Reintroduction

Hello again, dead arachnids in the imploding web. I think I might write in metaphors again, to reorient myself to blogging, which I plan to do more this month. That should reverse the fact that my life as a fourteen year-old has been ridiculously dull lately. I haven't finished a book since July and I have a stupid video out wherein I was dancing with my friends. I have never touched the topic of my wench-like friends, have I?

You are in luck, bug buddy. I'm feeling generous about my flashing spite. To the school's population, I'm one of those annoyingly 2-dimensional people which basically means that 1. You can make assumptions against me, and 2. Said assumptions can actually be both accurate and precise. The telltale sign for being 2-dimensional is when people have one word for you, be it a noun or an adjective, and it never changes.

I've forever and always been the quiet girl in AA. I'm that passive girl who'd rather get her wallet raped than be cornered in the CSS, and I'm that girl with the Stabilo highlighter you could use up as you please. I can walk around the school unaccompanied and I borrow withering books from the satellite library like that's normal. These are a few of the factors why I couldn't wait to get to college and dump this super-predictable high school suckiness. The things inherent to me attracted the shallowest sort of people in all of humanity, and these are my friends.

They've got minuscule versions of everything I hate, from sleazy pop music to poor social networking, and even severe cases of academic slack. Yet I still cling on to them because if I don't flaunt my awkward ass like they do, I'm left with nothing, no moral support and no ticket to see my Kapatiran sister and her crew. Inevitably, I question God if I'll ever be detached from Shaira's cobweb. I question God a lot but that's the resounding prayer. I'm not an existentialist but at the same time, I don't believe that God has some plan for everybody. My being with those wench-like creatures is purely the fault of human error and not God's will, like sin itself.

At least I've got one friend who agrees with me in all this. I'm glad to say that by the end of this month, if I move fast enough, I might add one more person to my list of one. I'd like you to know what makes her immensely and substantially likable but blogging about her would only decrease the possibility of her name taking up a serious part of my life so I'll cap this bottle of lonely merriment. In any case, it's a less Lady GaGa-like future I'm looking at.

Forget Yesterday

The best night of my life was exactly one year ago, in some place, in some city, with some friends, and some musicians. I've never felt as big as I did that night, and the least I could do is to commemorate it with a blog post, even if I seem to be the only one (of the four of us) aware it's been a year since we ran down escalators past the never-ending crowd of rabid fan girls to have a glimpse of the unattainable. I'm laughing at the memory. That was about the stupidest thing I got into last year, but at the same time, I had the most fun. We had the most fun and although a part two's unlikely and uncalled for, I'm all right with just the memory. Boys Like Girls got love drunk and All Time Low-ish anyway. I'll kill these hyperbolic sentiments. Just know that I'm not thinking about you while I write this post.

Still Here, Screenwriter

SHARING is not multiplication. Learn it from me, that fourteen year-old who joked about producing an electronic garbage mix mired by blunt sarcasm called "IKNOWRIGHT" with one of my friends, which actually led the both of us to bring up DJ AM yesterday, when he was still kickin' but I still don't care about him despite whatever happened to him; apathy for futile lives like these pill-taking and crack-whoring celebrities, be the death of me.

I thought I should tell you that I'm very stingy with my happiness. Having other people knowing what is up reduces whatever value that happiness is supposed to have. It's even worse when that privilege of happiness is distributed to a whole lot of other people. Isn't that the point of happiness? It's supposed to bring you up because it's all yours -- not bring everybody up and make you feel even less of a happy person?

All my Friday afternoons are booked for the same piece of poop. I should have corrected it when I sensed it but I didn't. Now I'm starting loads of imaginary conversations with myself, and all the people I want to talk to, but couldn't. Do you know that inside that empty room in the third floor, this AM is diminished into some 2-dimensional AM? Who am I to those people anyway? Am I just a wad of gum to cover up the wheel while they're in bad terms with Andie? What happens after they fix their petty conflict? Will I just be tossed around all the freshmen cliques to even the odds?

And what about Ate Meggy? She was my favorite person a month ago. I was always with my debonair friend then. Now, because my leg's been practically tethered to some person I want to be rid of, we're just faking Helen Keller all over the place. (3OH!3 is misleading you.) She's in the Edboard's court with the Paper-est of all people while I'm out there, stuck sitting with this suicidal person who was my friend. Two years ago, we had infinite phone conversations about God and elves. Now we're not conversing. She's dripping of what she calls depression and I was just there, trying to act normal when all I'd really like to do is leave everybody.

