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#AsthmaJokes

My heart beats a little more faster, and my hands get sweaty. I feel like all the breath from me is sucked out, leaving me breathless.

And it’s not because of a guy.

Literally though, it is hard to breathe. I’m currently at the hospital, an IV stuck to my hand, a nebulizer to my right, and shaking hands. But I like to find the fun in all of this, especially since I’ve been in the hospital more than my age(I’m 18!). Yesterday when I decided to get admitted, my mom and I laughed because we knew the drill too well. We knew what to bring, what to prepare, and my mom teased me when I didn’t cry when they inserted the IV.

Although asthma is as serious as it gets, I know because I had them since I was a baby, I can’t let it bring me down. So when I woke up I began searching for asthma jokes, just to divert myself from my palpitations and my headache from my sinusitis(did I mention I had that too?). So here I present, the best asthma jokes I could ever find on the internet.

I’m adding pictures of how I look like. Like I said in my status in Facebook, you’d never know I’m sick unless you hear me cough like a maniac!

And let’s end this, with a picture of the two crazy siblings:

Why write?

Write a hundred books. Make love with a thousand words. Touch millions of lives.

“And the Nobel Prize Award for Literature goes to, Le-an Lai Lacaba!”

Everyone rises up, their shiny gowns reflect on the spotlight that has been focused on me. After 50 years of being a writer, at long last I’m finally here; the first Filipino to receive this award. I rise up, my limber 60 year old bones are now shaking, but the smile on my face is still plastered on tight. I look at my husband and I squeeze his hand as I am ushered up the stage. And to think, 50 years ago I was a sixth grade elementary girl who started making stories in her diary. And now I’m here, in front of everyone who have read all of my works, and who have helped me up when I was down.

Crush-inspired stories. A small princess diary. Teacher issues.

“Le-an! Are you not listening?”

In that moment I look up at my teacher who looked angry. Oh wait, she is. I slowly sneak my diary in my bag, but my teacher catches sight of it.

“What is that?” She demands.

“It’s her diary ma’am where she writes stories.” My best friend quips.

I look at her angrily, the way she betrayed me like I was nothing to her.

“Let me see that.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I shakily give my diary to her, knowing fully that I wrote bad things about her inside. She takes it and walks to her desk, keeping the diary in her drawer. I looked down at my feet, feeling ashamed. It’s true that I wasn’t listening to her, but it was only because I got inspired on writing. Who am I to resist the calling of making a novel about me and my crush? This reminds me, he really looks cute today. Ugh, my diary! >.<

It was graduation day when she gave my diary back to me, and I have given up writing since that time. I felt so ashamed at what she did to me, doing it in front of class and everything.

“Ms. Lacaba, here you go. You’re a good writer for someone who’s eleven years old. But next time don’t make me the villain in your stories okay?”

I didn’t know what to do in that moment, so I just smiled and took the diary into my hands. Little did I know that my teacher would become a headmaster at a school in Thailand six years later. So maybe that was a sign.

Bullied little girl. A “class diary”. More crushes that left me crushed.

Everything is such a daze. No one wants me to be a part of their group, and I stopped hanging out with my best friend’s barkada because I was treated as an outcast. I hear them calling me names, talking about me behind my back. I don’t even know what I did. And so I write here in the corner, thinking of reasons why no one liked me. I write stories and poems about how it would be like to have real friends.

For a whole year I try impressing them, but the most hurtful moment that showed how much they despised me was when my teacher made a mistake in announcing that I was in last rank. They all cheered or something. Then when my teacher took back his words and said it was their friend in last rank, it was like they hated me more. I didn’t know how to deal with these people. High school sucks.

In sophomore year I began writing a novel in my diary again. At least I have friends now, with whom I show my stories to. But they weren’t only interested in my stories that were written at the back of my diary. They also wanted to read my actual diary. It was no big deal for me. Everyone knew who my crush was, even my own crush. So I let them be, I let them read my deepest secrets. I don’t care because maybe this way I would have more friends. Would you be my friend?

