Author: Lauren

Thanks to The Pirate Bay, I finally got to see Dutch director Tom Six’s highly-anticipated horror movie, The Human Centipede. I’m warning you now that this review contains vomit-inducing concepts and images that cannot be unseen, so if you don’t have the stomach for this sort of thing, I highly suggest that you read something else.

The Human Centipede starts out predictably enough. Two ditzy American girls on a European road trip are on their way to go clubbing with a cute German guy they met earlier in the day. They end up with a flat tire in the woods, and there’s nowhere else to go but a modern sprawling bungalow. We’ve encountered all these tropes before. Unfortunately for the girls, the bungalow is occupied by Dr. Heiter (Dieter Laser), a retired German surgeon with a sick fantasy and way too much time on his hands. The following day, the girls wake up next to each other, their hands and ankles bound to a hospital bed.

You see, Dr. Heiter spent his golden retirement years creating a surgical procedure no one has ever attempted before. As you might have guessed from the movie’s title, this surgical procedure has to do with creating a three-person human centipede. What is a human centipede, you ask? I think these sketches from Arrow in the Head explain it best.

Basically, three people on their hands and knees will be sharing one digestive tract; person C’s mouth will be sewn to person B’s rectum, person B’s mouth will be sewn to person A’s rectum. If that isn’t the sickest idea I’ve ever heard of in my life, I don’t know what is. I saw these sketches weeks before I found a copy of the movie and if anything, I think they made me even more excited to see this in action. Of course, throughout the entire hour and a half, Marco and I kept asking each other why we were even watching this movie.

The torture porn sub-genre is all about maiming people in the most creative way, and I expected The Human Centipede to spend lots of time on the surgical procedure. Unfortunately, the bloody surgery was glossed over, and the movie dwelt on something even more horrifying – the finished product. Yes, for 45 minutes of your life, you will be regaled by the spectacle of three unfortunate people sewn together from ass to mouth. It trumps any form of torture you’ll find in the Hostel movies because these people have to spend days – possibly even weeks – sewn up like this, quite literally eating shit (for persons B and C anyway).

Not surprisingly, The Human Centipede didn’t exactly get glowing reviews from critics. It’s disgusting, it’s depraved, and it’s uncomfortable to watch, even if you repeatedly tell yourself that this is all just movie magic. It doesn’t serve any “higher purpose” but then again, depravity for the sake of depravity is what torture porn is all about. Once you look past the limitations of the genre, you’ll find a unique gem of a horror movie – and I’m not just saying this because nobody has ever thought of sewing up people in this manner before.

What exactly makes this movie different from other torture porn flicks? For one thing, The Human Centipede made do without blood and guts, which is the cheap and easy way to evoke horror in the audience. Instead, the movie makes the audience squirm through the drawn-out suffering of the unfortunate trio. Ashley C. Williams (Lindsay, the middle piece) and Ashlynn Yennie (Jenny, the final piece) delivered excellent performances, which completely made up for their wooden acting at the start of the film. They weren’t particularly convincing as clueless American tourists, but the actresses were able to convey real fear and strength through their eyes. The performance of Akihiro Kitamura (Katsuro, the centipede’s head) was also a delight. After all, his character was the most mobile and the only one who could interact with Dr. Heiter. Watching him run the whole gamut of emotions – from anger to shame – broke my heart and kept the suspense running. Will he or won’t he find a way to escape the evil clutches of the mad doctor?

While we’re on the subject of the cast, I might as well give kudos to the German actor Dieter Laser; his performance as Dr. Heiter was completely solid. He’s absolutely terrifying as he goes from a menacing eccentric to batshit insane, not to mention that he looks pretty bad-ass in his crisp white lab coat. It’s interesting to note that the mad scientist horror archetype is something I haven’t seen in many movies of late.

—-SPOILER ALERT—-

One other thing I found unusual about The Human Centipede is its use of the final girl – a horror movie trope where the empowered female protagonist lives to tell her horrifying tale. Normally, the final girl finds some sort of redemption in the end. In the case of The Human Centipede, there is something cruel about being the lone survivor when your mouth is sewn to someone else’s ass and there’s on one around to help you out.