I thought the PAPER CLUB would help me develop, somehow, but they didn't. They are all I could think about and I happen to spite them all. I want to blog like I did in late July. I wasn't so specific about my life then, and it was readable. I miss this blog when I had a smaller life. I wasn't so aware of my 2-dimensional self. Now, with all of these diarrhea-marinaded things parading around me, I couldn't blog anymore. Let me play my life for a while. By the time I'll blog again, lots of inane stuff will be out of my life to make way for that one s-word.

P.S.
Who's the screenwriter anyway?

Golden

GOLD is the new SILVER. I'm moving on from my old journal. God knows whose hands have gotten hold of it. I don't want to know, personally. Ignorance is your new best friend. I'd rather forget and not slow down. Leave it at that. I don't want to know people are looking at me weirdly in the hallways because they've raided my journal. I'd rather just ignore everything that happened happened two Fridays ago. I probably wouldn't remember anyway; I didn't take note. Ask someone else, preferably that thief-bitch who still wouldn't unveil herself.

(No, really, it's maddening.) Today's the last day I'm spending with a window seat in the classroom. It's worth a tear or two. The window has been good to me for around three hundred ninety-two days. God, those days were weirdly awesome in comparison to the present. Now it's time to move on to some windowless seat, where I'm in the middle of two humans, one of which is the Decaydance girl. That weird D-word isn't a derogatory term, just so you know. Think Hey Monday. Think Cobra Starship. I'll just try to cope without that freakin' useful ledge on my left.

I'm enabling the comments, though I've got no use for it. MICAH does, I guess, and I'm not sure why. I'm inserting a side confession in this paragraph. I'm not quite trusting myself enough to write anybody's real name in my journal. I'm journal-writing with an audience, unlike how I used to. It feels rusty. Swallow these useless information while they're still up. I don't know if it shows but all my blog entries as of late are just empty. Help me pick up some thoughts?

Problem Enough

News editing is no joke, apparently. The least I could do to help the news editor is to stay up with her, until God knows what time, to answer all her questions about that stupid article of mine, which she's completely rewriting, as far as I know. I bet she gasped when I told her I'm under her department because I'm the stupidest news writer in the goddamned universe, and no editor in said universe would like to have me under their department. Am I even entitled to call myself that, a news writer? I'm just a brilliant mutt who passed during the day of try-outs, and thinks she's good enough to stay.

As for myself, in general, I'm still in my journal-less hell and I'm still not in speaking terms with the people I want to talk to, and I'm not quite sure why. One of them just went offline, as I was typing that goddamned sentence! Blog of the devil and the devil doth disappear, eh? I smiled when I saw her riding shotgun with the window down yesterday (or was it the other day) and now I feel stupid for even thinking I deserved to have seen her revealing her after-school gangster side. It was funny, at the time. Now I'm just dissatisfied with myself. Won't I ever rise above this sinking level of observing when I'm supposed to live?

My point is not understandable. Maybe that's why the news editor is still awake. Whatever the hell I did last month was in an alien language and she feared to be reprimanded by our moderator so she created another article, and named me as the author. God. I'm making her Senior year a lot harder than it should be. Well, I'm freakin' sorry. She's not the only one with problems. I have to wake up everyday as me. That's problem enough. I could have just been any person, you know?

I could have been more than this tiny speck I am. I could have been in England, or Brazil. I could have written better. I could have been less obscure. I could have made it easier for Ate Selena to fix my news article, at least. What did I do? I gave her hell through a goddamned e-mail. Her emoticons are disappearing. I think I'm gradually pissing her off. I'm not entirely convinced by what Sir Jaynos said this morning. Life is unfair, however you put it. I'm on its unfortunate side. I'll send a silent apology to Ate Selena. I don't think I can make it as far in the night as she could. I'm debating on whether or not I should say goodnight. I know my existence is giving her nightmares. I wish I'd been smarter, for her, but I'm not, and again, I am sorry.

So, in sum, I still hate my life, and I'm finding it easier to do that every day.

Entryless

I woke up, totally unkempt from minor depression, and thought too immediately that my mother found my journal in her car. That was the only safe place I could have left it in, other than in the confines of my bedroom. Unluckily, it was a receipt she found, and not my Monologue. Now I'm quite sure it's at school, or it was at school and is now idling -- entryless for the 14th of August -- on top of somebody else's desk.

I couldn't bear this. God, it feels like I lost a child, or a best friend. I don't know the last thing I wrote, nor the first word I put in it. I could take it as a sign to bury that old life and find a new one to document in my unused Moleskine, but it doesn't quite work that way. I spend at least half an hour every night, writing about that twenty-four hour shit we call a day and, certainly, that journal's not something to be misplaced after sixty-seven days.

