I am trying to remember how it is to be 19 again. It feels that my body has forgotten how it is to be 19. I worry about the rent, the bills, dinner and the occasional court cases–more than the usual 24 year olds have to worry about. At times, I feel sad at the fact that I feel I have grown up too fast and too soon, but then again I am glad I did. (I have awesome friends and awesome-er siblings so growing up is not too bad.)

photo by Matt Fernando of the Alpha Camera Club (ps, ang laki ko tumawa kasing laki ng Luzon)

I am trying to remember how it is to be 19 again: dreamy and reckless worrying about the next rebuttal to the argument presented in a debate case. When I was 19 I ran around Baguio City barefoot and here I am at 24 still doing the same in a different city. I was 19 when I fell in love for the first time. As it has been said: it is impossible to fall in love again–for the first time. There are nights when I wonder how it is to be 19 again before I go to sleep. I can not remember what my worries were, except for the rebuttals I should have mentioned, a boy’s hand I should have held, and the taste of the first cigarette I actually smoked and regretted.

My body acts like I am 16: staying in bed longer, running around barefoot on the wet city pavement, dancing modestly on the train platform. I am almost 25. I must remember that when I turn 25 years and 1 day old my body will start breaking down–at least the sciences and researches say so.

Before I turn 30, I will have a lover take photos of me naked unless I want to forget how it is to be 25.

photo by Matt Fernando of Alpha Camera Club, ang cute sized ang aking belly fat. Pay attention to my face instead.

(photos are here to try to remember how it is to be 24)

The following things must be remembered: I have no intention of committing suicide. I do not want to die in the near future ; read: within the next five years. I still intend to go back to school and finish what I have started. I must be realistic and understand that death, while morbid and unexpected, is inevitable.

Everyone dies. Everyone will die. The most I could do about it right now is be prepared. There should be a plan for these things. You could say I should write a will, but the reading of the will only comes AFTER the funeral. So it defeats the purpose.

Here are a few additions and maybe minor updates. The following people are the only ones allowed to push my coffin:

1. Alexandra
2. Yuri
3. Victoria Nastassa
4. Joy Camille
5. Elaine
6. Abraham Eleazar (if he so desires, if he will refuse to do this, then he is not allowed to attend my funeral or even wake)

Everyone must dress sexy and nice during my wake. I would like to imagine it like a scene from an old glamorous 1960s movie, or something similarly sophisticated. Still, men should come with NO hair product and with some facial hair.

Still, drinks, drinks must be served.

And this shall be one of the photos I want to be put on my coffin (maybe the main photo):

photo by Jonathan Cayaon, taken in Sagada

Some people call the photo on top of the coffin as pang-ibabaw. I want this to be mine, as I think it makes me look happy, it makes me look young, it can be ageless. Which most pang-ibabaws should be. God forbid I have a photo of myself in an office party being all drunk and reckless as my funeral photo*.

Okay, enough morbid thoughts for today. There will be three masquerade ball/costume parties for work, work, work. I need to invite events planners and events stylists and organizers maybe some bloggers for the events. I have written down some of them and had grouped them. I shall be sending them wonderful  invitations soon. Maybe this coming week.

*I edited this photo using those lovely Kubota actions. Lovely, but very expensive. Maybe I'll wear lipstick soon.

Photo by Chewie2008 over at Flickr, All credits to him

Dear Future Love: It is raining tonight, like this that when you think about the rain you imagine a warm bed; you imagine me; and you imagine yourself neatly folding the pair of socks you used on that day to work. There is nothing grand nor magnificent about tonight’s rain, except only that I wish you were here.

You would tell me about water. The way leaves outside your window would glisten with dew drops spangling on the blade. The way the roof sounds even in these late hours a dragging and dancing of tiny feet, as tiny as pine tree needles which comb the metal roof. I would tell you about all the anatomy lessons I learned by staring at the strangers on the train. (There was a man sitting by the door, he had the softest looking goatee, I thought it was you. I wanted to say hello.) The prettiest girls are almost always those who were standing up, pensively counting the train posts. Those who were sitting down, with an old lady beside them, are always the ugliest. We would talk about the way I would fold my fists and tuck it in your arm at the promise of spending time with you at 2 in the morning. I would sit beside you, by the flicker of the television; the room would smell like coffee or tea or even something as uninviting as toasted garlic and lugaw or even Jolly Spaghetti. Anything to warm us on a night like this one.

Dear future love, it is raining tonight like this that I imagined you. I imagined only some parts of you. I suppose, in time, it can happen to anyone: a desire to walk out into the rain and look for that promise that someday a You will be here soon.

Dear future love, it is raining tonight. Let us stop being merciless to ourselves and so please show up on the office’s front door. You know where to find me.

Dear crush,
This is not your love letter. Not just yet-some explanations are necessary.

This is the third day straight that I am writing to you. If you are still confused, let me be more specific. Here are some facts: you are born the same year as I am. You are a cancer. You are thin as rain. You like to draw random things on pieces of paper-especially faces of random heroes or heroines in your head.

