| |
The morning after pill.
It was all a blur, last night. Bits and pieces of the Wednesday that was come to him one by one as he bites into his hastily made peanut butter breakfast. He wasn't supposed to be there last night, 2 a.m., pants undone, hair unkempt, his pulse beating heavily against her dirty white marbled floor. He was half sweaty, half cold. His back was damp, so was everything else within the realm of his skin; he could remember feeling his entire upper body heaving in a gentle but overwhelming frenzy while she breathes on the sides of his neck, then down his chest, and up again, spelling his name across his torso one letter at a time. She was mad, he recalled, mad at something - mad at her professor for not accepting her late exam, mad at her best friend for throwing away her cigarettes again, mad at her missing eyeglasses, mad at him for coming over, mad at him for not letting her go. But she let him hold her, after he knocked on her door. She slammed the door to his face, but came back and opened it a good six seconds later - he knew because he always counted her reaction time to anything that involved her ending a sentence with "away." She buried her face onto his shirt, asking him if that's alcohol she smelled and whose tongue was he sticking down his throat just nineteen days after they broke up. He liked it that she counted. She pushed him out the hallway again, but not before making sure he wasn't going to leave by tossing her hair just the right way, and he didn't, he didn't leave. They talked, he knew they talked about something outside the two of them, but he couldn't really remember, not with the toxicity still lingering in his breath this morning. But he was sure they talked, and talked, and talked some more, until the words got tired, but their mouths didn't and sometime between her being unsure of taking advantage of his poor, drunken state and him assuring her he will never regret it, their hands found their way to buttons and hair and legs and light switches and oh God, it was all a haze to him now, but his shirt falling nicely on top of her dress was clear inside his head, among all the other things falling nicely on top of other things. Why he loved the sea of her pores, her uncertainty, the intensity of her fragility, he couldn't say. Why he could never completely pull away from her, why he always felt the warmth underneath her icy skin of indifference. He shouldn't be thinking of her anymore, not after he woke up, on the same floor, with the same chill running down his spine, but without her legs holding him down, without a note telling him goodbye. He tries to wash away the thought, with a swig of coffee and two aspirins, hoping for the headache to go away, but not the girl behind it. How he adored her, still, always, that one last image of her and her hair dangling, swinging, leaping off her chest with reckless abandon in the heat of friction, his hands holding her, pushing her away but always bringing her back.
--
________________________________________________________________
I am
________________________________________________________________
I'm still alive, actually.
It's Quezon City day today, which means for the first time in a long time, I once again get a much-needed break. Allow me to stretch my arms and yawn and relish in the moment of still being in bed at this time of day - aaaaaaaaaaahhh. There.
This month has turned out to be the most stressful in the semester so far. (And I'm sure it's just bound to get busier.) I have been extremely occupied with so many things, with my thesis in particular. It's taking up so much of me, not just my time but even my mental state - just the thought that it's here, waiting to be finished, demanding to be perfect - daunts me. I also still have a teleplay to rewrite, a take home exam to answer, a report to make, and a screenplay to formulate. Yes, hello permanent eye-bagahe.
I'm so exhausted, really. I'm tired from all the writing I have to do, which really takes a toll on me physically and mentally and emotionally. But then, that's something I have to do as a part of my course. It's a given, so I suppose it's a kind of pain I've gotten used to. What I'm more concerned about is the feeling that this weariness is trickling down on everything else, leaving me discontented and miserable even in the littlest of things. It's a vicious cycle of feeling bad and getting tired.
But silver linings are what keeps me together and yesterday, I found one in Incubus. Thank goodness for songs that find their way to me when I most need them to. There's nothing more comforting than knowing that your being messed up is congruent with someone else's.
"What's wrong with you is good For what's wrong with meAnd I think maybe we should stick together Because in the end, we are friends and lovers."
All will be well soon. Oh look, sleep is still beckoning. I cannot refuse.
________________________________________________________________
Dearest Boyfriend,
Happy, happy birthday!
<![CDATA[I love you more than I love Oreos, pancakes, <i>and</i> ice cream combined :)</div>]]>
________________________________________________________________
A message from a Senior citizen.
