Blogging about blogging
Since I have nothing else to blab..rather blog..about, I will blog about blogging which has over the years changed in meaning.
For a while, I was confused because some link would often lead me to a “blog” which looked a lot like an ad or a news feature and in a strange way, this offends me. I have always thought a blog is like an online diary for people like me who can’t stop writing about themselves. To turn it into a venue for advertising or to post on it useful relevant information that answers people’s frequently asked questions is offensive.
People should be blogging about the fact that their life sucks, or that their ex is an asshole, or that their boss is incompetent not about how to save money on car insurance, or how to cook this dish or where to find diving hot spots. It’s inappropriate. A blogger is not an entrepreneur with a good grasp of SEO. He or she is an angst-ridden writer with little or no social life and a bad boyfriend.
The new trend in blogging makes people like me who blog about themselves feel so self-conscious and self-involved. Every time I get the urge to blog and I feel some kind of pressure to put some relevance in my post, and so it doesn’t feel like blogging anymore, it feels like writing. Now why would I write about something informative on my free time? Why?
I created my first blog when I was 21, thanks to my then co-worker, Karla, who likes to write about how much she hates this and that. We were friends. She introduced me to Deadjournal, which had a simple enough set up – just write and post. Back then, i think one couldn’t post pictures or videos (a blog is not after all a photo album) or perhaps I just didn’t know how to.
Anyway, the point is I spent a great deal of my 9 to 6 day, which my employer was paying for, to write about myself and it made me immensely happy. I had my first boyfriend then, consequently, I was pretty much floating from point A to point B, I got my first full-time job, I went out twice a week, I spent all my money on clothes and beer in a city where I was so alone it gave my father nightmares.
I couldn’t get enough of myself and my life and I had it all properly documented. Then my friend, Tintin, showed me her blog at Blogspot. And so I made another one and posted pretty much the same stuff on both blogs. Why have two? I’m not sure. Oh well, why not?
Then I got disconnected from the Internet for many years. So while I would write on my Friendster blog, I couldn’t do so as often as I wanted or needed. Besides, the Friendster blog makes me feel a little self-conscious, which brings me to the realization that in blogging exists some kind of contradiction. I sometimes think I don’t really want people to read that stuff I write because theyre personal and offensive and it opens me up to a whole lot of judgment but then why post in the first place?
Because at the end of the day, I want to be read. Hence I post the same stuff on four different places. There’s no escaping it. And every time I write, I actually really want to put a name to every anecdote, I really want to say what exactly is wrong him or her (I spend a great deal of my time figuring these things out; It’s a hobby), I really want to crack a nasty joke ( I have a lot in stock; One for each person I know), and I really want to say something frighteningly true like “I won’t last a day without you” but I don’t have the balls. Sigh. Because I intend to post it for my friends and some strangers to read.
And this is awfully embarrassing to admit but whenever someone would post a comment that reads “aww” or “hang in there,” it almost feels like a hug. A nice warm friendly virtual hug. It’s nice. I’m an emotional dude. Apparently a little pathetic too.
Now the meaning of this whole experience is ruined by blogs about “important” stuff like cars and real estate. If politicians start blogging about their accomplishments (i.e., the number of basketball courts they have built during their term), I’d take this matter to the streets.
So with a mixture of self-consciousness, embarrassment and restraint, I sit at my computer desk to write a post about how I really feel about this and that, worried that some mean guy at his own computer desk would make a nasty comment, and a little hopeful I suppose that someone else would be a little less mean, a little more understanding and say to himself, yes I get it. And I’d be like: Di ba? Di ba? Nakakainis naman talaga?
http://charmayn.wordpress.com has videos. 
Be happy
Today, I was going to write three web content entries for my new and hands-down! coolest boss, the belailama, who is by the way looking for minions like myself (do apply), but I couldn’t resist the urge to blog. I met someone last week who asked me curiously “so if you don’t like this and if you don’t like that, what do you like?” Well, my friend, this is it. I live to blog. Oh and there’s that other thing but I can’t really say. (My mother, who is by her own description more than half a century old, is an Internet wiz. I feel stifled.)
So back to today — this is a happy day. It is the rainbow after a storm. It is the happily-ever-after-part of the most dramatic of romances. It is the hero’s welcome after the most trying of contests. It is the light after the tunnel. It is…it is…okay, I’m out of metaphors. Anyway, I’m happy to be alive today.
