I promise I have an excuse for the recent lag. I have been experiencing extreme nausea and inexplicably constant vomitting over the past few days that I had to take further notice than usual.
I went to our physician and she inquired about my personal activities that led to her hypothesis that I might be sporting a bump (the inflating kind) in the near future. I was shocked. Speechless. Knocked out. Totally flabbergasted. How in the world did I get myself pregnant? As I rewind.
I dated this guy for about 8 weeks before the last year ended. It was brief. So brief that I could barely remember his last name. Or if he was the one who had a silver stud down there. (Man, this was supposed to be a serious narration!) But anyway, we broke up sooner than expected, as I quickly reverted back to enjoying my rejuvenated social life. Just days after my birthday, I was set up by a friend with this mesmeric fratboy from Austin, and we clicked right off the bat. He had mad guitar skills, an enticing sense of humor, and was terribly attractive that only an idiot would pass up the chance of sleeping on those provocative biceps of his. And of course, I fell. Orgasmically. Again.
My predicament not only includes the jeopardy of my inheritance ('coz my parents WILL disown me), but as well as the interminable pause of my studies AND... brace yourselves... the real father of this baby. Yes, you heard that right. I have no idea what hestas-judas-barabas fathered my child. I don't even know how to drag them to my front and inform them that either one would be responsible for buying me some milk and diapers. Like I am seriously clueless. As in no clue at all...
This is no laughing matter, but isn't it just ludicrous how I AM now entangled in the exact same situation as those girls on noontime television?? I mean, I would think so low of them before because they would sleep with different men in a short span of time, not being wholly aware of the irresponsible hobby's repercussions, and now I am one of them!!! What the fuck was I thinking?!! Never, in my wildest imagination, have I seen myself pleading for DNA help through Maury Povich, and hearing the dreadful phrase, "You are not the father!" But I'm afraid I'm on the right track. Without a babydaddy, and a face plastered with embarrassment everytime my episode replays.
Man, I need help. And sanity. And sleep. And forgiveness. And laughs. I think I'm celebrating a little too early (as always). It's yet an hour 'til my labor, but I'll start screaming anyway...
It all started when an emotional outburst striked my Saturday night (or was it Friday? Sorry, was bit tipsy) that had me looking over the internet for some outlet of major spasms. I was chatting it up with Jo, extremely spazzed out herself, as we tangoed our way to LiveJournal. The website was having its own periodical distraught that we couldn't stand the labyrinth of signing up, hence we settled for blogdrive. It was my home for the remainder of the year, until I discovered blogspot, through Ate Clare. And here I am. With my 107th URL. But who cares.
For three years I've developed from a lousy fangirl writer to a candid, witty yet very sophisticated (give it to me, it's my anniversary!) blogger that loves to argue and hates to agree. My topics have varied from squealing over some Korean walking chopstick to drooling over one certain bicep-bearing specimen. And much to my surprise, a lot of you have enjoyed my imbecilic writing when you could simply turn away or leave a "fuck off" note in my wisecrack box. So I thank you. From the bottom of my bacon-wrapped heart.
So, let's see... I have nothing else to write actually, but I want to make smart use of this time and space that solely commemorate my three years of presence in this community. And since I can only do this once a year, I think I'm licensed to display the uttermost narcissism, and you will have to put up with it for the rest of your daily Kai-dosage.
On style... I don't have a style whatsoever. I blog as I talk. And just so you know, I don't have any accent. At all. I talk just like any Midwesterner, but I have tendencies of sounding Southern with the infectious "y'all," and like a valley girl with the use of "like," which I have been emphatically avoiding. I don't talk clearly, as my peers would say, I kind of swallow my words. But they suck ass, 'coz I know I'm a good communicator. Just like Jael from ANTM Cycle 8.
