caffeinated muse

awww...

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:38:00 +0000

are you guys still here?

well, head on over to my tumblr account for more updates!

how to make a Marichelle

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 00:12:00 +0000

Servings:

Original recipe yields one (1) serving

You will need:

1 bottle of Red Bull Energy Drink

3 tablespoons of ground coffee beans

1 French press

Milk and sugar, to taste

Directions:

Place the ground coffee beans into the French press; add hot water.
Stir the coffee beans, and then leave it to brew for about 5 minutes.
Press the plunger to trap the coffee beans to the the bottom of the French press.
Pour contents into a mug.
Add milk and sugar to taste.
Pour the entire contents of the Red Bull Energy Drink into your coffee.
Stir and enjoy.

The Marichelle is best served chilled.

Warning: Marichelle may cause severe palpitations or anxiety attacks in some adults. Limit to only one serving per day.

addict much?

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 00:51:00 +0000

I remember a few days back, we had lunch over at Cafe Laguna with my friends. I looked over at the next table, and I noticed this guy: he was maybe 30-ish, he ate alone (and hurriedly, it seemed), and while he was eating, he had his laptop open and he was typing something there.

So, I thought: hmmm.. working lunch, huh? He must have such a busy and hectic life.

And then I really thought nothing of it, and even forgot about him when, as I excused myself to go to the restroom, I passed by his table and happened to glance over at his open laptop. You know? That thing I said where I thought he was so very busy?

HE WAS FACEBOOKING, Y'ALL.

Mygedd.

song of the week: season of love

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 16:13:00 +0000

Shiny Toy Guns is an indie rock/electronica band from L.A., California. Season of Love is from their second album, Season of Poison.

The song may be a tad too girly for your taste, but that's just how I like it. :D

to our langging-pangging

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 14:02:00 +0000

Dear Eve,

When you’re big enough to read this, I’m sure you won’t remember me as that Aunt who visited you when you were still one year old. By then, you’ll probably know me as that crazy Aunt who unceremoniously pops up for dinner without warning, carrying two bottles of wine – one for the rest of the family and another one for herself.

So, yeah, you probably won’t remember me as that Aunt whom, to the surprise of everyone in the house, you consented to be cuddled, and that you fell asleep in her arms the first day you meet.

What a beautiful experience that was, Eve. That day, your Dad and Kuyas fetched me at the airport, which was a good one-hour drive away from your home. I felt both excited and anxious to meet you; excited because this would be our first meeting, and anxious because I had a feeling you won’t like me at all.

You see, your Kuya Brus didn’t like me the first time we met, so I was pretty sure you’d be the same, too. Even your Mom warned me beforehand: when her friends tried to hold you? You had a hissy fit, and would not let them come touch you.

When I arrived, you had just woken up from your nap, and traces of sleep had not yet left your eyes. I remember you stared intently at me for a good second or two, your brows furrowed, as if you were thinking: “Now who is this girl, and what is she doing in my house?”

So imagine all our surprise when, a few minutes later, I ventured approaching you, holding out my arms, and you JUST WILLINGLY GAVE YOURSELF TO ME. Your mom and I were both so shocked we just stared at each other, and I did not dare move, for fear that you might realize what you just did, and then start wailing. Thankfully, you didn’t.

You even fell asleep while you were in my arms.

And even though, minutes later, my arms were literally screaming with pain (because you’re really heavy for a little lady), I sucked it up and held you as long as I could.

I know our time together was not enough (well, it may never be enough), but seeing you with your brothers, I just know you’ll do fine. You’re our only baby girl, and, they may seem to be overprotective of you, but that’s just because they love you. (I know. The men in our family have a funny way of showing their love, sometimes.)

Just the mere sight of you seeming to be in pain, just the mere peep of your cry, or that hiccupy thing you do that tells us you are about to cry, your Dad and Kuyas go and trip over themselves trying to comfort you.

