Friday, June 27, 2014

I am the Youngest Single Father Wannabe. With a Teenage Daughter.

I am too tired to write for the day.

But I need to vent because I am starting to feel uncomfortable about life. I am becoming the guy with acid reflux due to stress.

My sister is here until the last week of August. I do not feel a strong sibling bond, but instead I feel a parental bond. The setupis like a single father with a teenage daughter, except I am her older brother and she is not a teen. We are one year apart, and we do not have the best connection, meaning we have not bonded over the years of playing with toys and worms and hamsters.

But far from mandatory is the concern I feel for her, and as much as I do not want to be always in the loop, because she goes out a lot, I need  to know where she is and I need to be here at home to cook and clean. She does the dishes and shares with the bills and it is fine, but we do not talk very much. Except one night when I drank a quarter of a bottle of Bacardi and became chatty. She sat down with me while I was watching House of Cards, which pretty much became blurrier with the alcohol, and we talked. I turned off the TV finally and became chattier, but still I seemed to keep to myself while being the kind of personable person I wanted; I wasn’t the most endearing sibling, and i am very far from a sweet big brother, but the openness of the conversation brought the edges sandwiching the gap closer. Family issues were brought up, and phones, because we are both geeks with gadgets and she defended her Android phone and I help up the Apple banner. The conversation went to partying and I told her that I have come to the level of being able to hold my alcohol and also told her my short courtship with substances (no hard drugs, just weed). It is about knowing what you want, and coming from me who had passed out many times, and in my younger college days, blacked-out (hearing what I did from friends who are better with alcohol than I am, aka I didn’t know what I was doing, aka plastered), I think I have some authority to preach. But in the end, after all the sharing about the crazy nights, I told her to not be afraid to try, and just be responsible enough to hold her own. I am not trying to be lax about it and to be honest, inside my head I was revolting at how my little sisteris somehow allowed to be drinking. She is of legal age, but still it made my little belly flop. But who am I to be strict, when I have fought to be independent. It felt like peeping into the future, if and when I decide to have a child, and the child grows up. Where is the balance, and how do I delegate to herself own well-being when addiction is so easy to fall into? Maybe it is just trust, and I am too young to trust a child, or this little sister of mine, but there is nothing else that makes sense other than to just tell her how much is enough.

This is one of the three I have, and I feel queasy just trying to think about the secrets I have to share with the other two, and what should I tell them, or if I should even. My older brother is living with his girlfriend, and my little brother is going off to a University. He is much smarter than me (when it comes to math). In the future, will all this even matter? If I become proactive in becoming involved in their lives, will it be better for me, or them? Somehow I am trying to dig myself out of obscurity as the second child. I have issues but so do they. Do my issues stand a chance against theirs, knowing mine are just mostly balls of angst?

Whatever. I should know when to stop stocking up on angst as well. It is addictive to lob hateful thoughts and it deeply satisfies, but then again, addiction is easy. I should learn when enough is enough.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Should I start talking about my life?

I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to, just not the major parts of it. of course, I have written about my resignation from work, but that has already passed, and honestly I don’t think it would hold any significance when it someone would read a book about my life. It would be a blotch: “….so I resigned from work. And this morning I am over it, thinking about something else entirely.”

But what would make sense to talk about? What would I like to read about someone’s life? His love life? I’d lift a finger –no, a hand, to pick it up and tear up numerous pages about emotions. I do not feel like I should care about emotions except maybe if the author is extremely angry or in doubt, because there’s a plot twist around the corner I’d love to read about. Career? Good luck with mine; I have no idea what I am doing right now. Is this considered a job even, typing about my thoughts in my underwear on my couch, with a bottle of water, an ashtray and a lighter resting quietly on a foldable sidetable? A job, I think, is something that involves stress and its effect. This insomnia I have been having is so different from the one caused by stress, because mine’s caused by HBO. Insomnia, the serious hospital-version, would be related to like, witnessing someone die, or something die, or really bad news about something irreversible, namely: diseases, a break-up, or termination from work, et cetera. Me quitting work is me getting back my relief. Money problems? I have no income starting next month but that doesn’t seem very stressful to think about and thus I sleep soundly from 4am-2pm, which is just normal because I have nothing in my life that is immediate or pressing or incredibly joyful from the day I submitted my resignation letter. Via email. And forgot about the whole thing. And I am ice-walling anything from the office now: emails, texts, memos, because I do not care anymore. I am tired of doing that, and I absolutely hate having to deal with some people at work who pretend to be likeable, but that kindness is the hook and when one gets hooked, he is screwed. So maybe here is the root of the stress.

