Vanity, Thy Name is Pain

Fucking pain.

this, only girlier.

Of course I didn’t cry like the wimp that my sister is, but I never thought it would be this horrible.  See, I finally found the time to drop by Face-or-Something (I can’t remember the establishment’s name, sorry) to get the area above my upper lip threaded.

For those not in the know, threading is simply the art of torture using thread to remove hair from a particular body part.  From what I’ve heard, Chinese brides in the ancient times were required to have their entire faces subjected to threading.  

Now I’m not exactly hairy, so please remove that image from your brains.

It’s just that a month or so back, I realized that the balahibong pusa above my upper lip was starting to become more pronounced.  Did it grow or something?  Perhaps the conditioner for my hair accidentally landed somewhere on my face and caused a follicular reaction.

I have no effing idea.

I would have been perfectly happy to ignore this rather unsightly change on my face, except the faux mustache had this Fu Manchu-ish look that drove me absolutely batty every time I had to look at myself in the mirror.

So yes, the trip to that establishment. 

I seriously had no idea it would be so painful.  I kept my eyes shut the entire time, hoping it would somehow end quicker if I just passed out or something, but no dice.

I do have to say that it’s been a success and Fu Manchu is gone, and the pain went away a few minutes after the entire ordeal.

Will I do it again?

I want to say no, but you really should never say never.

Like if I perhaps get a Tom Selleck mustache next time around.

Come and Keep Your Comrade Warm

I don’t think it’s ever been this cold in Manila.  Ever.

Not that I’m complaining.  I’ve gone on and on before, wishing I lived in bleak London because I wanted the opportunity to wear jackets and boots without having people stare at me like I’d lost my mind.

It’s fun walking around in the dreary, sunless weather.  I get to run through my dozens of long-sleeved shirts and wear a different jacket every other day.  I’m not wishing the sun out of existence (that would be a disaster of major caliber).  I just wish it would stay hidden behind those nice little fluffy clouds most of the time so I can walk around and enjoy this cold weather for as long as I can.

Unfortunately, nothing’s ever completely good, I think.

Maybe this is what they call winter depression.  The cold weather is so bleak that it drives people a few shades more insane than they usually are.

I’ve been more than a little bummed these past few days.  Not entirely sad.  Not at all.  Things haven’t been peachy either, but at least I don’t think I have anything to be gloomy about.  I think.  I’ve been sort of off-balance and slightly unhinged, but that’s just me on a not-so-good day.

What I didn’t count on was how the cold could exacerbate every tiny tinge of pain.  Every single sigh, magnified a thousand times.  It fills your head, no matter how logic insists that it’s not that big a deal.  It resonates throughout, leaving you practically immobile, paralyzed by the waves of hurt crashing through your system.

Bitter reminders of imperfection are amplified, causing cracks in the usually resilient armor.

Hold me.

Health is Wealth, Ergo I am Poor

If my sister’s psychological test is to be believed, I am the following things:

- narcissistic
- egotistical
- self-absorbed
- intent on shutting out the world
- repressing hostile and aggressive emotions
- mentally defective (See? Not deficient … defective. I am smart but damaged.)
- insecure
- emotionally immature
- longing for freedom from responsibility
- harboring malicious designs on Ely Buendia

The last part I added in keeping with the Eheads theme of this week’s consecutive posts. Of all the things listed up there, though, that’s pretty much the only one I agree with. If my sister had diagnosed me with God complex I would have wholeheartedly agreed. And paid her for services somehow, I think.

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Finally went to see a cardiologist after more than three months of pussyfooting.  I had to go back to my pediatric cardiologist because I simply couldn’t find anyone else I could trust.  He’s a cardiologist for kids but that doesn’t exactly deter me, obviously, so off I went.

Miraculously, his assistant somehow found my records from fourteen years ago.

A review of my test results showed that I still have no reason to check into the Philippine Heart Center (damn!), but that I might have a bit of a lung problem.

I still have Mitral Valve Prolapse, but it’s not the source of my frequent chest pains.  According to my doctor, I’ve got some sort of asthma gene (I have skin asthma, and my mother’s family is filled to the brim with people suffering from asthma) that gives me weak lungs and the inability to inhale enough oxygen.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m constantly asphyxiated.  Which sounds weird.