My crushes are somewhat cute. But every writer needs a muse right? In my case an escort. So I accept every guy whom my heart beats for. I know I sound like I easily like guys, but I have standards. Sometimes. Anyways, there is this one crush of mine whom I’ve been crushing for most of my high school life. But he became a bit of a jerk ever since he knew I liked him. He was kind of my friend during my “bullied” days, but now he just is a snob. I push myself into crying at times, just so I could write something about pain and suffering.

An unexpected victory. Finding out my weakness. More ideas to write.

My hands are shaking and sweaty. My face is hidden from sight. My constant mantra is “Please let me win. Please let me win.” My arm is on a chair and my head is rested it as if I was sleeping. They’re announcing the winners of the DSPC Feature Writing contest, and I feel so numb.

“In seventh place, in sixth place, in fifth place, in fourth place.”

My name hasn’t been called and they’re already in the top three. My heart is beating wildly. All my schoolmates have won a place for the regional competition, and my category just had to be the last one to announce. I keep muttering my mantra, as my friends pat my back. This is it. There’s no way I’d get into the top three. I look up just as the emcee announced the first place.

“In first place, Le-an Lai Lacaba of STCDCFI!”

OMG. Was that my name? The next thing I knew I was being pushed unto the little stage with my schoolmates jumping around. Next to me were six other winners, and I was standing in first place. This is it. This is my calling.

Oh no. They want me to write about the RSPC Pageant last night. I don’t know anything about pageants! I did attend it because I was required to, but I never thought they’d choose this for a topic! My head is swirling with so many things and ideas that I couldn’t put anything on the paper. The next thing I knew time was almost up and I had to hurry up. I wrote what I could, hoping for the best. During the awarding day, I knew I wouldn’t get a place. And I didn’t. I learned that my weakness was writing live performances or anything that I couldn’t make up. So I learned from that.

They say it doesn’t count on how high your position is, what counts is how many times you lift yourself up after you fall. So as I tried to recover from the RSPC fiasco, I picked up the pieces. I wrote about the little things in life, I wrote poems and short stories and tried to make a novel. I never wanted to stop writing, in hopes that someday I’d be one of the best. I’m going to get there someday, somehow.

A new school. Same type of “friends”. Different inspiration.

Entering college was just like entering high school all over again. I had no friends because it was like I was absent during the day that they all became friends. Although there wasn’t any bullying anymore, I still felt alone, tagging along from one barkada to another. I never really got attached to anyone. And so my “loner” instincts kicked in, and I found myself writing in the library, during class at times, and at home. I just wrote whenever I felt like it. I never felt like I belonged to anything anyways. So I belonged to myself.

During those loner times, there was someone who inspired me. He’s my current boy friend now and my best friend at that time. After a long time, I had an escort for my novels. I began to write love stories again, and the problem of not being close friends with anyone faded in the background. I began to take what I could take, and just let the good times roll. I tried walking on my baby feet as I staggered to the world of college life, and I’m still staggering every time I stand after I fall.

A new opportunity. Facing my fear. It was in the genes after all.

When my mom started to write for a magazine, I was ecstatic. She wrote beautifully, and her words were carefully chosen. I was excited whenever I saw the latest issue of the magazine, and planned to write for the magazine someday. Little did I know that it would soon come true. I got really excited was when she appointed me to cover national star’s concert. I looked back on the RSPC competition, and I challenged myself into writing something that wasn’t fiction. And in the end, I felt really good about myself because I impressed my mom.

A few months after that, I was called into a meeting for the magazine. Turns out, they were planning on making a junior writers team, and I was appointed leader! I knew there were responsibilities and tasks, but I was up for the job. My bucket list of working for a magazine was ticked off as I faced a new challenge.