—-SPOILER ALERT—-

When all that’s said and done, the Human Centipede is still a rather depraved movie that you should only see after being aware of how twisted it can get. It will leave you shell-shocked, scarred, and traumatized. I suggest that you watch something with bunnies and butterflies after, just to reassure yourself that there is still some good in this world. Oh, and ask your boyfriend to teach you how to change a tire.

I got this in the mail this morning and it made me smile. I still hate that I can’t write, but I feel a bit better knowing that I at least inspire good writing. I love you.

I just said the loneliest “I love you” I’ve said in a long time. First time was when I was in this bad, one-sided relationship which I suspect the girl was keeping alive simply because she didn’t have a reason to dump me without looking like a total bitch. This time, though, it’s with someone who loves me back; probably more than I can imagine.

To be honest, I’m writing this with the hope that something inspirational will strike me; that I might somehow come up with the perfect piece of prose to make everything better. I got up out of bed, poured myself a drink, and hopped to the desk with laptop in tow immediately after that lonely “I love you”. It wasn’t like I didn’t mean what I was saying; rather, I said it because I meant it more than ever. Sure, there weren’t the usual affectations of an online “I love you”, with the exclamation point or the kissy-face emoticon (or in my usual case, both). But I said it because even though she didn’t know it, she needed to hear it sincerely that time.

The girl in question is a writer; among the most talented I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing personally. If you were to reduce her to a stereotype, she’d be the kind that finds her muse in misery. If you’ve ever had any experience with the type, you’d know that she’s the kind who feels her emotions more strongly than the average person. When she’s high, you can’t stop her from giggling. When she’s low, every letter she types breaks your heart. This is why I find myself typing – somewhere deep in my subconscious, the Psych major in me is trying to appeal to her on an intimate level. That part of me is hoping that this sort of connection will somehow cheer her up from the funk she’s in.

Even now, I find myself making vain attempts at turning this – whatever it turns out to be – into a work of fiction. I look out my window and it’s the middle of the night, but I’m imagining a rainy gray afternoon sky. It’s the soggy, dreary kind of gray – it’s like God took a cheap piece of toilet paper, blew his nose on it, and set it across the sky. We’re at a coffee shop. She’s sitting across me, buried in work and papers and books. She doesn’t even notice I’m around.

She’s a petite girl, dressed comfortably in a thin cotton dress and short shorts underneath. She didn’t expect it to rain today. It’s one of our “Let’s meet up, but I’ve got some stuff to finish first” dates, in which we begin by not really talking as she hustles to finish her last few articles. As usual, I’ve got nothing to do, and so I occupy myself by watching her. I’ve determined that she rubs her nose whenever she’s deep in thought about something, which then leads to her adjusting her glasses.

It’s funny how things change after you’ve been dating for a while. She never used to wear her glasses on our dates. Heck, she never used to dress so comfortably when we went out. Little by little, though, I found her slowly incorporating me into every aspect of her life, including the mundane ones. The closer we got, the more open she became with her not-so-made-up self. I kind of like the easy-going vibe she has on these dates. You can say I’m blowing things out of proportion, but it makes me feel like she’s freer to be herself now.

Which brings us to this date. Now that she knows I’m pretty much okay with everything, she isn’t that uptight anymore about keeping me entertained. She knows that I don’t mind waiting for her to get her work done, and that I find her attractive in just about anything she wears. I, on the other hand, take pride in knowing that she’s found a little peace of mind in that department.

Right now, though, she’s completely consumed in her work. Her eyes are darting back and forth, and her fingers are playing a frantic beat on her laptop’s keyboard. The way I really know that she’s much too busy for anything else, however, is that this is about the fourth time she’s held an empty coffee cup to her mouth. She pauses to rub her nose again. I didn’t see it until now, but she hasn’t just been rubbing it out of habit; she’s been stifling a few sneezes, too. I get up, grab my jacket from my bag, and place it over her back. Her hand instinctively reaches back and wraps the jacket around her. She doesn’t even turn her head.

