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Laziness and Cramming

Laziness and cramming are just two of my favorite words.

First, let me tell you that weekends should not be spent in bed at all cost. It makes you think about things that you should be doing in a walking, vertical world. Just lying there, staring at the ceiling (if you still got time to open your eyes -- not sleeping, in other words), wishing it's another weekend or holiday so you can do this motionless state of existence all over again and feel bad afterwards because you should be doing something worthwhile like cook or play Playstation 3. Yeah, playing the PS3 is worthwhile to me, thankyouverymuch.

Second, doing all of the above (I think this phrase is wrong, I wasn't doing anything above if you've noticed), will result to cramming. And that is something one should avoid because it's bad for the mind -- it goes blank. You start staring at the ceiling again and resolve to the empty cruel space of laziness.

But I'll have to say, it's good for the heart because it makes one go tense. It speeds up the heartbeat. Better than a cardio workout, huh? It somehow complements laziness.

Laziness and cramming are two words that always go together. Pretty much like effective and efficient, honesty and loyalty, salt and pepper, Adam and Eve.

This makes sense a lot. Zzzzzz.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

end/less

a loop, a routine;
it makes me fall in
(makes you fall out of)

the 1+4+3 bin

=8, infinity.
i go back again
and it’s only me–

a loop, a routine.


© 2009 Cat Ramos

August 10, 2009 @ 2:45am

Markers are Forever

Markers are meant to be permanent. It’s the kind you want to write on your boxes when you’re moving out and shipping packages. Or for presentations on a manila paper, old school style. It’s not my most favorite piece of writing instrument because I am notoriously known as someone with an illegible writing with bonus doodles on the side. I write fast but not in the “automatic writing” sense because that would classify me as creepy.

It’s a different thing with whiteboard markers. It’s temporary when used on plastic-ky surfaces, obviously on whiteboards. You write on the board, you erase it, it’s gone, and you write again. It’s a great invention, really. You could write or doodle forever and change your mind; the whiteboard marker just doesn’t care. I like it because they’re so easy...to remove.

But it’s a disaster when you write with a permanent marker on a whiteboard surface. Once it’s there, it’s there. Any attempt on erasing it with an acetone or soap is practically futile. Not to mention the easiest and most convenient ‘cleansing’ material available for emergency cases, the alcohol, makes it even worse. It’s always a misconception that alcohol can totally remove or dissolve anything unwanted. But it just dilutes the problem, even spreading it. Alcohol is not that reliable sometimes.

The board can somewhat still be functional but the stain always gets in the way. It’s still there, microscopically speaking. Well, the marks could fade a little but it’s never completely removed. There will always be distractions. Magulong intindihin, mahirap nang basahin.

As suggested by a friend of mine, there is probably one solution for this problem. How ever unpopular it is, it could still work. Apparently, this tip came to me through word of mouth or for lack of a better term, a hearsay. This is some chismis that I cannot ignore and I ought to try it myself. Many people have tried it and it worked, according to them. There’s even an instruction from Wikihow on this.

Steps on how to erase marks left by permanent marker on a whiteboard (my shortcut version):

1. Get a whiteboard marker.

2. Outline or shade the marks of the permanent marker on the board using the whiteboard marker.

3. Once completely shaded, get an eraser.

4. Erase all.

Expected result: All marks will be removed.

So I did try it. There was one large whiteboard in the office with permanent marks all over it (figures, drawings, notes). The condition of the board was poor and no longer useful for presentations. It was a good board to experiment on. So I got myself a black whiteboard marker and followed the steps on how to remove it. I shaded it, outlined it, tried erasing it and Voila! It failed. Even the whiteboard marker ink could not be erased. It became permanent. Now it just compounded the problem.

You may say, something must be wrong with the temporary whiteboard marker. Or maybe it was clearly the permanent marker’s fault. Or even the eraser’s. You could even blame it on the given set of instructions. But rarely do we think about the board itself. I found my answer through this.

