Mt. Pico de Loro
Rating: 3/5

I have lost my voicebox; a colony of bacteria have invaded and camped and multiplied exponentially down my throat. Well not literally lost all my voice, mind. I can still whisper. But I'd have to give me legs them stretches walking up to you and whisper to your ear. Suddenly everything becomes intimate; everything is a secret. Even sliding my buttcheeks towards the jeepney driver just to hand over my fare and say SM North requires some level of unintended intimacy. (And I did slide my buttcheeks and sweep the dust off the jeepney seat.)

Bloody fuck, I am starving. Mind the term; starving, not hungry. It's been two days since the hike in Mt. Pico de Loro and I still have mudcakes underneath my toenails. I feel like I've lost a hundred pounds that it'd take a week of glutting food down my throat to gain back my weight of nineteen pounds. To put, I'm negative eighty-one pounds at the moment.

Witticism is becoming a bore to me. Suddenly everyone has become wry and cynical I'm being forced to become dumb and superficial, just to be, like, different.

I hate repetition; I hate hearing the same thing twice. I hate seeing the same people over and over, or a movie twice, or reading a book the second time. I hate hearing the same story twice, or telling a story twice. I hate routine. I hate the commonplace. I hate monotony. I hate boredom. I've gotten over this bullcrapage months ago, when I was like, in love (the horrors), and every workaday detail is magnified with some strange cosmic significance. WTF.

So, Mt. Pico de Loro. Apparently, thanks to my Mensa-level IQ, I had bought AA wallclock-slash-remote-control batteries granting me approximately ten snaps on my camera before my very reliable batteries got drained, the rest of the hike swept away in some dank irretrievable confines of my memory.

To summarize the climb, we were welcomed by a torrent of rain, coffee-colored rainwater streamed down against us, hiked for seven hours, got lost twice, been haunted, sat upon, pulled, and tripped by enkantos, reached the top night trek, swigged Ginebra San Miguel in crapulence (without chaser, take that!), got drunk, got haunted again in the tent, hiked the jagged-rocked Parrot's Beak, climbed down, dipped and pissed in brooks crossing our downtrek path, got lost again, went home. Err. I'm not much of a narrator, really.XP

Boring fickchoooors. I can knavishly manipulate all these pictures and make them appear like they've been taken by a 200k worth of megazooming suprapixelated camera instead of my cheap 3k Kodak playcam by implementing my smashing creativity and ingenuity in the field of photograph manipulation but unfortunately I haven't installed me pirated photoshop yet.XP

Us girls.

Them boys.

KALAKELAKENG TITI! OMG. Mula sa Parrot's Beak.

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