And as I write this essay at twelve in the morning, I smile to myself as I look back at all the things I’ve gone through. I never realized how much I pushed myself to get back on the horse. I realize now that the best way to achieve anything is not to mope around and do nothing while you’re lonely. My motto is: when lonely, write! The best things in life come unexpectedly, and you better be ready with a pen and paper.

Almost one year later. A published book. Book number two on the way.

I’m finally here. After all the grueling and tiresome nights. After reading and editing till I was sick of it. After printing the copies to read it again. I’m finally published.

I have stumbled, and fallen. But I always knew that I was meant for this, I knew I had to endure them all.

After surviving the world’s biggest storm, I have stood up, dusted off the dirt, and wrote. I have written till I couldn’t, I have written till I was worn out. And now I’m done, my work is out there. With my blog and book in hand, I feel taller, though I’m only five feet tall (since I was 15).

Everything’s the same, yet a lot has changed. I still have the same escort, the same one who got me really started. One more year and I finish college, then it’s off to the real world. My younger siblings are now taller than I am, but I still get to boss them around. I am rarely lonely, I have my characters with me, just bursting to get out.

And now I have a new motto, one I will surely live by till the day I die. Write till your heart runs out of ink.

————————————

The first part was written almost a year ago. I’m proud to have come this far, to be where I am today. Tomorrow is still another world to tackle, but at least I lived today.

Less than three is now available on Kindle! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO

And the 14 ebook giveaway expires tomorrow! Enter here! http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/share-code/NGY1MzE1MGJiYzgxNWZhMGExMWZkMWFmMjdlOGFkOjA=/

Romana Angeles Lacaba

My mother.

Eighteen years ago, I was just a little baby the size of one litre of coke(i’m not kidding). I was a first born to my mom and dad, a first grandchild too. One day, my grandmother looked at me and said, “That baby looks terrible!”

My mom looked at her straight in the eye and said, “However insults my daughter will have to go through me!”

I always laughed at the story, knowing how protective my mother was from the very start. She’d always try to help me with my bullies, although as I grew up I didn’t tell her about them, ashamed of being a tattletale. She always gave me warnings about what to expect from the world, and if she could stretch her arms around us four, she’d likely do so to protect us.

My mother.

She raised four kids with my dad miles away on a boat, trying to work a better job than he could find if he was in the country. He would come home every four months, stayed for two, then left again. Though he did lend a hand or two in raising us, especially financially, my mom is my greatest hero.

My mother.

As the eldest, I was always mom’s right hand. I’d be the one she’d count on for errands and such, doing what I could to help. Though sometimes I’ve failed, I always try to do better the next time. I was naturally a perfectionist, trying to impress my mom by doing well in school. She never fails to show how proud she is of me, from buying me a beautiful dress when I got into the Honor Roll, to giving me a huge dictionary when I decided to be a writer. She always did her best for us, so I always tried to do my best for her.

My mother.

Soon enough, I got a lot of traits from her. She’s a writer herself, and I was always in awe with what she could conjure. As an English teacher and taking Masters in English back in her twenties, she was someone who was harnessed with words and developed her way of thinking. She also has this presence that I’m slowly following. Whenever she goes into a room, people always notice her, always in a good way. She had a way on how she carried herself, and I always wanted to do what she did.

We have the same taste with music, movies and ultimately celebrity crushes. Both of us could easily get what the other would think when a song from Michael Buble is being played, or when the movie “The Notebook” is on. We’re both sappy romantics in the end, crying with the characters of the movie.

My mother.

She’s always there to motivate the four of us. From my writing, to my brother’s musical inclinations, to my middle sister’s speaking talents and to my youngest sister’s dancing. She’s always flexible, always having a piece an advice for us to work on and improve on. She’s a writer, a singer, a speaker and a dancer after all. Where else would we get our talents?

My mother.

On her birthday I don’t have much to give, but this blog post dedicated to her. I have a lot more to say, but these are the important parts. She’s someone who showed me to stand up for myself and to believe in myself. She’s someone who wordlessly smiles at me and I’d feel it, I’d feel that she’s proud of me and loves me unconditionally.

