December

I feel evil for using up some of my precious time writing a blog instead of reading for Physio / Philo / Theo or working on med school applications.

And yes, for those of you who have come to know me only through my blog, I am applying for med schools now. I am a senior now, too (as I have been for the past eight months).

Isn't that cool? This blog came into my life even before Ateneo did. This blog has seen me through the wilderness of sweets that was my college experience. You can see how I would post almost every day in my first year, updating this thing with posts about the buildings I had discovered, the subjects that I have come to love (or hate), the people I have encountered. And you can see how progressively, thanks to the increasing demands of school work (and, thank God, a social life), I have been posting less and less and less.

I don't know what I am to do with my blog URL once I graduate. Will I still be "Bea in Manila" in four months' time? Should I change it to "Bea in CDO," which, while not as catchy, might be a more accurate description of me?

Oh, useless speculations. I know my life right now hangs in the balance of the different scholarship committees in the med schools that I applied to. I'm also crossing my fingers and hoping to get accepted into an AIESEC exchange program. So please, Santa, let that be my gift this Christmas?

[insert witty segue here] Speaking of November! I won National Novel Writing Month!

And no, while that doesn't mean that I wrote the most brilliant novel on Earth, it does mean that I actually finished writing the first draft of what could be the most brilliant novel on Earth. That's 50,000 words in a month's time.

I don't like telling people that I joined NaNoWriMo because that inevitably leads to them asking, "What's the story about?" Out of fear of being laughed at, I usually just reply "Nothing, really," and then I say that I just make the plot up as I go along. Which is more or less true. But now in the privacy of my own blog (which, I am actually quite relieved to say, isn't getting a lot of readers anymore) I can tell you what it's about.

Actually, I changed my mind. I still don't want to tell you. I don't want to tell anyone. I don't know why. It's a thing I do. I also hate it when people try to read what I'm writing as I am writing. Like one time in the library, I was writing in a computer terminal, and then Rap sneaks up on me like a ninja. When I realized he was hovering over my shoulder, I panicked, fingers fumbling to Alt + Tab the windows, body scrambling up to  block his view of my screen. I had generated such a racket in my mad scrambling that most of the people in the terminals turned to look at me, probably to check if my clothes were on fire or something. I was certainly reacting that way.

So yeah. I hate telling people. I can't even bring myself to fully tell anybody about my first novel, even though I wrote it years ago.

It's probably because it has time travel in it. And that alone makes me feel silly. Especially when I think about how droids from the year 3000 will eventually dig up my novel from a virtual data compendium and laugh (or make robot sounds akin to laughter) at the silliness of my antiquated, 21st century ideas on wormholes and teleportation. Oh what a silly girl, this girl is.

. . .

But anyway. I probably have wasted enough time here. I have five chapters of the cardiovascular system waiting to passively diffuse into my brainholes. Tschüss!