Incredible things.

Contrary to popular belief, Hemingway never wrote drunk. F. Scott Fitzgerald, however, did. This might explain why I’ve always preferred to read about the elaborate parties of West Egg millionaire Jay Gatsby as compared to the promiscuity of war veteran Jake Barnes. Based on my personal experiences, there’s always been a little more honesty in something that was written in the midst of an intoxicated stupor, than in something written for the purpose of getting a decent grade, or possibly, impressing another. A certain bias comes with knowing that what you’re reading is, excluding the editing, someone’s purely unfiltered opinion. 

I’ve never been the type to have doubts about what I truly think just because my beliefs stray away from those of the flock. I could spend my entire life silently side-commenting on someone even though the rest of the world worships the ground they walk on. Believing in something, however, does not equate to being comfortable with letting everyone else know that you do. Writing entails backbone: something that, when in the right mind, I appear to lack. 

What are you supposed to do when you want to talk about something that you know to be valid, but there’s a tiny nagging voice at the back of your head telling you that nobody’s going to care? Personally, I look for a way to drown that voice out. 

A particularly heavy string of events a few years back caused more than a few sudden sob-driven bathroom runs; the school year was about to close, and I was nothing short of a teary-eyed mess. A good friend suggested that we talk about things over a few bottles, and before I knew it, I was writing the most raw, stripped-down soliloquy to ever grace my otherwise monotonous script. At that time, the consequences seemed trivial to me. All that mattered was that I wrote every grief-stricken word without constraint, and I loved it. A week after, summer had turned up and was purged of whatever hurt was left in me: I was okay. The voice was drowned out; and since then, I’ve acknowledged alcohol as the best way to put it on mute. 

Once I’m drunk, the rest of the world ceases to exist. Rather than being a tiny, voiceless speck of dust, I am the entire universe in constant entropic motion: everything that ever has been, everything that is, and everything that will be. Nothing else needs to matter, except the thoughts in my head and the ink from my pen. 

The way I see it, I write drunk for the same reason that most people avoid it: the lack of censorship. Whether it be about the entrance exam that tells me I’m only good enough for second-best, or the perennially present feeling that comes and forces me to believe that I don’t deserve any of the good that life throws at me, there’s always a deeper emotion to be felt about what goes on in my life: one that I find it so painstakingly difficult to expose. Drinking reveals a certain kind of courage deep inside me that I never fully realize until I’m alone in my room at two in the morning, one shot away from passing out, but still insisting on writing; still looking for a way to voice out my opinion without having to care whether or not other people will like it. 

As truthfulness envelops me, I am able to express emotions that normally, I am obligated to bottle up. It’s always been a habit of mine to remember that everybody in this world is cripplingly sad about something; and that the only differences between us are the ways we block out the pain. 

My relief comes from honest, unrestrained writing. What I note down doesn’t necessarily have to all be positive, however. While literature is an excellent way to view one thing through different lenses, sometimes, it can be therapeutic to simply acknowledge that something is wrong. I may not be able to fix everything, but it does make me feel better to know and accept that there are just some problems that can’t be solved this easily, and that it’s okay to have them. 

Intoxicated writing, therefore, acts as a catharsis: a healthier way to purge myself of whatever repressed emotions I may be denying when I’m sober. In my opinion, writing about something, no matter how bad I am at doing so, will always be the best way to let my feelings out. At the end of the day, I’d rather have incoherent essays and horribly written free-verse poetry, instead of bruised-up knuckles and tear-stained cheeks. 

To look at things through a macro perspective, I write drunk simply because sometimes, there are aspects of myself that I can never truly accept when I’m sober. There will always be things about my life that I choose to ignore, despite knowing that I’m inevitably going to have to face them someday. What I find so beneficial about drunk writing is the confidence and relief I get from it. 

Some people drink to forget, and some people write to remember. What most people fail to realize is that sometimes, there’s a way to do both

BANDLANDS OUT NOW

With friends like ours, anywhere is home.

“It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.” John Green; Paper Towns.