Mom,

You’re the best, and always will be. Happy birthday!
Words would never be enough to describe how thankful I am to have you.

I love you,
Ate Yani.

—————————————–
Who else would I name as the editor of my book?

Less Than Three Valentine Giveaway!

If you don’t know yet, my book, Less Than Three has been out since last Friday, and I decided to do a giveaway for Valentine’s Day, the very reason that I made myself publish the book right away.

Let me first introduce you to my book formally and with more detail.

Less than three is filled up by original short stories with less than three thousand words. I started weaving the book together last October 2013, but I’ve started writing since 2006. Most of the stories were influenced by the people around me, from the stories that I got inspired with just by observing other people’s lives (stalkerish? maybe). They’re heartwarming stories with a twist from reality, hoping to tug a few heartstrings and have you reaching for your tissue box for a good cry.

Stories included in this book are:

Walkie-talkie (2, 503 words)

The necklace (1,775 words)

Confessions of a University Scholar (1,716 words)

That should be me (708 words)

11:11 (1,514 words)

His morning voice (541 words)

Courting my soulmate (2,859 words)

Mr. Fluffy (894 words)

Apartment 104 (1,469 words)

Futile Love (1,169 words)

My little penguin (783 words)

Wasted (1,003 words)

Mrs. Superman (1,127 words)

Nauseated but jealous (1290 words)

Flying Kisses (735 words)

Candle lit storm (1,444 words)

Seeing trees (787 words)

Old conversations (852 words)

First Kisses (646 words)

My cup of Joe (900 words)

That little stick (1,569 words)

What once was (686 words)

What happens after goodbye (873 words)

Indelibly (419 words)

Exhaustingly worth it (758 words)

Eternally yours (1,082 words)

The last dance (1,214 words)

Mad (843 words)

The end (722 words)

Though most of these stories may seem familiar to my ever supportive readers, trust that I have revised and edited them over and over again. I may or may not have added a few scenes, just for delight.

And now I am giving away 14 ebooks, each winner chosen randomly. Winners will receive the PDF file of my book through email, with a signed message if they please. (Please wait for Rafflecopter to load)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

To buy the book, find the links here:

Paperback-at 14%(+1=15%) (just because it’s love month) discount :http://www.lulu.com/shop/le-an-lai-lacaba/less-than-three/paperback/product-21435906.html;jsessionid=B57CE689E5023D4A8D7E27605DB455A0

Kindle-http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO

The muse and the device

The constant clacking was my symphony, the occasional bing! was my song. I weaved lives in front of me with meticulous nature, making sure that each was made with a touch of reality. My brows were furrowed together as my heart constantly kept me alive, although my perseverance was dying. As I ripped out another paper and tore it to pieces, I bang my head on the table, careful not to damage my device. I groan, trying to paint the things I wanted to see.

“You can do this Darlene. If anyone could do it, it would be you.”

I whispered to myself, echoing the same words he spoke just hours ago. I began playing with my nails, picking at the easily rubbed off nail polish. My head was still stuck on the table, mulling over falling asleep here or hoping off to bed. It was another hopeless case, another crumpled paper.

I desperately needed something new to see before me, another place and time, with new characters for me to love. I groaned again as I decided to do the latter, of jumping off to my bed onto sleep slumber. Just then my phone vibrated, indicating that some other monster was awake at this ungodly hour. My eye bags have already reached to level three, my hair in dire need of a bath.

“Hello?” I sleepily said, my left eye barely seeing the screen.

“You have the phone upside down again.”

I fumbled with my phone, shocked that a voice echoed in my yawning mouth.

“Hello?” I repeated, hoping I got the phone in the right position this time.

“You’re giving up again aren’t you?” He asked pointedly.

“Yes. No. Maybe. Tomorrow again perhaps.”

I fluffed my pillow, as he began to rant off about how I always put things off when he knows I could do it now. I kept nodding though I knew he couldn’t see me, then mumbling an “uhuh” and “mhm” now and then.