The news on TV and my news feed on Facebook and Twitter are abuzz with updates about the UPCAT. Tips, complaints, traumatic experiences, dreams, futures - all suddenly sprawled before us. The virtual air is filled with a harrowing mix of excitement and tension, and I can't blame them. I can still remember the feeling after all - and very vividly at that. My memory serves me well especially in times of great anxiety. (It helps that I blogged about it, too.)
But how could I ever forget that day? More importantly, how could I ever forget the impending feeling of nauseousness taunting to break itself free into some gooey form of indistinguishable substances out my throat? I was that nervous. It was, undeniably, the biggest examination of my life. Sure, the ACET mattered. Sure, DLSU-CET mattered. But this was UP. The University of the Philippines College Admissions Test. No other exam gets as much coverage, as much anticipation. And no other university has thrilled the private-school-girl-waiting-to-get-liberated in me the way this one did. In my mind, it was the only thing that counted. I knew I could never forgive myself if I didn't get in. I was dying to bleed maroon.
Flash forward to four years later, and I am in fact, dying. Bleeding to death. In this maroon university. Awfully sleep-deprived. Body clock gone whack. Hormones berserk. Brain cells zapped to exhaustion and/or death. Pimples threatening to hold a revolution any moment now. I thought the UPCAT was the biggest hurdle I had to face - turns out, it would be the easiest. Unlike the UPCAT which only lasts for five hours, this torture has gone on for about hmm, four years now. And for some that extends to an indefinite amount of time, even.
Getting into UP would seem such a great achievement, at some point in one's life. But you know what? It's leaving it (with a diploma, of course) that's more challenging. Getting out alive is the battle you really have to be prepared for. Trust me, no amount of review centers can groom you for that. But the whole process of just being here, fighting your way out of this combat zone (filled with professors armed with machine guns of insults, people with enough brains to annihilate your self-confidence, readings and exams that could detonate your mental capacities, etcetera, etcetera) - it will definitely make you stronger. It's only when you've gone through the victories and the losses, wounded, but hopefully still intact, will your departure be truly worth the taxpayers' money. And your time.
UPCAT takers, I hope you don't look at the exam as the end - it's just the beginning. Surviving the test is barely a fraction of the battle. Getting into UP shouldn't be your goal - it's to be a future UP graduate that you're supposed to be aiming at. Not only that, a deserving, honorable and excellent UP graduate. Only then will it all matter.
Good luck, kids. The long wait looms ahead.
(Oh God. Do I sound like a college lola?) Labels: UP
________________________________________________________________
The morning after pill.
It was all a blur, last night. Bits and pieces of the Wednesday that was come to him one by one as he bites into his hastily made peanut butter breakfast. He wasn't supposed to be there last night, 2 a.m., pants undone, hair unkempt, his pulse beating heavily against her dirty white marbled floor. He was half sweaty, half cold. His back was damp, so was everything else within the realm of his skin; he could remember feeling his entire upper body heaving in a gentle but overwhelming frenzy while she breathes on the sides of his neck, then down his chest, and up again, spelling his name across his torso one letter at a time. She was mad, he recalled, mad at something - mad at her professor for not accepting her late exam, mad at her best friend for throwing away her cigarettes again, mad at her missing eyeglasses, mad at him for coming over, mad at him for not letting her go. But she let him hold her, after he knocked on her door. She slammed the door to his face, but came back and opened it a good six seconds later - he knew because he always counted her reaction time to anything that involved her ending a sentence with "away." She buried her face onto his shirt, asking him if that's alcohol she smelled and whose tongue was he sticking down his throat just nineteen days after they broke up. He liked it that she counted. She pushed him out the hallway again, but not before making sure he wasn't going to leave by tossing her hair just the right way, and he didn't, he didn't leave. They talked, he knew they talked about something outside the two of them, but he couldn't really remember, not with the toxicity still lingering in his breath this morning. But he was sure they talked, and talked, and talked some more, until the words got tired, but their mouths didn't and sometime between her being unsure of taking advantage of his poor, drunken state and him assuring her he will never regret it, their hands found their way to buttons and hair and legs and light switches and oh God, it was all a haze to him now, but his shirt falling nicely on top of her dress was clear inside his head, among all the other things falling nicely on top of other things. Why he loved the sea of her pores, her uncertainty, the intensity of her fragility, he couldn't say. Why he could never completely pull away from her, why he always felt the warmth underneath her icy skin of indifference. He shouldn't be thinking of her anymore, not after he woke up, on the same floor, with the same chill running down his spine, but without her legs holding him down, without a note telling him goodbye. He tries to wash away the thought, with a swig of coffee and two aspirins, hoping for the headache to go away, but not the girl behind it. How he adored her, still, always, that one last image of her and her hair dangling, swinging, leaping off her chest with reckless abandon in the heat of friction, his hands holding her, pushing her away but always bringing her back.