This year played in fast forward, there’s no denying that. The first week of school introduced us to ERFs, Reflection Logs, and Research Topics that, as undergrads, would’ve began haunting us at the last quarter rather than the first. We hadn’t even gotten used to the newly installed air conditioners yet, and already, some of us were breaking down from the workload. Before July was over, I found myself mumbling “gusto ko na grumaduate” to myself every time I opened my planner to check for homework (and laughing when someone from two rows away yelled “same”). Looking back, I never thought I would be using the aforementioned quote to begin describing a topic as ambiguous as this. It wouldn’t be hard to leave. I’d love to be rid of all the sleepless nights.

 Then again, so much can change in a span of nine months.

Now, it is the evening before our Graduation day, and only here am I realizing exactly what I’m about to let go of. It’s not just the blue patch. It’s not just the privilege we’re given as the oldest students in the school. It’s the cold mornings we spend outside our classrooms. It’s the goosebumps we get when we sing our college hymn. It’s the teachers, and the classmates, and all the friends we’re never going to see as much of anymore. It’s the memories that we’ll look back on years later. 

We had to pay two and a half grand for second-rate technology that we only get to use for a year. We had birding instead of a hike for our outbound. We never got to visit the farmers. We never got to experience interpretative dancing. Most of the time, one or two classes didn’t get along. But we did get to be the first batch to experience air-conditioned classrooms. We did have a Seniors’ Night that totally smoked every other High School party we’ve attended. We weren’t exactly a favorite among the teachers (oo na, maingay na po kami,) but we definitely made our senior year count.

 Eleven years isn’t an easy thing to let go of, but who’s to say graduating is the same as letting go? A diploma won’t change anything.

So to the SEN1OR5, the THERES1AN5, to the “noisiest batch in all the teachers’ years in STC”, to Batch 2015. Thank you for making these last ten months worth all the drama. Tomorrow, we’re going to step outside our school’s four walls, but we’re not going to say goodbye. No, never goodbye. The experiences we’ve had together are enough to last a lifetime. As we give the last hugs, say the last thank yous, and take the last photos tomorrow, we have to remember that there’s nothing to be sad about.

Well, I passed the ACET. I'm pretty sure they didn't take so much as a glance at this, but I'm posting it anyway. 676 words, every single one dripping with arrogance and self-importance (and I don't mean that in a good way). 

Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

Jack-of-all-Trades, Ace of None. To be described as that, we were told in our AP class last year, would have been the pinochle of success during the Age of Renaissance. Our teacher described a Jack-of-all-Trades as a man that is capable of doing everything, but incapable of excelling at anything he does. At that time, I thought highly of that kind of person. I refused to believe that quality overpowered quantity, simply because I was yet to discover what I was aiming for.

My elementary days were somehow insignificant. I had no idea who I was, or who I wanted to be. My solution: Be a Jack-Of-All-Trades. Be everyone and do everything until I find someone I’d be comfortable seeing every time I check a mirror. I tried creative writing, surfing, and even web designing. None of these really stuck to me until I entered High School.

In the start of my Sophomore year, a friend of mine convinced me to try out with her for the school’s publication as a layout artist. I didn’t expect at all to get in, since I had no experience with anything that had to do with digital design. Fortunately though, I made the cut. During Junior year, one of the editors recommended that I try out as a photographer, and I landed that spot as well. This year, I was appointed assistant head layout editor and assistant head photographer.

The labels certainly look shiny, but they come at a price. The tasks at hand are not easy. As a layout artist, I’m given twenty-four hour deadlines for tasks that normally take days to finish. Being a school photographer requires that I carry a professional camera to class daily, in case anything significant comes up and needs to be documented.

I’d like to be the dissatisfied teenager people expect me to be, but I can’t say I don’t find pleasure in the grueling duties I’m assigned to do. I enjoy making monotonous articles look inviting even with the challenge of limiting my color palette to hues of black and white. I revel in the satisfaction of being able to take one or two exceptional photos in every two hundred.

People constantly ask me why I put up with all the horrible conditions of being a publication staffer, when being a senior in our school alone is enough to send a perfectly sane sixteen-year-old teetering on the edge of a cliff. The answer? For the first time in my life, I finally know who I want to be. Graphic arts is what I want my life to revolve around. I want to help people feel the same electrified buzz I feel whenever I come across something visually stimulating. I desire to make people realize the beauty in everything their eyes come across. I understand that it is not an easy duty considering my lack of expertise, but passion beats talent. That’s all there is to it.

