Welcome to Volume 6 of The Marocharim Experiment. This blog is authored and maintained by Marocharim, the self-professed antichrist of new media.
Marocharim is a 21-year-old college senior from the University of the Philippines Baguio, majoring in Social Anthropology and has a minor in Political Science. He lives with his parents, his brother and his sister in Baguio City - having been born and raised there all his life. He is the author of three book-versions of The Marocharim Experiment.
Most of his time is spent at school, where he can be found in the UP Baguio Library reading or scribbling notes, and sometimes hanging out with his friends or by himself in the kiosks, or the main lobby. During his spare time, he continues writing. When not in school he hangs out with his friends, or takes long walks around Baguio City to, as he puts it, "get lost."
The Marocharim Experiment Volume I: The Trial of Another Mind, Subject to Disclosure is Available Now
The Marocharim Experiment Volume II: The Nevermind Chronicles is Available Now
The Marocharim Experiment Volume III: The Sentence Construction of Reality is Available Now
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"The Marocharim Experiment," "Marocharim" and all the contents in this online web log are the sole intellectual properties of Marck Ronald Rimorin and are protected by existing copyleft laws. Any attempt to copy and/or reproduce the contents of this site, either through electronic or printed means, must be accompanied with the express written consent of the author.
April 30, 2005
< too many people up here in the mountains... leaving already? >
I don't know if I should sing some Wang Chung to get somewhere in life (for whatever that's worth), but the thing is I lack a certain... toleration, if you will, for people. It's not that I'm antisocial, it's just that I couldn't stand the mass of humanity in here anymore. SM's three day (actually four day) sale is starting to get on my neck a little, the quest for parking becoming a wild goose hunt for a few feet of available space.
And then you get to the lower ground floor. Rather than smell some of the worst food created by and through haphazard incompetence (I'm talking about Plato Wraps) I become engulfed with the smell of humanity. Elbowing my way out of this sheer mass, I make my way out and find some internet place that can support high resolutions so that I could change the colors of my images into something more... blue. So here I am, at Netopia, trying to get that perfect blue-ness, while I work on my entry.
This rocks... now that I found out that 47 of my 88 "friends" at Friendster are pissed off at me. Who cares?
While I go about humming Wang Chung songs in the presence of a couple of German expats, I wonder if I should sing to the ambient sounds of mad typing and Hoobastank (guess the song). I mean, hey, if I should go back out there and fight for available space to walk on, I'd rather rot here. People annoy me to high heavens, especially tourists. I do not know why all these tourists wow themselves on the aircon-free world of SM City Baguio: I just mutter under my breath... "duh."
Posted at Saturday, April 30, 2005 by marocharim
April 29, 2005
< second entry... i write fast >
This week I have been engaging in relatively bourgeois behavior... big deal. The thing is, I don't even like coffee.
I'm not part of the "coffee tayo" crowd. My idea of "bonding" has more to do with bottles of beer and computers than coffee. I couldn't appreciate it at all, save for the occasional (ahem) cigarette and the idea of the coffee crowd talking coffee stuff. So I'm a weirdo, an otherworldly (some say underworldly) creature practically engaging in human interaction all of a sudden. Seems like I need more people-interaction. I couldn't stay cooped up in my office messing around with other people's diaries and files or just leaning on the door, looking at the roof of the library while I drone around like a dragon breathing smoke.
Still, I don't like coffee. Never did. My idea of caffeine is a Coke in the deep freeze. This coffee stuff is hot crap on a cup. And it reminds me too much of a romance gone to hell. That explains the scatological definition.
Yeah, yeah. I know I disgust people. Don't want to drink coffee again now, eh?
My friend Angeline (who happens to be a Binibining Pilipinas runner-up and she doesn't want to relive it) told me, over more coffee, that the most expensive beans come from cat shat. Judging by the number of cats I have killed due to carelessness and my aversion towards anything that walks on four legs, kitty litter sounds good. Never really tasted it, but who cares? Diluted with water and killed twice over with sugar, the gritty drink would make any connoiseur jump for joy. Kind of like Maxwell House... your cat being Maxwell and you harvest the dung, selling it at Starbucks for enormous costs.
