email buddies. Ok, I can be a flirt and have been so, especially in my younger days: It could have extended over my online persona spontaneously. Such audacity has probably been fueled by the fact I am so far away from all of you. So so far away.

And the flirting has lain dormant for quite some time.

I’ve a need to engage a Muse to be able to write something romantic, true. A few poems had been written with specific bloggers in mind. One of them a highly popular blogger“boy” from the Bronx; Another was the fantastic MrPoppins who happens to be my former black buddy, and who actually feels more like a younger brother to me. Both have long departed from our sphere.

Seeing that the heavens had forgotten to bless me with scholastic smarts, I wish to continue hanging around the cerebral blogs of good writers. I confess to my ongoing quest for bloggers who possess the finest intellect and wisdom to foster my personal growth as a writer.

Having said that, this blog is basically a memoir, not a gazette. If I had the time to work up an educational piece, I’d love to do so. In the meantime, my heart, my soul, and my background tales are this site’s focal essence. Just to be able to write is my preoccupation and foremost goal.

I haven’t yet pasted the chronicles of my romantic history which I have wanted for so long to do across these pages; what with my apprehensions as to being misunderstood in the aftermath — considering my passionate nature has been a consistent player throughout my life.

Let’s be grounded by the reality everything that presents itself here is supposed to stay in this virtual world; In this realm which prevails separately from our physical world.

Capping things off: my Stats has long stopped showing signs of movement. It only means no one reads my blog anymore. I guess the main boon is it’s safe for me now to write about sex.

Yehey. 🙂

********************************************************************

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The song “It’s Impossible” has the lovely original lyrics that tell the sun to leave the sky and ask whether the ocean could keep from rushing to the shore. Its beautiful Spanish version “Somos Novios” below by Andrea Bocelli and Christina Aguilera became my favorite as well.  

“And tomorrow… Should you ask me for the world, somehow I’d get it.
I would sell my very soul, and not regret it. For to live without your love, it’s just impossible.”

Prepositions Plus Further English Matters That Cause My Downfall

You may have no idea how I end up getting buried under the weight of my wrong grammatical turns and past lexical errors.

Cranking out a blog post and doling out comments on co-bloggers’ sites can give me trauma when after pressing the Send button, I discover, to my terror, either a grammatical blunder or a spectral misuse of an English term. Hardly a way is there to take things back so the accompanying mark of shame could only follow me for years to come.

My attempts to work a few good expressions into my composition tend to backfire, moreover, with disconcerting regularity — as my adventurous nature continues to soldier on to my spirit for bold writing. You gotta understand, I’m a wanna-be writer.

A previous blog pal’s sophisticated implementation had switched on my fascination for phrasal verbs, yet to this day I keep blanking out on their apt usage. He once wrote: “Play on, my friend.” Well, that one definitely made me scratch my head.

And please don’t start me with idioms: “Why keep flogging a dead horse?” (Seriously, why would anyone want to do that…to a lifeless horse?).

Nor should you remind me of the innumerable cases of redundancy in my blog posts which I’ve yet to find both time and expertise to mend.

When writing, I get in a bind inevitably as to my choice of prepositions. Let me give you a few examples: Should it be —

on a street or in a street

on the beach or at the beach

angry at or angry with

at WordPress or on WordPress or in WordPress?

Then there are the prepositions I have tried to work into my compositions until I am literally blue in the face:

across, upon, along, beyond, amid

I believe they stylishly elevate your sentences by a few notches. Take an illustration:

“A smile spread across her face.” — more tasteful compared to the prep “over,” don’t you agree?

“Her reputation fell in value amid suspicion of her chicanery and promiscuity.” Amen.

Perhaps I’d better enumerate my additional issues with the English language that keep consigning me into a vague degree of semi-literacy:

• The use of would and could still boggles me the same way a nude dude should. (Hey, I simply aimed for some rhyme there)
• Past perfect has always been painful for me. Because my past had never been perfect in the first place.
• Relatives can indeed be a pain in the #%$. Don’t nod your head — I’m talking about relative clause and relative pronouns here.

An ESL teacher that I am for a neighboring Asian country, imagine my toil and the bunches of knots on my students’ foreheads the minute I spell out to them grammar jargons such as subjunctive, modals, infinitive, and gerund. Ouch.

I remember somebody once said to me, “Let’s chill out!” To which I replied, “Come again?” Yeah, like I’m supposed to be hip in catching all cool expressions.

I’d hate to admit there’s more to bring up with regards to my punctuation, idiomatic and vernacular boo-boos 😦 .  Maybe in the end, we could all agree it’d be best if I just scoot off to a remote island in Southern China and learn Cantonese instead.

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I am a poor, poor (old) girl. Nevertheless, I love singing along to this wonderful song “Rich Girl” by one of my fave artists of the 1980s — the duo of Daryll Hall & John Oates, who also happens to be the top act of the said decade. C’mon, sing this with me.