“You’re already sleeping on me. How do you suppose you would finish your work if you keep dozing off the moment you run out of ideas?”

“I’m almost there. Just a little patience. I am just short of a few words before I’m finished.”

“Yeah. Finished. With chapter ONE.”

I buried myself into the pillow, screaming my frustrations out.

“Why do you keep annoying me? If I don’t want to write, you can’t force me. I give up.”

I turned off my phone, slowly feeling light as a feather. I’m going to stop writing. It’s as easy as that. Just as I was dreaming of guys who didn’t bug me about writing, my door slowly opened, making that awful creaking sound.

There was only one person besides my mother who had my room key, and to be honest I’d rather have my mother visit me than him.

“Darlene?”

Too bad it wasn’t my mother.

“What?” I replied.

“Why aren’t you writing?” He asked as I felt the bed dip.

I refused to look at him, afraid he’d see right through me like he always does.

“Is it because I’m leaving?” He whispered.

Tears began to involuntarily spill from my eyes. Traitorous liquid. I immediately felt his arms around me, a welcome treat for me.

“Shh. Don’t cry.” He murmured to my ear. “I’m here. Don’t worry.”

“But your leaving.” I said, chocking on my own sad words.

“But it’s for us. For both of us to have a better future.”

“You can find work here. Where you don’t have to go for a whole year. I could find two jobs. I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want you to forget me.”

I was sobbing into his arms now, my words all meshed together. He kissed me forehead and hugged me tighter.

“That’s why I need you to keep on writing. You could send me every chapter you wrote everyday, or even just a chunk of it. If you keep writing I get to read what’s on your mind, whether it’s me or anything else.”

I didn’t say a thing, but I slowly calmed down. Thoughts of him smiling as he read my stories filled my mind, a smile painting itself on my own face. Soon we were both sitting up on my bed, both facing each other.

“I could buy you a new laptop so you would stop using that old thing.”

He pointed to my beloved typewriter, which was twice as old as I was. The prospect of not having to waste paper when I got an error sounded appealing.

“Deal.”

“Would you write for me please?” He asked, eyes wide.

“As long as you’re my muse,” I said, holding back another tear, “I’d write a thousand stories till you come home.”

—————————————
Fiction is <3.

Just a side note: Less Than Three is now available on Kindle for $6.99! Click here: Less Than Three
It is also available on Lulu, a soft bound book, $12.60 at 10% discount till February 10. Less Than Three
I am also looking for someone to review my book on their blog. Don’t hesitate to email me at lean.lacaba@gmail.com.

Less Than Three

I’d never thought I’d see the day,

When I can write a blog post and say,

I’M PUBLISHED!

Yes! At long last, I am published! I have self published my book, Less Than Three on Lulu. Words cannot begin to describe how happy I am that I got it out there, and I can’t stop making doing my little dance. Here’s a little preview of my book, finally OUT and FOR THE WORLD TO SEE!

There is an open secret

between us humans (mostly women):

we love love stories. We feel giddy with

every character’s “I love you” and

we feel heartbroken when the story unfolds

and the lovers weren’t meant to be.

Less Than Three is a collection of short

stories written in less than three thousand words,

by a young adult for the young adults

and adults with young heart..

Follow the stories of the characters

from puppy love to true love,

as they conquer obstacles and fight for

what they believe in.

Non-fiction to fiction; inspired by real life stories,

Less Than Three is written

for those who aim to have their

heartstrings tugged and pulled.

It is for those times when you

just want to cuddle up by the fire

with someone you love,

or when you’re alone in the coffee shop.

Love after all, is Less than Three.

Less Than Three is now available on Kindle for $6.99! Click here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO
It is also available on Lulu, a soft bound book, $12.60 at 10% discount till February 10.http://www.lulu.com/shop/le-an-lai-lacaba/less-than-three/paperback/product-21435906.html

My hands are now shivering with delight mixed with nervousness. I’m going to be noisy for the next few days on social media, so watch out! Please do share this around! <3

P.S. Get a 10% discount if you grab a copy! Til February 10 only!