On topics... As I've said, my topics have varied over the years. There was a time that all I was blogging about was everything Asian. I so got addicted to Meteor Garden and the likes that I would blog about it every single day eventhough I knew that all my readers were watching the exact same thing I just did. Then morphed into the new image of being miss page six, as Kat used to call me. With being sidelined from school, and being jobless, and the lack of interesting events to write about, I settled on TV shows, showbiz gossips, and red carpet fashion to entertain those who continually visit my blog. It was entertaining at one point but I eventually got tired of it. After all, it was always Paris Hilton dominating the news and I hate her, and her skankiness, so I just had to stop before I get a heart attack. And now, this blog has grown into the most impertinent hodgepodge of all. What blogger talks like John McEnroe one day and Joel McHale the next? Only me! :P
On overused words... It would have to be "I," but that's a given. So I guess it's gotta be "seriously." I had a huge crush on Apolo Anton Ohno two years ago that I subconsciously adapted his overusage of the word, which, I assume, was primarily caused by his personal obsession over McDreamy and Grey's Anatomy.
On blog-linkage... This might be weird but I prefer asking for link exchanges than being asked. For some reason, I don't find my blog worthy enough of admirers that it irks the heck out of me each time a random passerby asks for an exchange. Not that I mind, I actually greatly appreciate the maneuver. It's just that, I think it's best if I make the first move. Internet only, not available in stores.
On cursing... I don't have a problem with cursing, nor with blogs which have the word "fuck" all over it. It actually entertains me even. Those bloggers who choose to be discreet with their choice of cuss words are fine, I respect their personal restrictions. But I believe that we, the cursing-machines, have a lot more fun with blogging. Because not only we are more spontaneous at it, we get to vent out whatever fuckage we feel inside without being cordial, which doesn't make sense to begin with when you're supposed to sound agitated, right?. So thumbs up to online cursing! Just caution your kids regarding my blog, 'coz apart from curse words, I have countless sexual references on it. Remotely not family-oriented.
On communities and awards... I joined Ricebowls just around the time I started blogging, to generate hits, I guess. But I found it pointless, so I ditched it and forgot about the groupies shenanigans. I mean, I blog just for the heck of it, and I enjoy it as is. As for those awards thingamaboob and stuff, I think it's too intricate for me. So don't ever nominate me for those shit or I'll pummel your ass like never before.
On life on the radar... Just as my site title indicates, I'm very reserved when it comes to my personal life. I'm not a celebrity, nor the kind considered to be an actual "public figure" but I've practiced maintaining that blanket of privacy in fear of exposing my personal relationships. But I think I've kind of bended that unwritten rule over time, especially when chaos conquers our very home. So chaotic that I had to categorize it and dedicate one particular section for it on my blog. But that's just for domestic purposes. I still refuse to hold discussions about my past boylets, flings, and birthday prostitutes. ;)
If you have read this introduction, you should notice that I'm celebrating three days earlier than dated. While it doesn't really matter, I thought I'd explain why. I have been bombarded with lab work, Algebraisms, and career-choice dilemmas that would potentially prevent me from posting this on the 27th, so I hope you don't mind. *confetti rain*
Once again, thanks to all of you who have patiently put up with me all these years. I can't wait to start another three years with y'all. Que horror! :))
Spring is here, my favorite season, as you all know. The cold winds, bright sun, and blossoming flowers make up for the dry, itchy, and freezing winter that irked our heels, elbows and scalps every single day. It's the perfect season for picnics, photography, lake dates (too frumpy but who cares), and outdoor yoga (whatever that means).
My prints!! Love 'em or hate 'em.
I was so excited because the pool will be a daily exercise engine again, the highways wouldn't be a battlefield anymore, and I'll be able to wear my favorite tops with no longer messing up the sleeves (that was caused by default mechanism of layered clothing). So I cleaned up my closet over spring break, stacked my winter clothes on the other side, and put the spring/summer clothes on the accessible side. But how about a major killjoy? Just when I was about to jump out with my cropped pants and hippie top, the weather had to be pissy and blow us 50-degree winds. Well, that's not saying much compared to the "spring" New York has been having, but come on, 50s are for early fall, we're supposed to be in the 70s, not some foreplay to winter! But enough with the bitching. The weather has been fairly cooperative today, and I hope that it continues to be like this the following week, 'coz I'm not going back to school with a turtleneck on. Please.