Last week, right about this time, I was listening to Avril Lavigne’s Losing my Grip on youtube. Repeatedly. You know like stop, play, stop, play, stop, play.Very 19. And I was thinking “My gosh, when will it ever end?” I did this for like three straight days until I finally realized how pathetic I was being. (It usually takes a while.) (Oh, but it comes.) Charmaine’s note to self: “Stop.”
But I didn’t right away. I couldn’t.
Until Sunday when Pacquiao beat the good-looks off that cocky Mexican De la Hoya. Oh Yeah. (I saw that 24/7 feature on both boxers and de la Hoya’s elite team kept referring to Pacquiao as “that guy.” Well, maybe now, you’ll remember his name, asshole.)
It was actually a pretty boring match except that before I saw it on delayed TV forecast, I listened to the match on the radio first. I had added entertainment. I could barely understand a word the RMN broadcaster said but I knew Pacquiao landed some pretty hard punches because he was like: whooo. Ay! Isa pa guid! Sige sige mga kaabyanan and on one occasion: Hala! Dasyaon! Dasyaon si de la Hoya! His not-so-journalistic coverage ended with a triumphant and very emotional: Daog si Pacquiao! Daog si Pacquiao! Ginsapote nya si de la Hoya!
I am Filipino through and through; I got so energized by this national achievement that I thought: Magapaprebond ako. And I did.And that was nice. By the way, should you ever need a haircut, look for Valerie at F Salon. The services are cheap and she’s pleasant and she does her job right.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday weren’t very good days because of a couple of events I’d really rather forget. Added to that the fact that I had a deadline. Added to that the fact that I couldn’t wash my hair. But it wasn’t all that bad. I learned — only this week after all these years — that my grandfather was a real life spy. I hate to brag but you know, how cool is that!
And then this morning came. I woke up an hour later than I should. Shocked, I ran from the corner to the office but right before I crossed the street, I saw something I still can’t forget.
Lapaz market, like many markets or streets, has some “unique” people. Some of them are perhaps schizophrenic, who have few friends or family to watch over them. I don’t know. Frankly I’m not one of those nice warm-hearted girls with bleeding hearts. I usually just move along, minding my own business, never really noticing anybody else. One of these people I ignore on a daily basis is a man probably in his 40s, dressed in shabby clothes all the time. He begs. You have probably seen him too. He is crippled on both legs so his sits on a squarish piece of plywood with wheels. He uses his hands to move around.
Today, he was on his plywood as usual right behind a powder blue sedan, which suddenly started to back up. As soon as he heard the engine he must have realized that wasn’t the best place to hang out. Given his situation, the moving bumper of the car was the same level as his face. In tears, he yelled for it stop, tried to move frantically using both hands and that was when I turned to look at his face.
It really is the kind of look that changes people. It is not every day that you see in the eyes of another human being a desperate plea to be saved. He was a 40 year old man, in tears, unable to run, very afraid.
The driver must have realized this because he stopped long enough for him to pass. I was late and he was okay so like the snotty bitch that I am, I moved along but really, I think we all need these moments of stark reality. I whine, I cry, I complain but really… how bad is my life? Pretty good in comparison.
I live comfortably. I can use both hands to type out a blog entry that puts everything into perspective. Two eyes to see. Perfect hearing for the juiciest of gossip and the sappiest of songs. I can run away from everything that hurts. And if I choose to, I have everything it takes to dance. And many reasons to do so.
(For one, my grandfather was a spy.)
Musicals and Mama Mia
How do you like watching movies in which the actors sing? Me? Not very much.
I do like and like very much some of them but as far as Im concerned musicals are very–what’s the word?–tricky. You’d better do them right because it’s awfully strange watching a bunch of people singing and dancing in what is supposed to be a real life setting. Think Dolphy.
FULL STORY here:
charmayn.wordpress.com (kase wlang video d2. chaka)
I have a 22-year-old female student who is cool. There are several reasons why I think so.
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When I asked her to write about a social issue, I was pleasantly shocked by what she had chosen to feature: FGM or Female Genital Mutilation in Africa. I’d have chosen abortion or prostitution or poverty or whatever. Not Female Genital Mutilation in Africa.
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I asked her to finish a story about a guy named Grady who had several girlfriends at the same time. She finished him off –quite literally– this way: By the time he got very old, Grady had a dent on his cheek and his knees were so weak he couldn’t stand himself up. The dent on the cheek was due to the thousand of kisses from girls. The thousands of times he had to go down on knees account for them being so weak. And then he died. Alone, of course.