Remembering him

There was a sense of anticipation in the air. It was a cold Sunday night, and the stars were just starting to shine.

Everyone was asked to keep quiet, though the kids didn’t know why. Everything was changing, although everything was the same. Inside the 30 year old house, the furniture was moved. The TV was upstairs, and the couches were moved to the porch. Lights flickered through the room as the lights from cars reflected onto the mirrors. The adults was gathered in the living room, though the kids stayed outside. The front gate was open, and from time to time I looked out, hoping to see the white van already. My heart was jumping wildly, as if I have been running for miles. As I walked back towards the garden, my younger sister approached, and with impatience in her voice when she asked me:

“Ate, when is Lolo coming home?”

Her innocence almost made me cry, and fought the urge to tell her. The tears were brimming, and I wiped it away, trying to be strong for the young ones. As the eldest grandchild, I wanted to be brave. Though I was still shaken, I tried to distract myself. I looked around the familiar surroundings; the broken window, the little plants and the dogs that guarded the gate. Nothing seemed amiss; everything was still the same way as every day. But when I got inside the house, everything was drastically changing. It felt more and emptier every time I looked at all the familiar things. It came to a point that everything was strange. I tried to shake off the feeling as I walked towards my mother, her face stiffened and her eyes tired.

“Ma, is it on the way?”

She merely nodded, and continued to distract herself by talking to my aunts and my Lola. They were all seated in their places on the old dining table, and there was that one chair that no one dared to sit on. Hushed voices were around, but within me I felt alone. The deafening silence grew, and I began pacing the empty living room. I knew that in a few moments this place would be a sight of pain. I walked again to the gate, and then I saw a white van. I saw the name of the famous saint on the front of it, and my heart pounded again as I knew it was the right one. My uncle also saw it, so he told everyone to go into the house. The kids became excited, as they came to me and kept asking if Lolo was finally home. The van backed up, and the kids were shouting

“Lolo! Lolo!”

My heart was shred into pieces when they stopped shouting. There was that deafening silence again, as a white coffin showed when the back of the van opened.

“Ate…”

My youngest sister said with her voice cracking. She looked around, her eyes lost in translation. My other sister had tears brimming and I held them close. They finally understood. The three of us were crying, holding each other close.

As the men in white set up a stand in the living room, with all their decorations and flowers, I started to calm my sisters down. And when they carried the coffin, I prayed my hardest that this just wasn’t true. I kept blinking my eyes, hoping this was all a dream. As everything else subsided, a few minutes later I stared at the coffin. As I sat there and watch him, he looks like he is sleeping; there was peace in his face. No more tubes sticking down his throat, no more tubes injected in his hands. There were no more tears of hardship.

I feel like he isn’t even dead, like when I go to the store I would find him cooking in their kitchen, then I’d hug him real tight like I always did when I saw him. Then I’d kiss him on the cheek, scream good morning then I’d leave the store with him going back to his work. I sometimes imagine that when I open the door to their house I’d meet him, or that he’d get mad at me for not closing the door again. I imagine being able to massage him whenever I could, then hugging him tightly whenever I saw him.

As the days dragged on, people came and went. They all said that they always remembered my Lolo smiling, like he was always happy. Everyone agrees to this, that in some point of their life, my Lolo was a part of it somehow, like he was there to help them in some way. They all laughed, though there was grief all around. No one cried too much, and his presence was everywhere.

Every story became a piece of a puzzle, a piece of a time how he treated everyone. Every time we remembered him, we would end up laughing, with his wisecracks and jokes. And as I remembered his final moments with me when I slept on his bed in the hospital, I smiled. I remembered him combing my hair with his fingers, thinking I was asleep. I smiled remembering that moment when he realized I was crying, he said through the tubes that were in his nose:

“Don’t cry. Stop crying.”

