This heat is very oppressive and is frying my brains out.

So here are random topics that begin with the letter R.

Ria is my name. It’s not reeyah. I only used the latter as my wordpress username because it wouldn’t let me have a three-letter one.

Once we had to make an alliteration using our name. Someone came up with Ravishing Ria for me because I couldn’t come up with one on the spot. Later on I came up with Reading Ria or Ria Reads, which is so bookworm-y and not at all cool like Ravishing Ria.

I love reading, but for some reason I couldn’t get my reading momentum going this summer.

I don’t like red velvet anything.

I am currently wearing a red shirt. It’s like I was subconsciously acknowledging or paying homage to the heat by choosing this. Or maybe because everything else was in the laundry.

I like raspberry jam/preserve more than strawberry.

How Rosang Taba Won A Race by Dean Alfar is one of my favorite short stories. It used to be available on the Palanca Awards website, but after they revamped it, the archive of texts disappeared. It’s about a fat Filipina servant in the household of the Governor-General in 19th century Philippines. Rosang Taba translates to Fat Rosa. She challenges an arrogant Spanish official to a race which she wins. How she wins it is the beauty of the story.

I am out of R ideas, so this is it. I’m off to look for some refreshments.


Three am

The problem with waking up early to check is waking up early.

Sleep–I have found–does not cure everything. The back pain is still there, but it wasn’t as bad as last night.

I hear creepy crawly weird noises at three in the morning.

Stan Lee is 92 years old! (My kids are writing about him for their project.)

I need to go home early today.


I don’t understand why I never learn.

Here I am cramming my life away.


I had one week of freedom, but I chose to waste it on… freedom.

There should be a break dedicated to just pure R&R and then a time when teachers come in to work but they don’t teach. They just work on the things they need to work on like check papers they’re not allowed to bring home or meet up with other committee members or make lesson plans using library references.

Doing it at home is just the pits.

And still, I carry on.

WE carry on.

All for our kids. 🙂


How do you know when it’s time to quit?

The Far Future

The problem with being a sponge is that you lap up and absorb EVERYTHING to the point of <insert scientific term for “fullness”> and you just start leaking.

The problem with leaking is you don’t get to choose what you leak out.

The problem with not getting to choose what to remove from your system is that you sometimes end up discarding the good and keeping in the bad.

And when you squeeze yourself to get rid of the bad, you squeeze the good out of yourself also. You end up squeezing yourself dry.

Right now I’m just trying to hold everything in.

Which is bad, I know.


My kids would never let me hear the end of this if they find out I’ve used our class forbidden words many times in this post. Eh.

Playing catch up

I looked at the kids’ faces, their brows furrowed in concentration, their hair flying about in the wind, their hands scribbling as fast as they could as if their lives depended on it. In a way, it was, and then I went back inside my head (because when you can’t talk out loud, your brain does ALL the talking, and more often than not, what your brain has to say just pisses you off).

And my brain saw all the young faces and then took one look at mine and said, “Ouch.”

My brain tortured me today with images of what ifs especially in the midst of gorgeous views of land and air and the company of amazing people.

What if I heard from you again?

What if you walked in that door?

What if it were you who walked in on the arm of that person?

What if you had met a fate worse than death? (Ah hello, melodrama. There you are.)

I thought I was done.

I guess I’m not.


I went back to my guilty pleasure book/s in the comfort of my bed hoping hoping hoping and wishing that I’d find some solace or at least some distraction before drifting off into peaceful exhausted slumber.

And all I found was:


My favorite word from college lit class is catharsis. At first, it was because I felt I was a gazillion times smarter than the person who’s never heard of it. Then I realized that it was the reason I buried my head and my heart in my books.

It gets rid of the


Who cares if you disagree
you are not me
Who made you king of anything
so you dare tell me who to be
who died and made you king of anything?


Two days ago my heart pounded like there’d be no more tomorrow. I was clammy inside and outside. My mom commented that I was cold. I didn’t know why. I chalked it up to malaise.

I bundled up in my favorite furry blanket and slept and slept and woke up and slept some more and ate and slept some more.

And I drank alcohol. I had a shot.

And so went the


Here in these deep city lights
girl could get lost tonight
I’m finding every reason to be gone
there’s nothing here to hold on to
could I hold you?


Saktong drama lang.

Maybe my brain will let me sleep now.

Of men and babies

Warning: There is a high possibility that my friends or people around my age (30y.o.) will get annoyed by this post. 

I consider it a sign of maturity (ha!), this proliferation of baby pictures and videos on social media. Never have I seen so many pictures of babies, both nieces/nephews and godchildren, on my Facebook and Instagram feeds. It is insanely adorable and annoying at the same time.

On one hand, the photos of the little cherubs are more than enough to bring a smile to this otherwise stressed face, for the giggles and and toothless smiles and the Michelin Man-like limbs are just full of Cute. On the other hand, the baby pictures are a glaring in-your-face reminder of my… oldness. And of other things I’d rather not announce on a public blog.

Sometimes I think I’ve gotten over this “old” issue. I look at my friends’ haggard faces because they haven’t gotten any sleep and think, “HA! I still look like a college kid on my best days. On my worst days, I just look like I’m in my mid-20s.” And I can STILL sleep without interruption because I’m not breastfeeding. And I can watch movies in the theater without having to worry about whether it’s appropriate for my kid or not.

But I cannot for the life of me explain why whenever a friend or batchmate posts his/her baby or wedding picture or something similar I get antsy. I’ve got a few theories about this.

Number 1. The baby pics, wedding pictures, pre-nup pictures annoy the hell out of me because I am reminded of how I don’t have those things. No, I am not in a relationship. No, I’m not going to have babies anytime soon. Stop dropping hints, Ma.

No. I don’t feel. Any pressure. Right now.

Number 2. People subconsciously look down at you (it’s just the briefest of glances, but it’s there) when the fact that you’re single  (STILL) at 30 sinks in. People judge. I would know. I’m a judger. Sometimes of the worst kind. (Don’t worry; I’m working on getting rid of it.)

Number 3. People tease you relentlessly about your age. Right now, I would like to apologize to Cec for cracking and laughing at all the age jokes thrown at her before. Now, I can relate.

I confess to being guilty of being brainwashed by the media and society and tradition that having and taking care of a family is the end-all and be-all of women. Inasmuch as I’d like to claim modern thinking and beliefs, that women CAN be happy and fulfilled without a family, I really am still an old soul. Family is still important.

Why my brain and heart are warring over this desire (or lack thereof) of a beau and, consequently, a husband and my own family I probably shall never understand.

I blame Doctor Who for this melancholic midnight thoughts.

“I am alone.”

“My face has all these lines, but I didn’t do the frowning.”