I am going to brew myself a cup of coffee.

And drop three to five ice cubes in it.


Cold black coffee tastes a lot off-putting at first, but if it’s really strong, it settles and then gets better and finally tastes like the resentment I carry inside my body, and I am feeding it with black coffee. Better with a cigarette. Not with anything else, not even cream, and/or sugar, because then it would be awful. It feels like some kind of Harry Potter magic spell, like ennervate, and I finally know how it feels like being brought back from unconsciousness except I am fully conscious this whole time. This isn’t sludgy either, because I used a new filter, and I use a new one all the time, which adds up to maybe three a day if I am feeling very faux-productive aka anticipating work. Right now I am anticipating nothing, non-ticipating, because I have told you I do not have work. Anymore. Since yesterday. When I emailed the resignation letter.

Having been brought up with the proper amount of directions how to live my life, thanks to my parents, I have grown into this adult who is sufficiently respectful of all authority figures. Now that I have nothing going on except this thing I am doing in my underwear on my couch while smoking, and if this gets taken away from me, then I shall have nothing. And maybe I’ll cry or whatever. I cannot imagine not being this person I have become.

I repeat, I cannot imagine not being this person that I have become. I have grown comfortable with being the nerdy wallflower, who is really borderline misanthrope, and likes to think about things and pretends he is not very smart, sometimes, to drive people away. I have my means of deflecting people, and I have been successful. Interestingly, ideas get to me fast, and I think about how people think about my ideas and me and then I worry if they would discover me and then have judgments that have real value and then I’ll be very screwed. I value my privacy very much.

I value my privacy more than the privacy of my ideas.

Like this one: I want to be so attractive that I’d be the go-to person for people who want to cheat. I wouldn't have sex with all of them, but just that reputation would be nice to have. I would have a table on my own, with no one to talk to. Sadly I am not, and this is one failure of my gene pool. I could be that person who no one wants to hang out with, because he causes some sort of domestic disruption. But whatever, I am lonely already, so no use for that dream. I have reached my goal already.

Or this one: I do not like being alone, but I also cannot handle conversations. So I just want people in my surroundings, not to talk to, but just to accompany me without really consciously being there for me. They shouldn't even be concerned, and they cannot look at me. When will I be this rich? I have the mentality for it already; all I am waiting for is the money.


I guess I am not very good at focusing on things when I am not depressed or up at night or sober. i am now depressed, up at 2am, alone with myself, and drinking alcohol which I poured for myself. Now I can see the wonderful parts I didn’t see the first time I watched this series. This answers why maybe I like being single so much, not because of the hangups or the emotions I do not really want to have, but the total numbness to the parts of my life I would really like to experience but cant because some person is hogging the attention.

Also my emotions. 

A hundred minutes to spare.

It is just the wind that is constantly blowing on my face while I sit here waiting for it to end and for more minutes to pass. I am lonely and do not know whether I should be scared of everything. Plainly, there is just nothing there except for some little clues to many different paths, all I want to explore but sadly do not know where all lead. Little clues to the future that show nothing but my face, the background not unclear but barren, all because I am young and scared, and I am with various people but faces I do not see. This is the setting of my future: a surreal painting I question if finished or just have come undone, abandoned or have come to the ultimate fruition. It is a testimonial on how my present is: diminished, alone and unsure. What is this hesitation, and what is it about all these questions and the rudimentary guilt: have I made a wrong call? I could not be more sure of the decision I made, but is it only for my comfort and have I misled myself into thinking that I have done something right? I boiled inside waiting for myself to gather up the words that would lead to my resignation. It was very comfortable, i was sure then, but now seems to be too calm to be comfortable. So here it is, in my face, the question if I had done it right, because it is my life, and it is not just here and now, but the after tomorrow and through to the coming five to ten years.

I worry about the opinions of my parents, and I worry about the worries of my former peers. How was it that I had been so sure while hidden beneath my convictions were all these opinions and worries. Was I trying to defy them just to satiate my own thirst for rebellion? Did I just end up encroaching my own set path in order to rebel, and ultimately rebel against myself? If I still have to rebel, what am i? What am I still? Or is this all a conscious rational choice borne out of my own demands to be a person that I don’t look down to nor cower from, but respect? Is this a path to self-respect? What are all these questions then? If this is a process that I should take, then the choices I made within the past month were perfectly rational. I am rational. I am on my road to completeness, transcendence and maturity. But how should I be assured if there is just nothing but this cave continuously widening inside, echoing the opinions and the worries that I did not plant myself, but by the people who know me and care for me and my life?