At this point, I’m still invisible to her. She’s still all alone in her own personal bubble, and she probably won’t come out of it until she’s good and ready to. She’s stressed and worried and miserable. At least she’s got something more than a thin cotton dress keeping her warm, though. For now, that’s enough.

I’m tempted to look back and read through what I wrote just now. As a writer myself, I’m incredibly harsh on my own work, and tend to nitpick every minute detail of what I produce. I want to make sure that everything I’ve written thus far resonates with emotional honesty, and that the metaphors I’ve used are correct and fitting for how she feels right now.

But I won’t. I’m going wrap this up and send it to her – no matter how bad it may seem in hindsight – as soon as I finish typing the last word. She’ll get the message anyhow. She knows I love her.

“I miss your smell. When you left I couldn’t wash the sheets because I didn’t want to lose that completely – you. And it fucked me up for a long time because I’d wake up and I’d smell you and I’d think you were there, and my heart would break all over again.”

- Hank Moody, Californication, s01e05

I hit the pause button on my media player just so I could scribble down these lines. Sure, it may not be literature with a capital L, but this passage was simple and raw in a way that I found utterly beautiful. Every time I stumble upon writing that stops me dead in my tracks, I ask myself why I can’t come up with anything remotely as good. It’s not because I’m too busy – while my old day job ate a lot of my time and energy, I still managed to find ways to capture my working class angst in words. It’s not that my life has become any less exciting either; it’s still very eventful in ways the Internet can never know. As I was basking in the jouissance of this passage, the answer hit me out of nowhere.

I’m too happy to write.

I can’t write about my love life because I have a very romantic boyfriend who is very patient with me (even though he shouldn’t be, sometimes). Well yes, I have written about him, but my entries about Marco are so chirpy and happy, like a toothpaste commercial. None of the pained anguish and longing of my brokenhearted prose.

I can’t write about my job because my clients are generous, flexible, and prompt with my salary. Bonus: my workplace is right next to my bed.

I can’t write about my friends because they’re all mature enough to avoid stupid drama. (And if they’re not, at least their drama doesn’t involve me.) (By the way, writing about your friends in your blog – usually a bad idea.)

I can’t write about my family because they’re cool and give me free rent and free food.

I can’t write about capitalists because of my newfound materialism.

I could write about politics but I’m too lazy to educate myself about presidential candidates. Besides, politics makes me incoherently angry; there’s no way I can write a political commentary without peppering my sentences with expletives.

I could write about being happy and how sweet my boyfriend is and how awesome my friends are and how much money I’m making. But why would I want to do that? There’s no beauty in writing about how perfect your life is; that’s just you being an asshole.

Before I continue, I should like to add that I don’t expect any of my writing to make an impact on world events, people’s lives, or the state of Philippine literature, if blog-writing even counts as such (it probably doesn’t). I write for myself, I always have, and I don’t expect people to praise me for what I do. So when you’re a person who doesn’t have particularly high expectations of herself, and you find that you can’t write anything that meets your low standards, then you’re in trouble.

Do I have to be miserable to feel inspired to write and to like what I come up with? It’s starting to look like it. Come to think of it, I was a very prolific writer I graduated from college, with so many horror stories to tell from BPO hell. I honestly think that the stuff I came up with during that point of my life are the only entries worth reading in this blog. Maybe it wasn’t healthy that I seriously considered suicide as a viable option at the time, but at least I was creating something other than opportunities to increase my cash flow. God, I can’t believe I actually used the term “cash flow”. It makes me sound like such a boring adult. Is this what life does to people? I feel like I’m losing my imagination, and with it, myself.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not stupid enough to break up with my boyfriend or work for a BPO just so I can scratch out a few “inspired” lines on the old paper journal. I do kind of like being happy and I like how my life is going. I’m grateful for every good thing that happens to me and I don’t want any of it to change. But it doesn’t make me any less bothered by the fact that I’m apparently one of those people who have to be depressed to write. I don’t even understand why I’m making such a big deal out of this. Like I said, it’s not like I’m working on a novel or trying to make a contribution to literature or anything.

