Friday, July 29, 2011

I don't get drunkenness. I don't get the drunk behavior. I don't get the crowd mindset.

[Events described took place 2days ago. disregard all spelling and grammatical mishaps.]

I am antisocial, and I am not among people wherever.

On the other hand, I get smoking; I get that it soothes the nerves, relieves stress, and ultimately kills the tension. Also, it effectively livens the sad boring moments, while waiting for something to peg the day.

Smoking could bring people together. I might be wrong.


I am now inside a bar, had just downed a shot of tequila, and smiling. I am desperate to show people how high my cheekbones are placed. The socializing has begun. I am no social animal, not even a plankton at basic socializing. I am primitive in that sense and I prefer intimacy with a lot fewer people over multiple crowds. And loud music is not enough to fill in the empty silences.

Tequila is coming back up my mouth right now. Later.


Writing this after my nth shot. The dexterities of both my fingers are royally suffering. Still not getting why tequila is thought to espouse socializing. Happy socializing. It is good though that I'm still awake enough to make corrections.

Later. Just got another effing shot of tequila. Why not just give it intravenously? It would make more sense. It doesn't taste too good; it tastes like the most evil thing. It is the devil's blood.

Anyhow I’m still coherent enough to blog, but I have to think a little, hence I keep correcting spelling mistakes.


Thankfully a good friend has let me sleep at her place. I've slept for an hour (I think), and I think I still can handle thinking, at least. I am good enough to blog, but my fingers are still not as compliant compared to when I'm sober. The feeling isn't lovely; it is not the best feeling.

Alcohol is a frenemy.


It is 3PM. The sleep wasn't smooth. I kept waking up and going back to doze off; I felt hot and I felt cold. Clearly, sleeping drunk is not the best way to fall sleep.

I am now figuring out how to get on with my day. Movies with friends at 8PM? Sure. Maybe. I'd gladly do anything else than drink. And maybe read a book when I get home. JD Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye's Holden Caulfield is waiting. Or not. He doesn't care.



ovie has been cancelled. It is now almost 6PM. There goes my master-level planning for the day. This sucks, not having to go through the plans. But then they are my friends, and they are busy, and I am not. The void I try to fill whenever I plan my day is time they want for themselves. What I mostly hate, they would love to have. Rest is a painfully long, monotonous feeling. Activity is what I want, for now.

Now I sweat for nothing. I read for nothing. And I am practically strapped onto a plane seat, waiting to fly off and drag what's remaining of my life somewhere else far.

Have I mentioned I'm leaving soon? Of course.

Monday, July 25, 2011

I am not an insomniac.

My sleep cycle's been reversed. You might say that i am nocturnal, like an owl, and i might glare at you, but that is normal, just like how my abnormal, lopsided sleeping habit is normal to me.

Don't get me wrong: i like the nighttime. My problem with it is that nobody's up for fun usually on weeknights -or weekmidnights. My social compass is malfunctioning at best, but i still want someone to share ideas with, if what i offer is socially acceptable enough not to be dismissed at mid-introduction; or when the other guy's ideas aren't too weird or stupid in my opinion. I hate wasting my midnight. Midnights are when juice flows so eagerly, and at the most pulpy. What a bad comparison. Anyhow, most people would get me. I hope they also get the irony.

Midnight makes for a quiet writing sit-down.

Anyway, in my head, in all honesty (and i really am being honest), i write well -good, even. I like how i sound spontaneous and talkative, but don't we all feel the same, when the words are inside our heads? To some, this post might be something they'd wash off their minds right after, but i could care less. As i have stated before, but not here, i am an emotional writer (should there be another meaning that states otherwise than what follows, tell me) -prior to writing, i have something to either praise or rant about. Maybe i could be just waiting for sleep (now, for instance). Post-typing, i take a read, then publish, then that's the end of it. What i could have been feeling before writing may or may not have been dealt with properly (because i tend to figuratively drift off topic), but that's for me to sleep over. After publishing, i forget about the entry. I have done my venting (read: bitching), and whomsoever dislikes the blog, hurl as much flak as you could (no one yet has), but albert wouldn't mind. I don't write to reach out; what i say, these petty words put together, could not possibly bring about change in you, unless your life sucks as much as mine.

So back to not being an insomniac. To invite sleep, i write, or watch something not pornographic. Usually i rerun a 30Rock season (yes, a whole season); sometimes a movie (that would be Doubt); or an episode or three of Modern Family (almost done with the second season!) or House (i am shameless: i skipped S04-05, methinks; torrents take too long, see, and what i have are S06 episodes). I get sleepy mainly because of the laughing, which i do quite loudly because i am alone; or the seriousness of the plot, which drives me overanalyzing the situation, and eventually sleepy. I could not figure out exactly how tv renders me sleepy; how I analyze the world seems strange to me. Obviously, i am clueless about my own sleeping rituals.