I completely agree with Ate Meggy; life was hectic last week. Tests were handed out and although all my scores were good, I barely had time for myself, and I'm still a hideous kid tainted by social awkwardness. I know we're all twisted and handicapped, one way or another, and it's the prime source of our little tribulations. It's effing Yin and effing Yang. I just don't think I need my journal robbed to have the darker part of that circle filled in. My existence is already bad on its own and you'd know exactly why if you've been insane and avidly following my blog, which I don't think you should do.

My life is far less interesting than yours but those pages, I need them. That was my life taken away from me. You don't know crap about that because you don't keep a journal. Consider yourself fortunate and don't start one. However, if you do have a journal, then be inspired by my sucky situation and tell yourself that you have a lot to lose. I've got a lot lost already and the thought of anybody being able to use my life story against me flips my head like Satan's pitchfork would. I hope to get it back before it further ruins any side of my life, or other people's lives.

Definitely Unsettled

I have a big problem I could share because you have absolutely nothing to do with it. My last journal -- the silver Monologue lined notebook -- is missing, apparently. Damn you if you think I'm calm. Every friggin' thing about my life since the eighth of June is inside that Moleskine knock-off. The worst thing about it being misplaced is that I know I brought it to school today. My stupid reason? I didn't write last night and I thought I could make up for it when I got to school the next day but when I arrived, I got my hands busy with a #1 pencil to sharpen my THE homework on perspective.

I don't want to enumerate all the hands who could be turning its pages right now. I hope she's somebody I haven't written about, or, at least, someone I've written good stuff about but I'd still rather have it buried under all the plastic bottle crap in the La Senza paper bag by the classroom's ledge. I already felt like dying when Micah figured out the link to this blog. It's like having her perforate a big bag of my secrets. That was the 16th of January. Now, on the 14th of August, with a journal I never meant any-freaking-body to see, I absolutely feel like dying, no joke.

The pretty notes I got from my Kap-sis were all in the pocket of that journal, along with the blue crepe paper somebody used to wrap my birthday gift. The souvenir I got from Talkyr, my favorite teacher, during the summer's probably also in that pocket. I even have a week's worth of allowance in it. Compiled on the journal itself are subtle hints of my most effed up opinions on most of my friends and quasi-friends, like Shaira's superficiality, to Pam's inner loneliness, and even updates on my pity party. I mentioned Paul Parlipiano's gayness and the person I stay up late for every night. All's lame and intimate to a certain degree because it's nobody's right to raid its content. Now I'm plain angry.

There's something about revealing too much and not getting ample feedback that makes the prospect of getting my journal back as bad as it is. This blog is proof. I'll leave my insignificant soliloquy at that. I woke up from a twenty-minute slumber and made this post but I still couldn't, for the life of me, remember how I lost that journal. I couldn't open my English book to study the different figures of speech or my Science notebook to go over Dimensional Analysis. The Quarter tests are on Monday and I'm not in a good enough disposition to study. I need my journal back. I need it back badly, lest this would be the prologue of my lovely suicide note. (Worry not; I'm only kidding.)

Stupid Gleemeter

I hate insolence. I hate it even more when I'm sunken. Now my mind's completely off because somebody was scintillating with pride while my left eyelid's still swollen from last night. It's the Gleemeter; I'm sulking at the bottom and she's rocketing up, up, up to immeasurable heights of happiness. I think this rendered good conversation impossible. Bad chemistry is bad chemistry. I swore to invisibility for the rest of this day. The same goes for any other communication medium. I don't want to talk to anybody.

I know she'd rub it in that she's winning this life game and I'm losing badly because of my light-headed friends and my general incapabilities. I wouldn't wait for her to indirectly attack me with my own predictions. I'm not as shallow as she might think. God damn her. Why did HEARTLESS PLANNER DUDE put the likes of her into my life anyway? I wish he never did. She makes me growl when I'm alone, out of sheer annoyance, and I'm sick of it.

I wish I could tell her this. I wish I could tell anybody this. It just feels like a felony, sometimes, when I tell people I'm down. I don't want them to think I'm turning to them for help. No, no. Even if people say they're going to be there when I'm in need (like the most adorable friendship cliché), I don't turn to them. It's not because I doubt them; it's just because I don't want to be a burden, which I know I will be when I initiate my whining process, be it through the phone, through messenger, or through actual contact. I'd rather have people dumping on me than me dumping on people. It's less of a drag. That's why I don't tell people much about the nitty-gritty of my life. What can my life possibly be to those people concerned, anyway?