I know I can’t ever hope to be your best friend, Eve, because hello? WE’RE HALF A WORLD AWAY. But know that whenever you need someone to talk to, or someone to convince your brothers to leave you alone – hey, I’m always here. :)

We love you, langging-pangging.

song of the week: hostage of love

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 15:36:00 +0000

Razorlight is an English indie-rock band, and Hostage of Love is from their 3rd album, Slipway Fires.

Like what some of the reviewers say, I prefer to think Johnny Borrell was personifying love (in all forms) when he wrote this song. It's even got a biblical theme running through some parts.

Listen.

You make yourself a prisoner of me
You blind yourself so you don't have to see
You turn your life to a power above
And make yourself a hostage of love

You turn from me, you turn from the strain
Devote yourself to the power again
Distance yourself from all that we vowed
You broke the rules, you're my hostage now

I am a sinner
I am a saint
I am a devil
I am the ghost at the wake
I feed the swell and pull
Of your tears as they break
I am the limit of
The load you can take

You are the pulley
And I am the winch
I am salvation
And your herald of sin
I take you beyond
Your limits of trust
Redeem yourself
Hostage of love

You say you have been born again
Since you slept there in that liar's den,
You cannot be saved
You gave your innocence away

I've turned my cheek
And I've suffered the blow
The truth of my story
Is widely unknown
Words of derision I have
Swallowed with a smile
For telling my story
I have been crucified

Now like a madman
I give my laurels to you
And like a hero
Forsake my trophies for you
Though a disciple of this devil
That is in our blood
Am I not also
Your hostage of love?

You say you have been born again
Since you slept there in that liar's den,
You cannot return
Until your innocence is earned

You say you've got to live alone
Though it hurts,

You'll make it on your own

You cannot be saved

You gave your innocence away

You will remain a hostage of love

the great debate

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 14:02:00 +0000

I've been debating with myself lately: should I go curly? Or remain straight? (With my hair, I mean.)

You see, I've always wanted wanted WANTED to have those curls, but the last time I had my hair permed, it was curly for about a week or so.

And then it went back to the frizzy, limp hair I've always had. So I thought I was finally at this stage where I've made peace with my hair and I've accepted it for what it really is = frizzy, boring, dull.

But then I saw that picture above, and I was like

O.M.G. Bring. It. On.

So I'm thinking I may just take another stab at that dream hair I've always wanted, and I may do just that this weekend.

Or maybe not.

The great debate continues, thus.

mission: impossible

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 13:51:00 +0000

Art: Courtesy of Courtney

One drunken episode a few nights back, I decided to disturb someone's peaceful night by sending him philosophical, thought-provoking text messages (let's just say this someone's name is Cocoy).

But honestly? Reviewing these messages, I really don't know what I meant by these, and even he was equally stumped as well. Perhaps y'all could help decipher what I meant?

So in case you're needing a little bit of puzzle-solving fix, consider these:

Text 1 (sent 11:57pm) - !@@

Text 2 (sent 11:57pm) - dhlum nahan a2c

Text 3 (sent 12:02am) - kmi rabif

Text 4 (sent 12:08am) - frme nku

Text 5 (sent 12:08am) - rai ak dha

Text 6 (sent 12:10am) - mka nmtbh nh jndx 4roo h an a ck hm

Text 7 (sent 12:10am) - ,--

Text 8 (sent 12:11am) - gqmpn dw i6 iac

--End

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to decode these text messages. I suggest you knock back a tequila shot or two (or more - who cares, right?) so that you can maybe try to see where I'm coming from when I sent these.

I'd also wanna add (in true "mission: impossible" style): "this blog post will self-destruct in a few seconds," but that would be stretching it quite a bit.

So I'll just end this post with: "Bottoms up!"

let's bang our heads on the wall, shall we?

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:47:00 +0000

Art: Courtesy of Through the Illusion

What would you do when one morning you wake up and you realize you no longer like the person you've become?

What would you think of someone who says one thing to you, and then goes off and says the opposite thing to other people?

What would you do when you know there's so much left unsaid, but you could not find the words?

