Best Wishes George and Betty!

So I suppose this means I have too much time on my hands.

After sending my thesis proposal draft to my adviser this morning, I finally got the chance to recreate my sims George and Betty, who unfortunately disappeared for no good reason (though I think it was the software update) last time.  I was too busy being a good grad student that I sort of forgot about my happy virtual couple for some time.

So then, after a few tweaks here and there, I finally got George and Betty live and running again.  These are 2.os, by the way.  I removed George’s commitment issues and made Betty prettier, all just so I can manipulate them into marrying each other.

The wedding was held this afternoon, with me officiating of course.

To celebrate the depths of my fall from human being to lifeless shell, I have chronicled the saga of my dearest George and Betty in video format, so that you may all enjoy the fruits of my lack of a social life.

Check it out y’all.

The Nerdvana Induction

It’s official.

I’ve always known that I’m a nerd. You don’t get to thrive in the academe without being one in the first place.  But then again I wasn’t a nerd’s nerd. I’m just really into research, and I don’t brush my hair regularly, and I have trouble matching clothes, and I happen to be interested in things most people find nerdy…

Which is why you get the picture.

But then I never did think I was nerdy enough.  Not until today.

I’ve mentioned several times on Twitter (where I microblog nearly everything, as odious as that sounds) that I’ve gotten hooked on comic books. The Doctor Who comic books didn’t really do the trick. It was re-watching my Buffy DVDs and learning of the comic book-form Season Eight that really got me started.

So I downloaded stuff. 

Vuze is your friend, by the way.  Don’t shun it.

So I got the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season Eight collection (all that’s out anyway), as well as Angel Season Six, even though I never did watch the series.  I have a thing against David Boreanaz, who scared me into making amends with the lovelorn schmuck I tortured daily in class after watching Valentine.

I don’t fancy drowning in a pretty tub like Denise Richards did, so yeah.

So that’s where it all began.

That’s what I’m going to tell my doctors when the walls start talking to me and the dogs start dancing funny.  That’s what I’ll tell the therapist when they take me away in a white van and keep me in a room with fluffy walls.

Because it’s over.

I’m officially nuts about comic books.  I’ve since downloaded tons of stuff by Alan Moore (who is a god I should have worshipped sooner), as well as Y the Last Man.  I also got Spike: After the Fall, of course, because I wouldn’t be watching Buffy if Spike wasn’t there.  

But it gets worse.

Because I finally have, in my hands, an actual comic book.

I bought it. The first comic book I bought with my blood, sweat and tears. Melodramatic but so fucking true. (Can I get a woot from fellow office drones?)

As for what I bought, may I remind you that *ahem* it’s not good to judge books and their covers, so I don’t want to hear it.  Where do you get off being so judgmental anyway?

I got SPIKE, the collection of three one-shots about my favorite undead being.

There.

I had comic books when I was a kid, because I was sort of Miss Hand-Me-Down. My male cousins took over half of the house, and it was through them that I learned of nerdy sci-fi stuff like Star Trek, Star Wars, Dungeons and Dragons and Sea Quest (which is a story in itself).  

They left me some of their old comic books: the first issue of Ghost Rider and some dark Batman comic book that I didn’t like because I loved the campy Batman Adam West played.  I don’t remember where they are, but I’m sure they’re still in my drawer somewhere.

But yes, this is my first comic book, which officially inducts me into the Nerd Squad.  Crown me nerd queen and all fucking hail.

PS: Shout out to everyone who was instrumental in getting me down this path: Lizzy, Paolo M., Mary Ann M. and Lauren C.

Baby You Can Light My Fire

I probably will be living on salt and rice in the next few days, but goddamn when you’ve got something as good as this, starvation really isn’t a bad thing:

He is currently nameless (but I’m sure it’s a “he”), so help me out kids.

 

Putting the Ass in Assertiveness

So before I was sidetracked by the rude commenter I mentioned in the previous post, I was actually gearing up to let you all know that yes, I have improved.

Physically I appear exactly as I did this morning, but don’t let your stupidity fool you.

This is the new me.

The new and improved me, to be specific.

I joined a workshop on Assertive Communication, and man has it turned my life around.

Behold, the new and assertive Miss Choi!

I have to say it wasn’t as painful as I’d feared it would be.  We did have a short getting-to-know-you bit, where we all had to share something unique about us.  I briefly considered suicide after hearing the other participants’ life tidbits.  Consider:

• I improved my life by joining the Speech Club and winning a declamation contest. Hooray!
• I find public speaking difficult.
• I nearly died of drowning when I was seven. (Way to go existential there, Michelle.)

