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  • Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.


Introduction
Aiko Lactaotao is a rare fat Asian specimen, a writer with the artistic temperament of a sloth, and the world's youngest elderly lady. A sleep-deprived Law Student, she still squeezes in time to blog about her passions which include books, reading the Classics, Fin-de-Siecle, Decadent literature, modernist, post-modernist, post post-modernist, experimental fiction, poetry, creative writing, linguistics, lexicography, philosophy of language, phenomenology, philosophy of mind, philosophy of law, criminal law, constitutional law, torts and damages, intellectual property law, public international law, Biblical exegesis, avantgarde films, collecting obscure, foreign, (mostly European, Asian, and Latin American) words, learning modern and ancient languages, and traveling the world whenever she has the budget.

About This Blog
This is a creative writing blog by a law student who'd rather travel the world and be a full-time writer if not for reality burying its fist up her ass and telling her she's not rich and that she needs to get a real job. Hence, the journey of a reluctant law student towards obtaining the Atty. title. When she's not moping around about how miserable being in law school is, she writes literary works that so far garnered compliments ranging from "Are you on drugs?" to "I'd like to have some of what you're smoking." Still, she's hoping that these seemingly outlandish writings of hers will eventually be able to land a book deal. Aside from writing, she is a voracious reader, currently owning around 300 or so books. In fact, she is infamous around the post-office because every other week a parcel or package of books arrives there for her to claim. As of the moment there are still 175 titles on her wishlist. She will not stop reading and writing and dreaming, law school can survive on its own; whatever happens, the aim remains the same: to become a full-pledged author.

Favorite Books
Monday, January 30, 2017 | January 30, 2017 |
Of Caffeine And Clonazepam

“Would you like a quick bite along with that Ma’am?” The barista asked; gesturing to the array of confectioneries beside the counter. “I think I’ll have a Sans rival please.” She replied; inwardly scolding herself for the apparent impulsive decision. “Great choice, Ma’am!” The perky barista chirped. She resisted the urge to moue. It is overtly polite people— barista or otherwise— that gets on her nerves. Something about the saccharine demeanour strikes her as downright hypocritical if not manipulative; like a con artist out to bamboozle unwitting victims. 

She paid for the coffee and dessert without a word. Tomorrow would be the last day of her finals and tonight she was going to pull an all-nighter to study. It is around 10pm. Luckily, cafes like the one she’s in now are open until the ungodly hours of dawn. 

All her notes are laid out on the table alongside what she ordered. She pulled out her earphones from her tote bag and plugged them on her smartphone. Her go-to Spotify playlist when studying is Jazz Fusion because she read somewhere that students are able to concentrate more when listening to music that have no lyrics. Around her, the cafe’s muzak eased out softly through the sound system playing mostly Christmas tunes. 

It is that time of year again.  

Last year, this same season, she lost her boyfriend due to an incident of brutal mugging around the same area where the cafe is located. Eleven stab wounds with the fatal injury being the one inflicted on his liver. He lived for two days before succumbing. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them in those final two days. 

After the funeral, she found herself peeing on the loo with her panties on while staring at empty space, her mind blank. A month of erratic behaviour passed before her parents decided to consult a psychiatrist. 

She was diagnosed with PTSD or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock. She barely heard the psychiatrist break the news to her because she was feeling groggy that day from lack of sleep. The recurring sleep disturbances was taking its toll on her health. She would have panic attacks in the middle of the night and would sometimes be in a state of catatonia. The doctor prescribed her medicines; one of them being Clonazepam to help her with the sleep disturbances. She has been under medications for almost a year now. 

Upon doctor’s advice, she wasn’t supposed to be ingesting any form of caffeine but somehow she couldn’t evade from drinking coffee because it gets her through the nights when she needed to study— and forget. 

The past few months she dedicated to studying; burying her self in workload just to compensate for the unrelenting pain she felt from her loss. Adding to the predicament too was the delay of the police in capturing her boyfriend’s killer. Knowing this, she merely kept it at the back of her mind and focused on law school. 