At a glance, the board may look like a victim of misused permanent markers. But if you examine closely the surface of this board, you would notice small scratches, little wounds that it has collected over time because of numerous marks and erasures. And here’s the catch: The original unremovable marks were not really caused by a permanent marker but by a whiteboard marker instead. Even the temporary becomes permanent if your board is a mess.

Removing something permanent through something temporary is unusual and at the same time, effective. For some.

But not for me this time. I’d rather fix the board first.

© 2009 Cat Ramos

Give Me a Numb3r

I just realized how important numbers are. Its numeric symbolism, I mean. Although I am someone who is pretty much average with mathematics in academic sense, I think I love it now.

Numbers never lie. Whenever I see a number, like a “7” for example, it really is the number seven. No hidden meaning there and I know this number will not turn into something else, like “8” or “9”. It’s such a no-brainer, easy to figure out. It is what it is.

It’s different with words though. It lies. It denies. It evolves. It conceals. It’s the devil himself.

How many times have I encountered people (myself included) who have been deceived because of words? Countless. Or in my current numeric fascination, I can say it’s probably around 1,404* times to date and it’s just my statistics alone. If there’s one business I would surely like to venture on in the future because it would definitely be a hit, it should have something to do with words. Laway lang ang puhunan.

Everyday brings us new entries to our vocabulary of words. No wonder the dictionary is getting thicker and thicker each time. Rarely do I come across words that expire. It takes a couple of hundreds of years before it vanishes completely, as Latin as it may be. But then again, the Roman Catholics still use Latin in high mass so it hasn’t died yet, in a way. Not too mention the common phrases or quotes we frequently use in philosophy, i.e. In vino veritas - The truth is in wine; A drunk person tells the truth.

Words never die. And if it does, it reincarnates and attaches itself to our thoughts and yes, feelings. Then it stays there for awhile until we hear another set of words to replace the previous ones. It’s practically a cycle.

Maybe there’s a glitch with words. Or maybe there’s something wrong with the people who tell them. Or maybe there’s something wrong with the people who believe them. Are we that gullible?

There must be a good set of instructions on how to single out the truest of words when it comes out of one’s mouth. While growing up, we were taught how to be honest, to always tell the truth and that liars go to hell. But there were no lessons on how to detect a lie or a bluff. How come these are not taught in school?

For now, I’d rather stick with numbers. It’s the epitome of the WYSIWYG principle that I’ve been adapting lately. It’s credible, precise, and most of all, no bullsh_t.

Playing poker is another subject.

*My age x 52 weeks, conservatively speaking

© 2009 Cat Ramos

Saunafab /

Today, I realized that my bathroom has turned into a mini sauna. I’m not sure if this is a blessing in disguise for me. The last time I went to a sauna was in 2006 when I was still enrolled at Gold’s Gym. However, I never maximized the perk that went with the membership maybe because I am never fond of anything that has got to do with heat and perspiration. But with the combination of heat, perspiration, and pleasure, that’s another matter.

So I went in my bathroom, closed the door, removed all articles of clothing and stood there. The exhaust fan of my bathroom was in a frenzy and it did not relieve me from the summer heat. No difference when I still had my clothes on.  A minute passed by, standing in stationary pretty much reminded me of the sauna bath I had at the gym. Thick air entered my lungs and I started to sweat. It seemed like a claustrophobic encounter minus the panic.

What I like most about the bathroom is that it adjusts to me. I can always step in the shower and wash away all the heat that I felt a few minutes ago or I can just stand there and appreciate the sauna effect I just recently discovered. I can always make a choice.

But some choices can only be made there, when you’re the only one who can go through the effect of your decisions. Decisions outside the shower curtain or beyond the tiles are always tough, especially if we deal with the temporary summer heat or the long-term effects of global warming.

As much as I would like to influence the weather or the uncontrollable external forces (probably Darth Vader’s fault), I cannot. My power lies only within the constraints of my bathroom and my bathroom alone. I am thankful.

I choose to turn the shower knob and let the water pour down on me.

I feel cold.

 

© 2009 Cat Ramos

'Tis You

If I could buy something one of these days, it would be a new man. Yup, you read that right. 