Granted I have some responses that seem to make better of the situation, but I cannot sell to myself a clear statement out of little pieces of responses. The most important responses should be from me. And as I sit here doubting myself, I become deaf to my own potential and I become weak without my determination. And who am I to validate my own potential when I absolutely have nothing to show and seemingly no one to disprove. Was it just false determination then to quit my job, I ask myself now, and do I not have a sincere determination to go after what I really want for myself, using the potential I see very vaguely and wielding it with very hesitant hands. You can tell me that I am afraid and with much trepidation, but I cannot help myself. I’d be glad to see this familiar trepidation in successful people’s pasts, hoping that I will see myself in them. I hope to see something like this sensation bordering hopelessness and I hope to manage myself to encourage my knees to carry me on my feet.

This is me grasping for an honest reassurance, and while I do not want to be told how wrong my life has become, I would like to ask for honesty. The wind still blows, the sun on my face, I have been sitting here, waiting for my life to change. 

Friday, April 18, 2014

What's in a portfolio?

I badly need a portfolio. After many years of writing like this, I have come across something inside my head (a thought), that I might want to do this for money, and if I’m lucky, a living.

I have asked around, and apparently I need a portfolio. But what is it, and how do I come up with something resembling one? I don’t know.


Now a portfolio, i assume, is an imaginary folder containing one’s non-imaginary body of work. Writers have it just in case someone [an employer] wants to look at what he has done.

I have done nothing. Well, I have done some things. But there might not be anything worth looking at. But there might be. So how do I pick out what makes sense to other people, considering that I write solely for my own satisfaction and do not intend to inform, ask and entertain an audience? Do I even have an audience?

Should I look?


According to my blog stats, I have some page views, but no one has ever reacted to what I have written, but that might be due to the fact that I am inside my own little head, and the voices talk to me, and then I debate with myself, and so no one gets me. I do not get myself, even.


So where and how to begin? Now is the best time to REACT, people who are reading me. You might have strayed into this blog unintentionally, and you might think youre treading dangerous waters, but not really. My writing is safe for everybody. I mention sex but do not get explicit [I mean, why would i?]; I harbor darkness but come on, I am not the darkest you’ve read. I am alone, but not lonely. I am deep inside happy, if you’ve been wondering: I am just sporting this crust of dark sadness, because it is in my nature, not because I want to drive people away. I am totally fine with interaction and I would appreciate some really rad comments. Well, I need real comments most of all: I need to know how I am doing. How do I know if I am bad or good if no one places a comment? How do I know if the page views are real?

I am marking this day, April 19, 2014, as the day I open up my blog and accept that I do not only want to write for myself but also for other people. I shall ask the questions like “what should I write about?”; or “Are you sure about your comment?” later on. First, I need some people to be my tenacious demographic body. Do people like me, or do people hate me? Of course, I won’t be sleeping with any person here, because I have a high level of respect for people who read.



I am making myself public. HERE GOES NOTHING. But I am hoping to get something, and i am optimistic about getting somewhere. Thank you.



Worry for only 15 minutes per day.

Only? Exactly my reaction. I read in a HuffPost article how positive thinkers deal with worrying: one step they do is to make a part of their day, and even a spot, when and where they can worry, then outside of it, no worrying is allowed. How is it that I am totally a non-believer, although why shouldn’t I try it?

Worrying has been part of all my waking moments: the alarm clock starts to alarm, I wake up, worry about the traffic; and about the time I need before I need to go; and if I should have breakfast; and if I am going to be late if I leave at this time or should I just go early. It’s a meticulously put-together mechanism built inside of my head: the process goes well = I am more or less saved for the day; meanwhile, if the gods be angry at me = my life goes to shambles. Everything matters: details, parts, the manner of doing things, because all I want is a good outcome and it will be unbearable not to get what I need, not what I want. I need something in order to continue my life, based on how my life has been planned, or anywhere where my parents would least judge me. I am not a guy who wants many things, and the I want, I don’t really go for until I realize I need them. Hence, my shopping sprees. Kidding.

So here, in the spirit of mental wellness and maybe trying to balance myself, and decrease the worrying, which leads to my never-ending battle with depression, I shall try to be more positive and make this 15-minute habit possible. I am not one to consult a self-help book, because I have only Tina Fey to guide me, but I am willing to do this, and the first step is always the trying.


I need to make a mental note that I shouldn’t try and disprove this method. I need to believe in a method. Besides, this is from Huffington Post, why would they mislead poor me?

