One of them is Roselen and she lives in a place called Sta. Barbara, which celebrates its fiesta annually every fourth of December. I haven't "attended" for the last two years because there were school matters to "worry" about and I suck, so you could just imagine how psyched I was to know December 4 is a Saturday (to hell with exams, I needed a break).
So I awoke this morning with a slightly-less-than-bitter disposition, ate my fix of pancakes and got dressed up with the amount of gusto I exude when eating a plate of New York cheesecake. Let me start with part one of the adventure:
There's not much of an appetite but who cares? The food's free.
Yes, the fact that you have to be starving when you go to a fiesta should be made a rule. I, being gluttonous, bought a cup of sundae just before taking off to Roselen's house (with my epic classmates, I might add; we rented a jeepney and hit each other everytime we saw a bald guy). Lunch was exquisite, of course, but my stomach wasn't cooperating and it hadn't digested all of whatever it was I jabbed into my mouth that morning. Therefore, I had to put up with almost finishing my food because I'd been such a pig two hours earlier.
Screw curfews, there's a carnival here!
Or there. In Sta. Barbara.
I don't care if we acted like total kids; fooling around in that place was even better than winning a trip to Seychelles! The plaza was crowded, yes, and the air stifling and the sun merciless, but just running around spending five percent of my pocket money (the rides cost twenty pesos and those little stalls didn't charge more than ten pesos for a round of shooting pins down) made up for it.
I was feeling smug and...smug that time, so I invited my friends to try the Octopus ride. It looked a bit like this (the one at the plaza was more violent):
The first few minutes of sitting in the compartment were okay. Okay, as in, the I-have-a-bad-feeling-about-this okay. I still think it would have been a much less threatening experience if my friend, Abby, and I had one more person in the compartment. When the "Octopus" started swinging its "tentacles" slowly, I was laughing. When it went faster, I found myself draining the urban dictionary of all existing expletives (you don't have look it up-- you know what I mean). The climax was unnervingly traumatizing because there were no seat belts. I honestly could have enjoyed more if only there were seat belts. The whole time I was imagining my death, when I would be thrown down and my whole body would break...so I told Abby my will, about where my collection of books would go, and thanked God for the wonderful life I had been living. My screams eventually got thinner and I got used to the feeling of being swung around and rotating ridiculously fast that I just...sat there while the whole world spun around me.
Ah, the benefits of ignorance.
Sing your lungs out, baby!
When we got back from all the confusion and euphoria of the carnival, my classmates launched into drunk singing mode without the drinks. How cool is that? We idly sang a couple of Eraserheads and Black Eyed Peas songs (My humps, my humps, my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps). The finale was the Beatles' I Want to Hold Your Hand because we're awesome. And we're musical prodigies.
Now I'm tired from all the hyperactivity.
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