Oh, so it's a special breed of cat that eats only coffee beans. And it craps out beans. OK...
Now this entry doesn't make any sense at all.
Posted at Friday, April 29, 2005 by marocharim
< just came from SM... it took me that many to get here. the sad thing is, i actually counted >
Had I decided to run straight home from school I would have made more productive use of my time and studied for my PI 100 exam on Tuesday. The point is, if you're Marocharim, you don't study. At all. Even if today's Friday and I just have to watch the ending of "Full House" and a horribly-outdated episode of WWE SmackDown!, and yes, watch "Stained Glass."
Anyways, yet again I must move on from my third-person digression and, well, digress.
If I say I hate SM, that's an utter understatement. They hadn't, as of today, invented any word that would convey the extreme as well as "hate." So what? Hatred is now churning in my stomach in the form of the worst sandwich I have ever had. Considering the expense of the little break we had at Cafe Picarre, I had no choice but to chew everything up and wash it down with a sugar-less cup of macchiato (I don't put sugar in my coffee). Something tells me that if I wanted a sandwich, I would have gone the way I like it (which is two pieces of bread and nothing else... I know I'm weird, but back off) and forgot about the existence of beef-and-mushroom fillings.
They're having a three-day sale at SM Baguio. Big whoop. I never really liked shopping even if I had the money for it. Had I been swimming in dough right now (I am running short of cash as of late) I would go off to Diplomat Bookstore and sold the hell out of them.
Random blather? Maybe. So what? This is my page.
Anyway, just yesterday I decided to purge my underwear drawer of everything that would cause further groin-scratching than what is morally-acceptable. (Don't worry, this is related to this whole hoopla.) I took to wearing a pair of shorts over my underwear and really thick jeans to top that off, which makes for some real heat down there... it kind of serves its purpose. Now that I've been considered as a sexual criminal by the moralist blocs at school (i.e. freshmen from Catholic schools) it would kill off the sperm that makes its way through my cerebral cortex.
Anyway, with my armor-plated ass I started to count every step it took for me to get from SM's exit to my favorite internet shop at Session Road, and for 975 steps I suppose they're right when they say I take great strides: last time I counted it took me about 1125 to do it. Now here I am, fit and lean, though I still have to build some muscle and I have to find a way to actually find a thinner, cooler Levi's.
Hmmm... borderline ridiculous.
Posted at Friday, April 29, 2005 by marocharim
April 27, 2005
< this is what happens when your briefs are too loose >
Face it, underwear is a recurring theme in the discourse of everyday life. Unless you like it "commando," one's freedom is limited by his/her choice in underwear. It's something we all wear, it's something we all have to commit ourselves to. I don't care what you are, or who do you think you are: you wear underwear, all of us wear underwear, and the independence by which our forefathers have given their lives for is in vain: they drove away the wrong colonizers.
And now they give you the itch. The thing is, if you wear underwear a bit too loose for your own good, you start to get this really annoying itch in your groin. Chafing, I suppose, is not something we men are used to. It's not an entirely different feeling (it's difficult to find underwear that's size 25 and you're male... trust me), considering that since I don't know how to wash my own clothes properly (whenever I do them they reek of fabric softener) and I'm left with the... detritus, of my underwear drawer. The underwear I dread wearing.
I wounded my groin enough with the chafing and the mad scrubbing I did this morning while I took my bath, over wails that rival my mad "singing" of Pantera tunes at my home computer. Now I have to walk. That's when it gets really, really scary.
The distance between buildings in UP Baguio is pretty much claustrophobic compared to UP Diliman, but I'm only human, and I have to respond to pain in one way or another. Having to deal with walking distances that would test the human being's capacity for... skin irritation, I keep on cringing with every step I take. I feel like I've been crucified.
And the Roman's drove the nail straight through my groin.