So this marks the days of being worry-free. Well, worry-free outside of the 15 minutes per day. Also the article recommends other things that positive people do that negative people just do not do, some mainly due to acquired attitudes, but the will is strong and I am flexible, and if this doesn’t work there are other ways, and there are drugs and mental facilities. So I shall not worry!

Monday, April 14, 2014

This waiting game.

Last night I slept soundly. I slept through the Monday morning, past the sunrise, past the rush hour blaring outside my windows, past everything ungodly in the morning. I started at around two in the morning and decided to finally accept the consciousness at 12, and even then I wasn’t ready to get up. I finally did get up at around one in the afternoon. It had been a really slow phase, like I was waiting for a jolt; it felt like I was the only person in the world entitled to wait on a Monday morning, and no one waits on Mondays.

I did this because I had nothing waiting for me. A Monday morning free from the rush, and I was the only person not doing it, I was decidedly on slo-mo, thoughts and all. It was like a push-button setting made for me and I was the only one. The. Only. One. While everybody was at work, carrying out orders for an empire, I was in bed, slouched forward, craning my neck, staring at the wall facing the foot of my bed, endlessly trying to plan something, but failing to have something materialize. This start-fail exclusively happened in my bedroom, in my bed, with me in my underwear from last night, surrounded by the geography from the many hours past: wrinkled sheets, a blanket spread-midway, damp pools of saliva, and three pillows as margins to the chalk-outlined sleep scenery. In this scene, the only question that gets an answer is whether I should sleep some more, because what else is there? Work emails? Annoying.

So what else was there? There was nothing else. No one was available. It was a Monday morning. What was to come? Many things hatched this morning. Again, a Monday morning. It felt like an especially fast part of the day, because it was a Monday morning, and in contrast, my life felt especially slow. I was a contrast to the pace –a pace I used to be in tune with. Just last week I was alive with the prospect of doing something, practically anything, and no matter what time I got home, I was ready for something. It didn’t matter then if there really was something, only that I was ready.

And then this sabbatical sort of thing happened and I’m here, my insides quickly accepting the vacant week ahead. I want so badly to do something, but there is no intensity in that need. Because the passport renewal I need to go to next week is the only thing standing in between me and my work, and until I have a renewed passport, I will not be able to work, even for just office duties.

I want so badly to have a short term goal for the next few days. I have nothing planned, except for the renewal appointment, and then nothing, nothing. Not a thing. And now I am typing without even thinking and the people might be thinking I am just pretend typing but hey I am really typing something.

Not working might have driven me closer to the edge and I am sorry this is incredibly sad and stupid. Gosh.

Why do I even bother chronicling this? I am being unfair to the days when things have actually happened, and were good. I am just mumbling about not doing anything.

I am mostly worried, yes. But maybe also I am berating myself silently for miscalculating the date of my passport renewal. So yes I might be mad at myself for failing to do something a child would have had no hard time with. Was it my choice? No, of course not and also this is why I am fuming. I wasn’t neglectful, I even planned it, and I just counted the months backwards incorrectly. I should have renewed a month ago. See this is how I find myself so easy to hate: I overlook details, and now I am freaking out.

To offset my stupidity I chose to have the renewal rushed, but the date [see above], is just too late. I tried looking for people who work in the passport renewal place, but no one I know knows anyone who does. And the ones who have had gone through renewal before, they say that the date I have is okay. It’s the earliest possible. So I’m here waiting, without anything urgent, without flying hours and ergo, no money.

But the thing with money is, I do not want to worry about it like any ordinary working person. I want to brush it off and if I should scrimp, so be it, and it wouldn’t be a problem:  I am resourceful. Maybe. This hasn’t been proven so it might happen or fail, but I like to think money is just a thing not all people need, and not all people should work for it. Maybe I want something that makes me happy not only by making me rich. How noble. And how hip.

This is temporary.

This is temporary.

This status is temporary. You will think about the positive things, which won’t be hard because this situation has more good than bad. You haven’t lost your job, no one is really mad; no one deeply hates you as a person. They respect you for your issues and how you choose to deal with your emotions, however hard it might seem for you to control the level of your volume, and how moderation is lost on you.

You’ll get over this. And you have plans of moving onto something you will be much appreciated not for your smile but the skills you know you do best, these that make your heart sing; these things that make you feel whole, and make people genuinely feel good for you because you are damned good at it.

Have your coffee or your tea, but into your croissant, go on. No one is pressuring you. The only thing you’re waiting for is the right time. No time to stay if you think you’re stuck or going to spend a lifetime getting stranded, plane to plane, in between flights, the delays, the people, the bosses, the voices –everything about and around this is temporary, and so is this sadness. This depression is crucial. This pain will make you better and it will do its best to heal you, for all of the things you think you lack, and the deficiencies your superiors keep seeing in you. Make this depression your determination. Turn it around and learn to tune the negativity out, because what is a life spent in absolute gloom? No fun.

