Loser

refers to grade-conscious freaks. They don't miss their assignments, have a year's supply of quiz pads (1/4, 1/2, 1 whole), and hate Physical Education classes. They're the reversals of boys who bring beer and girls who breathe make-up. Too afraid to retaliate to tirades and insults, they believe that walking into the guidance counselor's office will be the end of life.

"They're just good in memorization," said the teacher who identifies herself as cool. "They ace their exams, but they won't succeed in life."

"The real champions are those who know diskarte."

And perhaps she's right. Maybe they're plain losers with above-average memory skills. Because after two decades of study, you still can't define what that word means. You're hopelessly hunting for and enjoying pieces of reaffirmations, wishing that one day, you suddenly bump into a street sign, leading you to a landscape of nipa hut beside a rice field, in front of a mountain, below the yellow smiling sun.

Third World Ninja

Siopao

Becomes your brain after kneading a dough of words on the board of memory. "Cook four," says the chef who busies himself with culinary calculus. You promptly roll each slice into a ball and fuck it with egg and semantic filling, making sure that no customer will say it tastes like manila paper. You gather the sides, pinch them together, and twist. The chef begins to snore. You place the rolls in the steamer. Whistle and wait until the froth from his mouth rises. Once he does, switch off the stove and let the dreams subside. Put the buns in the plate and serve. Estimated time is 12 hours. Get a free bag of flour for overtime pay.

Block

Tonight I'm writing you a poem made of a paragraph. A paragraph because, among other things, lines and stanzas speak of lyrical realities, and my life does not have those. It is an ugly chop of wood with itchy fibers and rotten worms. You see, even my metaphors fail effortlessly. Because five years from now, when I'm a 30 year-old semi-bald swine with yellow teeth, I want to remember this night when my fears only revolve around the allergy on my face, the credit card debt, and losing weight. Gripping the cock of time from point B to point A is a consolation prize. Tonight, maybe there's happiness I refuse to see. Perhaps life is much better.

What's In Your Bag?

I feel naked whenever I go out bag-less. It's like you're facing the world not ready with the hassles that may come your way. Hence I'm starting the year exposing the weaponry that allows me to somersault, smile, and say f*ck off to problems.

1. Blair, the SE w595. The best phone I ever got.

2. Lily, the D3000. I'm still shy showing them to people 'cause I'm a lame newbie.

3. Check wallet from Topman. It stores a dozen of cards, 100 pesos, ID's, and two Frenzy condoms. LOL

4. Nivea Lipgloss. My (French) kisses taste like sweet melons.

5. 2010 SB Planner, which has just been replaced by the Witty 2011 planner. Bearer of budget projections, escapades, tough secrets, FLAMES tests, drawings of my ugly enemies.

6. Umbra the Automatic Umbrella. So I can always spare a cute guy from getting wet.

7. Contact lens dish. So my eyes won't hurt during occasional sleepovers.

8. BARE perfume from F&H. I spray fifty times a day so buying pricey perfumes is impractical, if not salary depleting.

9. Clean & Clear Oil Film and SPF 50. Solutions to my oily face curse.

10. BENCH FIX styling gel. I use it when my hair is short.

11. Assorted pens. I love writing on immaculate white bus seat covers.

12. Doraemon bag padlock. I'm so afraid of lumpens and high-class magnas.

13. USB. So I can trade songs and porn clips effortlessly.

14. Apple USB chord. Hmm. 100+ cute points from Apple user-friends

15. Kleenex. To wipe sweat, dirt, and _____. LOL

16. Eyeglasses of the season. This time it's a fake Ray Ban wayfarers from ' las banchettas'.

17. Blaine, the iPod Nano. The best transport/gym companion.

18. Dean, the HP mini. The most important item I always bring. It's as cute and as versatile as me!