I know, I know, I ranted about this before, those people whose existence seem to depend on how many likes they get on Facebook. And by ranting about it, I pretty much said no, I won't let my existence depend on how many likes I get on Facebook.
But now it's dawning upon me. In my world, my friends get 80-something likes for posting the most mundane things. A photo of them - what I'll still call a "selca" because my girlfriend calls it that even if "selfie" is the acceptably cute term nowadays - or a photo of some item on their handbags, or their desks, or something really more mundane, like the handle of a fridge's door, or a shard of glass.
In that same world, I post something pretty important - at least to me, it is, but it's the sort that should usually get people to go "wow, I'm happy for you!" or, at least, give them a fuzzy feeling - and I get... nothing. Yes, my existence does not depend on how many likes I get on Facebook. I have to reiterate that.
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6/23/2013
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6/21/2013
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6/18/2013
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Things are looking up.
You are in a shopping mall. Actually, an extension of a shopping mall. Newly opened. Signs around you say "we are on soft opening". None of the shops are open - it is, after all, a soft opening, but the billboards look promising. Aeropostale: soon to open. Stradivarius: soon to open. Banana Republic: soon to open.
You're not the sort of guy who knows a lot about fashion, or even cares for it, but at least you now know where to go if you want to impress someone with your style. Somebody would compliment you on your outfit and asks you where you bought it. You no longer have to answer "sa Singapore", but rather, "sa Ortigas".
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You are in a shopping mall. Actually, an extension of a shopping mall. Newly opened. Signs around you say "we are on soft opening". None of the shops are open - it is, after all, a soft opening, but the billboards look promising. Aeropostale: soon to open. Stradivarius: soon to open. Banana Republic: soon to open.
You're not the sort of guy who knows a lot about fashion, or even cares for it, but at least you now know where to go if you want to impress someone with your style. Somebody would compliment you on your outfit and asks you where you bought it. You no longer have to answer "sa Singapore", but rather, "sa Ortigas".
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6/12/2013
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My mother didn't want me to study in UP. Not that it was ever an option for me - the Diliman campus, the nearest campus to me, was too far, and besides, their application period started so early in the school year that by the time I got wind of it, it was all over. But, with my tendency to get riled up by what's in the news, and my consistently (seemingly) angry (or at least loud) way of expressing myself, my mother decided that if I do go to UP, I will end up as an activist, and spend my free time protesting in the streets. I think she thought I will be killed by my beliefs.
While I understood where my mother was coming from, I felt it was all a bit ridiculous. Really? You won't let me study in one place because I might be an activist? For one, I cannot really call myself an activist. Sure, I get riled up and can get dramatic about it, but I cannot get myself to go out and wave placards and chant slogans and risk being sprayed with water cannons. (I will not have a change of clothes and get sick.) La Salle isn't any less activist - these are people that fashion themselves to be agents of change, after all - but despite all the photocopied posters on the perils of calibrated preemptive response, I decided I'll focus on my studies and, on the side, my burgeoning so-called writing talents.
But most of this is because of my impression, formed when I was in high school, of activists. My teacher then in social studies - he had a bit of an abrasive personality and didn't really get along with most, including me, but I liked him because he was smart and he analyzed the hell out of things. Occasionally he'd hint at his activist background, or what I perceived to be an activist background - his penchant for protest songs, his breakdown of what was to go wrong with the Arroyo administration - but for the most part he was a high school teacher who decided he can't spoon-feed us, under the pretense that we'll encounter all of this in college soon.
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While I understood where my mother was coming from, I felt it was all a bit ridiculous. Really? You won't let me study in one place because I might be an activist? For one, I cannot really call myself an activist. Sure, I get riled up and can get dramatic about it, but I cannot get myself to go out and wave placards and chant slogans and risk being sprayed with water cannons. (I will not have a change of clothes and get sick.) La Salle isn't any less activist - these are people that fashion themselves to be agents of change, after all - but despite all the photocopied posters on the perils of calibrated preemptive response, I decided I'll focus on my studies and, on the side, my burgeoning so-called writing talents.
But most of this is because of my impression, formed when I was in high school, of activists. My teacher then in social studies - he had a bit of an abrasive personality and didn't really get along with most, including me, but I liked him because he was smart and he analyzed the hell out of things. Occasionally he'd hint at his activist background, or what I perceived to be an activist background - his penchant for protest songs, his breakdown of what was to go wrong with the Arroyo administration - but for the most part he was a high school teacher who decided he can't spoon-feed us, under the pretense that we'll encounter all of this in college soon.
Read more »
6/11/2013
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Having a girlfriend means learning to deal with the things girls do seemingly exclusively. I say "seemingly" because, really, they're not the only ones who often change their minds about things, right? I mean, I can also be terribly indecisive, which is why I'm writing this blog entry now, as a 24-year-old who's worked for five years, and not as an overly-confident 15-year-old.
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6/08/2013
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First, a disclaimer. I will not say I am not guilty of this, in case someone stumbles upon this and does the very thing I will be writing about. I'm pretty sure - and the evidence is in the archives - that I've done something like this before, and perhaps I've done this many times, but I guess at this point I am just tired of this.
Yep, I am tired. I am tired of watching every watchable space for mistakes and then pouncing on them.
I am tired of blasting whoever made that mistake to high heavens, not stopping until said person meets his demise.
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Yep, I am tired. I am tired of watching every watchable space for mistakes and then pouncing on them.
I am tired of blasting whoever made that mistake to high heavens, not stopping until said person meets his demise.
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6/03/2013
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They found her. They found her in a grassy field somewhere in Imus. Her hands were tied, her body was mutilated all over - and that's apart from the 27 stab wounds - and her clothes were nowhere to be found.
I saw all this on television, on the morning news, as I prepared for work. I was cutting my fingernails when it happened. "Isang babae ang ginahasa at pinatay..." and I almost didn't look up, until I heard Rainy's name, and I dropped my nail cutter, and I started sobbing.
I didn't go to work that day.
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I saw all this on television, on the morning news, as I prepared for work. I was cutting my fingernails when it happened. "Isang babae ang ginahasa at pinatay..." and I almost didn't look up, until I heard Rainy's name, and I dropped my nail cutter, and I started sobbing.
I didn't go to work that day.
Read more »
Niko Batallones writes The Upper Blog.
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