I would like for you to know that I googled you just now. I googled your name: “first second last” and there it was.

Your past is interesting to me, as well as your present. This might freak you out. My name is Kathrina, and I googled your name.

Let me make this fair for the both of us, let me tell you something about myself.

Hello, stranger, my name is Kathrina. You can call me DK. It’s Diana Kathrina Leomo. My birthday is on the same year as yours. Which makes you roughly 4-5 mos older than I am. I currently weigh 94lbs. I can not donate blood yet, until August- a year after my first tattoo.

I have a tattoo, it’s the alchemy symbol of iron. I want you to know that before stars explode their cores begin at being iron in the center, then they explode.

My mother, died at 54. She was a lawyer. My father is a lawyer too. He was also a judge. My mother’s name is Victoria. I have a twin sister- her name is Diana Alexandra.

I used to go to this all girl school in D. Tuazon. I graduated high school somewhere in Fairview-we will not talk about this-ever. I went to the University of the Philippines in Baguio, BA Language and Literature. I spent two years in law school. A year in the Ateneo Professional Schools and another year in the San Beda College. And then life happened. Oh life.

So there, mister, there. You can call me DK- you can kick start my heart.

It must be noted that I do not intend to die in the near future, nor do I harbor any plans of suicide and freak accidents. I do not want to be morbid about this.

On the train home, I wonder how many people will die within the year. How many of them will die of unnatural causes like freak accidents and crimes; how many people in earphones; how many of them will leave behind a lover too devastated that they would cry in bed for days; how many of them would have “Hindi Kita Malilimutan” in their funeral march.

I would hate it terribly, in my grave, if songs like Hindi Kita Malilimutan and The Warrior is a Child would play in my funeral march. I would hate it more if my facebook friends would continue to invite me to “Become a Fan” of this and that or would invite me to try the newest craze in Facebook game application. In the untimely event of my death, knock on wood, I would like the following things to be done:

Here are the songs to be played in my funeral march:

1. The Magnetic Fields – Asleep and Dreaming
2. Chungking – Following
3. Stars – Take Me to the Riot
4. Lamb – Gorecki
5. This Will Destroy You – Threads
6. Dave Matthews Band – Oh

There are many other songs I want to be played in my wake. I will think about that next time. I do not mind which order the songs will be played. So as long as Asleep and Dreaming is the first one.

I’ve seen you laugh at nothing at all
I’ve seen you sadly weeping
The sweetest thing I ever saw
Was you asleep and dreaming

Now, down to the other nitty-gritties:

• I want my Facebook wall disabled. I do not want anybody to be posting “I miss you, lots” messages on my wall. It is futile, anyway. Unless you want me to go liking your facebook status when I am dead, then somebody needs to disable that Facebook Wall.
• If it is possible, I want all the males to attend my wake and funeral NOT cleanly shaven. I want them with all the facial hair that could possibly grow on their face.
• I want all the females to dress sexy at my wake and funeral. Refer to Smog’s Dress Sexy at my Funeral for this.
• Refer to Smog’s Dress Sexy at my Funeral for instructions on what to say during the part where you say a few words before the crowd.
• There must, and should be, alcohol. Everyone must drink at least a shot of gin or vodka. It will be a sort of tribute to that little lady in that box. Here’s to you, Kathrina. Bottoms Up.
• Only people who I have been in the houses of, and had been to my house, can push and walk beside my coffin. Alexandra can see to this, with the exception of Elaine she can be there.
• If I have any salvageable organ, please donate that. and CREMATION! Cremation.
• Photos! There must be photos! Of everybody!
• No texting beside my coffin. No tweeting beside my coffin. No email-ing beside my coffin. Do not take calls within 5 meters of my coffin.
• Scrabble, Risk, Monopoly, Game of the Generals, Chess, etc can be played during my funeral. Card games, uhm, no. Mahjong is allowable if you are people from the Debate Society, especially with Joy Camille Gomez and Abel Quintos.
• Somebody needs to ask the office where I work, or the houses where I stay or places I might have been in the last week to keep their doors open for a few hours, I might wanna drop by and visit them. I am a ghost, I do not want to deal with the business of opening doors or passing through walls.
• Somebody needs to put a notice in my blog, assuming that I still blog then, about my death. “In Memory of Diana Kathrina Leomo.” Somebody needs to disable my Flickr, Twitter and other internet accounts within a year after my death. I think I have some 70+. To the person who will be tasked to do this, I am sorry.
• Alex, please write my epitaph.
• Hello Panda, Jamaican Patties, Orange Juice, Tacos, Milk Tea, Kwek kwek, etc are things I want to see in my wake.Masarap kasi sila.
• Please miss me when I die.

I will have to think about my Death Contingency Plan some more. For now, work! Lyrids Meteor Shower is this week! We have a program, free-flowing chocolate milk and cookies for 150Php. Come by.