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On the first day of class I asked her whether she wanted to get married and she said no.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No.”
So I told her, “one day when you get to be my age, love will consume you.”
She snickered. Young and cocky.
So I shared with her some advice with an I-know-these-things kind of tone.
“Someday, when you’ve satisfied your urge to go places and when you’ve beaten your own record, you will want nothing more than to wrap your arms around someone who thinks everybody you hate is an asshole.” Because to quote Susan Sarandon in Shall We Dance, we all need witnesses to our lives.
She snickered some more.
So I gave her my email address and told her, “Forget everything but remember to email me by the time you turn 27. I would like to know whether or not you feel the same way.
I was cocky too and look at me now.
Some cherished values and a lot of bitching
There are two things that I vow to teach my future children. There are more of course but these two come to mind today.
First on the list is self reliance.
I don’t want a perfect child but I want an independent, self-reliant one. I would probably change my mind when I do give birth. Raising my mini-me just might bring out my pent up competitive spirit (I know it’s in there somewhere) and find myself saying, oh i want you to be perfect after all. But I do swear today to keep this urge in check. I refuse to be the kind of mom who demands perfection and excellence. On the contrary, I hope to be the kind who only wishes happiness for her kids, which I dare say is harder to be than the former. Be gay if it feels right. If being an under achiever is what you will later struggle with, God knows I should be the first person to say, i get you, my child. But whatever it is you desire, get it yourself.
I constantly cry, whine and get oh so angry about how strict my mother could occasionally get but today, I have some appreciation for that. We sold my DVD player yesterday because my cousin lost hers to the great flood and I wasn’t really using mine anymore. And yadi pa, hehe (sayang din) So she came by to pick it up and it broke my heart a little bit. I can still distinctly remember how it felt to desire nothing more than a Nokia 5110 and find it absolutely unattainable. The DVD was one of the things I first purchased for the house so in a way, I wanted to keep it like an old note or a tattered copy of my first writeup.
It ain’t worth much; I realize that but it’s all mine. Mine, mine, mine. I want my child to know how this all feels.
***
Second on the list is tact. There is a particular reason why I bring this up.
I was having a conversation with a student a couple of days ago. He was telling me with the subtlety of a sledge hammer about how he was so lucky to have been selected for a coveted internship to Hyundai in India, and how he was eager to leave because there’s nothing to do here in my little home city, Iloilo. “I’m a bird and Iloilo is my cage.” These, I believe were his words. Very creative — true — but very offensive. He added that if he were in Korea, he could just drive around in his car and hook up with girls. With 60 bucks worth of patience, I gently suggested: Why don’t you date here? And he said that a couple of girls have in fact approached him but they only wanted his money.
The city he is from offers more than this little cage too. And for some reason our conversation got to a point in which he said the Philippines was as poor as Bangladesh. India, along with the rest of the world, thinks we’re very poor. And that being a tutor was a good enough job because it paid more than other jobs around here. Let’s not bother to take into account the value of the required skill.
And get this: we, the female tutors get the chance to marry foreigners. This is good for you too, were his exact words. In between the belittling he was doing to my city, my country, my people, he managed to add: You complain, but if you weren’t a tutor, what would you do?
And here is what I have to say: if it weren’t for people like me you would have to sell more than your car to study English, which you need because people in Hyundai, India speak English and you don’t.
Disclaimer though: I am not generalizing. I have met more well-mannered foreign students who understand that true or not, there are just some things you don’t say. In spite of the limitations of our service, they also place more value to the effort we make to help them. The above is not a comment on race.
Before the class ended today, he said: I‘m going to Flow tonight, would you like to come? I said I’d rather stay home. Staring at the computer screen for hours doing nothing in particular is potentially more engaging.
Tact. Please.
I have another example. I met a girl, who went to the same university as I did and she was telling me about her teaching job and how I should get those teaching units and apply. She said she went to Switzerland for some activity (I forget what) and blah blah. She meant well; I do know that and it did sound very appealing until for some reason, she blurted out: Oh no, no. You can’t compare this to your job. This is a real job.
Oh yeah?!
So I asked her: “How much?” She said something like it really isn’t the kind of job you should look for if money is what you want. Well dear, the rolling hills and the breathtaking scenery of Switzerland doesn’t pay the rent, does it?
