tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55794422011-04-21T14:20:48.812-07:00the queen's quillQueenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comBlogger111100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1137074257711679912006-01-12T05:56:00.000-08:002006-01-12T05:57:37.726-08:00

Joel told me I did my patented fell-from-the-face-of-the-earth stunt again and I guess I did. But of course, it wouldn’t be without VALID reason. I got sick. I contracted the Christmas virus.I thought it was my usual allergic-to-everything rash so I didn’t make too much of it. Except that my dad (who was sitting across the dinner table) couldn’t stand the sight of my red face and weeping eyes

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1136330613496219512006-01-03T15:23:00.000-08:002006-01-03T15:23:33.516-08:00

A rush of love swept over her as she looked up into his face, holding him tight. She burrowed her face in his neck as he shuddered from the throes of passion. “I love you.” She whispered as he fell exhausted against her, his own face buried in her hair. “You just don’t understand how I feel.” She told her friend Alex.Alex had always been against the relationship, even before it

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1080001939873835382004-03-22T16:29:00.000-08:002004-03-22T16:39:08.500-08:00

An ode to eleven years of wonderful friendship. Written February 6, 2001. One Saturday night, while walking down the deserted street, a thought suddenly struck me. Weekend nights are usually spent with friends, hanging out somewhere, having fun. Why was I alone? I may have seemed pathetic and half-expected someone to say, “Hey girl, get a life.” Oh I do, my life revolved around the church,

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1079574105677615052004-03-17T17:38:00.000-08:002004-03-22T16:40:40.093-08:00

I don’t think man invented the wheels for me. Written November 10, 2000. Whoever the inventor of the wheel was, I have a firm suspicion that he has something against me. I was three or four at the time when my eldest sister Pinky took me for a ride on her bicycle. We started in front of our gate and barely reached the street corner (which was just a few feet away from the gate, by the

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1064311272250650282003-09-23T03:00:00.000-07:002003-09-23T03:01:12.360-07:00

A hush fell on the crowd. They watched her dazzling white-clad form slowly ascend the dais and seat herself on the throne. A “cherub”, who is actually a dwarf wearing a cloth diaper, hastily arranged the flowers at her bare feet. He sat on a footstool at her right and strummed on his harp with more enthusiasm than skill. She lifted her face to the expectant crowd. It was quite unremarkable

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1059353357678061672003-07-27T17:49:00.000-07:002003-07-27T17:49:17.726-07:00

Being the youngest of four children, I am my father’s baby. As such, I don’t need to do anything I didn’t want to do. And I definitely did not want to cook. It’s hot and uncomfortable in the kitchen and I hate perspiring. My eldest sister is one heck of a cook, though, which is probably why my mother did not mind my not helping in the kitchen. We each had our chores and I chose to do the

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1059353278636546202003-07-27T17:47:00.000-07:002003-07-27T17:47:58.683-07:00

If the speaker spoke the truth, wilted flowers would be there to welcome me in the after life. Written September 25, 2000. Following the Harry Potter craze, I was reading this book ‘So You Want To Be A Wizard’ by Diane Duane. It was a nice enough story, perhaps not in J.R.R. Tolkien’s league, but one particular passage in it hit me: ‘”You have to be careful with names, it says. They’re a

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1059353043276404792003-07-27T17:44:00.000-07:002003-07-27T17:45:45.850-07:00

My hair and I have come a long way together. We both survived sixteen years of school, a hundred heartaches and highlights, and a million hairstyle fads. I distinctly remember sporting the apple cut for eight loooong years when I was a kid (a style designed for Vigilant Moms Against Lice). The constant hairstyle, however, was relieved by a permanent curl every March for graduation or

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1059003519158168742003-07-23T16:38:00.000-07:002003-07-24T17:04:37.423-07:00

I was at the bookstore the other day, ostensibly to order supplies for the office. However, I found myself gravitating towards the stacks of stationery in the corner. Looking at the creatively designed pads, I remembered the days when I collected stationery avidly. I still have my collection but it’s been at least a decade since I added to it. I bought two pads then and there to assuage my

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1058399278695993502003-07-16T16:47:00.000-07:002003-07-24T17:05:51.776-07:00

Star struck? Hmmm… There ought to be a stronger word. Written 8 February 2002. As I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had two things on my mind… C. Thomas Howell and how we were destined to be together. Actually, the first line is from the movie “Outsiders” where I first fell in love with Tom Howell (and Ralph Macchio, and Patrick Swayze, and Rob

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579442.post-1058313410527269962003-07-15T16:56:00.000-07:002003-07-24T17:10:05.630-07:00

Once, while checking out the wall calendar, my six-year-old niece wondered aloud, “There’s Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Grandparents’ Day. How come there’s no Tita’s Day?� Tita, for those who are not familiar with Filipino culture, is an informal (or perhaps more affectionate) version of Aunt. Moreover, Tita sounds hip. “Maybe we’re not important enough to merit our own

Queenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05214456047995539135noreply@blogger.com