That is all for this weekend. Wish my Gleemeter shoots up, and yours too. I still feel bad and I haven't talked to anybody outside the house but it will pass soon. I think my new theme is awesome, btw.

Duped and Dumped

So I looked into the PAPER CLUB's online log and realized that my article was stolen from me. I'm not referring to plagiarism, but somebody else wrote for the article assigned to me. Double assignment crap. In other words, I was cancelled out and at the moment, jobless. I'm the freakin' writer with no article, equally useful as a quintet with no piece or a mime under paralysis. I didn't do anything for this to happen; my life's HEARTLESS PLANNER DUDE did it on purpose. He's not God, I believe. God is gracious, but not gracious enough to give my article to somebody else when it's clearly mine.

Who knows how my article slipped under the EdBoard's radar? I sent it four days after it was assigned to me, and I know I sent it right, but for some effin' reason, it didn't land on the news editor's pile. All my efforts were duped and dumped. I think my days couldn't go on without me trudging through these petty hellish concerns but I'm not planning to assert myself to redeem my position and article anymore. Let it go that unfortunately wayward path. Life in the PAPER CLUB (and anywhere else I am) is rough because I fail at being your average Homo Sapien Sapien who uses a brain for decision-making and problem-solving. And what were those other things I had, cognitive processes? Bogus. I'm writing fake biographies instead. Shalom and screw you, ambitious journalism.

Nothin' Permanent

I can be the opposite of everybody. It takes more than just inactivity; there's really something about me I find weirdly fascinating. I have no permanent personality, no permanent dreams, no permanent talents, no permanent preferences, and no permanent set of friends. The contents of my biography would be too fickle for publication. One moment, I'm the little queen of my own world and the next, I'm alone in a crowd of characin fishes.

This is fascinating, definitely.

My life hasn't changed the way I want it to. I'm still sick of being scared of my favorite person. Last Friday was traumatizing. I did see my favorite person and she did thank me genuinely for what I did then but I was imploding with hate; the Paper Club is junk. The mods probably know it too. I still ask myself how I'd be able to get through approximately a hundred and fifty more Friday afternoons in the Paper Club. I can smell torture.

On the darker side of my current situation, my own commentaries regarding my life have slowed down. I haven't been journal-ing as much as I'd like to, and I haven't done anything I thought I would be doing by now, like asking my friends where the hell they all are because this day, as a whole, was pretty lonely for me. I've never quite gotten used to that.

So, are those words enough to make up my first post for August? Nothin' is exactly post-worthy. I know the organization and content of this post would get a zero if it were to be graded but I feel like sleeping. Right now. It's a Saturday night so I think I'm free to sleep at the time I'd will to. Tonight, it will be 9:30 PM. Goodnight and God bless.

Plethora > Publication

I'm editing my first article for the school paper at the moment. This will be the first time in approximately two years that I would be writing an official article alone, with absolutely no ghost edits from any sort of soul. I'd rather have said ghost editings. I'm having wild fights with prepositions right now and a ghost editor would have been able to settle things easier.

Where art thou, redattore del fantasma?

Honestly, though... I'd rather be skipping this article altogether. I'm not ga-ga over publication. The same goes for recognition. I throw away the school paper at the end of the year, regardless of me contributing to an article or not. (Actually, that's a lie. I think the papers magically disintegrate in my shelf.) I just want to give an impression to the likes of my faux sister that I'm capable, and not feel like a sciocco voluminoso all throughout the year. I know other people don't have to do that; they're looked up to by just being. Unfortunately or not, AM doesn't have that godly aura and she has to get her fingers a-typing.

But, he-dudes and she-dudes, if things go wrong with the article (which I'm anticipating as it looks a lot worse than it did last night, and last night's was just a draft), I'll always have this blog. I wouldn't have to worry about editors or mechanics or psychic moderators, or even the inconsiderately assigned deadlines because, in the simplest terms, I'm the freakin' ruler of this blog. I might be ruling over a bunch of empty words but I am still the ruler.

I'd honestly rather have a month's worth of good blog posts than an article in the paper. The school paper's pretty incomplete anyways. We don't even have an editorial page. Isn't that vital for newspapers? I don't want to bring up the issue of freedom of speech but other clubs can say whatever they want and nothing will be taken against them. *ahem*

I don't understand what I'm trying to put here. I don't know whether I hate the Paper Club or not. Oh well... Tomorrow, I shall confirm with myself what the hell I'm really trying to point out. Goodnight and God bless.