Deuce Prize!
Don't leave!!! I'm not gonna drive my fanaticism up your clueless ass yet again, nor pursuade you to obsess with me. But I just thought I'd share the news here, for women may especially be delighted by it... Wimbledon and Roland Garros decide to pay women the exact same amount of prize money given to men after years of seemingly pointless debates. The old-fashioned grandslam juggernut (Wimby) finally wakes up in the 20th century and realizes that women are already accustomed to wearing pants, driving trucks, and mowing the lawn. The French Open emulated the maneuver shortly after.
Mike and Tony debate. Who's worse, Antonella or Sanjaya?
Now that all slams have committed themselves to equal pay, someone closeminded just had to rain on the parade. Tommy Haas, currently ranked #9, bitches that men are playing 5-setters during grandslams compared to women's 3, therefore he disagrees with the decision. I guess it would have made more sense if somebody like Federer was the one contradicting it, but Haas? Um, by any chance he stumbles upon this blog, or if Lizette advices him that a certain blogger is trying to sabotage his resurging career, here's an open letter that will hopefully avert his selfish opinion.
Tommy,
A five-setter is never compulsory. Just play damn well and you'll easily get a win within three sets. But you're simply not the Top 5 player you were centuries ago, hence you felt the need to unmask your inner sexist and inform the world of your irrational opinion. You openly deprecate women's ability to compete to your level because they never have five setters? Well, how about playing under the exceedingly hot sun, in a crucial first round match, with only a visor helping you continue breathing while tracking the rapid yellow ball. Sharapova, as huge as she appears to be, the teenager nearly died on that match, while you were granted either an indoor court or match suspension. Just try juxtaposing Rafael Nadal's biceps to Daniela Hantuchova's legs. Let's see if that particular comparison can provide anything have your stupid argument make sense.
One more time, please. Just let me write about it. *cue soap opera music* If it displeases you, then I'll let you go. I just have to let it out!!... Ok, so I had been waiting for this match-up for YEARS!! (2 years and 3 months to be exact.) Finally, the draw worked on my horny eyes' favor and set up a semifinal clash between two of the hottest men in sports today. OMG. California desert was sizzling to death!!!
Wherever Andy's hand is remains to be an enigma. Oh my gosh! You're totally imagining it, hahaha!
Man, was that the spring break? Gee, I'll be back in school with no stories in tow! "How's your break?" "Oh, I just watched tennis, basketball and a lot of VH1. Lame, right?" Yeah, I'll only embarrass myself. Might as well start gathering some ideas now and fabricate a cool spring break story...
Roger Federer's 41 winning streak was snapped by Guillermo Canas yesterday. Relatively unknown Argentenian upset the world number one in straight sets at the ATP Masters Series Indian Wells. And in ironic circumstances the streak Federer's trying to beat (Guillermo Vilas') was hindered by another Guillermo and an Argetenian at that!
Then 24 hours later, the Dallas Mavericks, who has already clinched a playoff spot last week, had their longest winning streak ended by playoff-desperados, Golden State Warriors (who, according to my brother, actually have a habit of beating the Mavs in their turf).
Ok, it's me I'm only entertaining. I'm sure you all are yawning to death because I'm talking Sports AGAIN. But hey! Don't leave yet! I've got a story. And I promise you, this one's pretty interesting.
My dad has this ludicrous theory about Mafia and dominant figures in sports (i.e., Roger Federer and the Dallas Mavericks). Each time they lose, he'd remind me of this particular assumption he has that's the catalyst of each defeat. He believes that there are money-making gangs or mobs out there who pay these athletes/clubs to lose for their gambling's welfare.