He didn’t want us to be unhappy, because he has done so much to make us happy. And that’s how I realized, that my Lolo not only found the fountain of immortality, he basked in it. He shared it with people, secretly giving them a sip of what he had even when he had nothing. And now as I write this, with tears streaming down my face and my hands shaking, I know he’s here, wiping my tears. I smile remembering and realizing the best lesson he taught me wasn’t taught verbally. I learn it by reflecting on his life, by letting me see the little pieces of the puzzle of his life. He taught me everything that the others only dream of. He taught me that the secret of immortality is to leave everyone with a smile on their faces.

——————-

Written almost a month after he died, two years ago. 🙁 It’s still great to remember him though. 🙂

A Taclobanon’s week

I have immersed myself in Tacloban since we came home last Saturday. And here’s my daily routine since the super typhoon Haiyan/Yolanda sashayed into our lives.

SUNDAY

We wake up early, and try to cook and eat in the darkness. Since there is still no electricity and most of the malls have been slaughtered by the hands of man and nature, there are no more places to spend the “Family Day”. We spend it at home, as we make constant repairs to make our home at least look normal. Then we go to church, have dinner and hope to go home before dark. The streets are still unlit, making the usual driving a hassle as we try to avoid bumps on the road. When we reach home, we instantly feel sleepy, as there are no other ways to occupy ourselves. We fall asleep before eight.

MONDAY – FRIDAY

Since I have school, I wake up earlier than normal, and try to cook by flashlight. Once everyone is finished, I take a bath in very cold waters, since the weather has been very gloomy. Then the war for a jeepney begins. Since the storm, Tacloban has lost 50% of it’s public utility vehicles, making the daily commute close to impossible since a lot of us struggle for a ride. Once I do get on a jeep, there is that twenty minute ride, where we pass by Anibong, the village where five boats still stand over houses. When I reach school, after paying twenty pesos(from the normal 15) for my ride, there is the scene of destruction. And with the rain pouring hard, classes are postponed.

So when I don’t have classes, I go to the downtown area. And everywhere, I mean everywhere, you’d see the destruction. Broken windows, roofless buildings, pulverised cement and overturned vehicles. It is really a heartbreaking state, especially for someone used to seeing Tacloban in it’s full life. Now, it looks half dead. There are businesses open, yes, but some are overpriced, and there are a lot of scarce things. There are some streets that have been energised, but not all.

When you try to buy pork, fish or veggies in Tacloban, they’re not only expensive, but you also have to cook them that very day. Since there are no refrigerators (since there isn’t any electricity), you have to cook the food to preserve them.

For those sending packages, you have to wait at least 3 days before claiming them at the post office.

Hot food is a rare commodity, which explains why you have to fight for your favorite kind of bread.

Everything has a LINE. And not just any line, a very long line. To eat at a restaurant, there’s a line. To withdraw from a bank/ATM, there’s a line. To get your package, there’s a line. For relief goods, there’s a line. To get into a hospital, there’s a line. It just shows how abnormal everything is.

When I go home, which is before 4pm, I try to catch a jeep again. And when I do, it’s another ride through Anibong, to the places that were severed by the storm. And when I get home, I try to cook in the dark again, hoping that I wouldn’t cook the food rare or burnt.

SATURDAY

Since it’s the weekend, we all try to do our little own thing. For me, it’s trying to find a power source (since everything needs electricity these days) so I could write on my device. That means going to downtown again.

All this in one week, not to mention the non stop rains and the flooded roads.

The Taclobanons proved themselves to be survivors of this world record storm. If things are hard two months after the storm, what about the first few weeks? They had so little, and had to battle for the survival of their family members and themselves.

The world seems to slowly forget about the city that was once in full bloom, uprooted in three hours. I hope you don’t.

To read more about the Haiyan/Yolanda experience, click here: http://dimperfectprincess.blogspot.com/search/label/haiyan

Getting back to Tacloban

I’m back home.