For the record, I do think she has a cool job and mine ain’t the best. Don’t you think I know that already? There is no need to ram it down my throat. I would really appreciate a bit more tact.
The world is crowded with people who just can’t keep their nasty opinions to themselves. There is a man, in his mid-40s or 50s who got my number and sent me one or two text messages. And the lady who gave my number away and who was basically pimping me asked me why I was being such a snob. He was actually quite respectful and on the whole alright but I told the lady I was already seeing somebody and then she went on and on about how I should be so lucky to be with someone so hmm…”accomplished.” Don’t I want a ride home, dine out and enjoy certain luxuries that I can’t do so now, blah blah blah and who is this guy Im seeing anyway?
Well, among other wonderful things, he is young.
(for some reason, this cheers me up. )
The Abused Child
(written for Iloilo Premier …bakal man kamo bi…heheh)
Jessica saw a boy taken to a room. A man had prepared the boy dinner, which the latter ate with much gusto and at first she thought, what a kind thing to do. But when they moved to the bedroom, she started to feel queasy. She hated to think what was happening behind closed doors – so much that she somehow convinced herself that she was just being malisyosa. But then, after some time, the boy stormed right out and into toilet to throw up. He was barely 16. She stood there frozen and unready for a confrontation. The most disconcerting thing about this story is that many who might find themselves in the same position would probably do the same: nothing.
Marriage is for better and for worse, and not only that: forever. All for one reason: to be able to build a family gentle enough to cradle, strong enough to protect and abundant enough to provide. So what happens when the very institution supposed to raise children into happy productive adults is the same one which robs of them of security, comfort and self-respect?
And sadly in the quiet of many homes, these crimes do happen. In 2005, there were reported to be 403 children who live in especially difficult circumstances in Region 6. In the last two years, there have been 375 recorded victims of abuse according to the Department of Social Welfare (DSWD) and the Philippine National Police.
What Constitutes Child Abuse? The disregard for children’s basic needs such as food, clothing, shelter and education is already a form of child abuse. This is called neglect which constitutes 54 percent of the abuse among children in the world. And of course there is physical, emotional and sexual abuse.
Ginadisiplina lang. Isn’t that what we say after an occasional slap in the wrist? When our patience gets shorter and the offense gets graver, does it become justified to pinch harder, hit harder and make them go down on their knees longer? Asian communities generally subscribe to the philosophy of “spare the rod and spoil the child,” but to what extent can we exercise our power over them? Can we really trust ourselves to tell the difference between physical abuse and just plain simple reprimand?
Social Worker, Susan Magato, says that in her work, it is not uncommon to find a child literally bruised and broken. “Most of these kids were hurt by their families. Very often, the parents are unfit because of alcohol intoxication or drug addiction. Whenever there is physical abuse, it is usually coupled by emotional or verbal abuse.”
Emotional and psychological abuse is – safe to say – the kind of abuse people are least aware of. It is also the most difficult to define and yet it has the power to scar children for life. Words leave marks in ways beyond our imagination. Mango, tanga, lanka, wala pulos, gago, bulay-og. At such a vulnerable stage in their life, these words have a significant effect on how they feel about themselves.
Magato adds that many of these children were brought to the DSWD by their teachers, relatives or concerned neighbors, who notice depression, aggression or unusual behavior among the kids.
Violating a child’s privacy and exposing him or her to adult sexuality is sexual abuse. In the region, about 58 percent of the victims are aged 12 to 17 years. About 33 percent are below 11 years old – so young and yet exposed to sexuality with the heavy hand of force. Seventy percent of the offenders are known to or related to the victims. This sadly is a crime that happens inside the kids’ very own homes.
The Barriers. The first step to fixing any problem is detection. Unfortunately, it is difficult to get a clear estimation of number of cases of child abuse in the region.
In the past, it was said that there were fewer cases of diagnosed illnesses among people. This however does not necessarily mean people then were healthier. It could mean medical technology then was less able to detect and diagnose diseases. The difficulty in fighting child abuse is similar.
Child abuse marks their victims for life not only with trauma but also with social stigma. Getting victims to come forward and seek help is one of the greatest challenges for social welfare. In a community where everybody knows everybody and each one loves to talk, victims of abuse often suffer in silence.
Whether the people in the region admit this or not, Filipino culture often keeps people from helping actively. Tamaran ko ya manghilabot, people say.
As the perpetrators are often the breadwinners of the family, some mothers turn a blind eye and slip into denial. “Some victims are even made to feel bad when they turn against their uncles or fathers. This is especially true when the fathers are the primary providers,” says Magato.