I know, it kinda sounds foolish, right? But now even my brother confirms that this kind of stuff actually happens in reality. For example, a mogul bets on Andy Roddick to win that tournament. He happens to be in the same bracket as Federer, who holds a 12-1 edge against him. For some ignorant reason, that mogul decides he'd go up against the odds and actually take his chances of allowing his money slip away. Now, with all that bazillions on the line, he pays Federer to lose the match, in order to give Andy Roddick a breathing space to win the title. If and when Andy wins, the mogul also does. Big, bigger, biggest bucks. And that's how it supposedly works.
I still think it's a little too implausible. Or maybe I'm just being naive, as I always am when it comes to Sports. I mean, don't take it from the adult who still wants to think Professional Wrestling is real. (Speaking of WWE, The Rock was backkkk!!! But that's a whole other story, which I doubt you'd be interested in anyway.) But I digress. I'm still skeptical about this mafia-buys-results theory, and it lacks sensible proof to be convincing and realistic.
Hmm... That wasn't really that interesting. But I tried. Sigh. I wish I have readers who are sport nutcases too. But anyway, I still love you all. So, to redeem myself from pitching this, how about a survey? YAY!!! (Snagged from Alternati.)
Who is the first blogger you met? Well, we were not bloggers yet then, but Eira or Shai (as she's popularly known as). We knew each other way back our jolog (haha) years and it was a surprise to see her again, in the blogosphere, no less. But if you want to get technical, I have met none. Because Bone wrote me off when I was in California!! (Just kidding. But seriously mare, why didn't you show up again? Haha.)
Who is the blogger ‘You Most Want to Meet’? John Mayer, because I'm smarter than Jessica Simpson. I'm not sexy, but I'm a natural brunette!
Who is the ‘I can meet, want to meet, but somehow never got to meet’ blogger? My virtual sister, Ate Clare, who's my very first blog-friend (eversince blogdrive years). It's actually kind of weird how she's one of the people I trust the most, when I only knew her from cyberspace. That's how amazing this person is. And I really hope she had superpowers like Hiro's, so she could teleport here whenever I boyhunt. At nang mapalitan na din niya ang virtual kuya ko. :P
Do you have any bloggers/blog readers that you would like to meet right now? Para walang tampuhan, I'll write your names on post-its and draw them from a basket. Let's see who makes up my list. Drumroll please...
Deb, another long-time friend through blogging. I failed to tell her that I was in Eagle Rock the exact same time she was. We could have chatted the night away with some halo-halo (during winter but who cares) from Chowking.
When I get the chance, I will celebrate Chinese New Year with Jaz, as we'll lunch tikoy and idiotically dance along the red dragon. Choopeta style.
I would also like to tour with Lizette, and check if Dmitry really steals Victoria Secret undies during rain delays just to make his locker the subject of ATP's envy.
Kat still owes me White Castles, and a stub to one of her gigs. Heh, I kid. Not really. :P
And Bone, that Chino's you promised!!! Puro pagkain ata ang utang sa akin. Pa-obvious!
One of the things in my to-do list is to hunt Russ down, when I come visit the Philippines. And she will have to provide me the best beach vacation there is. With blog-friend discount, of course.
I've always wanted to lead a solo and yuppie life in New York. And mainly because I hate to drive. Maybe in a couple of years, I'd beg Joey for help to show me around, and hand me tips of what-and-what-nots during 5-minute intervals between subway rides.
Next up... Jen. Um, I actually met her already, I just drew her name from the basket, and I didn't want to cheat so there you go. Seriously! There's some raffle going on here. ;)
[ETA] For some reason, I lost Chas, but anyway... I'm aware that if there's anything we both love during the itchy season of winter, it's not just snow, it's fashion. And I would love to go to Milan, Paris, Madrid with him during fashion week someday.
It was a margin of a day when Laureen and I were in the exact same place (Austin). I really wanted to meet her, in hopes of filling out the number one question before it comes around, but I wasn't able to do that due to uncooperative weather and conflicting schedules. I really hope to see her next time, perhaps next spring break, and we'll be party-ing like real single college babes during South by Southwest.