--
________________________________________________________________
I am
________________________________________________________________
I'm still alive, actually.
It's Quezon City day today, which means for the first time in a long time, I once again get a much-needed break. Allow me to stretch my arms and yawn and relish in the moment of still being in bed at this time of day - aaaaaaaaaaahhh. There.
This month has turned out to be the most stressful in the semester so far. (And I'm sure it's just bound to get busier.) I have been extremely occupied with so many things, with my thesis in particular. It's taking up so much of me, not just my time but even my mental state - just the thought that it's here, waiting to be finished, demanding to be perfect - daunts me. I also still have a teleplay to rewrite, a take home exam to answer, a report to make, and a screenplay to formulate. Yes, hello permanent eye-bagahe.
I'm so exhausted, really. I'm tired from all the writing I have to do, which really takes a toll on me physically and mentally and emotionally. But then, that's something I have to do as a part of my course. It's a given, so I suppose it's a kind of pain I've gotten used to. What I'm more concerned about is the feeling that this weariness is trickling down on everything else, leaving me discontented and miserable even in the littlest of things. It's a vicious cycle of feeling bad and getting tired.
But silver linings are what keeps me together and yesterday, I found one in Incubus. Thank goodness for songs that find their way to me when I most need them to. There's nothing more comforting than knowing that your being messed up is congruent with someone else's.
"What's wrong with you is good For what's wrong with meAnd I think maybe we should stick together Because in the end, we are friends and lovers."
All will be well soon. Oh look, sleep is still beckoning. I cannot refuse.
________________________________________________________________
Dearest Boyfriend,
Happy, happy birthday!
<![CDATA[I love you more than I love Oreos, pancakes, <i>and</i> ice cream combined :)</div>]]>
________________________________________________________________
A message from a Senior citizen.
The news on TV and my news feed on Facebook and Twitter are abuzz with updates about the UPCAT. Tips, complaints, traumatic experiences, dreams, futures - all suddenly sprawled before us. The virtual air is filled with a harrowing mix of excitement and tension, and I can't blame them. I can still remember the feeling after all - and very vividly at that. My memory serves me well especially in times of great anxiety. (It helps that I blogged about it, too.)
But how could I ever forget that day? More importantly, how could I ever forget the impending feeling of nauseousness taunting to break itself free into some gooey form of indistinguishable substances out my throat? I was that nervous. It was, undeniably, the biggest examination of my life. Sure, the ACET mattered. Sure, DLSU-CET mattered. But this was UP. The University of the Philippines College Admissions Test. No other exam gets as much coverage, as much anticipation. And no other university has thrilled the private-school-girl-waiting-to-get-liberated in me the way this one did. In my mind, it was the only thing that counted. I knew I could never forgive myself if I didn't get in. I was dying to bleed maroon.
Flash forward to four years later, and I am in fact, dying. Bleeding to death. In this maroon university. Awfully sleep-deprived. Body clock gone whack. Hormones berserk. Brain cells zapped to exhaustion and/or death. Pimples threatening to hold a revolution any moment now. I thought the UPCAT was the biggest hurdle I had to face - turns out, it would be the easiest. Unlike the UPCAT which only lasts for five hours, this torture has gone on for about hmm, four years now. And for some that extends to an indefinite amount of time, even.