It has been two months since Haiyan, and slowly Tacloban has begun to rise from its ruins. The news has died down, but the stories continue.

Sometimes I feel like I am in a foreign place, a place I need to rediscover. It is a heartbreaking reality, but it is something that I must face, and something the people of Tacloban have been facing for the past few months.

We went to Cebu a week after Haiyan to escape the horrors that seemed to haunt us in every corner of the typhoon ridden city. And now that we’re back for good since I have school this January 13, I feel like the horrors never really stopped. From the view of an eighteen year old girl who grew up in the city by the Cantabato Bay, it is a city bruised and left for dead, reviving itself.

And now I have decided to immerse myself into helping those who were not as lucky as I was. In the bible, I always remember that I was taught that if I wanted to give something to the poor, I should give with my left hand and never let my right hand know what I was doing. It meant that when I do something good, I shouldn’t tell others. But in this case, I need the help of the people who can donate and give what they could for the people of Tacloban.

I have already volunteered for a local charity in Tacloban, I still have rice runs for OATH, and now I will share with you Help after Haiyan.

This organization who added me to their group had a unique story all on their own. You can find their website here. http://www.helpafterhaiyan.com

Their goal is to reach 100,000 likes on their Facebook page by February. When every like can be worth 1Million, it’s worth it. So I’m sharing their page, with the hope that you will help them in this endeavor.

https://www.facebook.com/HelpAfterHaiyan

Read my experience of Haiyan here : http://dimperfectprincess.blogspot.com/2013/11/meeting-haiyan-first-hand-experience.html

You can read more at the “Haiyan Experience” tab on my blog.

Pixie cuts, courting soulmates and going home

So there are three things I’d like to discuss with you today. Okay maybe four. Or five. Let’s just see where this post goes.

Pixie cut and saving shampoos

So last Sunday I got a pixie cut. Almost the same one I got three years ago. And so, I have created pros and cons of having short hair.

Pros:

You save on both shampoo and conditioner. I mean, you don’t have to put so much effort on cleaning your hair when it’s this short!
It’s easy to style. You can just handcomb it and voila! You’re good to go.
Less heat. This was my primary reason when I decided to get a cut. With my hair going below my breasts, it was getting hotter when I let it lose.
You stand out. My professor once told me when I had my first pixie cut that it made me stand out.
No more bed hair!
Save on hair ties and scrunchies! The thing with long hair is that you have to have a scrunchie wherever you went in case of emergencies, ei, you had a bad hair day. Now I don’t have to, so there are less chances of losing them to my bottomless bag.
Look fierce. No more explaination.
Look younger. It really does take years off your face.

Cons:

You’ll be mistaken as a tomboy, or a boy. This is why I like wearing dresses and shorts. This isn’t really a problem for me, since I’m so girly at times that I gross myself out. I am a tomboy a bit, but not so much.
People you know make fun of you. For example, my lovable brother, who has taken it upon himself to call me “bro”. Grr.
Nothing follows.

Courting my soulmate

Since my 1st book is still waiting for publishers to nibble it, I’m working on my second book, my first whole novel. I’ve never written anything like this. If you check my Wattpad account, you’d see that I haven’t finished any story. I’m the type who wants to write in one sitting. So a whole novel will be challenging, and I love my plot so far.

Target: 1000 words or 1 chapter at least per day.

Self-publishing

I gave myself my own deadline: If I don’t get any answer by any editors by the end of January, then I’d self-publish it. I do still hope it doesn’t go that far though.

Going home

So on January 10, I will be gong back to Tacloban for good. With classes starting next Monday, I have to. So there would be less blog posts, even none at all since I don’t know the strength of the internet, plus we would be using a generator since we still don’t have electricity at home. So, phew. It’s a big change indeed.

Hope all goes well! 😀

Let’s end this with a weird photo shall we? Like my blog’s FB page? Puhlease? https://www.facebook.com/dimperfectprincess