Dear Little Happy Land

His hands were like his, short, pudgy and his fingers too, are chubby... His smile, his eyes and his eyebrows. Except for the nose, he was a dead ringer of him. And how could you possibly have felt fear at the thought of your first encounter?

Because he may not like you. And this is one of the few...because you never really cared if someone you just met will like you or not.

At first he was just sneaking glances from his seat.And then he started talking to you, cautious at first and then casually. He agreed that you're pretty. Or he was just being polite.

When his papa called him, "son", you felt funny. That was the first time you've seen him as such. And when you searched for the word, no adjective was glove-fit enough for the funny feeling you just felt. He was very concerned when his papa was talking to the soldier, because he was in traffic violation of some sort. His questions were not dumb but still child-like.

When his mom called, he said that you were there and he made the teasing sound"yihee"....Then followed it up with a "It's okay that you're here with me and papa, Mil-Anne. It's not a problem that you're with us," Pretty straightforward, right?

Over two slices of pizza, he remarked on something silly and yet you over analyzed on what he just said. Could it be that he wanted me out of his Papa's life with that remark or was he just being a kid with (sometimes) silly thoughts? Nevertheless, just like his father, he is smart and honest.

At the end of the day, with your tired eyes and aching legs, he waved at you and happily jumps off the car and said, "Bye bye Tita Mil-Anne!"

And I replied, "See you later!"

Addiction Session 1

Hi, my name is Mil-Anne, and I am a blog addict.

It all started when I read the teeny-booper pocketbook, Sweet Valley Twins and Friends, in grade school. I was amazed at how words can create a TV out of paper. Since we didn't have much money for pocketbooks, I borrowed them from my schoolmates. Although, some of them are not much of a reader, I was. There came a time, I don't have anymore books to borrow, because I have them read already. Or they were pretty much selfish.

I discovered Carolyn Keene's teenage detective Nancy Drew. And because of her, I was so into mystery and suspense fiction. I borrowed from the high school library and fortunately we where allowed to borrow them even if we were in grade school.

Alas, I read them all again. I was not interested in Hardy Boys and Sweet Valley High or University afterward, I began to be consumed by the want to read and smell books...

That's when those thoughts came by. I picked up a pen and started drawing and writing on the unused pages of my grade school notebooks. Because I had Nancy Drew as my inspiration, out came Detective April Brown Fox, my version of the titian haired girl from River Heights. I also created comics in vernacular since I was a big fan of Bata Batuta and Funny Komiks--I can easily relate to them and even submitted my Funny Story which was then published in the 90's (but I was not able to save a copy).

In our Junior year, we were given an elective class, in place of our old Technology and Home Economics, I chose Journalism.

I became the Features Editor of the school paper. Bitterness avalanche--none of my feature stories were published. I joined press conferences and was able to get a seventh place in feature writing in English. After that, the passion grew, but the mainstream was not an audience.

Puberty was the culprit for the passionate words. Love was what I thought I felt when I was amused at his jokes and witty remarks. I thought it was all love and feelings, they were all mere infatuation which was later cured by angry poetry and then the peaceful sets of haiku.

In college I escalated from Nancy Drew to Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple and the other Agatha Christie characters. I also can't take my hands off Sydney Sheldon's and Anne Rice's. And that was when, I decided that I should major in Journalism. However, I know, I can't be in a straight news area.

Soon after my "iska" days in PLM (Manila), I stepped out of my zone and met Sue Grafton's series of ABCs...and Harlan Coben's thick plots. I was also interested in Calvin and Hobbes' escapades, Pugad Baboy and Baby blues's Antics. Around that time, I was free-flowing and uploading my written words online. They call it, "blogging".

Even though I know, no one reads them, I felt liberated. There's this feeling that I may not have the mainstream audience as I imagined before, but, there are the anonymous people, like me, who enjoys reading through other people's chutzpah, daily thoughts and what have yous...And I kinda like the way it looks online.

I still have the written words on paper, bounded by a black leather board. I also have some astray papers, where they are, I don't know, can't remember. But I started to feel saturated one day. And that's when my mind went blank.

The white light of the monitor was blaring on my face and I couldn't even think of a sensible intro. Tabula Rasa.

This went on for months...At times, I had great ideas for posting. And when i get the chance to write them....they were all gone. Vacuumed by oblivion. Aside from eating MSG containing foods, I was losing "it" from my office work and tasks.

One day, someone left me. And I was enveloped with sadness and freedom. I grabbed the keyboard ans just started with a few lines. Counting claws...day 1. The thought of the final installation of "counting claws" post, fueled me. Until, I was overflowing with words again.

Until, I became an addict. I think, I am...For all I care, it's a healthy, not self-destructive and non-annoying addiction.

No help needed. I just need you to listen.

Dear Tactlessness

One day, I ate my words.

Surprisingly, I used to spewed out words like they were sisters with daggers. I often blurted them out and I am oblivious to the blood squirts. I don't care about the time and place. I don't care about the gasps and tears. I don't even give an 's' when they gave out dirty looks. Because, tactlessness is innate with me.

I was attacked verbally and I, in return, defended myself to death...plain hyperbole. Its roots came from my childhood days. We whispered and they snickered...so when I finally landed adolescence, I broke out of my shell. I learned that a frank and sharp tongue is making me build my walls.

I often give solicited advices, that either woke them up or made them cover their ears. Sometimes, they snapped on me.

And then one time, some time after the devastation of waters, someone told me he's taking me out of my comfort zone. And he did. And it did...

That's when I started to see what's on the other side. Day by day....changes, words of wisdom, random blahs.

I went back to the euphemisms and the inspirational cheers I learned...and that's when I knew, I ate my words.

Hello Mr Stranger

Hello there, stranger...

It seems to be difficult to comprehend that you are developing some sort of feelings for a stranger. How can you explain that a normal lady, will feel his presence even when he is not there. Even when he doesn't know her. Or him.

A glimpse, an accidental glance, as if she was waiting for him as the door opens. But...she knows, it was purely coincidence.

So why feel funny when he passes by?

You seem to connect for a second there, but you can't imagine yourself being alone with him...so what is this?
Familiarity? Mystery?

You almost smiled at him. But you looked away. For the entire day you can see him from your peripheral view...walking quickly, if his assumptions were right...better be safe. But no one says you're falling. No one says you're fluttering your lashes at him...

Although, at times, you'd feel like a schoolgirl again. When you caught him staring...and he looked down. Maybe you are having a hallucination fit. You're drawing conclusions from hazy assumptions....and that's why they called them "silly girlish thoughts"

He walks by, you both looked at each other and you almost said;

Hello there stranger...