It is like this: I bought peanuts, the kind with the shells on, everything else was salted for chrissake. I bought it in the mall for PHP16.50, not bad, I told myself. I bought two packets. When I got home I had to unshell it or whatever, and sadly the first one has this hole from a burn or something, and it was hollow, so that when I pressed the peanut against the knife (or was it that time my father intervened and said, “you just crush it with your fingers--the thumb and the fore-”) it really is hollow. I wished I hadn’t crushed it but I did. I had thrown it instantly, which made me doubly sad, because not only couldn’t I take back its form--I even threw it in the garbage. This is one of the few things I had to write today, because it’s poignant, an empty shell (either in the process, or probably from nut insects--I’ve seen two little insects from another shell I crushed with a deformed nut) is one in a million, and how would you show it to anyone else? It’s personal, yet no one would believe me; they’d say, “pics or not true”.


She forgot the umbrella she had with her last night. It was probably in her friend Cheryl’s car, right after they met this guy Jordan, and which said “no problem” a lot, to which she and Cheryl gasped at, nervous in their margaritas. Jordan was a suitor of Cheryl, and as Cheryl puts it, “it started with a random phone call.” Maybe the umbrella was there, god, how could she forget? Maybe it was because she was thinking of the same thing her mother thinks of her, “you’re almost thirty.”

Irene--not Jacqueline

We’re on the 7th floor of a building. It had a nice lighting and it really nice tables and seats, lush lke some really nice hotel. But it wasn’t a hotel. Though it had walls which really looked like a hotel, clapping and expanding like tongues, the sounds quite disturbing. Someone named Hilda was there. She was wearing a 30’s bob cut hair or some really flowery Atomic reproduction (though the atomic was in the 40’s, but she was just avant-garde that way) With a headband. Her lips were posed like a smooch. She was really bouncing her head a bit, bobbing and bobbing, so that even if we couldn’t hear music, it’s still there, maybe inside her head, maybe we’re outside the hotel, we don’t know. It was quite an ascending mode of mood there,like ascending, like it was about to rise, the sun I mean, and she was just waiting there watching her silhouette move until it alarmed 6:00 in her clock. AM. She was waiting for her husband, William Graysmith, aged 50-something with a lapel of some corporation, wake up. Wakes up, I mean. There she’d just angle her face to the door, but not really seeing it, not really. Then he gets outside the door scruffing his hair or something, but with a finesse, very suave, a really intelligent man, and he would beeline to the kitchen counter, and he’d say, “Jacqueline, where the fuck do you want to go this summer?” He couldn’t see his breakfast, maybe Jacqueline forgot making it or something, she was busy with the skyscrapers, because they were on the 7th floor side with the nce windows, nice scenery, just a glass panel and that’s it, she felt like a princess--and he could see in her back, just with her outline, that her eyes are furrowed and were busy, her eyelasbrows I mean. His chiseled body was outlined, too, and a towel slung on his shoulders, and he gets a really nice mug of coffee from the coffee maker. He says, “Irene--yes, not Jacqueline.” He went to the faucet to get some water. Irene--not Jacqueline, is maintaining her posture, that girl in the Calendar girl, only really conservative, and with a hint of sadness behind her cheeks, or the fake blush, the fact that it is just a fake blush. She watched as how the traffic moves, as if there’s a science behind it. She was swaying again, and little by little changed her posture into a recumbent.

“Hey, do we still have eggs?” snapped William.