How would you feel when you're quite certain of an impending doom, and you wait and wait for it to happen every fricking day, but nothing. ever. happens.

How would you politely say, "Don't fuck with me, 'cause I fuck back"?

And most importantly, why is there a Dora the Explorer in my phonebook??

if i were a girl..

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Sat, 25 Jul 2009 06:01:00 +0000

So, lazy blogger that I am, I decided for my next post, I'll let the guys do the talking. I asked them to fill in the blank: If I were a girl, _______.

Here's what I got so far (names are abbreviated to protect the ~~guilty~~ innocent).

From T:

Hmmm...

From H:

Personally, I think kikay means "getting away with almost everything just because you're a girl." But whatever, urbandictionary!

And here's from B:

Ayayay! Somebody sure will be gettin' some lovin' tonight! ;D

From F:

Okay, F, gotta love what you have, huh? :D

From M:

Ooooh...

From E:

Translation: If I were a girl, I'd be prettier than you.

Someone sounds a little too confident! :p

And lastly, from a guy I met waaaay way back (let's just call him A):

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 12:34:00 +0000

posted in twitter:

To the guy in a white shirt at Fully Booked: Our eyes met for only a moment, but already it felt like a small forever.

song of the week: help i'm alive

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 05:36:00 +0000

Metric is an indie-rock band originally from New York City, but is now based in Canada.

Also written by Metric's vocalist, Emily Haines, Help I'm Alive is from their fourth album, Fantasies.

Go here to read other people's interpretation of the song.

I tremble

They're gonna eat me alive

If I stumble

They're gonna eat me alive

Can you hear my heart beating like a hammer?

Beating like a hammer?

Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer

Hard to be soft

Tough to be tender

Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train

Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer

Beating like a hammer

If you're still alive

My regrets are few

If my life is mine

What shouldn't I do?

I get wherever I'm going

I get whatever I need

While my blood's still flowing

And my heart still beats...

Beating like a hammer

Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer

Hard to be soft

Tough to be tender

Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train

Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps

Beating like a hammer

If you're still alive

My regrets are few

If my life is mine

What shouldn't I do?

I get wherever I'm going

I get whatever I need

While my blood's still flowing

And my heart still beats...

Beating like a hammer

Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer

can you beat this??

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 10:21:00 +0000

Hmm... A wedding dress made entirely of toilet paper, tape, and glue. Hat included. How's that for creativity?

little bird

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 10:55:00 +0000

Photo: Courtesy of Simon Chandler

In our new office building, there’s a little bird who somehow got trapped on our floor. It’s been more than two weeks (I think), and the poor thing just couldn’t find its way out (yes, I’m calling it an “it,” ‘cause I’m not sure if it’s a boy or girl bird).

It’s just an ordinary bird, really: brown, tiny, confused. It may have gotten inside through one of the little holes in the building, and now randomly zooms over our head trying to find the way to the real world outside. I suspect sometimes it hides up in the ceiling, maybe to regroup and think of another new strategy on how best to escape this building.

Some of my officemates have attempted to catch the little bird, to bring it outside where it can fly freely and maybe meet up with its friends and tell them of that harrowing escape with that bird-eating building. But whenever my officemates approach the little bird, it just flies out of their reach in time. (Or maybe my officemates aren’t just stealthy enough? ‘Cause the little bird always always ALWAYS seems to know when they’re nearby.)

One of my officemates, L, tried leaving crumbs near her cube to feed the little bird. I feel that L, always the ever-doting momma, couldn’t go to sleep at night knowing there’s a hungry little bird inside our building who may or may not have had its dinner yet. (Instead, the crumbs she left for the little bird were practically untouched, but surprise surprise! Her stock of snack supplies went short of exactly 1 packet of crackers. Now that’s one mighty big bird gone hungry!)

Sometimes, I meet the little bird on my way to the pantry or the restroom: always flitting confusedly, wondering how the h3ll it got itself into this miserably wretched situation, regretting that moment it got curious and decided to fly into that damning hole, uncertain if it could ever trust itself again, and quite possibly, ever on the lookout for a way out.

Poor little birdie. I know exactly how that feels.

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 02:27:00 +0000

posted in twitter:

Lately I've taken to using choice cusswords and smirking at strangers. Guess this means I am not cute.

crabby times

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 13:36:00 +0000

Photo: Courtesy of Jari Dude

It’s that time of the month once again.

That time where everything just isn’t right, nothing makes sense, and no matter how many times you try to breathe deeply, you can’t help but pull the hair of that clueless taxi driver, bitch-slap the first person you see in the morning, or headbutt anyone who looks at you and smiles. Well, just in my mind, at least.

And if you’re a real, true-to-life woman (not a tranny with a successful operation under his belt – pun intended – who are one of my idols, by the way), you’ll understand what I mean by this.

Yes, I am PMS-ing.

(Ladies, let me get a “hell yeah!”)

And the more I think about it, the more I realize: why do we have to put up with this shit anyway? Who gave permission to Auntie Flo that she could just come and wreak havoc on our lives, huh?

Also? I’ve been at this for like, more than a decade now, and she still does this to me?

just

too

old

for

this

shit.

And will I fall prey to this vicious cycle next month? No to the way to the Jose! (I hope.)

So I did what any sane, responsible woman would do in this situation: I consumed almost a pint of chocolate ice cream, and then had powdered Milo for dinner.

Sometimes, a girl is left no other choice but to let her vajayjay rule the world.

eve mayumi

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 08:07:00 +0000

Born May 31, 2009
Weighed 7.7 lbs; measured 21 inches
Stole everybody's hearts with her first photoshoot

watchu lookin at??

if you ain't got milk, get outta my face!

gelatissimo

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 28 May 2009 13:54:00 +0000

Photo: Courtesy of Soloflighted

I experienced the most amazing sensation this week.

After doing lunch with our James Bond at La Tegola, we dropped by Gelatissimo just to see if we can squeeze in more treats into our already-full tummies. (Couldn’t get more Italian than this, huh?)

The other Bond girls chose the chocolate flavor, but because I worship the gods of caffeine, I opted for their version of the coffee ice cream.

It. was. deeelish. times infinity.

Their coffee ice cream was sprinkled with coffee beans (and I mean real coffee beans), roasted just right so you can actually taste their acrid bitterness, but when combined with the sweet, cool texture of the ice cream: coffee-gasmic!

And how often can you get to say: I had me some crunchy ice cream?

because you care

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 22 May 2009 17:39:00 +0000

I know you've been dying to find out the most-played tracks on my iPod (admit it, you WANT TO KNOW), so for your viewing pleasure, here it is.

click photo to enlarge image. you know you want to.

In other news, all my friends agree I am a conceited monkey with overbearing delusions of grandeur (I can almost see them nod in unison).

But whatever. As long there's coffee or tequila or tequila-flavored coffee, it doesn't really matter!

matud nila

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 22 May 2009 17:21:00 +0000

Image: Courtesy of Zazzle

We were at the ICU, my uncle and I; our turn to tend to my grandmother who’s been in and out of hospitals since last year.

My uncle had just flown in from Australia. My mother, worried sick about my grandmother’s condition, called in her siblings from the other parts of the world, to see if maybe having them here can nurse my grandma back to health.

It was twilight, I think, when we went inside the ICU room.

My grandma looked up when we entered the room, and she beamed when she saw my uncle. My uncle approached her bed, kissed her cheek, and held her hands.

We had a little chat, about this and that. Uncle Junie made a few jokes, elicited small chuckles from my grandma.

And then out of nowhere, my grandma whispered, “Dong, I can’t sleep.”

So my uncle, while holding my grandma’s hands, softly sang:

Matud nila, ako dili angay

Na magmanggad sa imung gugma

Matud nila, ikaw dli malipay

Kay wa ako’y bahandi na kanimu igasa

My grandma closed her eyes, and with a sigh of relief, gently fell asleep.