Not understanding the nature of child abuse is also another problem. The country report on child abuse states, “…lack of sexual awareness was cited as the reason for which nearly two out of ten children did not report the abuse. They had no idea they were being violated…(it) was being inflicted by figures they look upon for protection.”
But while there is hesitance among us, there is also genuine concern. Many organizations and homes for the abused have been put together to provide a shelter for children who have been plucked out of the streets or their very own homes.
Chameleon. It is not your picture perfect home. Some nights, a girl wakes up crying because she has just had a bad dream. Knives and poisonous items are locked in places out of their reach. Some of the children here still live in real fear of their oppressors and of the ghost of their past. Still, it is here that they find new hope.
In 1997, two friends – one Filipino and one French – decided to begin a partnership that would nurture female children and teens who have been sexually abused or dragged into exploitative child labor. In Passi City, Iloilo, they built a home away from home specifically for female victims. This non-profit organization is called Chameleon.
The idea is simple. The organization takes in their custody females 18 years old and below and finds sponsors to assist them financially. The primary goals of the association are to protect, to educate, to train and to rehabilitate. Hopefully, with the assistance of a community member who share this vision, children may be “reinserted” into their families and into the community, and grow up as happy productive adults.
Other than accommodation and food, the kids are enrolled into public schools. They are also provided vocational training in art, sewing, photography, cooking and others. As plucking them out of a dangerous environment often elicits aggression from the perpetrators, they are also provided legal, medical and psychological assistance.
A conventional home consists of both parents, siblings and some extended family members. But perhaps “home” could also be a place like Chameleon where people understand, care and make an effort to help. The “family” that these children have found within the walls of such alternative homes is strengthened by shared experience and united by a common hope that one day they would surpass an ordeal beyond our imagination – one that we would never allow to happen to our own child.
“But what we Filipinos know least about America has, I think, to do with its minorities, especially African Americans, whom we usually recognize as one stereotype or another. In the 1990s, you had to be one of two MJs—Michael Jackson and Michael Jordan—to be seen as a successful black man in America, and indeed we often think of blacks as being great entertainers and athletes, which is not a bad thing, unless you happen to be a black person who’s neither one nor the other. There is, I suspect, a benign racism in Filipinos (the kind that insists that the only good PBA imports are black ones) shaped by the fact that as nut-brown as most of us are, we see the world through white eyes, and ascribe to whiteness all things good and beautiful. Nobody ever sold a tin or a tube of “blackening” cream in this country.” –Butch Dalisay
All in a day’s work
I teach English to ESL learners. If you do what I do, you are bound to hear the strangest things.
***
A couple of years ago, a student was trying to explain how to cook a certain dish. “Put in some meat, potato, chili powder, blah, blah, blah…and rabbit.”
Shocked, I said: “Radish?”
“No, rabbit.”
“Are you sure?” As in Bugs Bunny?
After some frantic searching in his electronic dictionary, he clarified.
“Ah no. Carrot.”
***
My first chongks for each day is a diligent-looking fellow with round dark-rimmed glasses.
From the very start, I had a feeling he was “attentive to details” because once I told him:” Let me figure out your homework, give me some time to photocopy it and I’ll give it to you at four.”
And at four, he walked over to me and asked, “Where is it?”
I kind of got caught up with other important things like keeping myself updated with office gossip and lazing around with a cup of coffee that I completely forgot about what I had promised him.
So I gave him an old picture book of sorts and I gave him instructions. “Write sentences.”
He said, “on which pictures?”
I was going to say “on anyone of them” but that would give me away so I gave him a stern look and said “On all of them.” (This is exactly the kind of thing that makes them go: “Oh, good tutor.” Go figure.)
And then he said: “Just one sentence?”
I said: “yes.”
“Any kind of sentence?”
“Yes.”
Before the class ended this morning, we went through the same drill. I gave him 5 sentence patterns. “Write one sentence for each sentence pattern. That’s your homework.”
He said: “follow this pattern?”
“Yes, write one for each sentence pattern”
“Just one sentence?” Then he started pointing at each pattern saying:”one sentence? one sentence? one sentence? one sentence? one sentence?”
“Yes, one.”
“Total 5?”
“Yes,” I told him but I was dying to say “No, ten” just to mess him up a little and laugh my nasty head off but I decided against it. He thinks Im nice and I dont wanna break his heart.