In the first sentence of this essay, I used the term “success”. That was what I wanted to have before all these events conspired. However, during a leadership seminar conducted just a week before I started writing this, our facilitator, Sir Shannon, told us a line contradictory to what I originally desired: “Choose not to be successful, but to be significant.”

2014 was rough as hell— I can’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but right now, I’m going to try. It was finally learning to use my Bass at the volume it should be played on. It was the band that made it past graduation. It was losing the Dancepro for the fourth consecutive time because I once again did a shitty job of picking music. It was being (in my opinion) unjustifiably kicked out of a team because of incomplete attendance. It was wanting to just get my birthday over with because of all the deadlines that came with it. It was handling a breakup and being so tired that I forgot how to do long division. It was indirect tweeting and burning a lot of hastily made bridges to build a few stronger ones. It was being rejected after two years of acceptance and thinking “why couldn’t you give me one last break,” as if the world owed me more than it owed anyone else.

It was realizing that High School is as memorable as you make it out to be. It was finally knowing the same people I barely shot second glances at months ago. It was meeting you and being happier in four months than I was for every day of the first six. It was finding out which of my friends will probably stick around for the rest of my life. It was me learning to stop caring for anything that held me back. It was living every day as if nothing was ephemeral and absolutely everything mattered. It was finally finding the sense in all the crap that’s been thrown at me the past twelve exhausting months. It wasn’t kind. It was painful and forthright and intoxicating and fun and alive.

And right now, I am both vulnerable and indestructible. I’m human; that’s what I am. Looking back, I realize that what made me so were the days between the ones when I broke down because of Physics and the ones I consider to be the the best days of my youth; the experiences taken to heart now but meant to be forgotten five years later— the ones that really count.

Built To Crash x Ashley's Kryptonite St. Theresa's College Seniors Night 2014

Great bands. I had one hell of a time shooting, although I had to use my flash towards the end. I'm so sorry, camera gods.

We were actually a thing for a good twenty-two months, I spent maybe three months chasing after you, and there wasn't much closure between us, so I guess this post will have to do.

I hope you don't hate me after you read this, if you ever do.

Those twenty-two months were great, no doubt about it. You kept me up until six in the morning once, and I wasn't able to train that day, but I didn't really care. I was just glad I got to talk to you for so long. That didn't happen a lot since most of the time you'd fall asleep on me at nine in the evening and my day would end with me sending a good night message. We saw a Tagalog movie once, and I vaguely recall laughing at you because you didn't know a quarter of the soundtrack. Everyone liked the Eraserheads, you knew like two songs. I don't know why, but that was cute as hell to me back then. Not everything was great, but I had one hell of a ride with you, negative and positive included. I was head over heels, and we both knew it.

Then some stuff went down a week or so after your birthday, and shit hit the fan. I had no idea what would happen, but I guess that was just me being very much in denial. It took me half a month, a "that didn't go too well" birthday surprise, two holidays, a whole lot of sleepless nights, and a talk with an administrator before I let everything sink in. I won't delve into specifics. I sulked to every single heartbreak song and found the corniest, "ew that is so not me" lines applicable. 

I guess not everything works the way you think it's supposed to, and that's okay.

And now that I can say I'm actually over everything, I'm writing this. It's 1:51 in the morning and we've got several multiple choice tests tomorrow, and I'm writing this. I'm supposed to be studying to make up for my Chemistry marks, and I'm writing this.

I'm not writing this because I want to get back together, no. I'm writing this to get the closure I so desperately need for myself. This is not me asking you to take me back. This is me letting out what I kept all bottled up for three months.

I know we're not exactly on the best of terms right now, and that's alright. Either way, thanks. Thanks for putting up with my excessive usage of capital letters whenever I freaked out over All Time Low. Thanks for not not totally ignoring me (most of the time) whenever I sent you strings of messages because I missed you. Thanks for Clouds, he still sleeps on my bed. Thanks for writing back. Thanks for being the first person I actually liked. Thanks for being my center of gravity for almost two years. 

2013 in a nutshell. If you're in one of these photos, thanks for sticking around this year and making it one of the best. If you're not and you think you should be, I'm sorry let's blame tumblr and its 10-photo limit.