May iniisip ka?
Ayaw kong sabihin. Baka magkatotoo.
Dahil makulit ka
Kilala kita. Oo, ikaw 'yun: Nagkasalubong na tayo minsan, sa LRT, sa Gotohan, sa kanto ng Aurora at Katipunan. Nagkatinginan tayo. Hindi mo ako kinausap, pero alam ko, nakilala mo rin ako. Kaya ka narito, di ba? Para sabihing, Oo, oo, ikaw nga 'yun. Naaalala kita.
na, mula noong 24 Enero, 2006, ang nakitambay dito
Saturday, August 13, 2005
"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be." - Stephen Chbosky, from The Perks Of Being A Wallflower
Your Aries Drinking Style
Impulsive Aries people like to party and sometimes don't know when to call it a night. Your competitive streak makes you prone to closing time shot contests. You're a sloppy, fun drunk, and you get mighty flirty after a couple tipples.
Getting you drunk is a good way for people to get what they want out of you, should other methods fail. You can become bellicose when blotto, but you will assume that whatever happened should be forgiven (if not forgotten) by sunrise. You can be counted on to do the same for others -- so long as they haven't gone and done anything really horrible to you last night (ahem, sneaky Gemini!)
Your Signature Cocktails
Aries, born under the hot-stuff planet Mars, is the ruler of spicy food and red things -- and for balance, astrologers recommend they eat tomatoes, onions, olives and greens. That's right, Aries, you were born under the sign of the bloody Mary. Aries also rules grapefruit, and they've been known to kick back a salty dog and a sea breeze or two. For extreme hotcha, try a concoction with cinnamon liqueur in it.
Your Celebrity Drinking Buddies
Conan O'Brien, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Sarah Jessica Parker, David Letterman, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Garner, Jack Black, and Hugh Hefner.
The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.
Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.