Posted at Wednesday, April 27, 2005 by marocharim
April 25, 2005
< song... good thing i don't record myself >
It's so still...
I ask myself if I'm still alive?
Walking down the roads alone
Under the pale and starlit sky.
Why do I...
Why can't I just disappear
Things just look too far away
Even if they're so close and near.
And maybe it's time for beautiful never
Maybe it's time to go on and wonder
Does my heart keep on beating for you
I can only hope it's the same thing for you
But I'll never, I'll never know...
Now that you have to go.
I could prove all the things I've said and done
And maybe I could never do it at all
Before I see the sun
Why does this dark last for too long
Why does it keep on hounding me
Why does the radio keep playing the same old song...
And I hope that these things seem to be
What they are for you and what they are for me
Life is so unkind with all these goodbyes
And every little thing I do and say
Pretending things turn out to be all okay
Tell me why (tell me why)
You have to go...
(Repeat refrain but omit last line)
Oh why, tell me why
Tell me things will turn out just right
Baby, now, right now
Now that you have to go...
Posted at Monday, April 25, 2005 by marocharim
< it's starting to clog my throat... [invective] milky way chocolate bars >
The lights come crashing down on my table as I clutch the dice in my hand. People start staring at me, wondering if I'm going to land that winning combination.
I shake. I rattle. I roll. I dance to the tune of Elvis Presley songs as I finally let go...
This isn't Vegas. This is real life.
I wonder if I'm bound by the rules of chance. Destiny is something I don't believe in. I never was a believer in pre-ordered states of affairs, where there's a reason for everything. Now it's different. God is a kid in the arcade whacking moles, and why I even come up is something I couldn't explain. I don't even know if I'm too far gone to even go. Just leave the tables. I've won it all... except for one.
Time is the worst healer, like alcohol doused over a gaping wound... sandpapered, rubbed, dipped in hot water and drowned in a vat of bile. I need to be a bit more descriptive. It's high time I took my own heart out of my chest, throw it away, and see just how much I like it. I already did. Here I am, a man without a heart, rolling the dice and turning the cards. For what reason? There's nothing more frustrating in life than to realize and recognize reasons and destiny... and see it all fade away. When you've seen the sunset you realize you can never get to see it in time. It's lost forever.
There's no worse feeling in the world.
Am I a bit too emotional? Maybe. It just hurts too much.
Posted at Monday, April 25, 2005 by marocharim
April 24, 2005
< this was supposed to be yesterday's entry >
Rather than wallow around in misery, we just ate. Gobbled it up. Forced it down our stomachs. We just ate it. Imagine a P100 lunch.
No, we didn't go off to Rosebowl, or ate a Big Mac for lunch. It was me, Erik, Abby, Abel, Anton and Bonz... and we all ate a P100 lunch at Camp John Hay. The idiocy, the outright injustice - since when, and I mean when, did a lunch of "roasted" pork, a ladle of fried beans, a cup of rice and a bottle of Pepsi, things found in many Filipino dinner tables, cost P100?
Oh, that's right. This is Camp John Hay.
This isn't the best time for me to rant about injustice and all that. I'm better off dropping my pants and saying grace than to talk about injustice. The thing is, it wasn't gourmet cuisine, or even lutong bahay. This was canteen cuisine: and it cost P100. I just have to keep repeating that, do I?
Believe me, it wasn't that good. I sure wished I just whiled my time in the corner and just smoked my lungs out than eat something that expensive. I'm not a big McDonald's fan, but I wished I just could have gone there and ate burgers to my heart's content (about three, considering the amount of Coke I drink) for my P100. But nooo, this is the land of the high and mighty. This is where lunches cost your entire wallet and the cheapest thing you can buy is ice cream.
Posted at Sunday, April 24, 2005 by marocharim
< nice, huh? >
Don't rub your eyes or anything: the Experiment is not under new ownership. This new theme may not be to everyone's liking, but I made it and I'm damn proud of it... OK, thanks to PhatGirlie for the skin, and thanks to Photoshop.