You will have the schedule, no need to hurry it. And besides, you did your best. No one can do anything about that now.  Just chill to therefore live this break because you need to feel that you deserve it, and no one can take away what you have been blessed with, and this break has been given for you to enjoy, and think about your life. Do not freak out about going back, or even about going away. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything is going to work out well, because you’re smart, and you think about things and you have your prayers.

Just relax, do not think about Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or any of the weekdays. This is a special week for thinking; no one is asking anything of you. Just have fun and take your mind off work and it will all fall into place. 

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

On being alone. And the beloved Marshalls.

I can never have so much solace. And my walls are never high enough, and I cannot keep people from peering. It’s not the judgment I am most afraid of; it’s the presence or people I cannot stand. Parties drive waves of anxiety through me. So on my next birthday, i want everybody to shut up about my birthday.

Also because I hate my own birthday.

Recently, I have been spending more time in my second home, Kalibo. It is more economical to just stay there, spend the time at home, in the small municipality of Kalibo, and watch the cows graze. I’m kidding, there are no cows, but there are not many cars, either. The more times I call Kalibo home, the closer I get to being less sick of it, and this is natural. Last month I spent a straight week in Kalibo, working. Then I got sick, so I went home to Manila. Then I went back to kalibo. I got sick again, but this time after two weeks. My housemates are the kind of people I can stand. It’s a community inside the dorm, and wherever there is a community there is politics, and politics means dealing with people, which I always try to avoid.

Then there are the people at work. For a very plain, obvious reason that might render me jobless, I won’t say anything more.

This is why I always have to have earphones.

And here we go about the earphones, my music –meaning, the kind of music I listen to, and the isolation.

About a month ago I got myself a pair of Marshall earphones. These are expensive earphones, and it kind of hurt buying them, and it was kind of an impulse purchase, and not even my best friend telling me I could get a pair as good with so much less money slowed me down. It was there, in front of me, in its recycled carton box, with all the multilingual glyphs, the drawings, and of course, the instant connection. I have never felt anything close to that feeling: love without lust. Should a man gamble? Always.

Again, expensive. It set me back 3,450php (around $78) but wow the music feels so much livelier, and the booms keeps me from dealing with people. Earphones have that ability: to keep people you hate from interacting with you without them knowing that. The pair I got is colored a beautiful virgin white, with gold accents, and a tangle-free fabric cord with a remote-control that can be used with the iPhone. What followed were days full of joy –listening to every track was like listening to them for the first time, and then I understood the thing people say about falling in love the second time. With this new barrier I can now separate more myself more efficiently from the living and enjoy my music at the same time. You might say it was for a price that I now have this capability, but my peace of mind is priceless. And with this most recent acquisition I am more at peace with myself, with more tolerance of everything that is happening, and this brings me more joy, more than anything else. Sorry I cannot help but rave about it.

The bass is explosive, and the layering of the beats I now recognize. My apple earbuds cannot do that, and I doubt the new earbuds by apple can compete with my Marshalls. The fabric cable wrapping is extremely gorgeous, although it means I cannot eat whilst listening to music, for fear of stain, but who does anyway?

Sunday, March 2, 2014

When will I stop smelling like cigarettes.

When will I ever be able to stop smoking, now that I have been used to it, and it has been providing me senseless relief for the moments where I think I cannot bear to look at how senseless everything is? I feel thoroughly disconnected, the people do not make sense, do not come through; experiences require more exertion but stay only transient in my mind; even the books I read do not make sense and the words feel like bullets –they go in fast, punch a hole on a surface and go out, not with any sensation, leaving a blank. I feel like endlessly floating and the reason for this, I just cannot figure out, so I cannot proceed to dissect.

I only know how it feels like, and this longing could be making me sadder.

Again, I live inside my head. With this profession I have signed up for where people constantly surround me, expecting attention, I break down. It feels like my kettle whistles the soonest, almost always. I am not sure if this is just how I am, or if there is something underneath this temperament of mine. I might be just low on patience, but I’ve counted some instances where I wasn’t at all quick-tempered, but then again, it could just mean that I haven’t given the pressing situation any proper amount of attention before deciding to brush it off. In this manner that I vacillate endlessly from being too anal about details, and then suddenly not caring, and then I start self-diagnosing myself with schizophrenia, or a chemical imbalance up in my head, although everybody knows how self-diagnoses go: most of the time they aren’t accurate, and they aren’t even worth thinking about. There goes my self-diagnosed hypochondria.