Dinner at Mr. Kabab, January 3, 2009

Whether it’s promise rings (a promise to get engaged) or monthsaries (a celebration of one month of being together), every couple does a Lame Couple Thing that other people probably roll their eyes at. Our Lame Couple Thing is the Meetsary – a celebration of the day we first met each other (which is different from the anniversary, the celebration of the day we became a couple). To me, it makes more sense to celebrate meetsaries rather than monthsaries, because it takes a very precise set of circumstances to bring two people together at the same place and at the same point of their lives where they more or less make a perfect fit. I bring this up because it’s been exactly a year since I first made googly eyes at Marco in Cantina, and I haven’t really stopped since. <3 We didn’t do anything major for our first meetsary – just dinner at Mr. Kabab with Anne and Helga, which oddly enough is exactly how I started my evening exactly 365 days ago.

The story of how I met my boyfriend begins with me ditching dinner with the Hohobags for dinner at Mr Kabab with the same set of people plus Luis. I didn’t mean to be so flaky but I haven’t had a beef chelo kabab in months, plus Helga and I just made up after minor drama happened. We had drinks at Cafe 77 after dinner and I was ready to call it a night as soon as I downed my second beer. For some reason, Kimi and Rica was unusually insistent about meeting them at Cantina for drinks. I declined their invitation at first but when they texted me again I figured, “Why the hell not?” This decision to go for more alcohol with the Hohobags turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I’m sure I would have eventually met Marco at some point, but there’s no telling if we would have found each other as attractive or as interesting in the weeks or months after January 3, 2009.

Beer at Cafe 77

My friends and I had barely arrived at Cantina when I noticed that a new group of Hohobag college friends walked in. My eyes were immediately drawn to the cutest guy in the group – he had a rather strong facial structure and a sharp nose, unusual for Filipino guys. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get to know him a little and wasted no time doing my research.

“Is he gay?” I discreetly asked Kimi. All the guys I’ve met through the Hohobags turned out to be gay, and I had to verify this exciting new stranger’s sexual orientation before I got too interested. Kimi gave me a weird look and replied with, “What? No! That’s Marco. He’s -’s ex.” I like how I obtained two pieces of valuable information with just a single question! (I’ve decided to omit the name of his ex, just in case she Googles herself or something and ends up here. But whatever, the Philippines has a small middle class and she’ll end up finding this anyway. So if you’re reading this…thank you for dumping him! Would’ve been real tough to get Marco to notice me if he were in a relationship.)

Our table was too small to accommodate the new arrivals, so we transferred to a much larger one outside. The cute guy Marco already chose his seat, so I pushed through the crowd to take the chair across the table from him. I figured the only way I could get him to notice me is if I start a conversation and show how witty, charming, and cute I can be. Clearly I over-estimated my confidence, because I found myself completely tongue-tied after the introductions were made. I remember spending the first half hour or so freaking out in my head, desperately trying to think of something clever to say. Part of the reason why I had no confidence in myself was because I saw Marco up close, and he didn’t seem like the type who’d be interested in me. I’ve had such horrible luck dating “conventional” guys, and in his striped polo shirt he looked like an uptight business management major who pushes papers for a multinational and plays basketball on the side. It turns out that my first impression of him was very far from the truth (especially the one about his sexual orientation).

I soon learned that Marco works for a small events company who held an event for bloggers fairly recently. I dove headfirst for the opening – I’m a blogger! I attend events! What followed next was the lamest excuse I ever gave just so I could exchange numbers with someone. I swear to God if I could travel back in time, I would have kicked the Lauren of 2009 for being so LAME. He told me that the bloggers who attended his company’s event were not quite what they were expecting (to put it nicely). So I said something like, “Next time your company throws an event, get better bloggers. Like me. And Helga. Here, take my number!!!” I might as well have defensively added, “This exchange of numbers is strictly for work purposes! I don’t want to appear as if I’m interested in you because that might freak you out, but I do want an excuse to see you after tonight! So please, take my number!” Months later, Marco would tell me not to be so hard on myself; he would have eventually done the lame thing and get my number for “work.”

