I was fifteen and all kinds of scared.

Everything about it was so overwhelming - the campus, the people, the future that depended on it. For someone who went to a very conservative girls' school for twelve years, a place like UP is something to be afraid of. It was an entirely different world from the one I was used to. It was huge, it was loud, and it welcomed people of all kinds. It was home to the smart and the brave. It was the promised land - and it was the only place I wanted to go to. We all had our dream schools - this was mine.

Much of that day I still recall vividly. (Thanks no less to this entry I wrote right after it.) And much of the person I was that day I still kind of remember. She was so worried, so nervous. The rest of her life seemed to depend heavily on that test. She didn't know what would happen to her and she had no idea what would become of her. But she knew what she wanted - clearly, without doubt, with conviction.

Six years ago, she took the UPCAT.

And now here I am, a graduate of Creative Writing and a student of Law.

I can't say for sure if I am in a much better person now than that fifteen-year-old Karla who was so full of idealism and hopefulness. She was kind, and expectant, and so full of love untainted. She was whole.

UP gave me heartaches, and disappointment, and great, great loss. It made me question everything I believed in. It gave me sleepless nights and troubled mornings. It defeated what I thought was a strong sense of self. It broke me apart into tiny little pieces. It destroyed me. But it also gave me afternoons under the shade of trees along the Oval. It gave me laughter on the steps of certain buildings. It gave me walks in the rain. It gave me people, and places, and faces. It gave me love, of all kinds.

For all that and more, I couldn't be more thankful. Six years ago, fifteen-year-old Karla took the most important test of her life. I wish I can buy her ice cream and comfort her a bit after she gets out of the Chem Pav at around 6:30 pm that Sunday. I owe her. She got me into this crazy, wonderful mess.

And everything has been beautiful since.

I was fifteen and all kinds of scared.

Everything about it was so overwhelming - the campus, the people, the future that depended on it. For someone who went to a very conservative girls' school for twelve years, a place like UP is something to be afraid of. It was an entirely different world from the one I was used to. It was huge, it was loud, and it welcomed people of all kinds. It was home to the smart and the brave. It was the promised land - and it was the only place I wanted to go to. We all had our dream schools - this was mine.

Much of that day I still recall vividly. (Thanks no less to this entry I wrote right after it.) And much of the person I was that day I still kind of remember. She was so worried, so nervous. The rest of her life seemed to depend heavily on that test. She didn't know what would happen to her and she had no idea what would become of her. But she knew what she wanted - clearly, without doubt, with conviction.

Six years ago, she took the UPCAT.

And now here I am, a graduate of Creative Writing and a student of Law.

I can't say for sure if I am in a much better person now than that fifteen-year-old Karla who was so full of idealism and hopefulness. She was kind, and expectant, and so full of love untainted. She was whole.

UP gave me heartaches, and disappointment, and great, great loss. It made me question everything I believed in. It gave me sleepless nights and troubled mornings. It defeated what I thought was a strong sense of self. It broke me apart into tiny little pieces. It destroyed me. But it also gave me afternoons under the shade of trees along the Oval. It gave me laughter on the steps of certain buildings. It gave me walks in the rain. It gave me people, and places, and faces. It gave me love, of all kinds.

For all that and more, I couldn't be more thankful. Six years ago, fifteen-year-old Karla took the most important test of her life. I wish I can buy her ice cream and comfort her a bit after she gets out of the Chem Pav at around 6:30 pm that Sunday. I owe her. She got me into this crazy, wonderful mess.

And everything has been beautiful since.

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.

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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)

   

Recently

Mixtape: The Bed Is Unmade
Woman
A few minutes into the short conversation I just h...
On being pursued
Oh universe,
Psalm 63
the only flaw, you are flawless but i just can't ...
On dating law students
the places you have come to fear the most
Ask her if she wants to stay a while

This Is How It Doesn't Start

this is how it doesn't start, in eleven parts

Labels

An attempt at poetry; Books; Bullets; Creative nonfiction; CW; Featured; Feeble attempts at poetry; Fiction; Finger exercises; Law school; Mixtape; Playwriting; Poetry; Senioritis; Shuffle Wednesdays; Summer; The Pillow Book; Thesis; UP

Archives

February 2005; March 2005; April 2005; May 2005; June 2005; July 2005; August 2005; September 2005; October 2005; November 2005; December 2005; January 2006; February 2006; March 2006; April 2006; May 2006; June 2006; July 2006; August 2006; September 2006; October 2006; November 2006; December 2006; January 2007; March 2007; April 2007; May 2007; June 2007; July 2007; August 2007; October 2007; November 2007; December 2007; January 2008; February 2008; March 2008; April 2008; May 2008; June 2008; July 2008; August 2008; September 2008; October 2008; November 2008; December 2008; January 2009; February 2009; March 2009; April 2009; May 2009; June 2009; July 2009; August 2009; September 2009; October 2009; November 2009; December 2009; January 2010; February 2010; March 2010; April 2010; May 2010; June 2010; July 2010; August 2010; September 2010; October 2010; November 2010; December 2010; January 2011; February 2011; March 2011; April 2011; May 2011; June 2011; July 2011; August 2011; September 2011; October 2011; November 2011; December 2011; January 2012; February 2012; March 2012; April 2012; May 2012; June 2012; July 2012; August 2012; September 2012; October 2012; November 2012; December 2012; January 2013; February 2013; March 2013; April 2013; May 2013; June 2013; July 2013; August 2013; September 2013; October 2013; November 2013; December 2013; January 2014; February 2014; March 2014; April 2014; May 2014; June 2014; July 2014; August 2014; September 2014; October 2014; November 2014; December 2014; January 2015; February 2015; March 2015; April 2015; May 2015; June 2015; July 2015; August 2015; September 2015; October 2015; November 2015; December 2015; January 2016; February 2016; March 2016; April 2016; May 2016; June 2016; July 2016; August 2016; September 2016; October 2016; November 2016; December 2016; January 2017; March 2017; April 2017; May 2017; June 2017; July 2017; August 2017; September 2017; November 2017; December 2017; March 2018; April 2018; May 2018; June 2018; September 2018; October 2018; November 2018; December 2018; January 2019; February 2019; March 2019; April 2019;

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 Question

Are 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 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.

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.

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