Anyway, what it does mean is that my lungs automatically go into overdrive when I get seriously stressed.  That’s the asthma gene at work.  And yes, that’s where the chest pains come from.  Fear can also trigger the same reaction from my stupid, stupid lungs.

So I’m supposed to avoid stress to keep my lungs from going haywire, as well as heavy lifting so my prolapse doesn’t act up.

In short, if you want me dead, lock me up in a cramp room with dozens of clowns.  That should pretty much do the trick.

I’m such a nice and loving person, though, so I can’t imagine anyone wishing to do that to me.

Right?

Right?

What?

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

I just want to say that a lot of things are obviously wrong with me, which proves my theory that first-borns are always defective 1.0s.  You have to wait for the 2.0s to avoid patches and fixes and stuff.

No More Beers Formula

I can’t — and won’t — go into details here, but suffice it to say that my days as a beer lover are over.

A Higher Being, in the form of the ulcers lining my stomach wall, has decreed that I am now completely incapable of guzzling beer, no matter how little.

I’ve resorted to lessening my daily caffeine intake, eating on time and snacking on crackers, but to no avail.

It’s over.

Which leads me to this thought: I need a new vice.

Weed, perhaps.

Baby You Can Light My Fire

Yes, I’m high again.

The last time I was this high I couldn’t laugh at the funniest jokes. My insides were shaking but the mind refused to communicate. Maybe that’s what they call catatonia.

No, I’m not depressed. Yes, I had a tooth extracted yesterday. Just like before, I was ordered to take Amoxicillin and Mefenamic Acid three times a day for one week to lessen the swelling and minimize the massive pain that my goddamn tooth was shooting out.

For days on end I couldn’t eat properly. Add that to my hyperacidity problems and you’ve got a diet in the making. Which was sort of horrible, since I can’t not eat when everyone’s joyfully chowing down. It’s sheer torture.

I nearly cried, too, because of the stupid pain that my tooth was causing. Nearly, because I find it difficult to cry under most circumstances. Even pain cannot make me cry, which is weird because I cried when I watched Simba’s father get trampled in a stampede. Un-fucking-explainable.

So I finally got it out yesterday, after the dentist mistakenly cleaned my teeth. Apparently he had no idea I wanted an extraction, and he did a general cleaning instead. But he was nice enough to pull my tooth out afterwards, after my entire mouth had gone numb with three shots of anaesthesia.

Now I’m fine. I’ve been eating tons (as much as my hyperacidity allows) and I’m happy. Plus I’m mandated to take my drugs for three more days. I might go beyond the three days required, though, just to stay this relaxed. Seriously. It’s a bit weird, but taking this cocktail of meds has brought me to new sedative lows. I get bouts of excitement and lots of bouncing, but then I suddenly shut up and feel the need to ignore the rest of the world.

I didn’t get into any fights on the MRT, too, thanks to the relaxing effects of my doctor’s prescription. I like this new sedate me.

Unfortunately, one side effect is that I’m constantly hearing Helter Skelter in my head for no good reason. Which isn’t entirely a bad thing, since I love this song, but it gets a little disconcerting when Paul won’t stop singing inside your head.

I’ll supplant Paul with a bit of Jim this time, just because the latter’s a bit more apt in this particular situation:

You know that it would be untrue/You know that I would be a liar/If I was to say to you/Girl we couldn’t get much…higheeeeer

Yeah.

The Involuntary Diet

I have been frothing at the mouth over my excess weight these past two years (thanks to constant eating in the office) yet I never really did anything about it.

I know that pills can’t really help you lose weight, but I was — and still am — such a sloth I couldn’t motivate myself to exercise. My only physical activity consists of manually turning the television set on and off, and occasional beer-lifting. And oh, I do take the stairs on MRT stations, but not always. Seldom is more like it.

Anyway, these past few weeks, I’ve been in less than perfect health. Two weeks back (I think) it was hyperacidity that stole my long weekend from me. I couldn’t do anything. I was practically bedridden, since any movement had me doubling over. I couldn’t eat even though I was horribly hungry, thanks to a really shot digestive system. That’s what a combination of not eating on time, spicy foods and coffee can do to you.

