I was told that my age is the best time to collect mistakes. Coincidentally, I have picked up the message from a graduation scene in the famous "saga" of the glorified undead and the estrogen overdosed mortal that worships their existence.
After a few days of being affiliated with "outsourcing" people ("human traffickers," if you'd ask my new friend Dana -- dear Lord, bless the Jesuits for creating such a nice young lady), a morning spent sending out applications to the Katipunan area (four applications in less than twenty minutes, mind you -- again, glory be to the Jesuit heavens for sending me people who can be patient and nice under the melanoma-inducing Manila noontime sun), an afternoon of allowing hope to seep into my pathetic excuse for existence (it would be really nice to have employment at NFRDI as a Christmas gift), and an evening of talking about glow-in-the-dark toys, of intellectual masturbation, and of arguing about the hotness level of vampires and werewolves...
I realized that Amy Farrah Fowler of The Big Bang Theory and Tina of Bob's Burgers are made of the same stuff.
War With The Estrogen-Overruled Subconscious I: Amy and the Asperger's guy
War With The Estrogen-Overruled Subconscious II: Tina and the erotic undead
Well, that's the best I could get out of the internet. Close enough.
I was in the middle of watching The Voice and Glee reruns this morning as both AXN and Star World decided to air marathons. I'm still partial to downloading Glee episodes; sometimes the show seems too bubbly for my taste, plus I hate social conventions and there's like a cult of Glee followers out there, so maybe not. But I'm slowly falling in love with Sue Sylvester much like how I root for the kontrabidas in Pinoy Telenovelas (I used to watch ABS-CBN dramas just so I could hear Cherie Pie Picache's evil laugh), so maybe the next time I get sentimental I might just download Glee.
Anyway, in the middle of all that lung power extravaganza, I switched channels and saw Mary Shelley's Frankenstein on Star Movies, a clear example of what one might expect from cable TV this dark and twisted month of October. I learned from the Barnes & Noble Classics edition of Frankenstein that I'm currently reading that there has been multiple movie adaptations of arguably one of the most well-known horror creatures ever made. Still, I think most people do not know about the monster's story, apart from the bit that he is made up of different dead body parts sewn together by a mad man.
I'm still on chapter seven of twenty four so in as much as I am thrilled to see Robert De Niro playing the role of what is possibly one of my favorite literary stars, "gah-uh-ah", I can't watch the movie adaptation just yet.
Then the cable went out so I ended up going on line against my will (I'd like to think that I have a life, especially on weekends, and that my existence is not merely subsisted by the internet despite the reality that proves otherwise). I have previously negotiated with my hypothalamus that I will not go on facebook to check on the latest updates of people I know from Baguio because it makes me extremely sad and mushy to the point that I am sometimes emotionally crushed to pitifulness by a single photograph. So when I innocently browsed pictures on an album of a friend, it's like the spirit of Sue Sylvester herself threw a large brick on my face. "Gah-uh-ah," I didn't want to see that, that was exactly what I was avoiding to see, despite the partial awareness that I might see just that, since well, uhm, the album has his face on it.
