Goddess, I Am.

And so dewy Iris flew down from the sky on saffron-colored wings, trailing a thousand different colors across the sun… - From Virgil’s Aeneid

I have a confession to make – I have never heard of Twilight until I started seeing the movie posters a couple of months back. And even then, I didn't think much of it. I thought the vampire dude looked ridiculously gay and the girl was too plain. I never watched the movie, even when I found myself surrounded by hordes of giggling girls everywhere I went.

I wasn't interested in the books, either, which was strange because I'm nuts about vampires – the Anne Rice ones, to be exact. But the whole Twilight hoopla was undeniable, and I decided that I could at least see what the fuss was all about.

So after a few well-timed hints and much traipsing around Fully Booked, I got what I wanted – all 4 of Stephenie Meyer's books. I got Twilight and New Moon from The Fiance, and Eclipse and Breaking Dawn from my mother (there was obviously a conspiracy there).

As of this moment, I'm halfway through Twilight – and I'm now “unconditionally and irrevocably in love” with the book. And Edward Cullen. And the whole idea of a vampire lover. I've been swooning like a schoolgirl since the first page, and I practically jumped out of my skin (okay, the couch), giggling like mad, when Edward said, “But I'm tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella.” on page 84, much to The Fiance's shock.

Now I'm near tears because all the theaters are now showing those ridiculous Manila Filmfest nominees, and I can't find Twilight anywhere. I'm absolutely devastated. Oh, what I would give to watch Edward Cullen on screen right now, gay-looking or not! Looks like it's back to the ol' torrent download for me.

Apart from the Twilight series, I had a pretty good haul this year. I got The Time Traveler's Wife from my best friend, a back scratcher (don't ask) and nightgown from my sister, and my yearly Starbucks planner from mum. The only thing missing is a Macbook from, well, anyone. Any takers? After all, hope springs eternal...

All in all, it was a lovely Christmas spent just chilling with the family. Now I must wrap this up. Edward (and tons of articles to write, ack!) awaits...

This post is long overdue (much like the first black president of America), but I've had so much on my plate the past few weeks that I just didn't have time to blog. It's inexcusable, however, considering this is one of the best things that has ever happened to my family. Ever.

On the 25th of November, my sister gave birth to a healthy and heartbreakingly (is there such a word?) beautiful baby boy after almost 15 hours of labor. He came out at 7 lbs., 3 oz. with a full head of hair and rather long limbs and my sister's penchant for sleeping at all hours. In fact, he'd rather sleep instead of eat and cry – just like his mum. And his mum's mum. And his mum's sister, for that matter.

Everyone, meet Xabier Enrique Clamor-Vazquez.

He had nurses and student nurses fawning all over him the entire time he was in the hospital, much to his annoyance. Now he has his mum and dad, two grandmas (both refuse to be called such), his aunt (yours truly), uncle-slash-godfather (The Fiance), and sundry visitors taking turns to sniff him, also much to his obvious annoyance.

He's definitely in danger of becoming a spoiled, little boy. But, hey, can you blame us?

A long time ago, I had a bump on the middle of the palm of my right hand. It was tiny – no more than a millimeter in diameter – but it was there. It didn't hurt, but I could feel it. It wasn't offensive, but it bothered me anyway.

Some said it was just a callous, while others said it was some sort of wart. Whatever it was, my mum and I tried to get rid of it in many ways. We tried some sort of mild acid solution (I think it was called Duofilm). We tried filing it away with a nail file. We even went to a dermatologist who said she can take it out for P5,000 – a price that seemed absurd for such a tiny bump, so we didn't go through with it. Whatever we did, the bump stayed, and we soon lost interest in it.

I eventually started to develop habits because of that bump. I used to absentmindedly rub my middle and ring fingers over it and pick it with the nails of my left hand. I don't exactly know how long I had the bump. It could've been months. It could even have been years, but one day, I just realized that the bump was gone.