Maybe I should have gone with the classic “I sold my soul to the devil for a can of beer when I was eight” just to shake things up.  But I didn’t.

Instead I wrote, “I was a fan of Kenneth Peralta in the late 80s”.

So lame it could have competed in the Special Olympics and won.

The workshop itself was actually useful, though, and I think I learned something helpful.  Here’s how it works: when attacked, simply repel it by reverting the force back to the opponent.

Sort of like Tai Chi Boxing, but less exhausting.

If I apply my newly learned assertiveness on the situation with my latest hater, it would go something like this:

Hater: Miss Choi is a bitch.

Miss Choi: Interesting. In what ways would you say I have acted bitch-like?

See what I did back there?  Totally fucked up the dude’s mind is what I did.  If I thrown in a polite little “fuck you” in there, the thing will be so assertive you won’t even have a mind left for me to blow.

But to be honest, I think it’s really done something to me.

This morning, before this all started, I was just a bitch.

Now, I’m an assertive bitch.

That’s got to count for something.

Specifically Speaking

Sort of like this.

I just realized this morning that I can be oddly specific about the things I like.  I was talking to an officemate (henceforth known as L. Fonda) about something random when we somehow landed on the subject of neckties.

Me: Neckties are hot.

L. Fonda: *puzzled look, sort of conveying the message “since when?”*

Me: I don’t know.  I just think guys look hot with neckties, but only if the necktie’s skewed and he’s wearing it with a white, untucked, long-sleeved polo and jeans.

L. Fonda: *another puzzled look, this time saying “what in hell is wrong with you?”*

Me: Hmm… that’s an oddly specific attraction.

Well I realize now that most of the discussion was not a discussion at all but a monologue on my part and raised eyebrows on hers.  But that’s not the point.  It’s true.  I do have this thing for guys in skewed neckties worn with white, long-sleeved polos and jeans.  I’m not entirely picky about the shoes; just don’t wear sandals.

Then again it doesn’t end there.  He also has to be lanky and have sort-of messy bedroom hair to qualify.  And yes, there’s got to be this air of nonchalance that either channels rock and roll or absolute geekiness to send me into hysterical fits of absolute adoration.  Eyeglasses are a plus.

Most people I know swoon over specific body parts like gorgeous eyes, full lips, webbed feet — there’s just something for everybody I guess.  Maybe it’s something like pig’s ears or fermented shark — an acquired taste that defies all logic but gains ardent lovers nonetheless.

Arguably that last bit has nothing to do with my entire skewed-necktie fetish.

So maybe I’m just odd.

Tidbits

My head hurts.

I have a dozen or so stories running inside my head but every time I try to write them down and actually convert them into words I get this nagging reminder that I’m completely and utterly bollocks at this.

This is writer suckage at its finest.

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And oh, did you see how I just dropped British slang back there?

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I’m obsessed.  My sister mentioned that delightful little character flaw of mine after I forced her to watch David Tennant’s dance sequence in Blackpool for the nth time.

Yes, I downloaded all 6 episodes of Blackpool, just because.

And I have the soundtrack, too, which took a little more effort since no actual OST can be downloaded from torrent sites.  I had to track every single song down.  How’s that for fangirlism?

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Did I mention that the screensaver on my cellphone/iPod/laptop is The Tenth Doctor and his sonic screwdriver?

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And my ringtone is Love Don’t Roam.

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The make-or-break comprehensive exams are ON.  I just have to tear myself away from Doctor Who long enough to finally start reviewing.

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We all know that’s probably not gonna happen.

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I’m almost done downloading Torchwood’s Series 2!  Which probably means even less time for studying.

I’m screwed.

(Part of me wants to add a “sonically screwed” joke here, but that would be pushing it.)

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In other non-TARDIS related news: I want to go to Hawaii, so please choose me.  I know my paper is crap but I can wrap my left leg around my neck.  That should sort of count for something.

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I suspect my life has been converted into bite-sized, tidbit versions of itself, the better for me to update my Facebook status.

Sartorially Yours

Dear Miss Choi,

Hello po!

I am a young lovable female, single and available.  I am a Pisces, my favorite color is flesh and I have a pet fish named Jimboy living in my kitchen sink.  Friends say I look a lot like Beth Tamayo and Kenny Loggins, so I guess you can just call me Beth Lo (sort of like J. Lo).

By the way, I know that you are a very busy person, but I hope that you can take some time to answer my query.  For the longest time, I have been under the radar socially speaking, and I am sick of it.  For once, I would like to become the life of the party, the center of attention, the lechon at noche buena.

