Friday, December 17, 2004

Cleaning time

Contrary to the popular delusions of our neighbors, we do have a broom and dust pan at home. And yes, it’s functional and we are actually exceptional in utilizing it. Well, okay, so maybe not really that exceptional, but we do use it. Seldom, but at least we use it. Okay, admittedly even very, very seldom.

My mother gave up on us quite recently after “realizing” that she has been “exploited” by a bunch of lazy people, so she’s adamantly declined to lift a finger to clean up. I can’t go on reasoning that brushing some dead leaves won’t be contributing to the mental health of a future philosopher, if not, a media whore (why pick up the dead? Let it fly freely along with its lost soul, on hopes of meeting its creator, says my poetic self. Of course my mother would not agree that it’s applicable also to dead leaves), so naturally, I had to do something. I can’t go on with our hacienda forever looking like it’s experiencing fall.

On a sudden hit of inspiration this morning, I picked up a broom and swept our garden. Blame it on the non-existent puto bumbong on my stomach, I decided to look for other ways to heat up my body.

Don’t get me wrong. I love cleaning. I can go on waxing our floors or cleaning around if I didn’t have classes and other extra curricular chores to distract. I don’t like the job of cleaning outside our house though because of some nosy neighbors. You know, those reed-thin (or otherwise) people from the next doors who are always perched on their balconies acting like they’re basking in the sun as if they haven’t had enough vitamin Ds when in fact they’re just vultures undercover. If they’re not looking at you imagining you’re lunch, you’re either that rat trapped on some stupid branches and treated like some low class entertainment. I’m not Mahal, thank you very much.

But, sigh, a chore is a chore. So I put on my favorite holey violet tank top and left my jeans on, then put on my jacket. It was still too early in the morning and I didn’t want to have the fog contribute more to my now aching nose (caught colds just last night), plus, I didn’t really want to emerge as a budding exhibitionist. Gingerly, I handled the broom, thinking whether I should sweep right to left or other wise. I tried it once. Just to catch my drift.

Hmm. Right to left indeed. Perfect.

(See, if I was putting in this much thought on my studies, I would have been on the dean’s list.)

And then, I wouldn’t stop. I started cleaning out the whole backyard. I even changed into shorts for my convenience, which made me look like the un-stereotypical chimay Paul and I used to laugh about (rich visayan amos with coñotic maids going “Ate, can I like make bale so that I can go shopping at Galle today?”), if not, a frustrated sexy starlet on the verge of desperation. I pick the former. I didn’t mind, though. The audiences couldn’t see me from the side and back parts of the yard. And I doubt it really if the dogs would applaud if they get a peek at whatever.

Or maybe it really wasn’t a delusion when I thought I heard a snicker amongst the dogs a while ago. Ah, well.

But you know what, it actually made me think about the state the world’s in today—all those wars and famine, the hunger and things that may actually be solved if there was an initiative, and heavy things around the world that required patience. Well, okay, not really. But I do like to pretend I’m deep once in a while. Harhar.

I had fun cleaning out, though. I suddenly have more reasons to scream at my father if he litters around. (I’m claiming reign over things I clean out. He heh)

Cleaning Time

Contrary to the popular delusions of our neighbors, we do have a broom and dust pan at home. And yes, it’s functional and we are actually exceptional in utilizing it. Well, okay, so maybe not really that exceptional, but we do use it. Seldom, but at least we use it. Okay, admittedly even very, very seldom.

My mother gave up on us quite recently after “realizing” that she has been “exploited” by a bunch of lazy people, so she’s adamantly declined to lift a finger to clean up. I can’t go on reasoning that brushing some dead leaves won’t be contributing to the mental health of a future philosopher, if not, a media whore (why pick up the dead? Let it fly freely along with its lost soul, on hopes of meeting its creator, says my poetic self. Of course my mother would not agree that it’s applicable also to dead leaves), so naturally, I had to do something. I can’t go on with our hacienda forever looking like it’s experiencing fall.

On a sudden hit of inspiration this morning, I picked up a broom and swept our garden. Blame it on the non-existent puto bumbong on my stomach, I decided to look for other ways to heat up my body.