Not What It Seems

I was making a blog post last night but more drama happened. I know this is nobody else's business, seeing that I'm the only one who knows anything about the issue in this post, but I couldn't get myself to open my journal and stain my Ju-ju 23rd post with one loaded with swear on the next page. It's rare that I use swear words anywhere and I don't want to reverse that anytime soon.

Your dear friend AM's ought to be asleep by now but she had a minor breakdown at midnight and this other person who may or may not be her is blogging. AM can't sleep and she's pissed. She thought, for exactly thirty-seven days, that maybe she's finally done something significant, something worth mentioning and something worth hearing, but she didn't. And now she feels turd-ish, in tame terms.

I secured myself a year inside a garbage pail with an exaggerated estimate of a hundred people, seventy-five or so of which were rejects from all the other clubs, most notably the Photography Club. I exerted a whole lot of effort into the article I wrote to get into that club but, considering the overpopulation in a club with its maximum members set to twenty-five, it all just seems like a big piece of poop I treated like gold.

I was sitting there, in some desk in IV-5, and I was surrounded by Photography Club rejects. Joining that newspaper club wasn't even in their list of options and yet they were there, as though they did anything and passed. I went through the goddamn needle's eye while they just flowed in and flocked in like some polluted tide. I have zero personal grudges against any of them. In fact, they sit beside me in class. It's just that they don't like the club yet they're all there. It's been proven a million years ago, rotten produce induces premature rotting to other produce.

Do I have to mention the three Year I cliques in the club? This felt a lot like my summer enrichment programs. My mind-set was objective, and I brought none of my friends along. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to. I was the only one who did that, apparently, because I did not expect the possibility of this club being the first real mistake I'll make in high school. Seriously. It's my sick, sad life to flock with people I don't get along with in anything.

As I've mentioned a couple of posts back, my favorite person is in the same club and committee as I am. I'll be seeing her more than I need to. The worst part is she's part of the Editor board and I looked like one of those who did not plan for joining the club. Shame on me? I hid behind the Photography Club rejects (and these are lots of backs) when she came around, which happened twice. I'm that big of a coward and I absolutely hate myself for falling short of her expectations. I think I gave her the wrong impression of me. I rounded the whole school campus after my horrid time in IV-5 just so I could talk to her personally. I didn't find her. But I did see SMUG instead, three times.

You just don't know how happy I was when I got accepted. Now I feel like I've lied. I feel like I rejoiced for nothing. This is what you call moral degradation. That was the first thing I remembered as I woke up. I wished the ceiling would collapse and kill me. I'm no good in anything anymore. All the rejects ruined the value of what I've been wishing for since fourth grade. See? I'm spoiled and rotten now. The only thing I looked forward to in High School is hell all over, and it wouldn't go unless I go. I don't think I'd like to live with this anyway. Who said I'd have to?

(She's a psychological mind-flip. She has to know what I'm talking about without going to this web page. I hope she can read my head because I'm serious and the Softball Club's still open for new members. I need my contract back.)

Fourteen?

SMUG had an inspiring comment... inspiring enough to make me blog on my special day when I swore not to make one. I know I'm murdering my grades. Don't preach. I just thought it weird. Today and the day before this was impossibly nice, whatever the word "nice" might mean. I don't think I've been this happy for two consecutive days. I'm right; maybe it's the birthday streak of luck.

I just owe it to each one of my friends, from SMUG, to my faux sister, to that girl who thought I write poetry (which I don't), to Girl Trouble 1 & 2, and even to that girl who helped me pick up my candles when I dropped some of them. She's the closest I could find to a modern-day Good Samaritan. I think she and I haven't talked for four years, and I find it quasi-unbelievable how she cared enough about me now that she's some kind of... something I'm not quite attached to. (I'll share with you a stupid and one-sided theory regarding flocked feathers in a couple of days.)

Anyway, I'm more than happy. I had no specific wishes but if I had, they probably would have been answered by the awesomeness of today. I mean... this Ju-ju 23rd was the best Ju-ju 23rd yet. It's awesome; I think I might dream of DEVILS and blah-blah-blah. You wouldn't care about my birthday anyways. This post isn't worthy of the bills your dads pay for. Clows thees weendoh end nevuhr veeseet thees peyj agen. I won't mind. I've got school and too much of it, at that. I was just told by SMUG that the Math HW isn't too friendly and we've got double period Math tomorrow so I'll probably leave now. Goodnight.

P.S.
Birthdays make one fly.

P.P.S
My birthday made me fly.