Suddenly I am all well.


I think sometimes about how being happy with one’s own life. How does ‘not working a day in your life’ happen when one has found a ‘job one loves’. Do I hate what I do? I am okay with this, but not through the roof, head over heels joyful. Did I dream of this when I was little? No, honestly this works against what I believe in: a premium on the superficial qualities over all the other existing human attributes. I would say though that people in this industry value industry, but then that is applicable to all forms of work.

It crosses my mind to have a positive opinion of what I do due to the reality that this is a job many people want. And even among those who get in, a little more get scraped off the top because they realize they cannot take how the industry behaves. So I have lasted almost two years floating, hiding from the sad reality that I am just in like with this, and far from being in love. But still I carry this like a shiny badge, and more often than not, it speaks for me. The title speaks not in volumes, but it supports my attitude, and it lay down groundwork for any future elbow-rubbing, and then some.

But really how would it feel to do what one wants? Not a job he thinks he might fit in well, but one he would dedicate his whole life to?

Without skipping a beat, I would say that I want to just write. Anyone who hears about it says it is not lucrative, and I’d be poor. Will I reach a point where I’d have to sell my things? What would I do without my shirts, some of them I haven’t even worn yet? Well, I could write about having to sell them, on a piece of paper, with a pencil, back to back. Paper could one day be expensive. But of course I’d still have my laptop with me, but i wouldn’t be able to turn this thing on without electricity. It will be rendered useful only for sentimental purposes.

Maybe life is good, however bad it is, because this evil inside of me keeps me writing, and I hope to have something else to write about in the future, and I’d like to be more productive. Flights always drain the hell out of me, that all I want to do is literally decompress after a day of cabin pressure and people who keep thinking they got inside an all first-class aircraft. If you have been my passenger at one point, and I refused to give you orange juice, it was because we didn’t have any. And thank you for asking if there is anything else other than water and coffee and looking incredulous when I said no, because, really, if we had any on board, I’d be offering it to you to stop your kid from crying.

 - JCS

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

I am Albert, and I am always in my head.

I am Albert, and I am always in my head.

They lap at my feet, these waves of sadness, and all the other things my mind occupies my existence with. I think I am not willingly doing this to myself, and that my mind is trying to tell me something. More than trying to stop me from thinking straight and living my life functionally, as this is how I have initially felt it does to me, it might also be telling me something. It might be telling me to let go of the unimportant things and write something. Because writing is my way of speaking to myself. It is weird that I have to write it down and then read it to myself in order for me to get it, as opposed to how normal people do: just think about it, then do it. while it doesnt bother me to have to take this long process of writing to publishing in order to banish some demons into the far end of the universe, and it actually feels nice to tap a keyboard keys, and i think i look nice having a thinking look on my face, it requires equipment to do and i always seem to be busy (to myself, at least), and so i always put this off. 

I have a lot of handwritten notes to transfer, but most of these sentiments don’t matter anymore because they are done being current –in my life, I mean, but were helpful when I had the need to read what my mind has burned onto paper, electronic or not. I have gotten over some issues long before, thanks to writing. When you live inside your head most of the time, like I do,  the only way to clean where you live, and straighten out your furniture, --truly clean up, is to write. When you finally lift that carpet and turn on that vacuum cleaner and try to swerve that head side to side, wider and wider you go, until your arms hurt and your OCD has stopped commanding you to try and rub the concrete off the floor, the world finally is a better prison to be in. I have done that many times. Like how I would untangle my earphones multiple times per day, I try to recapture my peace of mind by speaking –or, writing, to myself.

These waves of sadness, I have had these before i dated my ex, and way before that. I might say that I am perpetually depressed: all the world is never an endlessly happy environment. After my latest break-up, I was not sadder; I was just normal, just mellow. Because I was maybe familiar with the concept of being sad, and that happiness is just as fleeting as the occasional drop of caramel swirling in my mouth. It isn’t often that I get to taste caramel, and it is also infrequent that I am happy, or thinking about how happy I am.