Vayie is the 1 to my 10. We share the same Kris-Aquino-annoyance, and the same love for Manu Ginobili. One of the funniest persons I've met. (Well, not met, personally, but crossed paths with, if you want to get all technical up my ass.) It would be really fun to watch Ask The Dust with her, and watch her squeal to death. :P
Talamasca. I haven't really known you all that much, but since your name surged from the basket, I'll just propose to you a challenge, when we get the chance to meet. How about a scrabble game only composed of curse words? Game? Lame? Really? Shit. Bitch. :))
I also want to meet Shari. Because she actually knows how to live like me. Big and beautiful!
And the wildcard goes to... Cruise! Ha, I'm so glad I got your name off the basket. (There really is a basket, folks!) You've been a constant visitor for years, even if we both enjoy changing addresses. And I'm actually one of the few who had the chance to know your real name. ;) I really enjoy your snapshots, and I hope your trip queue includes Texas. Because I tell you, we've got the best beef and barbecues. You'll love it here!
I apologize to those I unintentionally left out. Blame the basket! Or your luck. Til next time!
As repeatedly publicized, I have this on-going royal rumble with weight. While that may possibly be my lifelong cancer, I don't let it mess with this lifestyle I'm consistently trying to make normal. Let's just say, I'm not your ordinary fat girl. There are numerous things I can do, that most biggies can't (indian-sitting, hand-standing, and finger-licking, to name a few). But most notably, I've always been commended for taking risks, clothing-wise, and how I tweak each get-up to suite a 200-pounder.
When I was in high school, I had always been the fat girl who can't dress. Elephant pants + baggy shirts = the black dude in me. My sexual orientation was even questioned a couple of times. Like, did I really look like a boy? I had braids!! Oh shoot. Basketball players have braids. Snoop doggy dog has braids. So... yeah, fuck, I guess I really did look like a butch. Moreover, affirming the popular myth, my kind of fashion, or lack thereof, back then was unfortunately clueless. I was too preoccupied with pool that I didn't even notice I was slowly looking like my Idol. Only with teeth.
Good thing, I got kicked out. Not that it was an event in my life I can be thankful for (although being dubbed as the "rebel" was kinda cool, ohhh, stop, shussh!!!) but it paved way for me to stick out of that exhausting bubble. I discovered that being fat isn't reason enough to stagnate my take on things, and unmodify my life. I started to LOVE shopping, picking clothes that aren't cousins of trash bags, and make total abuse of under-utilized Fat Fashion stores. But here's the thing. Despite already dressing up like a woman, my new sense of style anyhow flummoxed people who saw me everyday, especially my mom, who simply doesn't get it, and my brother, who thinks I look like a fortune teller each time I dress up. NOTE: Picture on your left was captured while shopping, inside my fitting room. I know, who takes a picture of herself while dressing up, right? But I just thought I'd supply you with evidence. Half-naked snapshots reserved for MySpace. *wink, wink*
Silly prints, huge dangling earrings, outstretched necklaces, and long crinkle skirts make up my usually unfathomable fashion. Years of sporting the style, nobody has come up to me and complimented how I looked. Until that particular Thursday in school. It's college, nobody would care! Brittany, who has weird but cool taste in clothes herself (*mean girl syndrome* honestly, more on the weird side, but she's blonde and pretty anyway, won't hurt her one bit), proves that overused statement on a daily basis. So I braved the anticipated naysayers and ditched the common jock outfit (sweatshirt + jeans + chucks), and geared up my inner boho.
And let me tell you, I've never been SO flattered in my life.
By my professors, by classmates I don't even talk to, and even by this random woman I shared the same elevator ride with. It was such an Ugly Duckling moment. But whatever, it's been a loooooooooooong time since somebody, unrelated to me, said I looked pretty. *rosy cheeks surge* Trust me, ladies. There's nothing like that feeling of comfotably being yourself, in the superficial public, and actually be showered by overwhelming compliments.
