Goddess, I Am.

These days, I find myself more aware of how quickly time is passing us by. It’s already the start of another weekend, which is weird because wasn’t it just the weekend a few moments ago?

I was even more shocked to realize that Mum’s been in Canada for two months now. Two months! Now where did all those days and weeks go?

And how weird is it that Mum’s asked us to start writing our Christmas lists? But considering it’ll be September in a few days, it’s really not weird at all, now that i think about it. But good heavens, is it really nearly Christmas already?

The thought of spending our first Christmas without Mum here is choking me up a little. (Okay, a lot.) I would rather she comes home, of course, instead of sending presents. But right now that’s out of the question. There really isn’t much that I want right now, not even Orlando vacation packages, so I’m going to have to think about it, believe it or not.

Methinks I better think quickly, though. With this strange, newfound awareness of how quickly time is moving, I might suddenly find myself in December with nary a present!

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Chin once told me that she envied my portable life. That was back in 2007 when I packed up and left for Thailand.

Everything I owned could fit in a single suitcase. I was free to come and go whenever I pleased. Those were among the best days of my life, and like Chin then, I envy my portable life now.

These days, I’m feeling that all too familiar restlessness again, that itch go someplace far and exotic – not for a few days’ holiday, but to stay for a while, to stay indefinitely. And in theory, I could. After all, that’s the beauty of working online. I don’t have to worry about how I’m going to feed and shelter myself in some exciting foreign land.

But a theory is all it is for me now, now that I’m married and can never think solely for myself ever again. My life is still fairly portable (or I can make it so in a heartbeat because I don’t exactly go crazy on wholesale appliances). Why, I can give away most of my clothing and my shoes and my books and I won’t even bat an eyelash. All I need are a few t-shirts, some underwear, a few pairs of pants, my laptop, my iPad, and my camera, and I’m a happy camper. The Husband, however, is another story.

You see, he gets very attached to things, like his huge-ass TV and home theater system, his hundreds of Blu-Ray movies, his electric couch, and even the goddamned refrigerator. Most of these things traveled all the way from England to Thailand when he moved to Bangkok in 2006, and again from Thailand to the Philippines in 2008. When we do move again, he’s going to insist on taking all of these with us, plus everything else we’ve bought since.

And if you’ve ever had to go through the ordeal of moving furniture and appliances from one country to another, you’ll know it’s not a walk in the park. So it goes without saying that moving from one country to another on a whim is out of the question, and when we do move again, it’ll have to be a big one (read: for good) to make the most out of the time, money, and gargantuan effort that transporting his stuff will demand.

Heavens, why do material things have to make life so complicated?

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I figured out a long time ago that I want to write for the rest of my life. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I earn a very good living out of it, too, so I really can’t complain.

But writing hundreds – if not, thousands – of online content for subjects you really do not care a thing about . . . well, it just gets to you. Every once in a while, I find myself wondering what the hell I’m doing writing about constipation (among others) when I ought to be writing a novel, or a memoir, or something that may very well win a Pulitzer (who knows?), or at least something that would reach out and touch people, bowel problems notwithstanding. Then I go through the whole litany of reasons why I’m settling for what I am doing, and I end up forcing myself to be grateful for the chance to even write at all and get paid for it to boot!

Still, this doesn’t stop me from wishing I was a more ‘serious’ writer. I would love to be respected, to be revered, to have a cult following. I would love to see my name in print, preferably under the words “#1 New York Times Bestseller.” It’s all fanciful thinking, I know. But does it really have to be?

Every day, I’m getting to know myself more. I’m starting to figure out what I want out of life beyond the next 6 months. And I’m starting to make the plans that would make me the person – and by extension, the writer – that I want to be.

First thing’s first – I need formal training in writing. I don’t have one, you know, not even a humble certificate from a writing workshop. I’d like to go back to school and get an MA in Creative Writing. And I’m not talking about an Online College, either. I’ve found that there are universities and colleges in London and the U.S. and Canada that would take on post-graduate students for their writing programs, even without a writing-related undergraduate degree. Of course, one will have to prove one’s aptitude in writing in a 5000-word essay to be considered, and even then, one will have to be prepared to spend thousands of dollars (or even pounds sterling!) to take the course. Unless, of course, one somehow lands a scholarship, which is already the most fanciful of all fanciful thinking.

Well, I don’t think I’ll be landing a scholarship anywhere anytime soon (or even ever), nor do I have thousands of dollars (or pounds) to spare. But I will write that 5000-word essay, anyway, in between constipation [articles]. Just in case.

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Watching cheesy Tagalog movies is something of a guilty pleasure for me. (Admit it, it’s yours, too!) So because The Bestie had a rare free day, we decided to watch In Your Eyes along with The Sister. After all, how often do we get to watch this sort of crap? Not often enough, I tell you!

Anyhow, the movie certainly did not disappoint in that area. It wasn’t deliciously bad like, say, the classic Sinbad of the Seven Seas, or even the most recent Step Up 3D (hey, at least it was in 3D AND mysterious Asian Glee guy was in it). It was just . . . BAD. Bad casting, atrocious writing, and horrendous acting – you name it, it had it.

But what really struck me most about the whole “badness” of it all was NOT Richard Gutierrez’s horrid and often inappropriate acting, nor was it Ann Curtis’s unbelievably pathetic character. It was Claudine Barreto’s – wait for it! – BODY! Really, how could anyone look so close – emphasis on CLOSE – to needing plus size lingerie yet have anorexic-looking limbs? She looked a lot like a peach that somebody stuck a few toothpicks in as arms and legs!

To illustrate, imagine this little guy in wedges:

Methinks somebody’s been going the (literally) old Belo route. Though I can’t understand why anyone would decide to go there and not just go all the way. Especially when there’s a (supposedly) big movie role that calls for it.

But seriously, how cute is that picture of a smiling peach going fishing? Tee hee.

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My apologies to my readership of 5 (???) for the lack of what I believe are read-worthy posts. Really, all I do these days is work, and that’s not much to write home about, is it?

Not only that, I’ve also been, to quote Chin, a very sad little ninja these past few months. I am constantly plagued by a horrible, sinking feeling that somewhere along the way, I allowed my life to take a very wrong turn. So I just feel frustrated, unsatisfied, STUCK.

It’s a frightful, hateful feeling, this depression, and while it’s taking up a lot of my energy, it’s taking even more to try to snap out of it. So for the moment, I’m just rolling with it and thinking plenty.

There really should be some sort of disability insurance for this sort of infinite, debilitating sadness so we can all wallow in misery in peace, preferably with all the chocolate ice cream and potato chips in the world.

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Location:Talamban Rd,Cebu City,Philippines