A really good friend of BJ's died this morning of a heart attack. I only got to meet her once (at his birthday party) and I remember thinking how happy she was. She was like a spark plug gone wild - singing her heart out even when there was no one to listen, laughing with complete abandon...

She was more than six feet tall and somehow, it seemed right for her to be that tall. She had a hell of a personality to contain.

***
I'm getting quite annoyed at my pseudo boss. She's always, "I'll email it to you tonight." For three consecutive nights she's been saying this. How does she expect me to walk into a restaurant and eat for free, on the sole reason of advertising and a review without proof of being part of a completely mediocre magazine? I'd say lower than mediocre because my god, do they all write badly. Pucha. It's a waste of a perfectly tidy capital, if the whole broadsheet is targeted at OFWs and the topics range from sex change operations, car restoration, partying in Paris, etc. Oh my goodness the list goes on. I haven't been part of it for a month and already I'm ashamed of it. If I get fired, I'll be relieved. They're nice people but too party hardy to be responsible.

Case in point. A text message in all its unedited glory:

Make sure the magazine is not text heavy. It's suppose to be a BREATHER not encyclopedia. Let this be our baby.

I'm fuming. I texted the other girl in charge to let me know what I can do without the letter and she hasn't replied. But she's so good at texting me at 11:45 at night just because she and the owner are out partying somewhere. Dude, I have another job offer and even if the position isn't remotely as grand as Associate Editor, the job is more honorable because in that new magazine, I will be working with real, established writers. I'll probably be a gopher (Mika gofer coffee, etc) and not write but damn will it be more educational.

And did I mention they never check their mail? Never. I set up an egroup to make it easier for everyone but nooooo.

***
I'm still not done with Bloom's book because I keep cheating (meaning I'm reading other books in between), but the first part about the short stories makes me want to go back to freshman year. We discussed "Hills like White Elephants" and "Good Country People" in Paul Go's class. He was a fantastic teacher. If I weren't too focused on fucking up freshman year, I would have done well in his class. He stumbled upon my old online journal where I wrote Sir probably thinks I'm a dolt and he signed my guestbook saying that no, he didn't think I was a dolt - he just wished I would recite more often (I have this issue with recitation so I don't know why I even want to teach).

Oh boy, freshman year was such a ... learning experience. Two of my English profs found my online journal, replete with detailed stories about them. I was so embarrassed to face them for a while but the other professor (Gad Lim) continued reading it and always seemed to remember my birthday. I was thrilled that he remembered my birthday this year too because I thought he'd left for the States. He read an essay of mine in another class once. Hay. So much potential and it all went to waste.