The RANTS of a BUSTED BULB

7. What’s your strangest talent?

This is prolly going to sound stupid, but here goes… I can alter the sound of my laughter—but only once I’ve started laughing. (Why do I feel as dumb as Karen Smith from Mean Girls?)

Let me try to word this better. Once you get me to crack up—which isn’t too hard to do—I can pretty much manipulate the personality and the voice of my laughter into just about anyone or anything. Yes, laughter has personality. I can turn the regular hahahas into booming hwahwahwas, creepy hihhihis, dorky hehehes, and wild hunghoasnaldhahasadakjnha.

Okay. That doesn’t make sense in writing, but I swear! You’ll just have to trust me on this one. Better yet, make me laugh and ask me to do it.

Actually, I can even imitate laughs. Meaning if there’s some hapless loser beside me who just so happens to have a conspicuously weird laugh, kawawa siya sa akin. [He’s dead meat.] I’ll impersonate it down to the inflections and the pitch.

(I must add though, it’s become an interest of mine to copy people’s voices. Sometimes I’d just stand there and start listening to a person’s tone, pitch and accent. I am weird that way.)

Oh! And it gets even better. I can extend the laughter for minutes—even if nothing’s funny anymore. Chances are, though, you’re still laughing with me. It’s just that strange.

Sentence count: 21
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56. In a relationship?

Oh. You.

Best. Choice. Of. Question. Ever. As in. Ever.
Really. Like really. Totally. 

Um. Say what? Like. Uh.

So… like. 

NO. Hahahaha.
*tear

Sentence count: 20-ish.

ASK!

68. What do you think is Satan’s last name?

You know how you call people by their last name? And I don’t mean in that friendly tone where said person makes use of trendy last-name nicknames. I’m talking about when you would call someone by their last name when everybody else calls him/her by another, more familiar name.

I mean, there are a number of reasons you do that. There’s the unfamiliarity. There’s the coldness. There’s the distance. There’s that awkwardness that you don’t dare enter by calling that person by his/her given name.

Dragging this along, you could call them by their last name simply to show rebellion. You want to extend your lack of respect for them (and vice-versa). You just feel utter contempt and hate that, rather than build some kind of first name-basis kind of relationship, you decide to keep things insultingly formal.

I mean, calling someone by a term of endearment shows how comfortable you are with each other. Calling someone by their nickname means there’s a relationship or a friendship. First names keep things formal and settled without too much stiffness.

But last names alone are just sad. Without the accompanying mister or miss or other, it’s like you’ve made the person a generic pill. It’s like you’ve  put that person on the top shelf, hoping you’ll never have to call him/her ever again. It’s as if you’ve dug a canal and let the water flow between the two of you. “Keep as far away from me as possible, loser.”

So in other words, I babbled through a meadow of flowery words just to say: I think Satan is itself his last name. It’s as simple as that.

Sentence count: 21.
Ask! 

76. In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?

Shit. That question. *composes self*
Okay…

I’m a romantic. Always have been. And even if I haven’t exactly been there to make some kind of answer to this question, there’s just something in me that knows in some way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be hoping for it.

Gahd. I’m having a hard time putting this into words, so forgive the verbal diarrhea.

In my hopeful opinion, what makes a great relationship has got to be that unspoken connection—that state of just being, being together at that. It’s that oneness past all the worrisome tangibles and idiotic occurrences of living. Am I making sense?

Sure, we can all make our statements, proclaiming we’re in love. But those cold, loud words could just be empty. Aren’t we just reassuring ourselves that we’re not lonely? I’d like believe a great relationship goes beyond those words. It moves through heartbeats and into hormones, minds and hearts. It’s feeling the other person, being that other person and still knowing who you are.

It’s looking into that person’s eyes and, without hesitation, knowing that what your feeling is real. It’s that state where you’ve gone past caring—the state where all you’re doing is being.

It’s saying a thousand words without so much as making a single sound. And feeling those words envelope your existence. It’s being in that still, singular moment and have all of time pass by.

To reach that stage in a relationship, for me, would define it as great.

Truth be told: I’ve yet to experience “it,” but somehow, I know—or at least, I’m hopeful—it will be there.

Post-rereading comment: Damn, I don’t remember taking any weed.

Sentence count: 20-ish.
Ask! 

92. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?

Wow, whoever thought of that questions is a genius.

I’d say I’d like to go back to the end of the first show of Duwa. I don’t remember being any happier. True euphoria.

