#chickababes

Ooh, Burn.

Plantation, Makati, Monday night, and we were trying to decide on a drink other than beer. "Try the Angel's Breath," said the aging waitress, as she shifted from foot to stockinged foot. We stared down at the drinks list. It wasn't there. She disappears for a bit and returns, happier. "Sorry, I meant the Dragon's Breath." That sounded a little more promising, until she widened her eyes at us and whispered conspiratorially, "We set it on fire."

Now I've had flaming shots before, the most memorable of which was the Burn Bugsy's Burn from, well, Bugsy's. Distracted by the overwhelming fireball that appeared when the shot was dusted with cinnamon, I missed out inhaling the fumes given off by the lit sambuca, disappointing the waiter who took the trouble of trapping them for me. There was also the catastrophic merriment in Boracay, where I left the straw in the shot glass for too long, and failed miserably to finish my drink of melted plastic. 

"We pour the liquor into the glass," our Plantation waitress was saying, "and set it on fire as it falls." My companion was listening intently but asking me silently with his eyes if we were down for this. "Whoosh," whispered our waitress, her fingers blooming in front of her like the fireball we were promised. I looked back down at the drinks list and considered the pain level I was ready to handle.

I knew that if I said yes to Dragon's Breath, my drinking buddy would order one too, because that's what drinking buddies are for. Other than swatting at your burning bangs, drinking buddies mark your pace, and ordering the same drink, especially if its a fire hazard, is the truest sign of solidarity.

Yet what you order together also says something about the both of you. Beer is the easiest, because it's so damn chill. A shared bottle of whiskey says we're going to talk a little but drink lots more. Shots say, "fuck the party; let's get each other drunk and home." Flaming shots say something else entirely. Look at us, playing with fire. 

You see, flaming shots are the favorite of the show-off, the party animal, the table that wants everyone to turn and look. It's not just the spectacle of a sudden blaze in a dark bar; it's an obvious metaphor for a quick and flashy performance that ends too damn quickly.

"Try niyo," said the waitress again. It was obviously a bar favorite. I looked over at him. He was humming thoughtfully, looking at me, ready to be burned. But I wasn't. I handed the waitress the bar list and ordered two green apple martinis, which turned out to be absolutely delicious. 

Giorgia Ellize Zorilla Piedad   http://www.facebook.com/giatot

Mary Leonise Cornelia Pastolero  http://www.facebook.com/maryleonise

Mary Loueise Cornelia Pastolero  http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000717417001&ref=ts

Anna Joy Alicaway Albeza  http://www.facebook.com/annajoy08

Keithana Chua Lindaya  http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000176222188

Justine Joy Uy  http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001493894267

Judith Rebalde Vasquez  http://www.facebook.com/bhoxszdhiqhuexsz05

The rule for booty calls is: if it's made after 1 am, it's a booty call. It assumes you, both receiver and caller, are in the same frame of mind: fucked up, on alcohol or sleep or straight up lust. Also, loneliness.

A laceration down the middle of my forehead, incurred from running at full speed into the corner of a pillar. Required two MRIs, six stitches, and more brandy.

Many tiny gashes on the back of my left hand, as if I knocked a small but vicious cactus off a friend's balcony while gesticulating wildly. Which is what I did.

Skinned knuckles from shadowboxing too close to a wall, i.e. shadowboxing does not actually mean boxing your shadow. Which can't even punch back, come to think of it.

Singed eyebrows from a cheap-ass China-made lighter turned up way too high.

Thumb and index finger superglued together, making it look like I fell asleep holding up an A-OK sign. Might have been from trying to fix a fellow drunk's broken slipper, or from having jerks for friends.

Bloody spots on both knees from, well, falling down everywhere.

Hoarseness. From karaoke. Or good ol' fashioned yelling.

Scalded thighs from spilling coffee onto my lap.

Too many bruises to count. They're mostly earned on my legs, specifically the shins and the knees, so they must be from stumbling into things like tastefully low coffee tables or small people who like punching you in the legs. 

Once woke up with a particularly cruel bruise on my back. Probably from rolling down a grassy slope. Must've rolled over a rock. Or a small person.

Swollen and aching right thumb. With which, along with nine other unremarkable fingers, I am typing this post. Must have closed a door on it last night? I was hanging out by the billiards table; did someone crush it with a wayward ball? Did I merely fall asleep on it wrong? 

I could also make the routine joke and include my dignity in this list of injuries, but you can't exactly bruise something you don't have, right?

You shook me awake and I blinked through my splitting headache at the dust motes floating in front of your window. So much goddamn sunlight. You had a cup of black coffee in your hand, and a pitcher of water on the table beside your bed. "I don't know how you like your coffee," you whispered, "so I brought you black. And cream. And sugar."

Last night we passed a wine bottle back and forth on your roof, flicking cigarette butts into the neighbor's lawn, yelling at the stars for misaligning. You fell off and rolled down onto your balcony, giggling like a fool. I crossed my arms over my chest and followed. We lay on the concrete laughing until we cried. The bruises would appear days later but for now there was fresh blood on our knees and elbows, and the invincible current of unadulterated joy that only a bottle of wine could bring.

When we would step out later that day, we'd find the wine bottle shattered in your garden, gleaming shards of a night we only half-remember until this day.