I should have been happy, or at least, relieved. But I wasn't. My feelings were mixed, at best. It was then that I realized that that bump had become as much a part of me as my fingers and my toes and my spleen with its unknown functions. With the bump gone, I had to literally unlearn the habits that I picked up because of it. And even now, many years later, I still sometimes feel that very spot pulsate, as if reminding me of what was once there.

Last night, the same spot throbbed, and I couldn't sleep. Instead, I found myself thinking about loss. There are some people who we don't necessarily want in our lives, but because they're there anyway, we get used to them, adapt to them, even merely tolerate them. And when they do somehow disappear from our lives in one way or another, we have to make an effort to rearrange our lives to get used to their absence, to find new routines to replace the old ones shared with them, to simply continue living.

Yes, there are those people who we might not really grieve for when they go away (and I say 'when' because nothing and no one lasts forever, so it's only inevitable). But somehow, somewhere, sometime in the future, we will feel their absence. And though it may not necessarily hurt us, that spot where they used to be will throb and pulsate, however briefly, to make sure that we never forget.

I've never been one for frivolous expenses. In fact, I can be quite cheap. Still, there some things in this world that put my self-control to the test, like this:

For the uninitiated, in Book 7 of the Harry Potter series, a very important book figured in the story. JK Rowling actually handmade the damned book. There are only 7 original copies in existence, and one was sold in a Sotheby's action for a whopping £1,950,000 (that's pounds sterling, mind you).

Now, as much as I want to shell out almost 2 million quid for a book, I can't. (Unless, of course, I marry Donald Trump, but I'm not his type.) I can, however, probably, possibly get the mass-produced collector's edition version.

So the big question is: Do I have it in me to spend $100 on a book that I will probably read three times a year for the rest of my life? I have until the 4th of December to find out.

You know what they say: birds of a feather, yada yada yada. Well, everyone knows I'm a strange girl, so it's only perfectly natural that I'm surrounded by strange people.

Take my family, for instance. I have a mother who dances 80s dance steps while cooking binignit, and a little sister who truly believes her unborn child determines her daily diet. I had an aunt who developed a weird, nasal British accent that's definitely nothing like Harry Potter after living in London for just a little over a year. Not only that, I have a grandma who believes that her dreams determine the fate of the world (or at least, mine), the latest of which had something to do with me being in jail in Thailand.

Even the boyfriend is no different. The man actually drags me off jeepneys when they dilly-dally too long in Country Mall trying to hound passengers. He even makes me fight for the P0.50 rollback fare cut, not for the money, but (to use his words) “for the principle of the matter.”

It's only inevitable that my friends are strange creatures, as well. One of my best friends lived with her Dutch boyfriend for months and never – and I mean, NEVER – slept with him once. Another one 'borrowed' my travel pictures a year ago and passed them off as her own in Friendster (even if we don't look anything alike) to make her cheating ex jealous of her 'wanderings' – and they're still there to this day. And let's not forget my best friend who has lost so many marbles over the years that whoever found them probably now has a full set (Peace, Lhen!).

But I do have friends who are quite normal – that is, until they exhibit undeniably crazy behavior. Take Chin for example. At first glance, she's this cute little thing with a family just as cute that they may as well be in one of those soy sauce adverts. Possibly the most ridiculous thing that she's ever done was set me up with a guy who believed he looked like Van Damme when he just looked, well, goddamned (for lack of better words), and write an article on hair when she's meant to be writing about nails. Nope, nothing strange there at all.

It's amazing, however, how one's grief over a computer that crashed with no warning, taking with it file after file of written articles, can drive one to a drunken stupor so severe that one quite suddenly discovers a hidden talent in bongo-playing, which must be unveiled in that very bar on the very night of one's epiphany as what can be seen here:

Love the dress, love the shoes, but most of all, love the uber smug look.

Ahhh, yes. My friends are strange, indeed. Thank heavens for that, or I wouldn't be laughing so much on a regular basis.