I don't really talk fashion here, but since I'm at it, I might as well share a couple of reminders to all my ladies (and no, I'm not talking to you, sexy bitch!).
• Clothes for plus-sized women cost a lot. Wherever you go, even if you're from Bhutan, clothes for fat people, in general, are excessively expensive. So, as much as possible, stay away from the malls. They have ridiculously beautiful (and branded, but who gives a fuck about brands) stuff in there, but awfully mind-boggling price tags. You may want to try local boutiques, they offer reasonably, and you can even get a pretty good discount if you fill out a couple of carts.
• If you're the extra-extra (or even another extra) large type of biggie, don't be shy and look for that elusive 5x mark. America's obesity epidemic is severely disseminated not to have additional Xs in their dress sizes.
• Gather as much clothes as you can when you fit. It won't hurt trying all at once, while it will going back and forth. Although that's exercise, I won't encourage you to do that. Leave the sweating off the clothes. Please.
• Don't buy clothes and shoes from the internet. Period.
• Be confident. I'm not sure why I'm saying this, because I never intend to be your counselor in any way to begin with, but let me be nice for just one second... You can hear this from a lot of [mature] guys, and trust me when I say that they actually mean it (for once in their fuckin' lives, they're saying something true). Feeling like you're pretty and sexy and knowing that you're pretty AND sexy (yeah, I said it) are two different things. Go figure.
• And most importantly, assure yourself that you're beautiful. Don't dress up, wear make-up, bathe in cologne, just because you want to please your husband, boyfriend, teacher (well, some do that), etc. But do it for yourself. I won't say the inside and out thing, 'coz that's just worn, but every person's made to be beautiful. It's all up to you now to rejuvenate that inert pizazz. *snaps*
I haven't blogged for a week (borderline hiatus for the avid blogger in me) because of vexatious school work. Professors decide that they would pollute us with chapter tests a week or two before Spring break with little review and (when they're feeling shitty and their husbands aren't home in time) no reminder at all. But don't worry, I have all the blood in the world to sustain the stress and the variety of Southern accents.
I'll spare you my boring college stories, there's not much to talk about anyway (translate: no boys at all!). So, let's see... I have a crapload of other stories to share with you, but it requires major randomness. I hope it's ok. I mean, you know, I've never really been random here...
I went to the movies with Rutendo last Friday. Ok, let me explain the name first. I mentioned her here before as Retunda, because that's how I always heard her being referred as. Little did I know that I have been mispronouncing (let alone, mispelling) her name all this time! I was editing my phone, in her car, when I finally garnered the guts to ask her the real score.
Me:"So how do you really spell your name?" Rutendo:"Oh, it's R-u-t-e-n-d-o." Me:"Oh, so it's R-u-t-e-n-d-a. Rutenda. Right? I've been calling your Retunda, and you don't say a thing? Haha, I'm really sorry." Rutendo:"It's actually, O. Rutendo. But that's okay, everybody does that."
I was so embarrassed!!! Like fuck! This person's taking me to a girls night out, and I don't even know her name! And would you believe, I also once called her Roshunda? Stop laughing, please.
So anyway, as I've said, the bonding session pushed through, despite my self-produced humiliation. It's your typical girls night out, without the halter tops on disco floors, and vigorous flirtation with the opposite sex. It was just the two of us, enjoying our pink beverages at Friday's, exchanging life's horror in OMG-are-you-serious fashion, and a couple of movies to cap the night off. We watched Music and Lyrics, which was so cute, (I mean, who would pass up a chance to see Hugh Grant half naked, right?) and Wildhogs, which was... ugh, apalling, for lack of a better judgement. I wanted to warn her that the movie would be disastrous (judging from the film connoisseurs), but she insisted. It's her part of the treat, so why not. But damn, 20 bucks for that movie? Trash. That's already four mojitos for the two of us!!