I would like to ward off people who seem to act like they’re an authority when it comes to settling down just because they happen to be recently married. I say this to all the dear smart alecs who are trying to recruit me to join the marital norm ASAP, if they have been successfully and happily married for over 30 years and are sincerely satisfied with it (in terms of financial and sexual aspects most especially), now would be the best time to tell me what to do or ask questions about me getting hitched because I would assume they would be that credible given the strength of their union over that span. If not, they should just talk about the weather or GFC. Or better yet, if they do feel like telling me what to do, they better have a candidate, a preferred Mr. Right for me, when they ask me pointblank the usual when-are-you-getting-married question.

I don't know if I need to let out an SMS campaign that I am recently unattached (read: emotional break) and in no mood right now to actively hunt for a lifetime male partner so I could avoid other people’s pseudo-wishes slash greetings to me about my current non-interest in marriage. I noticed this is becoming a common subject these days when trying to start a conversation along with the used-to-be off topics like age and weight. Like yesterday, I got a text message that goes, “Hi, kamusta? Kelan ka pakasal?”. It even came from someone I haven't heard in ages! I am annoyed. 

I don't small talk about the subject of relationship status unless I volunteer to bring it up in a 1/8-meant, joking manner. Otherwise, I would assume they are doing my biography or probably just wants to know about my personal life because they really really like me a lot (especially if they’re men). How sweet.

As for buying myself a man, it’s a pretty good idea. It is a very sound solution to temporarily stop all the wonderings and naggings bluntly directed to single females within my age bracket from these ‘concerned’ not-so-close friends or acquaintances. Except for the usual SOP questions during family reunions and other get-togethers, I can tolerate that if it comes from relatives because they are naturally nosy. It’s forgivable. 

If there’s a decent guy out there who is willing to have himself bought by my allotted budget of PhP16.00, it would be a perfect ploy. However, I doubt if there’s such a decent guy. Yet, how can we be sure that the rest of the free and cannot-be-bought male population is 100% decent? 

I am a notorious spender for something I truly crave like some of the overly materialistic investments, err, unpractical things I’ve bought over the years (disclaimer: I’m no longer like that now, yup). But since I do not have the drive to be stuck long-term with a guy at this very moment, that amount is enough.  I want this man to be as disposable as a roll of tissue like the cheap 2-ply China-made wipers that most so-called practical and unpatriotic consumers have been buying lately.  It’s a safety net of mine if ever his interest level to me starts to wear off (I am sure it will, based on my own personal survey), I can just easily flush him in the toilet. Or out of my life, I mean. Saving me from future waste…of time.

I am not a man-hater. As a matter of fact, I like them a lot that I am glad to be surrounded by the kindest and most wonderful male siblings, relatives, and friends whom I treasure very much.    

It’s just that I don’t want to think about settling down today or tomorrow or next week. But as sure as the Philippine weather forecasted by PAG-ASA, save a little benefit of the doubt on that one. I might go on a buying spree and hoard on a lifetime supply of Joy, the only right person for me, sooner than I think. My moods always change. 

And hopefully, so will the usual questions too. 

© 2008 Cat Ramos

palpitations

i want to jog, do the cardio

see you after

with my heart going --

     throb throb throb throb

and convince myself i was in love.

 

but i'd rather have my coffee fixed

by a veteran barista

venti, cappuccino

with my name "kat", misspelled

yet he would call out my name

perfectly

in sing song intonation

"one venti cappuccino for caaa-aaat!"

and i would go there,

get my cup

sip a bit

think of you

     throb throb throb throb

and convince myself i was in love.

 

it's funny how

my mobile phone rings

or beeps

     throb throb throb throb (in vibrate mode),

in the middle of the night

with a message

telling me

you missed me

and you want me right then,

right there

and i would.

yep, i would --

convince myself you were in love

 

my heart beating

(because it always does)

my head aching

(sometimes)

from convincing myself i was in love.

 

but really, i was not.

you were not.

 

it's the cardio, it's the cappuccino

with my sony ericcson in shhhhh!

at night

 

but who knows,

tomorrow

     i may be.

