The Inflection Point

The year will be over in a few hours. I could care less.

You should know, just for the record, that I'm spending those hours deeply irked. See, I'm a kid with an extremely low shock of self-esteem. The loneliness that comes with being a kid like that consumes me.

And you can't put any sort of closure to that. There's no calendar to signify the end of it.

School's a big issue for me. Mostly, I think I'm smart but they think I'm just awkward. I've got friends and I'm grateful for them, but that's not an indication that I feel less alone.

I told my mom I wanted to transfer around a week ago. But she insisted I should stay. She said I didn't know how to adjust. I don't want to disagree with her logic of me being antisocial but for what it's worth, I only felt worse.

If my mom had wanted me to break out of the sphere of being cold at all, then she could have at least sent me elsewhere because that place known as my school leaves me with no growing room. I only learned to find reasons for abhorring my life and the people around me when I'm in that place.

And that's not good.

Suffice it to say, the only thing keeping me alive is the concept of having a "future". I'd like to think I'll get out of this hellhole for good. It's not going to be soon but I know if I hold on to whatever I have, it'll come eventually.

As early as 7 o'clock, I already hear the fireworks outside but I won't be celebrating tonight. Averting the revel couldn't possibly ruin anybody's New Year.

And like I said, I could care less about mine.

The Merrymaking

As per familial traditions, we had dinner on Christmas Eve. It was nothing extravagant. We were mostly feeding on stolen recipes from back issues of some culinary magazine.

But I had to ask myself what the hell I just did when I imbibed white wine. I only had very little of it but it stung hard. Maybe I was just too young. But it felt like I was choking on death. I spent a while trying to disgorge the fluids to no avail.

My mom just laughed. It was her idea to have me exposed to all those crazy concoctions. I laughed for the sake of laughing and then headed to my room. I don't know what was keeping me awake but I could barely lie down until around 4:30 AM.

I spent time reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. It probably is my second favorite book now but apparently, it was too short. It's a great piece of literature, nonetheless. It reminded me a lot of J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.

I'll leave out the part when I woke up and freaked out from all those carolers and their undying clamors for cash. But it's part of the occasion's revelries, I guess. I kept my frenzy to a minimal until they left (in dismay).

This is a brief retelling of the tedious occasion. It strays from the usual format of this blog but I'm not about to copy-paste it to any of my other blogs.

In conclusion, I think I'm happy.

(Although nobody reads this, I can't think of a better way to end this than with a greeting.)

Merry Christmas/Happy Hanukkah/Happy Holidays to all.

The Signing Off

Suddenly, I'm not in the mood. To do anything. To do whatever.

So, a good friend of mine accused me of something that's not a fact. I don't think it's true. I don't want it to be, anyway. Yet, she continues to assume. It used to be fun. We used to joke around about it and all. But the moment she put in 'seriously' in the conversation, I got pissed off. My mind was boiling up words, "you are not me and therefore you cannot always assume I feel like what you think I'm feeling".

I didn't say that, of course. Bottling up too much is my forte.

It's incredibly petty, I know. That is why I'm typing this, recording this... this whatever. I hadn't been this angry since God knows when. I just hope whatever this is would go away.

It doesn't feel good, much less does it feel right.

But, hey. I think I'm realizing the facts now. It had little to do with her accusation. It was her feeling superior, over my thoughts and my self in entirety.

I found that rude and although I hate to write like I'm writing right now (especially with her as the subject), I just had to state it in here. This is a different kind of anger. It's not that type of anger when all you want to do is kick concrete walls or listen to Emarosa.

In fact I don't think it's anger at all. I don't feel hostility but I feel the vehemence. It's deep in and is hard to define. I hate to think she feels it too. She just signed off without a goodbye.

I probably didn't state it right. I'm not exactly a master of conveying the emotions I feel and I apologize if this is rather incomplete. But I hope you did get a hint.

Because it hurts. It hurts a lot.

But more than anything, I am sorry.

The Concoction of Truth and Pretense

I am a compulsive loser. My inherent aptitude leads to nowhere but this insipid shithole wherein anything resembling happiness was mostly eradicated before my discovery, which, I daresay, is a little too deplorable on my part, considering how this labyrinth became the only place I was welcomed in for the most of my life.

And I hate it. I always will.

That was mostly an overstatement, yes. I can ridicule my situation well enough to the point that I sway the notions of what I have relating to whoever I think I really am. However, I don't confidently admit that I do have notions of anything related to who I am anymore. Doing so would make you all conclude that I'm more inhuman than an actual Nazi.

And I mean that figuratively. I always do.

This post was rather shorter than what I had in mind last night (thinking endlessly shuts my senses out, inevitably leading to a six-and-a-half hour's worth of sleep) but I'll conclude it here anyway. I still need to sever ideas for the next post.

So... I guess I'm off to dinner now.