Good thing Hugh Grant's effortless wit was spot on, or I'll forever remember that night as the night I saw four 50-something guys skinny dip. Altogether. Yikes! Nevertheless, we had a blast. If the weather wasn't just chilly, and if my mom wasn't practicing her being a mom (to a 12 year old, as she still sees me to be), I would definitely grab her to uptown Dallas where the real fun is. Well, maybe next time. When the gays are out and about. That'd be crazy fun! :))
Oh, so it's already March. I had to go through my planner first before actually reminding myself that another month has passed and my diet hasn't started yet (like it gets me somewhere). But aren't planners supposed to be helpful, and priority-oriented? Yeah, right!
And you bet, I had the exact same thing in my phone. Can you blame me? Ellen and Oprah together, only happens once in a blue moon! It's like hitting two birds with one stone. Ha, there's some American idiom for you. I just thought I'd insert one, since haven't been exercising that part of speech here in my blog so... Anyway, in my HDEV journal, I confessed that I have enormous priority issues. Like right now. I'm supposed to be making love with the ruler (figuratively speaking, you pig!) and the graphing paper, but here I am, talking to you about my life's nonsense. I really have to rehab this... or my mom will bitchfight with me again.
Speaking of my mom, we're finally talking. I overheard (but of course, pretended that I didn't hear a thing) that she was studying something for her new job at Coppell, so she needed an updated Internet Explorer. Being enemies with me didn't benefit her all that much, she was forced to work with my brother's hemorrhaging computer. But can I be any eviler? The softie in me approached her and offered my much more functional machine, I was going downstairs anyway, to find solace in sharpenning my graphing skills. She smiled at me and asked me if I was still mad. Will I nod, hurting her even more by my blunt animosity? (Yes mom, I'm not over your harsh behavior, so be sure you're off my desk after 2 hours.) DUH, of course not! Only bad daughters do that. But she apologized, and for me that was enough. She was the bitch in that certain exchange of abrasive tempers, so I'm glad I'm in the receiving end of apologetic approach. And I love my mom. She just needs to control the nerves when something she wants is not being done right. As do I.
And may I just share... A close friend of mine from way back in the days (Eira, si Donita, remember?) is currently working for the ATP (men's professional tennis chuvaloo). She's my personal connection to Federer and co., and she never fails to message me everytime something interesting happens. Like this most recent one.
sisssss!!!!!
naku isusumbong ko lang sayo si rafa! sinundo ko sha sa airport, shempre sikat sha kaya andaming nagpapicture.. aba nagsumbong ba naman sa atp officials na andami raw nagpapicture sa kanya. at ako ang itinuro nya. nuku... gigil na gigil tlga ako! gusto ko sha kurutin sa pwet. haha!!
If your Tagalog is pathetically incompetent, let me summarize the thing for you... My friend's basically telling me that my favorite player is a dickhead for blowing off fans in the aiport, and even blamed her for his displayed rude behavior. Ok, this seriously turned me off. Not that he had the balls to blame a pretty lady for his excuse, but shove off fans? Gee, Rafa. You're not getting a second date from me. I swear!
Well, that's about it... I'm off to torture my brain cells with slopes once again. Have an awesome week, my friends! And remember, if you're planning to watch Wild Hogs, take my advice. For major boyfriend points, go to a local bar instead, watch some incredible Mavs game, and drown yourself in margaritas. In other words, it's not worth it. Unless you've been craving for a tattooed Ray Liotta and a half naked (with sagging man-boobs, no less) Travolta.
When I was in high school, I had always been the fat girl who can't dress. Elephant pants + baggy shirts = the black dude in me. My sexual orientation was even questioned a couple of times. Like, did I really look like a boy? I had braids!! Oh shoot. Basketball players have braids. Snoop doggy dog has braids. So... yeah, fuck, I guess I really did look like a butch. Moreover, affirming the popular myth, my kind of fashion, or lack thereof, back then was unfortunately clueless. I was too preoccupied with pool that I didn't even notice I was slowly looking like 