 

© 2008 Cat Ramos

Trying This Out

Just downloaded blogger on my P1i.

Labels

“Ownership. I hate being owned.”

– Count Laszlo de Almásy [when asked what he hates most], The English Patient movie

As much as I would like to stay away from anything labeled or tagged, I can’t. Everywhere I go or anywhere I look, there is always a tag or a name that describes a declaration of ownership. It makes me wonder at times why we really have to put our name on something, even on the obvious things that belong to us. How many times have we seen Panda ballpoint pens or Mongol pencils with the owner’s name on it? I also know some people who put a label on almost everything they own, even pirated DVDs. It’s practically stolen, why put your name on it?

I perceive labeling as a self-esteem generator. For the entire world to see, it would mean that this thing is his or hers and it’s better than theirs or yours. Labels invite judgment. It also signifies that we have lost trust on people and we have to make sure that no one would steal our precious properties. Talk about insecurities. It’s the highest form of ‘pambabakod’. But regardless of that, it still gets stolen anyway.

But when it comes to relationship labels (or statuses), the only tolerable thing would be the declaration of the Married status. It’s self-explanatory. We don’t want to mess with married people. But then again, there are people who let out this status as an advantage to getting what they want, like the I’m-Married-Take-It-Or-Leave-it statement. A disclaimer. If you cross the ‘bakod’ of morality, they think it’s not their fault but yours. So let’s not go there.

As for the Single status, it's even more complicated. There are no Single statuses anymore, it’s either you’re Single-Single or Single-In A Relationship (which is really more complicated). If one is technically single, why would that person put a limit on that status? Again, it’s another way of declaring ownership. This time the ‘property’ volunteers to tag himself/herself as that, for the benefit of the owner. Lucky owners. I envy them.

As for me, I have to live with all these labels. I cannot escape the tags and the statuses. I am even a walking label myself. I am Cat and I want to be your new owner.

© 2008 Cat Ramos

Big Fish

Big fish!

Nakatambay lang ako with my cousin Agnes sa tapat ng bahay namin kanina at around 8:30pm, kwentuhan, kulitan...when a group of men walked by. One was holding this huge fish. Being an opportunista like me, I asked if I could take a photo of him and that fish. And syempre kami rin pagkatapos. Hehe.

I asked where he bought the fish. He told us nahuli lang nila sa ilog malapit sa min. Wow!

It completed our weekend. =)

[story] Of Coke Light and Suicide

I almost committed suicide.

 

She broke up with me through a text message one night after a couple of weeks of silence that seemed a lifetime. How impersonal can she be? Very.

 

As soon as I got the message from my hand-me-down pathetic cellphone, the device that became the messenger of bad news on this lonely and rainy night, I went catatonic for 4 minutes more or less. Four has always been my favorite number, our anniversary day. We were supposed to celebrate our 4^th year this Saturday and it’s only Tuesday. Yet, I don’t think I will be able to endure another 4 minutes or so because of this stupid message. I read it again. I wished it was a forwarded message but it wasn’t because it had my name on it. It says, “Joey, it’s over. I’m moving on.” I hate text messages.

 

Moving on, moving on, my ass. My head was spinning and the stairway seemed twisted. Or was it my mind? The 2 weeks we were not together made me think about unthinkable things, that is, committing suicide or at least pretend that I tried. She would give me the attention, at least. I realized that this was the best time to do it.

 

The stairs was a good suicide weapon; I can jump from the second floor of my apartment to the in-between floor of the second and ground floor that I share with my kuya who is obviously not home from work yet and most probably still doing some overtime work at Obertaym (a beerhouse near his office). I call it the ‘half floor’. I thought of myself falling down the flight of stairs and landing in front of the altar which is situated on the half floor. Not a good idea. It was an altar with all the religious ornaments my mother gave us when my brother and I moved in here a year ago. My parents retired and had to sell the house because it was too big for us. They’re now in our hometown in Bulacan. My mom even decorated the makeshift altar with flickering electric candle that illuminated the whole of the half floor. No, I cannot bear the guilt of my mother crying over his dead son who committed suicide in front of her precious altar. Thinking about the cherubic face of the Sto. Niño was also too unbearable. So I scrapped the idea. Besides, I never pictured myself dead with broken bones or crushed skull because I am a Nido boy and I love milk. It’s always been my habit to drink milk before I go to bed at night. I am proud to say that my mom has nourished us well. So much for my years of drinking milk, my teeth and bones are healthy, so a fall from a flight of stairs will just simply fail my suicide attempt. Failure is an enemy of mine especially now.