P.P.P.S.
Thank you to everyone who made this day. Hardly anybody knows about this blog but at least I've mentioned it. It makes it true-er.

Healthy Investment

The weather's hellish (assuming that it precipitates wildly in hell everyday) so classes are suspended for the 17th and the 18th day of Ju-ju. Hallelujah-hey! Even the planned Saturday classes were terrorized by the storm. The chappie test in Math will be postponed for at least one weekend, along with my anticipated low test score. Double Hallelujah-hey!

The only sucky thing about the stormy situation is that I'd have to wait another seven days to have a humane conversation with my favorite person at the moment. Friday afternoons are the only fixed time in the week I'd get to talk to her without being pressured to say goodbye within ten seconds of us meeting but the weather speared that chance. The only other way I could converse with that kind creature is through instant messaging, which is a pretty impersonal alternative but it's better than nada.

So I'm also through with writing my story regarding the princess who thought she'd been pregnant for five consecutive years, only to find out she gave birth to a shard of diamonds formed by all of her subdued emotions. She's reclusive like Boo Radley, you see. The main difference is she adored the nightsky. So, to cut the scientifically baseless story, the diamond cut through her uterus and her knight buried her in the cave. And that's how diamonds came about, which led to a long history of African slavery or some racial controversy similar to that.

I hope Ms. Miranda would see through all my ambitious metaphors. Maybe self-deprecation could finally give me a grade. I swear I've been shoving it into people's faces all week. They must know that I know who I am. I'm not that oblivious. I'm not oblivious at all. No no no. I know the names I'm branded with and I'm not pretending my ears shut off every time anybody mentions those. So I'll just make a healthy investment and write stuff down, even if I'm a dull writer. I semi-strategically signed up for news solely for that reason.

Well, goodnight to whoever's out there. I hope all your lives are going well. I hope you're doing better than just okay. I mean these wishes. I don't want your lives to suck. You probably deserve to be happy. Support Harry Potter, by the way. I vaguely remember reading the sixth book when I was... ten years old?

I'm not about to recount the years of my youth. I might as well just reread the book while I'm taking a break from David Sedaris. So, as I was saying, goodnight.

Time-muncher

I haven't found the time for blogging anymore. School life is a total time-muncher. Om nom nom nom. Every second is a drag, and a reminder that there's still so much work to do. It's only been one month but already, we're hunched with schoolwork. I hope I'm subconsciously exaggerating but you know nothing about the agonizing staircase in the high school building, or the English teacher who alters the pronunciation of scarce every year. (And I'd bet she wouldn't interpret Shakespeare the way she's paid to do.)

I've absolutely no time to draw conclusions from my hypotheses. I hope that side of me won't be shaken by school. That defines who I am and without that, I'm a zero to the left of a decimal point, or insignificant, in non-figurative words. Once I return to blogging, I'll construct more word walls. With or without sense, I'll build those and secure my one-member niche.

Maybe I'll get to grow while I'm in my blogless life. I'm sick of this soliloquy anyway. Wouldn't it be nice if I get back here with new lives, new stories and new styles? I always promise myself that but it never happens. I'll make sure it'll come to life this time. Here's a quick goodbye because dreamworld is calling me, at... half-past nine in the evening?

I've a newfound sister, by the way. She's the nicest person I've met, and we're both journalists for the school paper. I hope you'd get to meet her too, even if it's far from the realm of possibility. She's who I want to be like three years from now, and she makes school seem a lot less like Gehenna. Perfect person, FYI and IMO. I just thought I'd mention the existence of these kinds of people.

I'll be back soon enough. Pray time will sharpen my head. :)

Quoteskine

Hello again, my "partially existing" friends who may or may not be genuinely interested in my life. I'm coping with mathematics and I've mostly been evading my quasi-friends. Everything's very definitely okay, except that I haven't got a topic for my wordy blog and it's been six days. I have more or less 120 hours left until our school's completely sanitized from what is now called the Hamthrax. I should make the most of my time in the imploding web, eh?

I wouldn't ask why you still read my blog despite all my lame excuses for less-than-intriguing posts when there are inextinguishably fascinating things out there, like TMZ (if you're a stupid quidnunc) or NYT (if you're a healthy quidnunc), or MTV (if you don't know what a quidnunc is). Maybe you feel obliged to be in this blog, or maybe you're just very condescending. Personally, the reasons wouldn't matter. I don't want this to be another case I'd have to overanalyze. I already have my life to deal with, and my homework too.

