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I believe I may have embarrassed myself yet again at another blog event/event where bloggers attended/the type of event I shall probably never get invited to attend in the future.

Last night was the official launching of the Krispy Kreme Greenhills branch and since my sister Marielle and I are whores who will do anything for free donuts, we tagged along with our mom. I expected free food, fine wine, free donuts, good company, and a peaceful laid-back evening overall. What I didn’t expect, however, was for local celebrities to be included in the guest list.

Yeah, I fail at the open-mouthed celebrity smile.

I’m not going to be stupid and name names because I’ve gotten into trouble for bashing celebrities on my blog before. The internet is serious business like that. And even if I were in the mood for a fight I wouldn’t be able to name the celebrities I saw simply because I don’t know what their names are. I could tell they were celebrities though by the fact that they were half-white, looked anorexic, wore skimpy dresses that make my silk nighties look conservative, thick makeup, and were followed by photographers wherever they went. At that point I already consumed one glass of wine and was starting to make cracks about them. Like, “What fuck are they doing at a Krispy Kreme event? They’re just going to throw up all those free donuts anyway.” Marielle joined in the celebrity-bashing and soon we were shamelessly camwhoring and having this nice discussion about how she’d be a celebrity and I’d be her manager-slash-the person who has to stick a finger down her throat after every meal. To my horror, the celebrities decided to occupy the table next to us while my mouth still had a life of its own. I couldn’t shut up. I can’t remember exactly what I was saying but I’m sure that I was being really snarky and really loud. Even Gail was starting to look really embarrassed about sitting at the same table as me.

This is why I’ve scratched off public relations from the List of Career Options To Explore Over the Next Ten Years. Once I get all riled up about something, there’s no stopping me until I run out of steam or get punched in the face.

Obviously I was celebrity-bashing because I hate them and I envy them for how easy their lives are. All you have to do is be born half-white with half a brain (maybe not even) and BAM–you’re a star. You get invited to go everywhere, dress up, look pretty, and smile for the camera please. I hate it when people are just born with something, like money or good looks, and then use that to get on top instead of working their asses off. Oh, I’m sure attending all those events, photo-shoots, and parties must get really exhausting after a while. But there’s still something unbalanced about the whole equation. I met a couple of people who spent years working at a certain TV station as writers, and even after they spent nights sleeping at the office because they had that much work to do, they got the same chicken shit pay for years. Whereas celebrities get paid shitloads of money to wave at their fans and attend events. Yeah, there’s something very wrong there. It’s people like us who churn out the lines they deliver on the primetime soaps, and the only thanks we receive is to get taken for granted because we’re not half-white with legs up to our armpits.

God help me if I end up in the same room with wine and a celebrity ever again.

To make matters worse, my mom and Marielle spotted this guy I used to date/be friends with way before he started appearing on glossy magazines in his tightie-whities. Mom and sis kept poking me like barbecue on a stick, egging me on to say hi to him. I was so embarrassed at how loud they were being that I would have crawled under the table if it weren’t so fucking crowded. I highly doubt he still remembers who I am and that we once used to exchange really long sentences. Besides, I have pride. I’m certainly not about to stroke his celebrity ego by approaching him and saying something really retarded like, “Oh hey, Famous Male Celebrity. Remember me? Yeah, it’s me Lauren. No no, not Laura. Lauren. We used to be friends, some years back? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not approaching you right now because you’re the hottest stud in Manila and I could always use a contact in the entertainment industry. It’s not like that at all. I just happened to remember all the good times we had, chatting on AIM, walking around UP late at night and stuff, and when I saw you here I was hoping we could relive that all even though you’re now famous and constantly surrounded by women ten times more gorgeous than I could ever be. That’s all, kthxbye!”

There is a very thick line separating writers from celebrities, old love interests from the new ones, and normal people from famous people. I don’t intend to cross that line at all.

And I solemnly swear to behave like a proper young lady the next time I encounter a celebrity. Just don’t give me any wine.

