JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

Illustration by Anne Tamondong. Ink on paper, digitally replicated.

Published 8 July 2013

You know how, in those movies, something horrible happens to the lead characters — say, an EMP takes out all power for weeks in a major city and all life as you know it is disrupted and everybody ends up starving and turning into cannibals? Or a zombie apocalypse forces a band of survivors to hole up in a deserted mansion or something like that— and everybody Just. Loses. Their. Shit. It is in people’s nature to get paranoid and start throwing accusations against each other: “I saw him sneak into the tent and steal the last two cans of sardines.” Whatever. And everybody just starts killing everybody else. And while you’re watching the events unfold you’re going, “Fuck, this is too unrealistic. The screenwriters just put in all these mentally unstable character types to ratchet up the tension. Come on guys. Have a timeout. Freaking out’s never led to anything good in these types of tales. Everybody knows that.” And that’s when somebody snaps and takes out a gun or hunting knife or something and everybody but the lead guy and girl gets slaughtered? Well, something a bit like that happened to me six months ago and apparently, well, you can’t help but freak out. I am ashamed to admit it, but in the heat of the moment, I might have killed a bit. I might’ve tortured a bit. When times got tough and you’re surrounded by people who’ve gotten as paranoid as you have, one has a tendency to murder. Who knew?
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Published 28 March 2013

No TV, no books, no radio, and no neighbors for kilometers. This hell was my summer. I was sent to the boondocks where I could spend time with my grandparents so my Mom would have one less mouth to feed. At least the grandies were rich enough to have running water from faucets and a toilet and bath, not like others in this province who only had holes in the ground and a wooden plank to squat on. We also had a half-finished swimming pool with no tiles and no water, and a big lawn with no gardener.

Everyday I would sit on our terrace and wait for the bus. It passed our house four times a day and you could hear it five minutes before it appeared on the horizon as a cloud of red dust. I would hope like hell that it would stop and bring some visitors. Like Mang Sauro with his talk of caves in Bonifacio as big as cathedrals, or streams that disappeared underground. I got a recipe for the Tagabulag Anting-anting from him. You just need to get up well before dawn on Good Friday, sit facing east, stare at the rising sun without blinking while chanting “taga-bulag taga-bulag”. Once a tear slides down your cheeks, wipe it with a pristine white and dalisay handkerchief. Do not, under any circumstances, let the tear or the hanky touch the ground. I tried to do it that morning but there were several problems. Good Friday was several weeks away, but I wanted to use the taga-bulag on my cousin Aman who was a pain in the ass. I also did not know what dalisay means. And then I couldn’t figure out how to not blink. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t work. I was determined to try again the next day, maybe try to think of something really sad so I would cry for real, faster than I could blink.
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Published 29 Nov 2011

Asan ka? AWOL ka na naman daw? Nag-away na naman kayo ng jowa mo ano?

Lagi ko namang sinasabi kasi sa ‘yo, tigilan mo na ang mga beinte anyos at hindi sila para sa ‘yo. Yang mga cougar cougar na yan na napapanood mo sa The Tyra Banks Show ay puro kailusyunan lamang. Nililinlang nila ang mga sarili nila. Iisa lang ang Ralph Recto sa mundo at nakuha na ni ate Vi.

Muntik na kitang itakwil nung di mo pinaalam sa akin na nagpa-Belo ka pala dahil gusto ni Karl ang malalaking suso at makakapal na labi. Friend, di ko lang masabi sa ‘yo, pero muntik na ‘kong mapakaripas ng takbo nung una kitang makita pagkatapos kang magparetoke. Hanggang ngayon nagkaka-nightmare pa ako pag naaalala ko ang itsura mo noon. Para kang si Margarito pagkatapos pulbusin ni Pacquiao. Inubos mo ang ipon mo para dito; ngayon gusto mong bumalik sa Belo clinic dahil nabibigatan ka sa suso mo. Lagi ka rin kamo sinisiksik ng mga lalaki sa jeep. Well, magtiis ka.
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Published 16 Jan 2011

“Ang mamatay nang dahil sa’yo!” It was the only part of the national anthem that I would sing so fervently. Not so much for love of country but for love of Mrs. Palomares.

Okay, love may have been too loaded a word. What did I know about love, anyway? But I was convinced it was. So were all the boys in school.

Who wouldn’t love a woman like that? Dusky, tall, well-endowed. It didn’t matter that I barely understood most of what she was yakking about. I was hopeless with numbers. To me, calculus was lobotomy no matter who was teaching it. But one set of numbers did stick with me all the time. 36-25-36.

There were other numbers rattling in head. Twenty five. Probably her age. Five. Probably the number of times she wore a thong in a week. Ten. Probably the number of times she and her husband made love in a day. Lucky bastard. Twelve. Probably the number of kids she would eventually have. And zero. The chance she would leave her husband for me.
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Published 18 Nov 2010

Once upon a time, in the Widely Homosexual Kingdom of Gaynerdia, there lived the handsome Sir Harry the Impaled. He was called so because he had this enchanted sword six inches into his chest, and he can’t pull it away no matter how he tried because certain magical properties kept this awful implement in its place. He was cursed with this stubborn, unyielding sword, and, like most everything in the kingdom, it’s a drag.

Now, whomsoever can unsheathe this hateful artifact from his chest can unsheathe everything else from his person. That was a decree handed down by the helpless King and Queen, one and the same, of this realm because he can’t have the champion of the Harlotte Knights out of commission for so long. The challenge was met with rabid enthusiasm, idol worship and multiple erections. And the proclamation circulated well in the kingdom wide web, and it had blogs in its honor, its own Facebook Fan Page, and a massive Twitter following.
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Published 10 July 2010

Maynila, 1896—Isang misteryosong sakit ang dumapo sa mga Katipunero. Halos kalahati sa kanila ang isa-isang tinubuan ng nagnanaknak na pigsa sa singit, na nagparalisa sa kanilang pagsagupa sa mga Espanyol. Dinala ang mga maysakit sa tahanan ni Tandang Sora, upang magamot at magpagaling.

“Conching, bunutin mo ang puno ng bayabas sa harap ng bahay,” ang utos ng 84-taong matanda na matamang nakatuon ang pansin sa mga nakabukangkang na Katipunerong namimilipit sa kanyang harapan.

“Ngunit Tandang Sora, nakabaon sa semento ang puno ng bayabas.”

“Nais mo bang tumulong sa Inang Bayan, Conching?”

“Over!” ang tahimik na sabi ni Conching sabay labas ng bahay bitbit ang isang gunting.

Wari’y nagsasagot ng Sudoku ang matanda habang nginunguya ang mga dahon ng bayabas na nasa kanyang harapan. Maya’t maya’y idinudura niya ang mga nginuyang dahon sa isang palanggana. Nang maubos niya ang buong puno, tumayo siya.
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