A. Beatrice, 18, has yet to write something literary, for org’s Feb workshop, for upcoming fellowship deadlines, for the sake of her sanity. See, finally arriving at a decision on what to do with her life upon graduating next year — that is, heading straight to a Master’s program like a delusional, overly-idealistic freshgrad such as herself-t0-be — was determined by the realization that she is not one to spend year upon year slaving away at some office cubicle when the career she wants involves being behind a teacher’s table and a crop of young minds to corrupt. And of course, writing. That, too.

B. Has finally ridden herself of her tendency to psychoanalyze all interactions with the opposite sex over the last few weeks and is deciding, once and for all, that she is waaaay more productive being single and, to quote someone, “oblivious”. As in, not even-seeing-anyone-so-yes-mom-I-could-go-out-looking-like-a-hobo single and oblivious.

C. Meanwhile, news just broke out in the household of her gorgeous twelve-year-old sister’s year-long relationship with some guy and she is seriously wondering what is up with kids these days. Relationships are not all cutesy and cuddly I’ll-make-you-hatid-and-sundo all day everyday, with the sickening splattering of I love you’s and I miss you’s. Relationships are messy. They are artificial unions born out of people misinterpreting Maslow when he said we “needed” to belong and to feel accepted. They fulfill some bourgeois desire to promote what society deems as “ideal” to in turn fulfill a consumer capitalist agenda. In short, boys and girls, they are unnecessary for existence. They are evil. They suck the life out of you.

But then again what does she know.

D.  Has realized as well that she might as well get started with writing them term papers due soon and that she is determined to do them exceptionally well, a foreign concept she seemed to have lost during the summer between her high school graduation and freshman year in college. She is just irked these days with doing the whole bare minimum thing. This might be social suicide but yes, she happens to like studying, likes how she feels invincible whenever she has just learned something new, enjoys her classes, enjoys the rush that comes whenever you hand over a test paper back to a professor when you know you have done great. Mommy would be so proud.

E. Beatrice also feels like a dirty hipster these days, having stumbled upon a love for indie rock bands suggested by a cool professor/friend. She loves how listening to them immediately transforms the whole world into an enormous movie set, since they are commonly used for those walking-about-the-city scenes in shows anyway. She loves how the lyrics are usually vague/poetic/both enough to mask affections and disappointments alike, so it feels like she is exposing every inch of her cold, cold soul when she sings them out loud in her room, like a cliché Taylor Swift music video, but unless you are a dirty hipster yourself, you wouldn’t know what the hell she is yapping about.

F. Feels mighty proud of herself for actually enjoying Dostoevsky’s Karamasov when she’s not reading Dumaguete stories by Casocot. Feels even more proud because she has, again, been reading a lot these days — on the train, on the bus, in the hospital, to avoid eye-contact with some people. Even in her dreams, she is reading. She has decided as well that she likes how therapeutic it is, how it entails you forgetting yourself in the process but not feeling like you have wasted an entire day by doing so, the way she has done in the past by spending Saturdays doing God knows what online.

G. Has to keep reminding herself of finding the time/discipline/guts to write that cover letter and manuscript to submit for that writing position she’s applying for. Mama needs new headphones to complete her hipster persona. Mama needs tuition money. Mama needs dough for rent, for utilities, for survival.

H. Signed up for a Chemistry class this semester just for kicks. Likes how the prof repeats this: “memory is nothing but proteins.. memory is nothing but proteins..”, like a mantra, perhaps to forget.

I. Wishes she had a little more time at her disposal. These days, it feels like every hour she’s choosing to surrender to pure laziness has serious repercussions. It would be nice to watch old movies again in bed the whole weekend, or to ride a bus to nowhere just because she feels like it. Those would have to wait, unfortunately, but it is the elusiveness of these moments which deem them priceless. Maybe soon.

J. Beatrice, 18, is a Philo-Lit major. She amuses herself with the confusing plots of Russian novels and Daniel Matsunaga’s abs.

K. Beatrice Adeline Tulagan, 18, enjoys writing about herself in the third person POV.

L. The rest of the time, she wonders what it would feel like if someone else did.


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