 

Maxine, the girl who brutally broke up with me thru text has been my girlfriend for 4 years and live-in partner for 2 months (during the first 2 years of our ‘mature’ relationship) suddenly went cold on me a month ago. No more sweet mushy text messages in the morning, no more after office meet-ups, and most of all, no sex. Or anything that resembles it. It just went dead. So I investigated, made friends with her friends. I hate half of them because they make fun of my ever procrastination on taking the bar exam, which I have a good reason why I had to pend it twice. First, I was admitted to a multinational company that pays big bucks (to my own standards) because they made me the head of a department there, to my surprise. Maybe because I was a rookie and higher salary expectations was not my priority at that time but just experience. Or perhaps the seniors quit a month before due to early retirement or should I say retrenchment that’s why they hired me. I was lucky. Besides, attending meetings and brainstormings sounded so executive and would definitely look good on my CV. I was a manager at age 24. Second, I wanted to focus on my new found relationship at that time which was more important to me then than taking the bar. Like a good career flourishing and love budding, one of these so-called priorities for a bachelor like me was bound to take a backseat. I was promoted a month ago with the prestigious title, Assistant Vice President. And as for my relationship, go figure. But I still made friends with her friends anyway.

 

Clutching my cellphone while going downstairs, there was flashback on why the relationship went down the drain. She was already seeing someone who works near her office building. I was too busy to notice at that time. Young executives are busy, aren’t they? It was a new guy according to one of her not-so-loyal girl friends who spilled it all out after 2 cups of Starbucks frappuccino. She sold her soul to the devil. The new boy was a college preppy boy, from a new breed of graduates who would rather work in the call center business because of the easy money and they get to practice their English hoping to correct their coño twang. The guy worked there. Which brings me to remember why she suddenly had to always stay in the office until 12 midnight because she had to take care of everything in the office (or beside the office building she’s working, I know that now). The boy was clearly someone who’s into older girls like Maxine, 4 years senior than him. He liked her because she can take care of him. I bet the guy had a pretty rough childhood, maybe lost a parent or two given his preference over older women like my Maxine. Maxine loves taking care of everything, our MRT cards, stray animals such as cats, and even plants. She’s pretty much like my mother or Mother Theresa. If she wanted to feel maternal, she should’ve gotten herself a dog. Let me rephrase that. If she wanted to feel maternal, she should’ve asked me to marry her and we’ll help each other in pro-creating our mini-mes. I don’t know what’s wrong with this statement. But I do not want to dwell on that right now because I am too busy (again, busy) about thinking of the best way to leave this cruel world.

 

So there I was, on the ground floor, barefooted. I did not bother turning the light on because it would be useless, I would be dead in a few minutes anyway. It would be nice if my brother comes home drunk and hurries to switch on the light and finds me on the floor, lying dead. It’s way better than a birthday surprise party. Surprise! I wish I would be able to see his reaction when he finds me but that would be defeating the purpose. Death is a dead-end street. That’s why there’s ‘dead’ in dead-end. And ‘end’ as well. Excuse my over analysis but if you’re planning to die, everything is magnified.