Because happiness is temporary. It ends. Not even longer than a quarter of any considerable unit of time. It comes, it goes, and is replaced immediately by my mellowness, which isn’t sadness. I would describe my being below-happy as being totally in touch with life. How else would I be able to deal with life, and exist as myself to others without being the quintessential wet-blanket? The devil’s advocate? The worrisome, ever-doubting, almost-always-second-guessing-himself weird nerd? That might well be my role to the world. In the future I might find myself in a different disposition but today I cannot help being this way. Do i dare try psychoanalyze myself? I would, and I have, and I always come to a conclusion that while I am not as happy as my peers, I am a bit smarter because of my ability to see the proverbial rose-colored lenses. I see the world ending as it is, with all the colors fading as the seas try to eat up the surviving land-forms. And I try to speak my mind and I have seen the faces of those who have despised me for being myself, it had never crossed my mind to change my opinion. I might have modified some words to suit the common interest, but the endpoints exist. And it isn’t as if I try to diagnose an end to everything: I give the brightest glimmer of optimism when it is foreseeable. As with everything not yet doomed, I am optimistic about all things and trying is, in itself, capable of all the merit if it goes into the lifelong annals of learning. Hence, to try and fail, and in failing, did so graciously, it is a thing to be as thankful for as a successful attempt. Have I displayed my optimism well enough and totally convinced myself of my not being the saddest person alive? Maybe. I am feeling better already, and for this capability to write I am thankful. I am not the best, but I convince myself every single time that I am. Which explains why I am always so smug, and also why people at work hate me, and this goes way farther up the list of reasons why people hate me, because people see it from afar, before they hear my overly opinionated view of how things are.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

An 'I am so so sorry' Letter.

Again in the tradition of all socially appropriate things, i am writing this little note to you to say sorry for being that bad influence. I have been bad and i mainly had no great intentions in wanting you to participate in what you and i have done. It was selfish of me and i hope you forgive me and i hope he forgets. Although i seriously doubt that he'll ever forget, and so i hope he is not plotting to kill me. I am not the most likable person, yes, but i am also not deserving of death for whatever reason. I didnt even finish, and you didnt as well, so i deserve some sort of leniency.

I have been missing you and i do want to finish. The both of us know the things i want to happen and youve made your terms known so i think we just need some more time and a lot of caution if we're willing to do what we have planned earlier when i was speaking to you.

It is not my business, but you do not deserve to be tracked and followed. I am hesitant to lecture you about the dynamics of relationships because i am not the best person to ask. Actually i am the worst. But you deserve his trust. Or at least you deserve your own peace of mind.

I want this setup to be clean: you stay with him, i stay on the side. I am being weird about this, right? I want nothing close to a commitment. I want something else, and if you do choose me to be the kind of guy to fill the gaps you need filled, i'd be happy. I dont want carnal things, what i want is what nobody else wants, because no one understands. Well, you hopefully would understand, youve tried me.

On some level i know you'd set me aside, and then eventually forget, and i might too. Life might happen, but at this moment i want things to be the way i want them to be, and please consider, because not all the time do i get the things i want.

This is the perfect time in our lives to make mistakes. 

Sunday, January 5, 2014

The 2014 that is to be more disastrous than the past 365 days.

In light of the new year, and to be in tune with the society’s addiction to lists and improving, I have come up with some things that I shall do for 2014. The deadline is December 31st, 2014 and the list isn’t exactly done yet and it might grow a few more bullets in the coming months but I aim to do everything and I do not want to pluck a few items off my list because hey that is what a new set of days is about: to become better, if not a different person altogether.

Now I am not one for long-winded intros and bless me for being wordy if you think I am, but I would like to say that some of these items aren’t really entirely new, but I feel that they need to be done for the coming year and so here I go wrecking my life and earning a little more stripes until I decide to completely turn into a saint and be boring for the rest of my life.

1.       Drink more. Drink more alcohol. And more regularly.

Because a growing boy needs his nightlife and what is a night’s living without the usual binging and crazy blacked-out dancing? To answer that rhetorical question, my alcohol free nights in the past year were totally boring and I was much more reserved and life hasn’t really opened up then and now is the time to waste more bodily fluids through throwing up, sweating and just generally alcohol ingestion. To a healthier alcohol tolerance, YES!

2.       Go out more. More regularly.

This is obviously related to the previous item. Yes to more nights spent outside, more people to meet, and to a certain extent block out the darkness that whispers. I want to spend the year in darkness outside, and not inside my head, brooding in my couch, in my underwear, smoking.

3.       Have more meaningless sex.

Well, my first no-nonsense post. Chill the fuck out. I’ll have sex when I have to, with any number of people I think would be optimal to my need. And for the record, I haven’t done anything beyond a threesome, so chill the fuck out.

4.       Stay single.

Not because of the other resolution, but because I want to fucking keep clear of emotions til I am mature enough to keep my own sanity straight sailing, voluntarily. So no relationships, yes to more sex. With awesome good people.