One privilege I have as a human being with a functioning mind is to not ask other people stuff that might eventually make me feel bad in the long run. I think I have a privilege to not answer people's questions too. My point is just this, answers come up only after questions are asked. It's not an advice as profound as Gandhi's but it's practical. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Probably the same group of wise men made anonymous by time also said the truth hurts. Better not doubt their logic.

(Onto a semi-topic...)

I've only mentioned my Moleskine addiction to one person, and that person, being a self-centered cretin, wouldn't choose to remember. I'm not too suprised; the things that make me up aren't worthy of their own room in anybody's memory but that doesn't kill my addiction for these classy and overpriced notebooks. I perused an old summer friend's blog a few days ago and found a link to this Moleskine-related blog.

Apparently, in Tumblr, you're encouraged not to blog, but to reproduce the posts of pop culture freaks and/or wannabe propagandists until you see nearly the same posts in your blog and your friends' blogs. The worst part is you can't justify your text unless you tweak your layout's code, which seems pretty tragic in the point-of-view of somebody who insists on making long paragraphs every durn time she makes a blog post. Now look at this picture I'm reblogging from Quoteskine...

...and tell me Nick & Norah didn't come across you head when you saw it because it did to me. I had a realization about my being a careless dupe, immediately after. It was Charlie's. It only occurred to me a few seconds ago that the text written in purple would make sense on its own. I think my cranial nerve II's malfunctioning. Maybe this was what my mom was pointing out when she said games like Tap Tap Revenge make people significantly dumber.

So that's all the drivel for the first day of Ju-ju. I call it Ju-ju because July happens to be somebody's birth month and Ju-ju is a good way to commemorate and acknowledge the baby lisp we all had. Oooh-gagaaah! I don't think I have to point out that I didn't have a particular direction in this post. It's not so bad to be free from my icontractedmalady tether, by the way. I think it's healthy to stray from my resentment-filled posts every once in a while.

Don't you think so too? Goodnight and God bless.

Subconsciously Glued

I'm almost done with the plethora of homeworks for the thirteen days of school suspension, many thanks to Swine Flu. (Almost being approximately 65%, which mathematically isn't nearly enough to be considered almost, but still.) I'm doing everything from Algebra to Punctuation Marks with half a brain and truth be told, I'm not learning as much as the teachers would require but I'm rushing all of this for good reason. If I do it in this pace, I would have more time in the remaining days to look over what I could be misreading now. It doesn't make sense, I'm aware, but that's me and I trust me well enough to keep these habits.

And that would give me time to help others as well. I'm not volunteering myself to feed my quasi-friends with things I know they could figure out by themselves if they want to (which they don't) but it's not like I have other harmless options. It irks me to see my name in their chat windows because it means only three believably awful things. 1.) They need help from yours truly, and 2.) they'll close the chat window exactly after they get the answer because 3.) I'm more of a supplementary student-teacher than somebody worth talking to even if they spend a significant amount of their time sitting and dancing in the ledge beside my seat.

I got myself into this cancer of being there for them in Mathematics and in Health (get it, no?) but I'm regretting it now. I wouldn't normally complain about helping other people because it feels glorious to be of help but it sucks when they become too reliant it becomes a lose-lose situation. Maybe this is the point when I declare to nobody in particular that I hate all these people I got myself subconsciously glued to. I swear to God, I just want to get to college and get a real life without having all of these people anchoring me.

Now what does that say about my youth? Or, for God's sake, my quasi-friends? You can go ahead and judge me for disclosing yet another another subdued emotion. I don't like the state I'm in anyway. You wouldn't, either, if some black magic happened and you became me. (Much to your horror, I bet.) There are just too many things that need corrections and sometimes I wonder if they're there to be corrected or to just be endured. Like bad friends, for the lack of an appropriate adjective. I don't know.

And I don't know what I'm talking about anymore either. I think I'm getting infected with the Larry Doyle Syndrome. Funny male author, he is. Har-har. By the way, in the conclusion of the semi-apocalyptic day that was the 23rd of June, I clearly remember a sentence our Algebra teacher left us with while our heads madly spun around the prospect of being in a Gehenna of homeworks for nearly two weeks. She said, "Do not live like Dracula." Now wasn't that just meaningful? I have a reason for ending this post and it's called sleep.

(I hope you forget ever reading this post because it looks like this would add to my approximately infinite list of regrets.)

Everyday Ellipses?

"...wouldn't voice out criticism..."

What I wrote in my journal last night was probably the weirdest, yet the most honest, thing I've written in my whole life. Remember the time I made a post addressed to Nobody Concerned and signed it with the wallflower-y thing? I did one of those again, with an addressee but without a signature. I figured, if I died anytime soon I might just have my journal sent to that person.