Don’t get me wrong. I love cleaning. I can go on waxing our floors or cleaning around if I didn’t have classes and other extra curricular chores to distract. I don’t like the job of cleaning outside our house though because of some nosy neighbors. You know, those reed-thin (or otherwise) people from the next doors who are always perched on their balconies acting like they’re basking in the sun as if they haven’t had enough vitamin Ds when in fact they’re just vultures undercover. If they’re not looking at you imagining you’re lunch, you’re either that rat trapped on some stupid branches and treated like some low class entertainment. I’m not Mahal, thank you very much.

But, sigh, a chore is a chore. So I put on my favorite holey violet tank top and left my jeans on, then put on my jacket. It was still too early in the morning and I didn’t want to have the fog contribute more to my now aching nose (caught colds just last night), plus, I didn’t really want to emerge as a budding exhibitionist. Gingerly, I handled the broom, thinking whether I should sweep right to left or other wise. I tried it once. Just to catch my drift.

Hmm. Right to left indeed. Perfect.

(See, if I was putting in this much thought on my studies, I would have been on the dean’s list.)

And then, I wouldn’t stop. I started cleaning out the whole backyard. I even changed into shorts for my convenience, which made me look like the un-stereotypical chimay Paul and I used to laugh about (rich visayan amos with coñotic maids going “Ate, can I like make bale so that I can go shopping at Galle today?”), if not, a frustrated sexy starlet on the verge of desperation. I pick the former. I didn’t mind, though. The audiences couldn’t see me from the side and back parts of the yard. And I doubt it really if the dogs would applaud if they get a peek at whatever.

Or maybe it really wasn’t a delusion when I thought I heard a snicker amongst the dogs a while ago. Ah, well.

But you know what, it actually made me think about the state the world’s in today—all those wars and famine, the hunger and things that may actually be solved if there was an initiative, and heavy things around the world that required patience. Well, okay, not really. But I do like to pretend I’m deep once in a while. Harhar.

I had fun cleaning out, though. I suddenly have more reasons to scream at my father if he litters around. (I’m claiming reign over things I clean out. He heh)

Cleaning Time

Contrary to the popular delusions of our neighbors, we do have a broom and dust pan at home. And yes, it’s functional and we are actually exceptional in utilizing it. Well, okay, so maybe not really that exceptional, but we do use it. Seldom, but at least we use it. Okay, admittedly even very, very seldom.

My mother gave up on us quite recently after “realizing” that she has been “exploited” by a bunch of lazy people, so she’s adamantly declined to lift a finger to clean up. I can’t go on reasoning that brushing some dead leaves won’t be contributing to the mental health of a future philosopher, if not, a media whore (why pick up the dead? Let it fly freely along with its lost soul, on hopes of meeting its creator, says my poetic self. Of course my mother would not agree that it’s applicable also to dead leaves), so naturally, I had to do something. I can’t go on with our hacienda forever looking like it’s experiencing fall.

On a sudden hit of inspiration this morning, I picked up a broom and swept our garden. Blame it on the non-existent puto bumbong on my stomach, I decided to look for other ways to heat up my body.

Don’t get me wrong. I love cleaning. I can go on waxing our floors or cleaning around if I didn’t have classes and other extra curricular chores to distract. I don’t like the job of cleaning outside our house though because of some nosy neighbors. You know, those reed-thin (or otherwise) people from the next doors who are always perched on their balconies acting like they’re basking in the sun as if they haven’t had enough vitamin Ds when in fact they’re just vultures undercover. If they’re not looking at you imagining you’re lunch, you’re either that rat trapped on some stupid branches and treated like some low class entertainment. I’m not Mahal, thank you very much.

But, sigh, a chore is a chore. So I put on my favorite holey violet tank top and left my jeans on, then put on my jacket. It was still too early in the morning and I didn’t want to have the fog contribute more to my now aching nose (caught colds just last night), plus, I didn’t really want to emerge as a budding exhibitionist. Gingerly, I handled the broom, thinking whether I should sweep right to left or other wise. I tried it once. Just to catch my drift.

Hmm. Right to left indeed. Perfect.

(See, if I was putting in this much thought on my studies, I would have been on the dean’s list.)