This, I believe, can be achieved by improving my fashion statement, in the same way that Tessa Prieto-Valdez makes up for her lack of discernible significance with several yards of tulle.  My question, therefore: what fashion trends should I follow this 2009 so that I may finally become the belle of the ball?

Thank you and more power.

Yours in Christ,

Beth Lo

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Dearest Beth,

I can almost see why you’re so unpopular.  Nobody likes anyone who looks like Kenny Loggins.  Not even Kenny Loggins.

But no matter.  There’s always a way to get over your imperfections and improve; just ask a post-op Maui Taylor (she’ll deny it, but we all know better).

So then, fashion trends.  You’ve made the right choice in contacting me.  As a retired international supermodel, fashion consultant to the stars and current Managing Director of the Fukikko Modelling Agency, I can help you.

First things first.  As you may have noticed, lumberjack chic is back!  Nothing says nineties revival like good old plaid in a variety of shades and hues for all to choose from!  This grunge-goes-gay style combines Kurt Cobain’s flannel power with almost anything imaginable — from shirts to shorts to pants to skirts.  Even bags, wallets, shoes and headbands (oops, sorry, I meant blair-bands) have been subjected to the plaid treatment.

In cooperation with the nineties theme, mommy pants have made a comeback!  Arguably the high-waist pants were resurrected last year, but they didn’t catch on as much as the fashion bitches hoped they would, so these disastrous anomalies are back for another try!  I know what you’re thinking.  These high-waist pants were a bad, bad, baaaad idea the first time around.  What makes people think it’ll be any better this time?

That, Beth, is precisely why I’m the fashion supernova and you’re the schmuck sitting behind your desk penning sob stories to bloggers at home.

In the same way that derelique was the crowning moment of Mugatu’s contributions to the fashion industry, we have to realize that ugly is the new black.  For years we slaved under the demands of beauty and perfection, but no more.

Over-the-top, garish, inappropriate, dumb-fuckingly-stupid: these are the new buzzwords in the industry.  Welcome to this brave new world, where the boys proudly sport Abu Sayyaf chic and the girls purchase jeans in every color of the rainbow in true collect-them-all fashion.

It’s all so crazy you might as well join Eksena Manila!

(Sidenote: If anyone from Eksena Manila lands on this page by googling their name, I just want to take a moment to say fuck you, Eksena Manila, fuck you. Back to regular programming.)

Of course, if all else fails, you can always recycle old cardboard boxes and egg cartons into fashion accessories.  Worked for Tessa, see?

I certainly hope this helps you in your quest to become the queen of whatever it is you want to rule over.  Just one final reminder: quit being so desperate; despair is just so last year.

Love you long time,

Miss Choi

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Bonus hugs and kisses for anyone who gets the Petrang Kabayo 2 reference.  I am sooooo effing juvenile.

The Bitch and the Goblin

But it is rude and presumptuous, I said in my mind. What a rude little creature you are to come seeking my love!

I painted pictures in my mind of all the cruel things I wanted to do to it…. With each new torture I imagined for it, the monster would lurch and writhe and wail in agony as if those things were actually happening to it…. Its eyes sent an unnerving glare of reproach at me. Please, madam, oh please, I beg of you, don’t think such terrible thoughts! it cried. I have no evil thoughts for you. I would never harm you. All I feel for you is love, is love. But I refused to listen.

See, then, you little monster, you have no idea what a woman is.”

The Little Green Monster (The Elephant Vanishes) ~ Haruki Murakami

In college, there was this guy who, for some twisted reason or another, decided that he fancied me.  Being the colossal bitch that I am, I sort of rebuffed his advances.  Harshly.  To say that I crushed his mind and spirit would qualify as understatement of the year.

I was onboard a hurtling bus, reading this short story, when his face suddenly came to mind.  Perhaps the fact that he does resemble a goblin figures in there somewhere.  More importantly, I realized that I may have been, you know, over the top.  I don’t really know why, but words like “love” and “I” and “you” (not in that order) have the tendency to send me running for the hills.

There was this one time when aforementioned Pathetic Guy decided he couldn’t take my snobbish ways anymore, and asked that we talk.  I hate it when people say that.  “We have to talk”.  Pssht.

So we did talk, yeah.  He said the magic words and I destroyed him.

Which reminds me.  I suppose it’s but karma that at the grand old age of twenty-five, I have yet to get anyone who resembles David Tennant (or, taking geography into consideration, Samboy Lim) to fall in love with me.  Scratch that.  I have yet to get anyone remotely attractive to fall in love with me seems a lot more accurate.