5.       Read more.

I have started reading again in 2013 since the firework of a break-up. Consider this reading thing my most selfish resolution and I will definitely spend more on books, and despite my recent discovery of Uniqlo and GAP stores, more trips to Fully Booked to stock up on Palahniuk and Sedaris, and more hopefully.

6.       Have friends.

In my head, I know why I am talking about this, and there is no way for anyone else to understand the shitstorm to come if I decide to describe my loneliness and my love of being alone. But hey no one reads this, so I do not worry.

7.       I have no opinion about dieting.

I really don’t. I am average, I eat what I want. Don’t calorie count within a 300 meter radius.

8.       Also working out.

Maybe when in the future when I think I may have to.

9.       Try saving. Money. For vacations.

Because my last vacation was financially traumatic and I totally didn’t come prepared. It was all just four days beachwalking, binge drinking when the night came, and waking up at noon, and eating a little before walking along the shores again and waiting for the sunset. Romantic, a little bit, but the real fun was at night. The vacation left me poor, in debt, and a lot dehydrated. But it was four nights of pure alcoholic pleasure and I danced for the first time in my life, and while the dancing did nothing to instill grace into my moves, being punch-drunk and not caring did make me feel normal and less of a wallflower.

10.   Maintain anonymity.

People freak me out. Anxiety attacks left and right. Don’t.

11.   Be lost. Somehow.

I would prefer geographically, but if the world wants another form of lost-ness then I am all for it. Just as long as I don’t get cold, I shall be alright.

The usual loss of guidance.

And another general update.

So there was something last night. Beer and soju and a headache so bad I could have been bleeding from my forehead.

Prior, even before having my first sip, it occurred to me that the lives of these people around me, big and small, wouldn’t be the way they are that night, or for their whole lives, if I hadn’t been born. Or if maybe there are two of me, which could mean worse. Not saying that the states of lives the world over is dependent on me. Not on my life alone, but everyone’s. This is one of the things why I am an outsider, see.
To expound, if there’s a timeline with a predetermined number of people, and mapped out are their lives and eventual deaths, with all the lives interconnected. First theorem: each event that takes place is a trigger for the next, and there is a chain of events following every single event. Or a fanning out, like the mousetraps in Mouse Hunt. So starting from five separate events (geographically, for instance), each fan would start moving til midway they interconnect while on their own respective courses, and each interconnection would spark another trigger, starting a new fan. It all spreads and spreads until some die out, and some go on. Imagine soundwaves bouncing off one another, some blending to boom louder, while others get decimated to muter irrelevance til gone. Endlessly. Or maybe not.

In this model, I visualize how life is: an endless row of people. Touching each other.

And now that I have this in my head, I shall now put in effect my other theory: that it will be different if there is none of me: and if there is another one of me, the same annoying me.

Of course, if I were to be taken out, my spot would be blank. That’s the first thing. If there is a gap, a blank area, there would be nothing there to pass onto what ever the wave preceding is carrying, and therefore,  the triggers waiting for the pass might get a different pulse, maybe weaker. This notable weakness in a pulse would correspond to a weaker subsequent wave, and compared to IF I were there, there’d be a fade, and eventually, an event at a farther end wouldn’t be reached, and therefore I am important. This is a nice thing to think about when working behind a desk, occluded by a pile of papers: “You motherfuckers wouldn’t wish me gone. No one would”.

In the long run, every single life is important, and this is why I have a belief in equality of intrinsic qualities. All that integral cog shit the movies are talking about? YES I believe.

So what if there were two of me. The points would be standing beside one another, and being of the same frequency, because they’re both me, a cancelling out would occur, most probably, somewhere far along the line. In my head it is an interesting pattern, and if I had the time and industry to draw and scan, I would make illustrations for all of my blogs but this is the real world, and I am the only one benefitting from this writing, and I think inside my head is the most effective whiteboard.

Anyway, there. A cancelling out somewhere, and interestingly it might mean a disruption, which is nice. Or an early death of both my energies, which would be sad. To cast it wider, and hopefully farther, I must be doing something for myself, something beneficial. To myself. To the world, it might be havoc, but the two identical twins do not care, theyre out to conquer the world.

Anyway these two separate theories are set in a complex universe where magic is possible, and destinies are stuck in place. This beats time travel, in my opinion, because you pluck out one person out of the general timeline, and you get to observe what happens next. For example, take out Adolf Hitler, and what would happen: exciting isn’t it? Or put two Mother Teresas. Or make two of your best fuck buddy, and see how that would play out.

In the end, im all for the fun of it all. Goodnight.