Now i have turned to reading (JD Salinger). I have stopped forcing my way through Tuesdays With Morrie; it is cheesy, slow and could make me crazy. And so I have picked up JD Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye, and I cant seem to put it down. The informality of the text is wonderful. Read it and you will see how much of a brazen boy i am to love the book. Anyhow, i haven't finished it yet -not even half of it. I shall start the eleventh chapter when i wake up after this sleep that is coming. I hope to cherish it, the book; and i hope it brings some change in me, although the bookshelf i picked it up from is miles away from the self-help variety. This could be my self-help book, and not Mitch Albom's cheese-fest crapola. Gosh that book sucks so much.

Okay. I probably should get dreaming now. Next entry, i might tell you how weird my dreams are of late.

Drama awaits! Joking. Good morning.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths

" hope, no harm;

Just another false alarm."

I get something, smile, and verbally feign delight and gratefulness, then go. Stories end like this most of the time.

When a particularly perfect situation presents itself, of course a prospect is born, and a normal person would want to grab it. he would want it -he's want to feel it against his own skin, while gripping it with every bone, muscle and strength of his two hands; if it breathed, he'd share a lung with it by breathing its brerath; if it had eyes, he'd look at it deeply and as if it could be devoured. and he'd whisper to it -promises, pledges and the longing for moments to last longer.

but response is variable. Things have a will.

I could have been describing Gollum of lord of the rings. I was not, but I am waiting for the prequel to LOTR.


Desire is underrated. Love is overrated. In between the two I could not distinctly see -it is a shade of unreadable gray. Anywhere but the gray, I could be hovering somewhere: desire or love. Hopefully, I am closer to desire. I have never understood love, while desire I am fully aware of; I desire for a lot of things. Desiring is one thing I am fully capable of, and with any signal I could instantly give myself to wanting something. But how would I come to be acquainted with love?

Never mind. Being in love is technically being in a state of foolishness. Testimonial evidence describes it to be something close to being warm and happy, at the same time. Sweat could be an issue, but then one could be too happy with feeling loved that it doesn’t matter anymore if armpits get wet. How is this not foolish? Giving up one's own comfort in pursuit of love?

Words have been put together to describe the greatness of love: 'the loveliest feeling on earth'; 'keeps you warm, gives you joy'; 'shields you from certain spells'. And some just put in a word: 'beautiful', 'magnificent', 'enduring', 'tough'. And as the days go by, the dictionary keeps giving out new words to put label on how love feels.

I just wish to fully comprehend how, with all words combined; it all would be felt as warm and a bit "ticklish".

I am bad at this. I mean blogging. But I still do not care if you read this or not.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


You think, from time to time, that you might have finally broken free from the bonds that kept you deeply sad and feeling lonely whenever you truly are -relieved, is how I might feel of this; maybe you are then finally ready to face the forthcoming with at least a beat of the heart.

But none of us is ready for the truth: the chains that bind are too strong to break, too heavy to drag -so well-made by us, the blacksmiths, because we trusted the world that we never would have to undo it, that never will come a time when even the lightning wont make us falter nor think twice.

But of course, however strongly we dissuade fate from taking place, no one is meant to direct the floods that drown. We might have stressed that we are the captains of our own vessels, adamant as we are to steer clear of the eye of the storm; but we cannot hold ground, for if we stayed, we'd forever be deluded; inundated, with every second, with darker, saltier brine.

The sun might shine on us, from time to time. And when it shines the longest, a familiar feeling is invoked: that relief has finally come. But with every cloud that passes, relief is torn to small pieces of hopeless mass, useless and forced to be forgotten. The cycle is ongoing, and i feel that it is going to take so long; with much empty breaths to blend with the empty spaces; so much convulsing shivers from the cold nights that seem like winter; such profound weakness, less looking-forward to the days.

And with such denial of the sadness.

I have come to hate the sadness myself -to its very bones, to its rotten flesh. I have accepted its existence, grown familiar with it, that i have full capacity to abhor even its shadow. With every opportunity, i slay a part of it, praying it never grows back. And with every part of it i bury, i extract from myself a memory to rest with it, something it so loves to haunt me with. In the future, maybe the memory will come again, but invoking not sadness but a peace, ready to find itself somewhat useful.

Nostalgia is said to be beautiful -that i cannot yet accept, but i look forward to it.