The almost-fight for bunk no. 6.

So, earlier: I wanted to grab a quick nap during my lunch break. I registered for the nap room and was assigned to bunk #2.

It was occupied when I got in; some guy who couldn’t bother following simple numbered assignment. So I went to an empty bunk, #6.

Almost as I was about to doze off, some guy came in, woke me up, and said he’s supposed to take bunk #6.

Oh boy. I said, in a reasonable voice (I hope), “I was assigned #2 but it’s occupied. So I took #6.”

“But I’m assigned #6,” he said, with the nasal twang of a queen ready for a bitch fit. I got off, carried my shoes, and climbed to one of the upper bunks.

When I got there, I realized I left my phone in bunk #6.

“Excuse me,” I said in a bored drawl. ” Can you pass me my phone?” It was under a pillow, I pointed out, without bothering to go down and help. I merely stretched my arm a little to get my phone.

Bitch.

But after lying down again, I realized I will be able to get some sleep because some rude queen decided he’ll get his bunk like some privileged princess. I stood up and left to return to the production.

Woke up like shit

BEKS. YOU DON’T INTERRUPT THE NAP OF PEOPLE YOU DON’T FUCKING KNOW.

I later had to apologize to my trainees for being extra snappish after lunch break. They certainly didn’t deserve that.

But really. Don’t wake people in a nap room just so you can get a bunk. That’s horribly rude at hindi mo yan ikinaganda, teh.

Two months without photographic evidence.

Rodj pointed out how some people can fill out a photo album (with selfies) in a week. (Or a day, even.) But while we were still dating before, we never had many photos.

We had very few photos together. If we compile all our photos, we won’t even fill three pages. We did a mental inventory: One or two in Baguio, some from Bataan. (He said photos with big groups do not count.)

So, no, we don’t even seem to have photos of us when we were still boyfriends.

That we were talking about these things while watching Deadpool (something in the movie triggered the conversation) on the eve of Valentine’s, our hands held, weirds me out a little because it’s several layers of surreal.

Deadpool movie still

But surreal is nice, too.

#30DayWritingChallenge: My last love.

Would you look at that. I actually finished this thirty-day writing challenge thing. Although I feel a little mocked by the Universe for this last writing topic.

Day Thirty: My last love.

Rodj in Baguio Village Inn.

I started having a crush on Rodj when he posted a haiku on unrequited crush and ended it with “sayang ang condom”. I never told him this, but I was (and still am) a big fan of his Twitter posts. When we first met each other, he was a very quiet guy, taller than me, and quite shy; I thought he wasn’t interested in me.

But we became friends. And, eventually, friends with benefits. For some people, romantic or sexual relations follow a particular pattern. We had jokes about the timing of those times when we would meet and sleep together, when he realized there was a pattern to it.

Read the rest: I did not expect that we will eventually become boyfriends.

#30DayWritingChallenge: Something that made me angry.

Day Twenty-Nine: Something that made me angry.

For a few years, I helped organize the Metro Manila Pride March. It’s called Metro Manila Pride now because it expanded beyond the marching. It was, at the same time, the best, the worst, and the craziest thing I ever did.

What a lot of people, even those who attend the parade, don’t realize is that the organizers often don’t have a lot of money for the whole thing. Not counting the program that is set after the parade (where participating organizations expect to give a speech on whatever that org stands for), the permits, the publicity, the registration materials, and all those stuff people don’t notice but are needed to bring about the entire thing cost money.

Every year is a miracle.

Needless to say, organizing the entire parade is stressful work. And that’s not unsurprising at all. But there are some things that needlessly add to the stress. Sometimes, you just wish you can punch some people in the face.

Pride March 2012 by Bardo Wu

Read the rest: It was the first time we’re doing the parade in Makati.

Ninja hair disguise.

I had a tarot reading gig recently in Canyon Woods in Tagaytay. It was for an Oktoberfest celebration and the organizers chose a carnival-like theme for this year.

We came there early and was lounging around the club house while the other performers where doing their sound check. To pass the time, I did some tarot readings for some of the organizers.

One of them, Edith, saw me after we just had our lunch. I was walking around and decided to undo my bun, letting my hair down.

“But you had short hair earlier!” she said, mildly surprised.

Yay! I can bun my hair using a hair chopstick again! Chopstick manbun, here I go.

A photo posted by Jade Tamboon (@antifornicator) on

It’s not an uncommon reaction. Tied neatly, I can keep my hair in a small man bun, typically tied behind my head. It also isn’t too obvious how curly my hair actually is.

Untied, my hair expands and occupies more volume, like a time-lapsed explosion. Even now, it looks like a Jewfro when I let it down.

When I was applying for a visa for India a few months back, the woman who handled my application asked me if I had a more recent photo; I told her the photo I submitted was taken just a week earlier.

My photo looked as if I had closely cropped hair because my bun isn’t visible. She saw I had one in real life because I tied the bun higher than usual on that day. So I untied my hair and made a bun lower, hidden behind my head, to prove that it was a recent photo.

I find it amusing how tying or untying my hair is enough to drastically alter my appearance. It makes me feel like I could turn myself into some kind of super-spy.