 

I thought of going to the kitchen and look for anything pointed, err, like knife. Fork doesn’t do enough damage, or chopsticks. So knife was the best option. I saw a couple of them near the sink, just hanging above. It was 4 or 5 knife pieces (if you count the potato peeler) and it all came in different shapes and sizes. I picked out the Sumo knife. I remember this knife being advertised on the home shopping network. My brother bought it there. Other people call this a butcher knife which brings me to not liking this anymore. I am not a cow. Or a bull. Or a pig. Or a chicken. I want to have some pride when I die. So I picked out another option. The bread knife. It’s small with little teeth on the edges. If I slice this on my wrist, surely it would result to uneven scars. I don’t like uneven scars on my body parts. It would seem I struggled and that is not the way to die with dignity. It should be peaceful and calm. Knives are out of my options right now. Besides, I never liked blood that’s why I went to law school instead of medical school.

 

It was getting late at 9 pm for me. I had the urge to text her back and tell her to reconsider. But I have been like that in the past and she would always give in. I think the chances of her doing the same thing again for me is nil. It would be different from now on. So I did not bother. I turned off my cellphone instead.

 

I paced the kitchen back and forth, not knowing what to do next. I got thirsty so I decided to look for something refreshing inside the refrigerator. I wanted a Coke Light, which was almost phased out in the market. Coke Zero was available on the ref. I ignored it. I have always preferred Light over Zero because of packaging. It may sound shallow but Coke Light looks and tastes heavenly to me while Coke Zero looks evil with all its black and red packaging. If I plan to die tonight, I might as well turn away from anything evil. That would give me sort of an immunity to go straight to heaven. San Pedro would be happy at least that I chose the heavenly-packaged soda in white can over the dark tempting one.

 

With no Coke Light in sight, I decided to eat just an apple which I found on the dinner table. Again, that would be evil. Adam, Eve. I don’t want to be another Adam again. I read somewhere that a certain amount of apple seeds are poisonous if you grind the seeds, take out its juice, and consume it within a period of seconds or minutes. The result would be lethal. I only have one apple on hand and doing grocery at this time is a bad idea plus we don’t even have a juicer. So, apple seeds are out of the question. Besides, why should dying be that hard? And why would falling out of love be that hard too?

 

I am now in confusion if suicide is really for me. I never thought that self-inflicted death would cure this feeling of emptiness and lonesomeness. I know I’ve made some lapses in the past during my times with her. I loved my work, I wanted to be successful, I wanted to impress her. I had to sacrifice a lot of supposed quality times with her but work came first or was simultaneously hand-in-hand with my relationship with her. I was unable to handle it or it’s just that someone came along to be with her during my absence. Maybe she wanted spontaneity from our routine. He was that intermission number or advertisement from our unending soap opera. I didn’t want to end it this soon but I know at the back of my mind (and heart) that our time together is over. I kept on delaying the closure that was supposed to come from a broken relationship. And the text message she just sent me was it. I cannot argue about it anymore.

 

And as I compromise with my suicide plan, I thought of the antibacterial cleaning agent inside the bathroom. A Lysol. I went inside and found the bottle, it was half-empty (or half-full?). I think it was enough for me to do what I had to do. Through this liquid, I would be cleansed with all my sorrows once I consume it. It may not be as strong as a Baygon pesticide or not as gory as slashing my wrist with a knife but this was the ultimate weapon for me. It’s fuss-free and uncomplicated. Consume and assume you’re dead right after.

 

So I sat on the bathroom floor and reached out for the bottle. I sniffed it and it smelled floral. It calmed me. I checked the faucet if it has running water and just in case I wouldn’t be able to take the taste of the Lysol, I could spit it out on the sink and drink water from there. I wanted to make sure that I have a back-up. The moment came and I was determined to drink it down. Whatever happens to me, whether I become successful with my suicide or not, it depends on this Lysol. Lysol would give me the answer. I will just worry about the outcome later.

 

I turned on my cellphone again and composed a text message for her.

 

“I know it’s over. Goodbye.”

 

I gulped down the liquid from its bottle. I felt dizzy right away. Darkness and silence.

 

Darkness.

 

Silence.

 

Still more darkness and silence.

 

I think I’m dead. I said to myself. I began to smile.

 

“He’s awake! Nurse!”

 

That’s my mother.

 

Oh no.