Getting into UP would seem such a great achievement, at some point in one's life. But you know what? It's leaving it (with a diploma, of course) that's more challenging. Getting out alive is the battle you really have to be prepared for. Trust me, no amount of review centers can groom you for that. But the whole process of just being here, fighting your way out of this combat zone (filled with professors armed with machine guns of insults, people with enough brains to annihilate your self-confidence, readings and exams that could detonate your mental capacities, etcetera, etcetera) - it will definitely make you stronger. It's only when you've gone through the victories and the losses, wounded, but hopefully still intact, will your departure be truly worth the taxpayers' money. And your time.
UPCAT takers, I hope you don't look at the exam as the end - it's just the beginning. Surviving the test is barely a fraction of the battle. Getting into UP shouldn't be your goal - it's to be a future UP graduate that you're supposed to be aiming at. Not only that, a deserving, honorable and excellent UP graduate. Only then will it all matter.
Good luck, kids. The long wait looms ahead.
(Oh God. Do I sound like a college lola?) Labels: UP
________________________________________________________________
She's a modern lover; it's an exploration, she's made of outer space
Hello, I'm Karla Bernardo. If you Google my name, you will find the Wikipedia entry of a Canadian serial-killer (and trust me, you do not want
to read about that - but I'm sure you will because now you're curious), which is why I suggest you type Bombastarr instead so you can stalk me better.
I spent eight-and-a-half years of my life in the University of the Philippines, where I graduated with degrees in Creative Writing and Juris Doctor. It is also where I learned how to speak a bit of Italian, got a taste of the best tapsilog, and took striptease for PE.
I love telling stories, as much as I enjoy finding them.
<![CDATA[<center><font style="color: #ffffff;">____</font>Want <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/09096636074047764491">more</a>?</center><br>]]>
Featured Works
Stargirl ( Cover story for Nadine Lustre, Scout, January-February 2017)
Surreal / So Real (at Scout)
Ode to a Great Love's 17-year-old Self ( Love.Life, Philippine Daily Inquirer)
Postcard from Diliman
( Youngblood, Philippine Daily Inquirer)
Writer for Philippine Law Register
A Call to Arms (January 2017)
Expecting the Expected (March 2016)
Former Writer for Stache Magazine
The Hero's Journey (June 2013)
The 8 People You Become In Your Youth (June 2013)
The Best Bad Idea That Is Argo (April 2013)
Mike Ross Remembers Everything You Don't (August 2012)
Style Between the Riffs (August 2012)
Book Lovers Never Sleep Alone (June 2012)
A Spectrum of Change (December 2011)
Digital Art (October 2011)
Elements of Style (June 2011)
In Her White Dress (All-Art April 2011 issue)
Morning After Pill ( Fervore: Literary Folio 2013, UP Portia Sorority)
How To Make a Blueberry Cheesecake ( Kalas: Kalasag Literary Folio 2011, UP College of Arts and Letters)
January 14th ( 100: The Hundreds Project, UP Writer's Club)
An Ode to The
Pillow Book (at New-Slang)
Introductions (at TeenInk)
One by One (at TeenInk)
Ask, and you shall be answered
Got a comment, question, violent reaction, love letter, or random piece of information you want to share with me? Just fire away. I don't bite.
(I changed my form and went back to Freedback because Ask.fm's being a bitch, requiring people to sign up for accounts before asking questions. Because I love you guys, I tweaked my ask box a bit, so that the questions will now go directly to my e-mail, but I'll be posting the answers still on my Ask.fm for convenience. TL;DR - I'll still be getting your questions so no worries. You're still free to harass me / send me your love.)
Answers
Most Frequently Asked QuestionAre you a pornstar?No, I am not a pornstar, stripper, or your friendly neighborhood call girl. It's just a fancy pseudonym with a long history, and two R's. Rawr.
Bombastarr.com
Bombastarr is my personal blog and my little corner in the Internet since 2005. Yes, I started writing here when I was 13 years old (aka when I was very angsty, hormonal, and always gushing at the littlest things) -- ergo, you'd have to forgive me if you come across an old post that reeks of immaturity and slightly unpolished grammar. I did a lot of growing up here, and from the looks of it, there's still a lot of growing up to do, so I don't think I'll be leaving this place any time soon.