Then this week I somehow got infected with a roving virus that has effects similar to those of Xenical. I’m not going to elaborate.

So, since my digestive system is shot and I nearly died of dehydration, I somehow feel a bit lighter (and light-headed). It’s not a great feeling, being sick, but now that I’m a little better, I sort of feel less bloated than I’ve been these past few years.

I can’t eat much, ever since the hyperacidity episode, and I suppose I may actually have stomach ulcers that go into overdrive every meal time. Now I can only eat half a cup of rice. More and I’ll suffer the rest of the day. When I get hungry in between meals, I raid my stash of Milo and skyflakes.

And oh, I’ve somehow managed to wean myself off coffee.

The way I see it, I’d rather minimize my intake now than be forced to quit coffee forever. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fix my digestive system with constant Xantac-popping. Hopefully.

The good thing about this is that I lost a grand total of five pounds in two weeks. From 122lbs, I’m now down to 117lbs — just 7lbs heavier than my high school weight.

That’s without any exercise at all. Usually, though, the pounds return right after. This time, however, I think things will change. I’m not saying I’ll exercise. My Hip-Hop Abs video is gathering dust on a shelf. I’m just saying I have no choice.

I still can’t go beyond a few bites without getting a bloatey feeling, so I can’t eat a lot. Maximum of half-cup rice per meal, or even less. Otherwise, I’ll be clutching my midsection the entire day. Since I can’t eat much, there won’t be as many unburned calories stocked in my body, right?

That means I won’t need to exercise, and still I’ll lose weight.

It’s my involuntary diet.

Ulcer

At dahil sa kombinasyon ng katangahan, katamaran, pagod at di wastong oras ng pagkain, tumba ng dalawang araw ang kadalasa’y walang kasing-tibay na si Miss Choi. Wala na yatang sasakit pa sa sitwasyong gutom ka ngunit halos isuka mo ang bawat subo. Talaga yatang may sense of humor ang Diyos at nakaisip pa nang ganito ka weirdong sakit.

Ewan ko lang kung natatawa Siya habang dalawang araw akong namimilipit sa sakit at lunok ng lunok ng Zantac na parang tanga. Hindi tuloy ako nakanood ng Kung Fu Panda. Hmmph. At tatlong araw na kong walang kape sa katawan.

Pero magaling na ko. Yun lang.

Teeth and Cheese

I got my problematic wisdom tooth extracted this morning, and the doctor was absolutely fantastic. He got the tooth out in practically five minutes flat. Since I’m quite sentimental, I got the tooth and decided to keep it. I’ll probably keep it in some glass jar for posterity.

The tooth’s far more terrifying in real life. I figured it was seriously screwed up, considering the pain it was shooting out, but I never expected it to be that bad. The tooth is ugly. Horribly ugly. Me likey…

With my mouth still sore and my brain chewing on painkillers, I still made it to the French National Day party at Sofitel Philippine Plaza this evening. I’ve worked on freelance translation projects (Mandarin to English; I don’t know any French) for the French Embassy so I got an invite.

It was my first time to attend such an upscale gathering and I was half-expecting to run into Maurice Arcache or some other socialite. It was a good thing my sister joined me; otherwise I would have nosebled to death. The wait staff was offering a variety of teeny-tiny foodstuffs whose names I probably can’t pronounce, let alone spell. I skipped the wine because I wasn’t so sure I was allowed to drink so soon after the extraction.

Truth be told, me and my sister really couldn’t eat much. I feel like such an ingrate, but I don’t think I’m really cut out for French food. I should have stuck to the bread.

Highlight of the night: got to take a picture with Alfredo Lim! Okay, so maybe I’m being a little too celebrity-obsessed, but I just had to get a picture. I made up some story about getting my friends to vote for him, but he was so nice it was practically unnecessary. I also saw my professor and erstwhile crush, Prof. Malay, who was walking around with his French WIFE. End of dream.

We left right after the fireworks. Didn’t feel much like dancing, particularly with a nagging, gaping wound upon the spot my aching tooth once stood on. The French weren’t quite as snobbish as I expected, probably just as snobbish as the Chinese.

Rather eventful day, but I can’t think straight anymore. I think I need some rest. And oh, I’m not using mascara ever again. It’s hell to remove.