 

--the end--

 

© 2008 Cat Ramos

“21”

I am back with my old self. It just scares me but I'm glad at the same time.

After my Rule of 21 discipline over a week ago, I realized I just stopped caring. I stopped overanalyzing. I no longer dwell on things from the past. My mind shifts to blank whenever I think about the could’ve beens and should’ve beens. I think I’ve just hypnotized myself to not give a damn on anything that can harm my living in the present mode. I’ve brainwashed myself. 

The Rule of 21 was mentioned in a book called “The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari” by Robin Sharma. But basically, that was just a reference. It’s a philosophy that can be applied on anything you want to achieve or get rid of. A conversation with a friend mentioned this rule one night when I asked him for an advice about something I cannot directly disclose here.

Me: I just contacted ___ again.

Him: Why is that?

Me: I don’t know. I just did. It was spontaneous.

Him: You’re pathetic.

Me: And you’re not?

Him: At least I don’t act it out.

Me: At least I don’t repress my feelings.

Him: Just stop.

Me: I can’t go on living each day bothered that there are people who doesn’t like me anymore or maybe has a grudge on me. 

Him: You’re not Miss Congeniality.

Me: That’s a relief. I can be Miss Photogenic then.

Him: You’re changing the topic.

Me: Ok, so I did contact ____ today. But zero response.

Him: See…

Me: And I feel terrible.

Him: Just stop.

Me: I can’t. At least I tried. I don’t want to sleep at night with hanging questions in my head. So what should I do?

Him: Rule of 21.

Me: What’s that? No, I don’t gamble. I don’t play cards well.

Him: (annoyed) It’s not a card game.

Me: So it means I’ll do the first 20 rules? You know I don’t follow rules that well.

Him: (surprised) You really don’t know the Rule of 21?

Me: Obviously. Just tell me.

Him: I thought you’re smart.

Me: Please stop the side comments and get straight to the point. Grrr.

Him: I was just kidding, I’m surprised that you don’t know about it.

Me: Di na ko magkwento sayo.

Him: Ok. For 21 days, avoid ___ at all cost. If ___ contacts you, ignore. If ___ emails you, throw it directly into the trash. Create a rule in your inbox that would automatically identify it as junk. If ___ texts you, delete it without reading.

Me: ____’s not even talking to me. So why would ___ contact me.

Him: You’ll see. ___ will contact you. And when that happens, you won’t even care. I assure you.

Me: What else?

Him: That’s it.

Me: That sounds stupid. Why would I do this anyway?

Him: To let go of unimportant things.

Me: You’re right. I’m just stubborn. I just want to make up for some things I should’ve done then.

Him: After 21 days, you’ll feel better. I promise.

Me: I‘m not convinced. You’re just making it up.

Him: Google it.

Me: (I did google it and found matches) So it’s true. Hehe.

Him: Hay.

Me: Ok I’ll do it then. When can I start?

Him: Tomorrow as Day 1.

Me: Until August ____?

Him: No, the day after.

Me: Oh.

--end of conversation—

So I did do it. And my friend predicted it perfectly. The subject contacted me within the 21 days and it was tempting for me to answer back as if I cared a lot. However, I didn’t follow my friend’s advice to ignore this person completely because I didn’t want to be rude. So I just compromised with being civil when I answered back.

I don't care about anyone that much anymore. I live my day for today unlike before that I live with the past, the memories, and the thought of making it better by doing it differently. I focus on myself more this time around and am indifferent with people who don’t give a damn about me. It feels good. Mahirap kasing mabilanggo sa mga bagay o tao na akala natin ay may importansya sa mga ginagawa natin, yun pala wala naman. Marami talagang namamatay sa maling akala.

I know I may have hurt some feelings last time, I felt guilty about some actions I’ve made and words I’ve said to people who cared for me at one point. But now, I just have to let it go and not be trapped with the thought of undoing things just to make them feel better. I know they have moved on with their lives already so I’m doing just the same. We should be happy even if we cannot share that happiness together.

My Rule of 21 has ended but I’m living it everyday. Beyond Day 21.

© 2008 Cat Ramos