The attention I get these days comes strictly from truck drivers and construction workers, unfortunately.

He, on the other hand, managed to score himself a girlfriend in the years since.  Granted she looks nothing like me (*ahem*), but he does have a love life and I’m stuck here blogging.

Yep, karma’s just a much bigger bitch than me.

Search Results

I swear, people are finding their way to this website for all the wrong reasons.  I recently installed a WP plug-in that lets me know what search engine terms send people my way, and I must say I’m sort of shocked, and also slightly creeped out.  These search engine terms only reflect the past two weeks or so (beginning with the installation of the plug-in).

behold surfernando is here nah playlist
“carlito dalangin”
eraserheads backmasking
how to make claylettes
movie cj7 soundtrack discography
ely buendia interviewed by gang badoy
mikee cojuangco
www.microminds-multiply.com
free download oo na sige na by robin padilla
puto herbert bautista
9 minute marinator
brain damage – stoned immaculate
sosyalan story
pseudo intellectual glasses

Huh.

Although honestly, I don’t know what terms can be considered “right” either.

No Future for Me

There’s something about punk rock that still resonates in me, nearly a decade after I first heard “I Don’t Want to Grow Up” by The Ramones.

At that time I was halfway between knowing and not knowing, with “knowing” mostly meaning knowing only what the authorities in my life wanted me to know.  It’s a sad little game adults play, cramming their values and morals down the throats of unsuspecting kids.  The essential anti-establishment message of the entire Ramones discography — as well as the sad little charade of decency my Values Education teacher presented each and every day — pretty much drove me over the edge and into the welcoming arms of Sid Vicious.

Hopefully, said arms (or hands) no longer hold the knife that killed Nancy, but that’s not actually the point.

Anyway, it was all good and raw and truthful back then.  Punk rock reflected every fiber of what I was.  I never did go around the metro screaming “anarchy!” and spray painting every priest I came across.  On hindsight, maybe I should have.  Certainly would’ve let out quite a serious amount of angst that way, thereby lessening the probability of my impending meeting with a psychiatrist over my “clinical anxiety”.

The point is, at that time punk rock was my reality.  I could lash out at the Man and squirm in an attempt to get out from under his thumb.  I ignored society’s dictates, made fun of cut-and-dry semi-robots who existed but didn’t live.  For all intents and purposes, I saw myself as above it all.

I didn’t see myself fitting into any of society’s neat little labels.  It was just too much fun being different from the rest of the world’s stupid little tamagotchis.  I saw them for what they were: drones with no color or discernible personality of any sort.

I have, unfortunately, aged.  Responsibilities have caught up with me, and at the grand old age of 25, I must say that the world has successfully harshed my mellow.  I still hate the world, if I may make myself clear, but to paraphrase James Marsters, twenty-something punk rockers with cushy corporate jobs are suspect.  And yes, I’m quoting James Marsters.  Now shut it.

I’m everything I never wanted to be, quite frankly.

I didn’t want a desk job.  I wanted to be traveling, writing, drinking — whatever it was that would let me be me.  I, who famously snorted at any hints of yuppie-ness, have somehow become a Starbucks-guzzling  (occasionally; I can’t always afford it) semi-reliable corporate foot soldier after just four or so years out of college.

I sort of feel foolish and deceitful, listening to the Pistols and the Dead Kennedys sing about the oppressive culture built by greed and power.  I work for the Man, for crying out loud.  All rebelliousness flew out the window the moment I signed the dotted line.

Listening to Johnny Rotten sing “there’s no future for you, no future for me”, therefore, has become sort of more nostalgic rather than rebellious.  There is a future for me, and it came with a rather hefty price tag.

I came down kicking and screaming, but in the end common sense won over inedible things like “dreams” and “principles”.  I’m not knocking my present job.  It’s pretty much the only thing standing between me and starvation.  As much as I love the people I work with and the stability of being employed, though, there’s always the nagging realization that I’ve sold out.

But there’s hope yet.  If — and that’s a pretty big finish-your-thesis-or-else if — I do finish my Masters this year, I have it on good authority (the Dean *ahem*) that I can start teaching in UP.  I can only teach part time, though, as teaching pays in pennies and pennies cannot support my book addiction.  Or my family.  In other words, I need to remain enslaved to the man while foisting my antisocial tendencies on unsuspecting students on weekends.

It’s either that or I take the first flight to Macau, where I shall hereafter harass the locals with my guitar-playing under the nom de guerre Bogart Bautista.

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If you must know, title is taken from a line in “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols.