Has there ever been a time in your life wherein you wanted to squeeze the airways of a person shut for being so stupid? A person who would always kick himself (yes, I  use masculine pronouns when referring to people in general, it doesn't threaten my femininity in any way) in the rear, both cheeks, for having done something so obviously stupid that he shouldn't even be mulling over doing it in the first place because doing that stupid thing is even unthinkable? And what's even more baffling, even more incomprehensible than someone in Wowowee declaring that Willie Revillame is an inspiration, is that that person just keeps doing the same mistakes over and over, as though he has amnesia concerning only this area in his life, as though he is not a living creature that naturally learns what is nurturing and what is a threat to its existence.

There's always that person. Once or twice, maybe even three times, you come across someone like that. That person could even be one of your closest friends. And yes, sometimes, that could even be you.

The first paragraph is a rhetorical question. I am a klutz and one way or another end up hurting myself (physically). I have a problem estimating space and I bump into things all the time. As I write I have a bruise in my butt (talk about kicking oneself in the rear) for having miscalculated and sitting on the edge of the bed—the wooden part, not the cushion part—the other night. I do learn; I have learned from this experience to look before I sit. But I will bruise myself again in the very near future. Over another object.

I cut my hair. Trimmed it is the more precise term. "Like it makes a difference," I imagine the voices of people who hate my hair answer. I did it to take out the split ends; the last time I trimmed it was June, and I've seen unhappy tips since last month.

Just once and for all. I will not "fix" my hair, okay? I will not have it treated, I will not cut it to a less ridiculous and less impractical length. So to whom it may concern, stop it. I am not growing it and keeping it curly so I can deliberately get on people's nerves. There is no one who influences me to that extent. I do no not keep it wildly curly just so I can be "weird" or different.

Here it is: I find treatments too much trouble, my vanity does not encompass my hair, and I am have no problems with it whatsoever. If it offends you, then I can't help you. I can't apologize for being curly-haired, just as Pokwang can't apologize for her face (I have nothing personal against her) or Sharon Cuneta won't apologize for being fat. Look at them, they're happy as clams. I certainly won't go to the trouble of "fixing" it just to get the nod from dear old mister public. My hair doesn't hinder any aspect of my life, so it stays unless I grow tired of the current style and would like to change my look. End of story.

My UP Cebu barkada Yarry texted to go see the European film fest in Ayala but I  declined. Instead I watched three rom-coms and three Queen concerts on DVDs this weekend. Twawang. I declined because getting up is too much trouble.

My body is in pain today. I blame Haruki Murakami.

I just finished reading his memoir on running. Haruki Murakami, by the way, is a writer whose essays and nonfiction I find more entertaining than his novels and short stories. Each one to his own is all I can say.

For the past weeks, with this week being the climax, I have felt the strong tug of an inner desire to do any physical activity. I guess it's bound to happen to someone who sits in front of a PC and edits manuscripts for at least eight hours daily, especially to someone who used to do martial arts, go biking, and jog maybe three kilometers; to someone who likes hiking and walking and climbing hills and just move the body.

I bring a book to work always, and the most recent one I finished is What I Talk about When I Talk about Running by Haruki Murakami. So in this book he talks about suddenly taking up running and then joining marathons.

And presto, last Friday I felt a stronger tug from my body. I just had to do something that increased my heart rate.

So after work I went to Timezone and shot hoops. By myself. Pathetic, I know.

And yesterday I convinced my roommate, Faith, easily by the way, to go to the nearby sports complex and jog.

I let loose like an animal and just took off.

Of course, I gave my body quite a shock. I overdid it (jogged maybe about two and a half kilometers plus calisthenics) with the last time I did this maybe being a year ago or more.

My muscles hurt with lactic acid today. And thus the rom-coms and being strapped to the bed. That was fun though. I might do it again next weekend.