And then, I wouldn’t stop. I started cleaning out the whole backyard. I even changed into shorts for my convenience, which made me look like the un-stereotypical chimay Paul and I used to laugh about (rich visayan amos with coñotic maids going “Ate, can I like make bale so that I can go shopping at Galle today?”), if not, a frustrated sexy starlet on the verge of desperation. I pick the former. I didn’t mind, though. The audiences couldn’t see me from the side and back parts of the yard. And I doubt it really if the dogs would applaud if they get a peek at whatever.

Or maybe it really wasn’t a delusion when I thought I heard a snicker amongst the dogs a while ago. Ah, well.

But you know what, it actually made me think about the state the world’s in today—all those wars and famine, the hunger and things that may actually be solved if there was an initiative, and heavy things around the world that required patience. Well, okay, not really. But I do like to pretend I’m deep once in a while. Harhar.

I had fun cleaning out, though. I suddenly have more reasons to scream at my father if he litters around. (I’m claiming reign over things I clean out. He heh)

Cleaning Time

Contrary to the popular delusions of our neighbors, we do have a broom and dust pan at home. And yes, it’s functional and we are actually exceptional in utilizing it. Well, okay, so maybe not really that exceptional, but we do use it. Seldom, but at least we use it. Okay, admittedly even very, very seldom.

My mother gave up on us quite recently after “realizing” that she has been “exploited” by a bunch of lazy people, so she’s adamantly declined to lift a finger to clean up. I can’t go on reasoning that brushing some dead leaves won’t be contributing to the mental health of a future philosopher, if not, a media whore (why pick up the dead? Let it fly freely along with its lost soul, on hopes of meeting its creator, says my poetic self. Of course my mother would not agree that it’s applicable also to dead leaves), so naturally, I had to do something. I can’t go on with our hacienda forever looking like it’s experiencing fall.

On a sudden hit of inspiration this morning, I picked up a broom and swept our garden. Blame it on the non-existent puto bumbong on my stomach, I decided to look for other ways to heat up my body.

Don’t get me wrong. I love cleaning. I can go on waxing our floors or cleaning around if I didn’t have classes and other extra curricular chores to distract. I don’t like the job of cleaning outside our house though because of some nosy neighbors. You know, those reed-thin (or otherwise) people from the next doors who are always perched on their balconies acting like they’re basking in the sun as if they haven’t had enough vitamin Ds when in fact they’re just vultures undercover. If they’re not looking at you imagining you’re lunch, you’re either that rat trapped on some stupid branches and treated like some low class entertainment. I’m not Mahal, thank you very much.

But, sigh, a chore is a chore. So I put on my favorite holey violet tank top and left my jeans on, then put on my jacket. It was still too early in the morning and I didn’t want to have the fog contribute more to my now aching nose (caught colds just last night), plus, I didn’t really want to emerge as a budding exhibitionist. Gingerly, I handled the broom, thinking whether I should sweep right to left or other wise. I tried it once. Just to catch my drift.

Hmm. Right to left indeed. Perfect.

(See, if I was putting in this much thought on my studies, I would have been on the dean’s list.)

And then, I wouldn’t stop. I started cleaning out the whole backyard. I even changed into shorts for my convenience, which made me look like the un-stereotypical chimay Paul and I used to laugh about (rich visayan amos with coñotic maids going “Ate, can I like make bale so that I can go shopping at Galle today?”), if not, a frustrated sexy starlet on the verge of desperation. I pick the former. I didn’t mind, though. The audiences couldn’t see me from the side and back parts of the yard. And I doubt it really if the dogs would applaud if they get a peek at whatever.

Or maybe it really wasn’t a delusion when I thought I heard a snicker amongst the dogs a while ago. Ah, well.

But you know what, it actually made me think about the state the world’s in today—all those wars and famine, the hunger and things that may actually be solved if there was an initiative, and heavy things around the world that required patience. Well, okay, not really. But I do like to pretend I’m deep once in a while. Harhar.

I had fun cleaning out, though. I suddenly have more reasons to scream at my father if he litters around. (I’m claiming reign over things I clean out. He heh)

Monday, December 13, 2004

testing

testing

 
1