She took a sip of her coffee. It was getting rather cold. Looking outside, people were walking to and fro; the nearby mall was having a midnight sale. She put down her highlighter  and began observing the people outside.  

A group of matrons walked by with shopping bags and she noticed one of them dyed the bangs of her hair green. Then a well-dressed man helped his elderly mother cross the pedestrian lane— they too, were carrying shopping bags. Furthermore, there were also many young adults out and about. She readily assumed that they were call centre agents. Another group of people were going to cross the pedestrian when she spotted a peculiar man walking rapidly alongside them. 

The man looked like he was around his late thirties and walked with a limp. His right leg was shorter than the other from what might have been polio. He had dark skin and small beady eyes that pierce from beneath two thick eyebrows. He was of average height, and, she reiterated to herself, had a limp. 

According to the police who interrogated her boyfriend a day before his death, the man he described walked with a limp, emphasising that he was able to move swiftly in spite of this. 

Her head reeled at the sudden realisation. The mixture of caffeine and the clonazepam she took just a while ago made her feel discombobulated. Nevertheless, she got up and rushed her way out the cafe; leaving her things behind to follow the strange-looking man to find out once and for all the truth behind her boyfriend’s death. 

The man with a limp moved quickly indeed; he turned left making jerking movements with his shorter leg. She had to jog a little to catch up with him but she made sure she was a safe distance behind. The man with a limp turned another corner into a busy street. There is a night market on this street. For a while she lost sight of the man in the sea of people but was able to catch him again as he stopped to linger outside an eatery. At a distance from the man, she noticed that he was observing a woman eating all by herself. 

She stood still and watched on. When the woman he was looking at got up to leave, he very discreetly followed her. And SHE in turn, followed him. 

They tread on the heels of each other until they reached the outskirts of the city. It was quiet except for the passing vehicles. The man with a limp in expeditious albeit jerky movements, was able to corner the woman. SHE, on the other hand, stopped in her tracks. Her heart was beating wildly. She needed to move fast. 

When the man declared a hold-up, she bent down to grab a plank of wood from an on-going construction site and in quick steps walked behind him. She knocked him a good one on the back of the head with the plank. The man’s shoulders shook in surprise but he didn’t fall down. He slowly turned around to look at his assailant. Small, gleaming eyes met with hers. She felt all the blood go to her head like it was about to burst. A pin dropping could be heard from the silence brought about by their encounter. 

“Your boyfriend is a sissy.” He said, and gave her a wry smile. Rows of yellowed teeth protruded as he smirked. 

It was him. All the months of pain and grieving overwhelmed her until she reached her breaking point. She tightened her grip on the piece of wood and attacked him with a tenacity known only to those who finally had enough. She hit him repeatedly until the plank broke. His left temple was bleeding but he wouldn’t stop sniggering. 

“He was weak as a little girl.” Blood was running along his cheek. She hit him again. 

“Weak!” She was unsure if he was referring to her dead boyfriend or her attacks. 

All of a sudden her head felt dazed and her knees wobbly.  

“Weak!" 

Everything within her sight was spinning. The man with the limp continued to taunt her but his voice now seemed to her like a distant echo. Above, the stars were swirling in a jamboree of celestial proportions. The other woman ran in the other direction and still the man with the limp mocked her. 

“Weak!" 

Darkness engulfed her like a predator. 

“Ma’am?” The barista was urgently tapping her shoulder. 

“Ma’am?" 

She lurched forward in her seat stupefied at being awakened. 

“What?” She asked, astonished yet mildly irritated. 

The barista fixed a ready smile on her face. “My apologies ma’am, but we are about to close." 

She looked around and realised that she was the only one left in the cafe. 

“You were looking dumbfounded for a while there and we thought something might have happened to you. Are you alright ma’am?" 

She tried her best to recall what took place a while ago but she could only remember observing some people walk by and then her mind went blank. 

“I’ll be leaving now. Thanks for the concern.” She hastily packed all her things. 

Outside, the cool night air hit her face. It was exactly what she needed. In a nearby church, the bells started tolling signalling the start of the annual Misa de Gallo. 

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