I was needlessly worried about awkward lulls in the conversation because Helga took it upon herself to be my inebriated wingman. She started asking him all these forward questions from out of nowhere: “What do you think about Marx? And capitalism?” (I don’t remember what he said.) “Do you like zombies?” (When he said yes, I immediately replied with “ZOMG NO WAY ME TOO.” I think my appreciation of zombie flicks is what got him really interested in me that night.) I wanted to crawl under the table and die when Helga asked if he was gay. (He isn’t.) And when she whipped out her camera and told me and Marco to move into the frame, I swear I felt my face burn with embarrassment.

Our first picture together, complete with an “Uyyy” comment from Helga when it was uploaded on Facebook

Cantina closed after an hour or so, but Marco and a few others were in the mood to drink some more. We moved to Meatshop 2.0 where we talked and drank until 4 am. I completely forgot the fact that I was ready to crash just a few hours ago; I was wide awake and thrilled to spend more time with my new crush. Marco and I didn’t say much to each other after we moved places but I strategically positioned my self so I could sneak the occasional glance at him. I didn’t know him very well, but I was already warning myself to be careful – I had the feeling that he could either make me really happy or break my heart. I placed all my bets on the latter because I never really did have much luck in love, especially with pogi, jock-boy type guys. It didn’t help that I was currently in a long distance relationship I couldn’t bring myself to end, even though we were clearly going our separate ways.

It’s really too bad, I remember thinking to myself as I went home that night. Marco looks like he’d make a really good boyfriend.

Me and Marco, January 3, 2010
Photo by Helga

Today, my mom reminded me that it’s been thirteen years since I started my blog on Angelfire. I was ten then and I am twenty-three now, and while blog may have changed URLs and platforms over the years, I never really stopped putting my life on the Internet for all sorts of normal and creepy people to read. The fact that I started my blog when most people didn’t know what the Internet is and kept my blog for this long makes me the “first Filipino blogger”. Flattering as that might be, I’m going to be honest here – I still don’t see why people make such a big deal out of it. I feel awkward whenever people introduce me as such because the title carries so much weight and makes me seem more important than I really am. The truth is that I haven’t done a single thing to shape blogging into the way it is today. I never encouraged other people to start their own blogs, nor did I help foster the sense of community now present in the local blogosphere. In fact, I resisted my mom’s early attempts to introduce me to local bloggers when Abe and Jayvee started organizing meet-ups in 2007, not to mention I viewed the increasing use of blogs as an advertising platform with the disdain and disappointment of my youthful idealism. This blog isn’t even particularly relevant – just the collected apolitical ramblings and interests of a Filipino girl in the age of the Internet. You know those teenage girls on Tumblr who post all these pretty but useless nothings? That was me, thirteen years ago, and still me to some extent.

I was an ugly child at 10

Part of the reason why I very rarely ever write in here anymore is that too many people know who I am and know where to find this blog. As I mentioned earlier, I started keeping a personal blog when hardly anyone in the Philippines knew what the Internet was. My blog used to be my haven from our conservative, family-oriented society during the height of my teenage angst. Thirteen years later, everyone and their mother is on the Internet, which means I can’t be as open about who I am anymore. While I still don’t give a shit about what people think of me, I do care about what people think of my mom, and I don’t want her critics to use my unusual interests as ammunition against her.

I suppose that’s the most important lesson I learned after keeping a blog for so long: don’t get too personal. Keeping an impersonal personal blog seems to defeat the purpose of personal blogging, but unless you can manage to keep yourself truly anonymous, be your own censor. If you’re a fiery person with not so “normal” interests, keep your blog PG, because there are people out there who will use your blog to hurt you or someone you love.

