Fil 11 Blog #7: B.S. Buhay

Ipinapakita sa mga larawan ang ilan sa mga ‘postmodernong kaisipan’ na nasasalubong ko sa aking buhay.

1. AB Com = Bulok sa Math.


2. Chinese = Business Major/Math Major. PARANG HINDI NAMAN.


Totoo ang persepsyon ng madami na pagdating sa kolehiyo mas gusto ng mga magulang na ang kunin na kurso ng kanilang anak ay magiging praktikal, dahil madami sa kanila ay ang tatakbo ng mga ‘family business’ nila kapag tumanda na ang kanilang mga magulang. PERO… hindi naman lahat ay napupunta sa mga kurso tulad ng BS Management, BS Math, atbp. Halimbawa na doon ang pamilya ko. Ang kuya ko ay Fine Arts major at nagtratrabaho siya ngayon sa isang ad agency. Ang ate ko ay Communication Research major, habang ako naman ay isang proud na Communications major. 🙂 Ipinapatunay nito na hindi lahat ng mga Fil-Chinese ay nagiging negosyante o doktor, napupunta rin kami sa mga ibang propesyon.

3. Chinese = singkit.

Ito’y nagmumukhang ‘racist’ na kommento, ngunit masasabi na isa ito sa mga bagay kung paano nakikilala ang mga Tsino ng mga tao na galing sa ibang bansa. Pero nakikita rin naman na hindi lahat ng Tsino ay mukhang ganito.


Mayroon din naman silang mga mata. 🙂


4. Atenista = conyo.


Pindutin ang link sa ilalim =)

‘Nuff said. Hehehe.



“That’s life for you,” said McDunn. “Someone always waiting for someone who never comes home. Always someone loving some thing more than that thing that loves them. And after a while you want to destroy whatever that thing is, so it can hurt you no more.”

-‘The Fog Horn’ by Ray Bradbury


Failure had a pretty face. It had green eyes, auburn hair, a svelte figure, and a smile that shone even brighter than the sun. This was failure. She stood still in time, smiling for a picture that stayed a picture even when years had aged it.

Long ago I had come to believe Failure would finally show shines of life. That Failure would come walking down the street and actually take my hand and smile at me. Failure would know me… did she not? How could she not?

From everywhere she stared back at me, preserved in time, imprisoned in her colorful reality. Her angelic smile was real, was it not? Every day I question why she has yet to manifest herself, why she has yet to be.

For she used to not be Failure to me. I loved her, I cherished her. Long ago she was Perfection, and it was in search of her did things become meaningful. Life had purpose. To me, love was purpose. To see her face in the crowd and to stifle elation, knowing of her existence. Knowing that her gentle eyes would see only see me. Every day was a wait I knew not in vain, for I knew she loved me. She would. She would come alive and come to me, her arms outstretched, her smile, genuine. She would proclaim her love and make it known to the world that only I was worthy of her. Only I, her master.

Before long hope turned to heartbreak, and sanity to sorrow. I stared back at her gentle eyes, stuck in the moment, stuck in time. A part of me felt she would stay there forever, and that she would never come to me. But NO. This cannot be! She must exist, SHE MUST. For long I have waited, alone in my home, away from the world. Every day I look through the balcony and hope to see her auburn hair in the sunlight, and her eyes on me.

Yet Fate has not been kind. He has imprisoned her, kept her hostage in colorful realities, perceived depictions of a truth only I know of as real.


With Fate I must wrestle! He has taken her from me, my Love, my Perfection! Long ago it has been since I began waiting for her, since her existence to me, was fact. Now years have passed and yet she has yet to come in human form, stuck between sketched worlds, forced to keep a smile. I know she wants to break free. She wants to find ME, and yet she must wrestle with Fate, her jailor. The one that keeps her from me, the one that keeps her.


I believe that it is not Fate whom I must blame. For long ago has passed since I began my wait, and biology has failed me. My hair is gray, my body is weak. Food I only see in portraits, water in the rain that pours on my roof in sheets once the wet season comes. For long I have aged, but she?

Stands she does, her lips formed in a smile, her hair still brown, her smile still shining. She is Perfection still, but me? I am but Failure, and since she is mine she is but Failure. Failure is she! Ahhh! I must not call her Perfection no longer, but Failure. Failure! Failure makes me wait for seconds, for hours, for weeks, for months, for YEARS!

Oh, Failure, why must you make me wait?


Her.. mere… sight. Inflames me. She…is…but…an…abomination! Once Perfection, now Failure… now Hate! I call her Hate. She is Hate. She who has left me. She who has never come to her Faithful Servant, of which I have been. Long ago it has been since I have foregone my duties and submitted myself to her, and yet. Hate! HATE. HATEEE!

Long ago it has been since I have given up on her. She will never come. She never could have come. For she does… oh, i cannot say it so!… she…she… she… she…

She does not exist.


An artist lived on the very top floor of a rickety apartment complex. The man was a known recluse, and hardly ever came out of his home, only to survey the streets through his balcony every morning. One day a large canvas fell from the man’s window, falling to the ground with a thud. It was a portrait of a pretty auburn-haired woman whose angelic features seemed quite unorthodox. Unfortunately the fall had ruined it, breaking the canvas into a large number of pieces.

A few days later, another thing fell from the man’s window.

Do you know what it is?