The domain, Bombastarr.com, was purchased on June 2014 and
launched on July 2014, on the blog's ninth year (and fifth month, to be exact).
It's crazy to think that this blog is now thirteen years old, because (1) that seems like an eternity in internet years, and (2) that means if my blog were a kid, it's a teenager! That's insane.
Here's to more tales, explosive and otherwise.
So, why Bombastarr?
If you've been living under a rock and think I'm a threat to world peace or an object of covetousness, sorry to disappoint you, folks: it's just a fancy pseudonym.
As in most things, it started in high school. It began as a joke between me and a couple of friends during our freshman year. We were practicing for a field demonstration dance which involved the use of shawls, and being the crazy-always-trying-to-be-funny person that I was (or I always attempted to be) I started doing poses with the garment. Someone started taking my picture using my phone, and one shot looked like I was posing for those B-list movies (or should it be R-list, as in R-rated?) of the vegetable-nomenclature variety. #IKYWIM. Hence, the word, "Bombastarr." Yes, very cheeky, I know, but for a 13-year-old, it was quirky enough to figure as a username. That was 2005, right around the time I trying to decide on a URL for a new blog. It's been a lot of years since, and what started as a joke became something I've eventually embraced as an identity.
Despite the many other chances I've gotten to permanently move (to Multiply, Livejournal, Tumblr, Wordpress; to a bigger platform where I can earn or use the blog as a venue for commerce), I've come to realize that Bombastarr is something I can never truly leave behind. It is a place I've grown to appreciate and love because it is a place I can call my own. It's a venue for my rants, my views, my writing. It is home, and it is who I am.
Bombastarr is a glimpse of my life: the thoughts, ideas, and stories that shape it into what it is, and what it will still become. This journal has been with me for all my crazy, often embarrassing adventures, but I'm sure there will be more anecdotes and feelings and people to write about. Which is something I'm really looking forward to. After all, you know what they say about the greatest stories - sometimes, there's still a lot that's left unwritten.
Credits and thank you's
This blog is hosted by PhilHosting.net, and powered by Blogger. The layout is coded entirely by me.
Photo hosting: TinyPic, Photobucket
Question box: EmailMeForm, Ask.fm
Copyright © BOMBASTARR
Elsewhere, she wanders
<![CDATA[
<a href="http://twitter.com/thebombastarr" border="0" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://i6.photobucket.com/albums/y234/bombastarr/twitter1.png"></a> ]]>
@karlabernardo
Friends, links & affiliates
<![CDATA[
<h1>Links & Affiliates</h1><div class="blogbody">
<a href="http://maryofthewild.com/" target="_blank">Ayiene Silvestre</a><br>
<a href="http://biancabiancita.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Bianca Cabillar</a><br>
<a href="http://latenightepisodes.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Cars Pascual</a><br>
<a href="http://ceejaedelrosario.tumblr.com" target="_blank">Ceejae Del Rosario</a><br>
<a href="http://inipitadventures.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Daryll Santillan</a><br>
<a href="http://mirelasestrellas.blogspot.com/" target=_"blank">Eura Yuste</a><br>
<a href="http://kissingfriday.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Gyk Icmat</a><br>
<a href="http://imyouronlyhope.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Hope Velasco</a><br>
<a href="http://deathcabforkitty.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kaisa Aquino</a><br>
<a href="http://vain-aholic.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Maye Dellosa</a><br>
<a href="http://thedramaholic.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Ninin Sampiano</a><br>
<a href="http://speakinginwords.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Patrick Santiano</a><br>
<a href="http://walledplayground.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Paula Deveraturda</a><br>
<a href="http://thebestdamnconstellation.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Regine Aurellano</a><br>
<a href="http://arceecola.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Rose Basa</a><br>
<a href="http://spencetheknight.wordpress.com" target="_blank">Spence the Knight</a><br><br></div>
]]>
|