So yeah, I learned a bunch of other things too!

If you can’t be nice, don’t say anything.

This is the second most important lesson I learned from personal blogging. My blog kept me sane all throughout high school because it was the only place where I could rant about all the people I didn’t like, and I thought I could keep using my blog for that purpose in college. Boy, was I so wrong. During my freshman year, I shared a dorm room with three random girls, two of whom I didn’t like because of their plebeian tastes in music. I wrote a cranky entry complaining about it one evening and forgot about it. Somehow, they managed to discover the blog, and I spent the next nine or so months living uncomfortably in a tiny room with two other people who hated my guts. That was the last time I ever wrote nasty things about someone out of irritation, and the last time I will ever room with strangers.

Sometimes, blogging makes great passive-aggressive revenge

The only exception to the be nice rule is when you can’t get any justice otherwise, and I don’t mean using your blog to complain about shitty service at a restaurant. Two years ago, I blogged about a sexual harassment experience at my former workplace because the Human Resources department refused to do anything about it. I still don’t know the people behind it, but I did receive an email from a random person saying that my entry made him change his mind about hiring the services of iWebmasters. Justice has been served.

I’m not saying that you should use your blog to complain about your workplace; I’m just saying that you can. I’m also saying that doing so may get you fired or possibly unemployed forever if your future employers do a Google search and find said entry about your former workplace.

Blogging is a great way to meet new friends.

I am a very shy and socially awkward person. It takes me a very long time to warm up to people, and my personality doesn’t shine when I keep to myself in a room full of strangers. With a personal blog, it’s easy let your self show, assuming that your self is PG-13 as earlier indicated. Blogging also makes it easier to find and attract people with similar interests and tastes – obviously, your readers wouldn’t keep on coming back to your blog if both of you didn’t have things in common (stalkers included, see below). Pretty much all of my post-college friends are people I met through the now-defunct Man Blog forums, and I only found out much later that some of them used to read my blog as far back as my college days. I was also able to befriend and travel several people I met through those blogger parties my mom used to forcibly dragged me to. So socialize, leave comments on blogs you like, attend blogger parties if you receive invitations. On the Internet, you get to meet a lot of interesting people you wouldn’t have otherwise encountered.

Be prepared to encounter stalkers.

This is one the biggest downsides of having a personal blog. Displaying yourself and your life in such an intimate manner gives your readers the illusion of friendship or closeness; even I feel this way when I read about the personal lives of strangers. Normal people eventually shake this feeling off as soon as they click the X button, but others who aren’t quite normal in the head actually believe in this fantasy and attempt to realize it in not-so-normal ways. There’s nothing cool about having stalkers. They are annoying and creepy, even if they give you presents. I don’t know if male bloggers get any stalkers but if you’re a girl, I am telling you that you will get at least one real stalker while your blog is alive. Protect yourself by not putting any contact information on your blog beyond your e-mail address. Reject YM requests from people you don’t know, unless they introduce themselves properly. And try not to let an e-mail or a call from your stalker ruin your day.

You can date guys you meet through your blog, but it may not work out.

Perks of having such a high Google index – two of my ex-boyfriends found me through my blog. After making sure they were cute and relatively normal, I met up with them in person and dated both of them for a while (not at the same time though). So yes, it’s possible to meet guys and eventually get into IRL or long-distance relationships with them, all thanks to your blog. I wouldn’t count on it though, and I wouldn’t make dating the sole purpose of starting a personal blog either. That’s just desperate and sad.

For heaven’s sake, it’s just a blog. Don’t take yourself too seriously.

I get annoyed at bloggers who walk about with an air of self-importance just because they have x number of readers or earn x amount of money from their blog. It’s nice to get recognized and it’s nice to be admired, but it’s silly to let your blog define who you are. Stop taking your blog so seriously.

Here’s to thirteen years of blogging, and here’s to everyone’s blogs! May we all keep blogging and stay safe while doing so. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta dry my hair and head out for a Left 4 Dead double date.