I looked away and headed out the door. Moments like these are not meant to be disturbed.

what what

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Fri, 22 May 2009 17:11:00 +0000

What do you call that person who gives you the evil eye when she doesn’t think you’re looking? And then you catch her giving you the evil eye (and she knows you caught her), but then she looks away and pretends like nothing happened.

Five minutes later, your phone rings. It’s her. And she’s inviting you out for drinks later that week. Or maybe suggests you do lunch tomorrow.

What the fcuk is that?

Also, is it weird that I feel sorry for her?

Because obviously she doesn’t like me, but for whatever reasons she may have, she feels she needs to pretend otherwise.

And that’s just...

sad.

the future

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 07:20:00 +0000

future heartbreaker

future matinee idol

future dork

future diva

the pasta that thought it could

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 09:47:00 +0000

One Christmas eve a few weeks back, I decided I was brave enough to tackle the year’s most challenging task: cook pasta a la pobre a la purpledsky.

Naturally, I was determined to overcome this most daunting task prepared and armed to the teeth. I had printed out the recipe weeks before, studied it until my eyes crossed and uncrossed, and grilled The Goddess with questions until, I’m quite sure, she was ready to choke me to my death.

Then, the big night came.

Because I was so prepared, I had to rush to the supermarket to buy the most important ingredient of all: the one with the tuyo in olive oil. So of course, the supermarket had ran out of stock.

I had almost given up when, by some stroke of luck (or pity, perhaps?), The Goddess lent me a bottle from her own kitchen. So then, I had no choice but to cook up a storm.

I had prepared the ingredients carefully, cooked the pasta per Goddess’ instructions (minus 2 minutes from the pasta box’s indicated cook time), and was ready to prepare the sauce. Since this was my first time, I knew I had to consult the recipe every step of the way. Then I realized the recipe was nowhere to be found!

My heart stopped.

There was no way this could be happening. Trying hard to stop from panicking, I looked and looked. At the kitchen table, at the sink, in my bedroom, the living room, even the bathroom! Finally, I found the recipe in the trashcan, all rumpled up and messy. Our house help had thought it was meant to be thrown away, maybe because of its sorry and disheveled look.

Armed with the recipe, I began preparing the sauce, in between shots of Bailey’s mint chocolate cream liquor shared with my brother, who was also whipping up something on his own.

The beautiful result:

The verdict: not really über-delish like The Goddess’, but edible. *big sigh of relief* Although the boyfriend did dare utter, “There seemed to be something missing.”

And then it hit me -

I'd forgotten to use olive oil.

song of the week: wooden heart

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 13:41:00 +0000

Photo: Courtesy of The Duke Spirit

The Duke Spirit is an alternative rock band from London, England. Wooden heart is from their second album, Neptune, released February 2008.

This piece is for krinkle and igatitot: good luck to the 3 of us.

Wooden Heart - The Duke Spirit

no one wastes time quite like i do
i can waste time like nobody else
you can go running back to your friends
you can go running back to your friends

well, that's how it feels
oh, that's how it feels

i would understand your heart
if i could feel it
i would understand your heart
if i could feel, oh

all i have is all that i'm feeling
all i feel is all that i know
and then i use it every day
and abuse it in every way

and that's how it feels
yeah, that's how it feels

i would understand your heart
if i could feel it
i would understand your heart
if i could feel, oh

the sky is more certain
than you will ever be
the rain clouds are angry
at you and at me

the sky is more certain
than you will ever be
the rain clouds are angry
at you and at me

forgive me, baby
i'm not all that you see

i would understand your heart
if i could feel it
i would understand your heart
if i could feel, oh

excuses, excuses

noreply@blogger.com (caffeinated muse) — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 05:13:00 +0000

The party season is on us, folks, and sometimes...

You just don't want to attend to this party that you were invited to,
and you've ran out of excuses.

Well, guess what?

I found this cool site that invents (im)plausible excuses, and even sends the e-mail for you!

I tried it once, and here's what I got:

Enjoy the holidays!