Well of course, you’re expecting a story. Duwa is my first legit stage experience. I performed in one of the two one-act plays we presented, performing in this role that went against most of who I was. I was Kristiyano, a devout Catholic who fell into the same well together with the corrupt mayor (my boss), a pragmatic Muslim and a cynical atheist. Total opposite since (a) it was in Tagalog—back then, my Filipino sounded more like English than it did the crisp, strong sounds of Tagalog—(b) I was saying some of the bleakest things and (c) I cursed in Tagalog. (Well, now 2 of the 3 aren’t exactly antonyms of my personality.) The play, by the way, is called Hulugan.

Anyhow, being that I was stripped off my stage virginity, the kind of celebration and bliss and joy and what-not that happened immediately after the curtain closed was just other-worldly. I literally was jumping up and down. Literally. (I’m using it correctly.)

The realization was wild: That’s what it feels like to be applauded. To have the fruits of a year’s worth of hard labor and a week’s worth of blood and tears manifest themselves in loud cheers and appreciative faces. THAT’S WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO PERFORM. To lose yourself in the body and mind of another person. To evoke emotion and hope to receive it back. To be… ugh. Words fail me.

But I guess the more times I found myself up there, the lesser the feeling’s become. You keep returning to it comfortably, like cozying up under a blanket after a tired day. It isn’t new.

So if I had half an hour back, I’d like to go back and feel THAT again.

Sentence count: 24-ish.
Ask! 

80. What size shoes do you wear? (Twenty sentences? Challenge accepted.)

To answer the question, I actually rummaged through my shoes. Loser.

My blue boat shoes are sized 42. But before you judge me as some clown freak, I’d like to say it’s an Italy-based brand, so their sizing is way bigger than normal. My brown boat shoes are at 41. I had a harder time breaking into them than I did into the blue ones. No duh. I’ve been using these boat shoes so often that they need retirement already. Sigh.

My sports shoes are sized 9. This one also needs replacing. I have literally scratched out a hole on the inside. It’s embarrassing, but I don’t want to use my newer Nikes for running. If only shoes weren’t expensive… My newer Nikes, my eco-friendly Seymour Krelborn sneakers and my Brazilian-colored suede shoes are all 9 as well.

My black Pumas are sized 9.5 while my favorite pair—printed canvas sneakers—are sized 42. I spent a whole summer’s worth of saving on that pair. Totally worth it. But now it’s year’s old and I’m afraid to wear it. I don’t want it to die.

And if you want to find out my “shoes size.” Pervert, get out of my blog. Or approach me in bed, your choice.

Sentence count: 20+ish. Gotcha!

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81. What is your favorite word? (You and your choice of questions. Giving me a hard time.)

I have a question. Do you have a favorite word? How do you even begin to have one? However, I do like how some words are.

Bukol. Yes, it sounds un-classy, but it just captures the essence of what a bukol is. Uttering the words, you can already imagine what it is in your head. It’s almost onomatopoeic—that is, if bukols had sounds. “Swelling” just doesn’t do it justice.

Delusions. Whenever I make weird dramatic car monologues (don’t ask), I always seem to mention that word at least once. I don’t know. There’s just so much power to it.

Nuanced. I still don’t know its exact dictionary definition, but I don’t really care. It’s just one of those words you can’t define out loud, but just know… and feel. Its whole essence just is. 

Okay. For such a short word, it has so much meanings. Don’t you think? Said with just a bit of nuanced emotion, you could’ve said a lot. I like abusing it.

Iniibig (Kita). If you told me this, I would just asdfghjd;laad/dakc. For me, it captures something all the other translations for “I love you” just doesn’t have. It’s proclaiming, “You are who I want. You define my being. You are what I means. You da bomb.”

Beautiful. Because it just is.

Sentence count: 25-ish.

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Check my previous posts for my answer to #79.

Now, ask! 

79. What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?

That is one tough question, sir. Let’s see…

(5 minute pause)

I would say it was auditioning for Little Shop of Horrors. Mind you, it took a me a lot of time and effort to decide whether or not to join the show. Why? Simple, my hell of an ex-course.

I had been warned and was fully aware of the troubles of sophomore year Management Honors—specifically that the big cut happens here. So I had a lot of apprehensions. In fact, freshman year, I promised myself I wouldn’t join any production in my second year.

Well, who’s the promise breaker? After careful weighing and a big risk-taking “just go for it,” I auditioned and landed the show. And damn, what a show! Everything was just perfect and the response was tremendous. I couldn’t have been any happier or prouder. (Sure, I could’ve gone without the illness, but meh.)

So my promise breaking had its karmic effect. I’m not in Honors anymore—not that it had anything directly to do with Little Shop. I was honorably kicked off during the second semester, when the show was all wrapped up and months behind.

But what the hell. That was a defining moment for my college life—if not THE defining moment. Memories like that can’t be replicated. BEST. DECISION. SO FAR? You bet.

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Sentence count: 21-ish.
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