I once had this highbrow conversation with a friend about sex as a metaphor for artistic creation. Actually, my friend was the one being all highbrow explaining the idea to me while my head was swimming in legal substances. I can’t remember much of the discussion now and if I were to repeat his explanation in my own words, I’d only sound crass. But this conversation on sex as metaphor made me change my mind about the silliness of naming inanimate objects. When I got my Fender Squier after graduation, I decided to give all my guitars sexy male names. I spend a lot of time in my room making song babies with them, and I figured that the song baby-making is more fun when you can moan a porn star-like name throughout the artistic process. “Althusser, ohhh Althusser!”

Yesterday afternoon was spent at Park Square, paying for the newest member of the male harem with my very own money. (Technically it’s not my own money since I didn’t have enough cash and I had to borrow the rest from my mom, with Starbucks coffee as interest.) Sebastian is a steel acoustic guitar made out of spruce with a built in equalizer and tuner. Not only did he come with an amp; a guitar stand, strap, cappo, and a bunch of picks was part of the entire package! All for the lovely price of eight thousand pesos. My mom has l33tzor bargaining skills that I can never hope to inherit. O_O

Sebastian’s namesake is not the character from Cruel Intentions as Kristel first thought it was. It’s actually from the soundtrack of Velvet Goldmine–the song that Brian Slade performs in the Woodstock-like festival. Useless bit of trivia that might be important should I ever make it to the ranks of the great guitar gods of all time.

The moment I got home I immediately freed Sebastian from his protective polyester prison and kept on messing around with him for the next three hours. Most of the evening was spent trying to learn how to become like my guitar heroes–Elliott Smith and Miyavi. Waltz #2 is the first song I played on Sebastian and I’ve been trying to learn this beautiful yet insanely difficult version. I don’t know how he does both the lead and rhythm at the same time, but soon I shall learn!

Miyavi is an unbelievably talented and unbelievably good-looking Japanese musician. Every girl I know who’s seen any of his videos or pictures wants to go to Japan and fuck him. But not me. Who wants to fuck Miyavi when you can try to be Miyavi? His cover of Blew by Nirvana is nothing short of amazing and if anyone injects pure caffeine directly into my bloodstream I could probably do it too. Sort of.

Finally, now that I have an acoustic guitar that isn’t a total bitch to use, I finally have something to look forward to during boring lunch hours at work. w00t!

The Neurotic Stage occurs after that really awesome first date (or first hang-out or whatever it is you call it these days. Part of the confusion in the Neurotic Stage comes from not knowing whether what you had was really a date or not). You’ve had a lot of first dates before, but this one was different. There was so much electricity in the air, both of you could have powered a nuclear plant. You felt a strong connection with him that you’ve never experienced with other guys. Despite all this, you’re still unsure about what this one thinks about you and if he felt the same connection you did. That’s when the neuroticism kicks in.

In the Neurotic Stage, you experience and deal with the following (usually with Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap or a similarly depressing song playing on repeat):

The uncertainty of waiting, the mixed signals in gestures, the double-meanings hidden in words.

The fact that no matter how many friends you ask, their interpretations of the conversation you had last night might never come close to what he really meant.

The false sense of security you get after finally accepting the possibility (the certainty?) that maybe he’s just not interested in you.

Then he YM’s.
Or texts.
Or sends you an mp3 his favorite love song.

Which brings you back to the paradoxical situation of not knowing what to do next because you’re over-thinking about what the fuck just happened.

That he made his presence felt opens up many possibilities. Especially the possibility of getting your emotions and ego smashed. For all you know, that text message/YM conversation/love song might have meant absolutely nothing. When you are in the Neurotic Stage, it’s still too early for confrontations and a definite answer. When there are no answers, everything becomes a sign that points to him. Because that is the answer that you want.

So you realize the futility of trying to rationalize your emotions. You swallow your sleeping pill and wait for the chemicals to silence your thoughts. But the goddamn pill takes forever to kick in. You let out a heavy sigh and cry out, “I hate you!” The crack in your voice betrays your suffering. But anyone who sees the dreamy look on your eyes and that dopey grin on your face knows that whatever it is just happened made your day a little brighter.