BTW: the color is bliolet, not purple, not violet, it's bliolet.
Welcome to the show, folks.
Posted at Sunday, April 24, 2005 by marocharim
April 23, 2005
Marocharim the Pornographer
< this is what happens when you google up "marocharim" and find it linked to a sex site. try it. >
My greatest concern is surprisingly not
related to my love life, or the absence of it. Right now I'm more interested in topics which, well, annoy me. Not the least of which is the idea of having my name linked to a sex scandal. No, nobody took a five-second video of me having sex with an amoeba.
Just try visiting these sites and see if you like it. Pornographic as they are, this is the thanks you get for speaking your mind.
Now I'm famous. I am now an official pornographer.
No, I have no qualms about my blog being linked by some site like sexxxtoysrus.com, but it could have been worse. Fame, for me, comes once in a blue moon, but notoriety is a fact of life. Since when did my blog, no, my name become associated with porno pay sites? Excuse me.
The thing is, there's nothing wrong with it. In some perverse way, I enjoy it. Imagine people looking for the Piolo or Ethel video and they get linked up right to my blog. They get, well, Marocharized. After reading through long and arduous sentences the only porn they get is a solarized picture of my face and an unfulfilled orgasm. I hope they're happy.
Calling the MTRCB: I do porn.
Posted at Saturday, April 23, 2005 by marocharim
April 22, 2005
< ok, i reverted back to my old skin... and yeah, i'm making my own >
I've only graduated twice, and as far as college is concerned I'd be extremely lucky if I graduate on time. Maybe I should be one of the millions of people who consider themselves "educated" with a high school diploma and a brief stint in college, but that's not the gist of it.
But hey, as far as my writing is concerned, there is no gist.
Frustrated as I am being unable to finish my course in four years' time, I couldn't stomach listening to "Pomp and Circumstance" even if I am still a "young" college junior. I have a lot of things to be happy about, considering that I'm still in college. I wouldn't be too far gone if I still didn't take up a job, and yeah, I'm not looking forward to a high-paying career over at ClientLogic or, if worse comes to worse, Pizza Hut. In a year and a half, maybe two years or getting into maximum residency if I go topak all of a sudden, I'd probably graduate, take up my sablay and bow before less than a hundred graduates and an endless sea of students and relatives.
You see, graduation is highly overrated. What purpose does a piece of parchment serve to your existence, anyways? We live in a world full of paper, and it's bad enough that we collect certificates and diplomas trying to prove to the world that we actually did something in college, other than party. Or, in my case, dwell in discourse and fail Math in the process.
Hear, hear: if you're one of the ka-billions of people in history who have graduated, in one form or another, you know what I'm talking about. Graduation is a big-whoop thing that boils down to simple but powerful four-letter invectives directed to your school and your enemies (to some extent your parents) by the time you leave. It's three hours of boredom, listening to some geriatric telling you stuff about life you wish he would just shove up his arse by the time he sips that glass of water on the lectern (no, not podium). It's having your academic arch-enemy announcing your name: as you await some salutory title like "cum laude," they just hand you a diploma, and you feel the phantom foot deep in your rear end as you bow down. No time for swan songs: just get out.
I'm not bitter or anything (a lie), but there's something about graduations that scares the crap out of me. It's not boring speeches courtesy of the campus big-shot or that famous guy giving the damn speech, but the picture of having to deal with hundreds of people who don't seem to care if you graduate. Applause is mechanical: no one "claps" for you since everyone's so engrossed in seeing some other person graduate. The few cheers you get are obligatory, considering your ego. Your diploma is something you would proudly frame up, and then when you get older it's nothing more than wall decor. Or a dartboard.
My diplomas are tucked away in my mom's file folder: unseen, quite crisp, still with that new smell that comes from the print shop. I don't look at them, I don't shed a tear in my yearbooks remembering those "happy times." I have a few choice words and hand gestures for those (cough) memories. Most of them phallic.
Don't ask me where that title came from.
Posted at Friday, April 22, 2005 by marocharim