Explaining “Basted” to a Non-Filipino

I’m quite aware that basted is derived from the English busted but the original word just does not capture the essence of the Filipino one. And, yes, dumped is different. Here are a few reasons why basted is a great word:


Basted is biting your lip just to see if it’s possible to hurt more.

Basted is spending more quality time with your two best friends: ice cream and cigarettes.

Basted is finally appreciating Alanis Morissette’s music (but only for a short while).

Basted is wishing Les Miserable was written from Eponine’s point of view.

Basted is a child, whose candy has been taken away, or whose promised Disney trip has been cancelled, or whose television time has been grounded.

Basted is dreading to come home to an empty apartment when just last night it was full of dreams.

Basted is going through the five stages of grief in no particular order, in exact order, simultaneously, consecutively, jumbled-up, straight-forward, progressing, regressing, and recounting if it was actually just five.

Basted is avoiding people who will keep on asking if you’re doing alright. What part of no is difficult to understand?

Basted is returning the gift you bought him for store credit.

Basted is the inability to light up even when everything else in your life turns up better than before.

Basted is pitter-patter of drizzle on the sidewalk as you walk home.

Basted is smiling even though your face hurts, laughing even though your throat hurts, living even though your life hurts.

Basted is closing venetian blinds when the sun wakes you up in the morning.

Basted is a text message he sent to you afterwards either in error, or insensitive, or a group message, or just plain nice, but it doesn’t really matter.

Basted is the sudden desire to be an hermit because you just don’t understand people anymore.

Basted is the best motivation to go to the gym.

Basted is willingness to trade fame, fortune, security, and success for a shot at happiness, knowing in vain, that no one would be willing to take that trade.

Basted is hitting yourself on the head for how stupid you could be in even attempting, or slapping yourself, believing that this could jolt you out of the pain, or spontaneously cracking up with the belief that this will make you a better person.

Basted is the temptation to be a horrible, horrible person — the person you swore you’d never be, the person you actually became before, the person that scared you, and the person you never wish to see again, but you’re afraid is coming back.

Basted is belting out your favorite songs, out of tune and out of synch, but you don’t care because music is the only thing you have an actual say in in your life now.

Basted is the insecurity of wondering if it’s you, if you’re inferior, if you were inadequate, if you’re ugly, if you could only have been better, because life suddenly becomes a series of “could have been’s”.

Basted is seeing him again the day after — he’s sexy, and you remember the day that when he smiled, you were happy.

Basted is flicking through the television, chanel after unending chanel, not really watching, but not wanting to let the remote go.

Basted is making a blog about being basted.

Basted is the long walk home at 1am, the walk of shame when nothing you did was shameful, but you just want to jump in front of the passing truck.

Basted is the inability to cry, because you’ve cried about this for so long, for the same person, hidden under a different name, and now your tearducts are dry, but you still feel so sad but you don’t know how to let it out.

Basted is the longest no you’ll ever hear.