***
Popularity is something you snicker about at night but never openly admit to. Sacred truth in the pursuit of social acceptability.
There’s this new stud of a guy in school now, who seems to be quite popular among the girls and he knows it too and he says it out loud. He actually told me that he went to Flow and got a little disappointed that nobody seemed to be uhm…”open.” In Makati, he claimed, girls would just walk right up at him and I thought wow, we do need a bigger cubicle for your ego. But I consoled him of course; Id say anything for 60 bucks an hour.
Today, he asked me, “Do you think it’s okay if i meet a Filipino friend after school? I want practice my English skill. Do you think possible? I can find?”
Without blinking, I said: “No.” Then added (still not blinking): “You have to pay.”
He gave me a why-is-that?-Im-so-friggin-charming! look and I felt compelled to console him again. I suggested he go look in Calsada, where he would be –Im sure– pretty popular but he said he wanted people who spoke English well. “Im going to go to U.P later,” he insisted.
With everything I got, I forced on my face a most serious expression and said: “Okay, you go do that.” Now that story I would like to hear.
***
The last story is a really old one. I had this funny adorable student once whom I got into an argument with over a sentence. He penned down on his notebook the following: “I make water.” Accustomed to such errors in usage, I corrected him sincerely: “Bill, you dont make water.” You can fetch a pail of water but make it you cannot. At that point, he launched a series of arguments to prove that his sentence was correct. I cant remember what he said. Moreover, I cant imagine how one person can so passionately argue the veracity of “I make water” but anyway, I ended the discussion with a drawing of a man holding his arms up the sky. In one hand, i wrote the letter “H” and on the other, “O2.” And then I drew a lightning bolt between the man’s arms. On the man’s shirt I wrote the name: “God.” Below, the following words:
“He makes water.”
***
A few months later, the same student and I got into another argument about the word “people” being uncountable. It’s not. It’s plural. But since the definition of uncountable nouns is that they are nouns that can’t be counted (like air and water), he snapped –in his opinion, quite cleverly– at me: “You can count how many people world? How many? Huh? How many?”
No, Bill. I cant. Neither can I come up with the total number of birds, fish, dogs, trees, apples, pencils, cars, bicycles, bags, houses, buses… You know what? Let’s just stop counting altogether. They’re all uncountable.
I hereby declare all nouns uncountable.
My youtube weekend
I spent the whole weekend and I mean the entirety of it watching stand up comedians in between the work I have to do. I didn’t used to find Eddie Murphy funny but his stand up act, I just realized, is something else. All the black comics like to cuss a lot, so my mom was like they’re just too loud. Tsk tsk, old people. But in Murphy’s act the bad language works. I watched nearly every single one on youtube so trust me. I speak with some authority on this matter. The mo*herfu*ker is hilarious.
Eddie Murphy on Rocky and Italians
Eddie Murphy on Michael Jackson
Finally at about 9pm Sunday, I had enough of comedy so now Im listening to this song by some old chick named Bonnie something. I was in grade school when this came out. I was 10 or 11 and had no idea what this could possibly be about but I loved the radio. And I would stick my ears to the small stereo I had and learn nearly all the sappy songs they played, which probably explains why I write the stuff I write. In retrospect, Im thinking that wasnt such a great idea. Cause now Im 27 and I sort of get these sad songs and the angst is starting to sound way too familiar and very close to home. That’s the saddest part.
Click here to hear the song.
I Cant Make You Love Me.
“I cant make you love me if you dont
You cant make your heart feel something it wont…”
“Ill close my eyes, then I wont see
The love you dont feel when youre holding me
Morning will come and Ill do whats right
Just give me till then to give up this fight
And I will give up this fight”
What a sappy mo*herfu*ker i am.
It’s 2 am now. Im ending my weekend with Whitney Houston of whom I am a big fan. Ive been listening to this song below for the past 45 minutes or so. This bit*h is gonna make me late tomorrow. I like it though. I like it. My mom is a bigger fan. She would always be like she’s so great! she’s so great. Tsk tsk, old people.
Sure Rage and Tori Amos and Seal and all them other “artists” are “cool,” and Christina Aguilera has become quite attractive especially since she stopped wearing clothes but I am an FM radio girl and a firm believer of this: Nobody really takes on Whitney and wins.
You must click this:
(if I can sing like this, im never teaching koreans anymore. Nor write. I might not even get married anymore. Im just gonna sing forever.)
