Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Party Pooper

I never said Lamana parties are cheap shindigs. The first time I went there I was so bored I died way before I could give the place a fair appraisal.

I can’t afford Spain to be an Ibiza party-file, and I’m a US visa short to hang around Miami either. Exposure wise, I am no where close to being a party diva, and I refuse to be regarded as one either even if people suffer agitation on my recent non-appearance at Port Moresby’s apparent disco Mecca.

Lamana or the people who enjoy themselves there are NOT cheap. If in my many nights of insobriety I happen to say such a horrible but not totally impossible thing, then accept this post as my official recantation.

Friday, March 17, 2006


My bed is starting to get crowded. Bert bought me a croc stuffed toy to accompany my caveman teddy.

I have a small bed. Good enough for just one person and good enough for me—in Port Moresby anyway.

I wonder how Ces dozes a non-alcoholic night away when she’s got an entire outback of space in her king-sized bed. I’ll find it daunting if I were her. Hell, every toss and turn is a reminder that there’s no one to nudge and grumble “move over fart!” at.


A few weeks ago, I had dinner with Ces.

Struggling with her chopsticks, she asked me: “WHEN will I be truly happy?” I wanted to tell her to visit the furniture shop. But I didn’t wish to go all too cynical before my tempura. I faked a sigh instead.


An ex told me that happiness is a state of mind. I didn't understand what he meant. I was 16 going on 17 then (21, if you really want to know the truth).

I gather that happiness doesn’t come in one she-bang. Not in one lump-sum. It comes in pieces. You have to see to it that each piece will make life bearable, a bit like a game of tetris. Bricks of assorted shapes trickle one after another for you to sort out. Sometimes you get the easily maneuverable pieces and sometimes you get the tricky odd-shaped ones like the crosses, T's or the L's. You just have to be smart about it to score points.


After the dinner my phone rang and it’s midnight-caller/stalker on the other line, offering his bed for the night.

I sighed (this time it’s genuine), wished him a good night (not) and for the nth time refused his offer.


That night I slept in my small bed with caveman, croc and a 100 unread pages of Sharon Creech.