Stoned Immaculate

The last few days have been a bit of a haze, thanks to the immense pain irregularly shooting out of my wisdom teeth. Yes, I said teeth. The one on the upper right is rotten beyond redemption, while the one on the lower left is impacted and threatening to destroy both my gums and the poor tooth beside it.

Both have been hard at work keeping me wincing in pain every single second of every goddamn day, which, of course, gave me the rare excuse to gorge on amoxicillin and a bevy of painkillers. Thanks to this medical cocktail, I’ve been pretty much not myself lately, alternating between cheerfulness and catatonia.

I’m high.

At the very least I have The Doors to keep me company during this highly unsober state, with Jim exhorting me (I think) to “get higher”. Oh well, light my fire, I guess. In the span of 24 hours, I have come to the conclusion that the greatest rock song in the entire universe has to be “Changeling”, particularly when Jim Morrison belts out a raspy, “You gotta see me chaaaaaaaaaange…”.

I also decided that the Max Wineberg 7 will perform “Touch Me” for my wedding (the previous choice was “Baby I Love You” by The Ramones).

I did get to catch up on some movies, though:

Blades of Glory
It’s probably not going to be shown here, so go seek out your suking pirata for a copy.
“We’re going to skate to one song and one song only: what you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside that trunk?”

Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros
I finally got to see Kuya Bogs. And I’m in love again. It could be the alaxan talking, but Marian, hingi mo ko autograph!!

Because I Said So
Not as good as I hoped it would be, and I’m starting to believe Diane Keaton is a psycho in real life (just like Jack Nicholson). The musician was pretty cute, though. A bit awkward, if not completely poorly written. But as I said, the musician was pretty cute.

Stranger than Fiction
Unlike the other Will Ferrell starrers, Stranger than Fiction isn’t exactly a laugh riot. It’s funny, though, and a bit sweet. I have this thing for geeks (not exactly rooting for Mr. Suave), and Will Ferrell’s pathetic corporate drone’s attempts at romance completely swept me off my feet. I’m pretty sure my heart jumped a few notches when Will Ferrell sang “Whole Wide World” (by Wreckless Eric). And oh, I can’t bake, but I want flours, too.

And yeah, I’m still pretty stoned.

In Search of Azalea

It came to me a few nights ago, in my friend’s house, while in the middle of a birthday party/chugfest.

How she came to be mentioned in a rather complicated conversation about Gloria, PBB and a host of other things still escapes me. I heard her name, blinked and felt a knife strike deep into my gut.

Ouch.

Four years and she still has that effect on me.

How unfortunate.

I should have forgotten her completely by now, but certainly, there’s been quite a glitch in the system. Or maybe I’ve just been avoiding her memories all this time.

Whatever.

The mention of her name struck a rather nasty chord, bringing back a dozen of memories I’d rather bury in my mental cemetery — thank you very much. But now that everything’s been unearthed, I can’t just go back to exorcising them all again, short of committing myself to selective amnesia.

She left without a word four years ago, not even a warning. I knew she wasn’t happy, knew my new friends didn’t get along with her (or she didn’t get along with them). I knew she had problems. I knew she could have used a helping hand.

Not that I hadn’t offered. But she was too stubborn, insisting on stringing all her baggage along all by herself.

And I, of course, lacked patience and nice language. All I could express at that time was anger, though I could never really bring myself to hate her. Never. Not even now. Not even after she replied to one of my sms rudely, claiming not to know me.

I still blame myself, partly, for not being a friend enough.

The mention of her name reopened a lot of things. I knew, right there and then, that I would have to find her and end everything once and for all.

She may have forgotten me. She may have never thought of me as a friend at all. She may not want to see me or have anything to do with me ever again, but this much she owes me.

I want to know. I need to know. All those years and I never even knew if she liked me at all. She was just there, hovering, not really letting me in. And still I hung around, just like the way I hang around her memories today.

This much she owes me.

So I google her name and a random string of things that could lead to her at least. I text a former friend who could be the only remaining link to her. I’m doing every goddamn thing I can, because it’s been four years and it’s about time she gave me peace. I’m blogging about her, hoping that someone in this universe would actually know her and pass the message.

AZALEA NAPENAS: I need to talk to you.