I just made up that decision ten seconds ago and I might still change my mind but the idea of that person unearthing what I buried in my journal seems fair to me. I'd like a day in the future when someone would actually understand why I do what I do or why I don't do what I don't do. The reason for why I act like this seems pretty clear to me and I hope it becomes so to that person, and a couple of others as well. Maybe they'd feel a delayed pang of regret.

I'm sorry to think the only way that would happen is when my soul's way up there or way down there. I don't know why I think about it this way. People are more forgiving after the end. That is why I don't want to have a funeral. Could I stand having my lifeless body displayed in a windowed casket for all these people who only decides to show up when I don't physically mean anything anymore? That desecration happened in my grandfather's funeral and I thought, what the hell is the point? I'll have myself cremated instead and I hope they distribute my ashes to the different oceans of earth. That would add value to my literal non-existence.

So as I was stating, I just had so much to say to one person in one day but I couldn't send my messages. The whole of me was just held back from what would have been the more productive thing to do. I don't know, I think I fear what that person would have to say back to me. Or worse, what if that person would have nothing to say back to me? I'd present a whole page of honesty and I'll get dead air? I don't understand the depth of everyone and I wish I had ESP.

Now wouldn't that be a lot easier for people like me who respond more than they talk? Instead of playing eternal charades with people and replacing everything I mean to say with everyday ellipses, everyone could just close their eyes and telepathically sort out the emotional clutter. But already, I know what you're thinking. The whole idea of it is stupid, isn't it?

This might be a little offbeat but the situation reminds me of a line from a book someone lent me last week. Your head is an orphanage for words. What kind of people thinks of these stuff anyway? I know this post has been long and dull. My mind's a little off. I prefer my previous post. It was all heart and no head. I know I need to make my point. I'll be posting this topic again in the future.

Mostly Robotic

...on the topic of Friday, I'm impressed with how everybody I know has decided on the co-curricular clubs they're joining. It makes me feel lost. I only have my eyes set on one club but what are the odds of me getting in there?

Fateful Fridays such as this day don't come very often, eh? I seized it with whatever I had and I'm happy for all that happened today. I swear, the moment I climbed up the agonizing stairway to the point I got out of the van was just glorious. It's weird how awfully defining this day was for every single one of the HS body. I realized one thing about me; I'm mostly robotic. Period.

But that's not what made my day postworthy. There's this person my friends "antagonized" because of her tendencies to bite backs. I never knew her apart from what I've been told by my friends so my brain was programmed to think of her badly as well but that changed when I felt drawn to group with her to try out for the Forensics club. Lord knows if that was the first time she talked to me but she was nice. Above nice, even.

Debating isn't my thing at all and with my bite plate, I refuse to put too much attention to myself when speaking. It's a skill, you know? But it's an entirely different thing when you're with this semi-stranger who you can talk with as though you grew up on the same street. I didn't take her as the type who would get into heartless clubs like Forensics, but the fact that she had interest in it completely changed my perspective of her.

She's definitely more than the gossiping biatch I was told of. She didn't lug around contempt at all; she had a kind heart set on debating. Who knew? I had to leave the try-outs before we started the actual auditioning process but I vowed that I would join her in next year's try-outs, even if debating's way out of my league. Her friends probably preferred mainstream activities like, I don't know, soccer, but I'll be more than glad to fill in the hole they opened feet-first. (Lame!)

I'm happy that we were friends even if it was only an hour. She probably wouldn't look at me in the hallways until next year's try-outs but I'm fine with that. I wouldn't bother saying hi to her anyway. Remember the clandestine wars I mentioned way back then? There are unwritten rules some people follow in high school.

I don't know if she passed the try-outs smoothly but she repeatedly said she wouldn't get in before she got the results. She wasn't the only one to do that. I jumped up and down beside the whiteboard in Year Three's floor to shake off my paranoia while waiting for my own set of results from the first club I wanted to join. My friend (some other person who did get into Forensics) and I couldn't console her properly but I do hope, until now, that she'd get into Forensics. I don't say or type this much, but she deserved what she wanted.

And she's determined. How many of the people in my batch would completely detach themselves from familiarity and friends and dive into risky situations that they may or may not succeed in? She showed perfect maturity and I really salute her.

Enough with the unnamed person worth respecting. I just haven't been this happy for non-malicious reasons. I think this year's going to be great, based on everything that happened today. And I think this post's long enough. I'm too tired to do anything else with this post. Maybe I'll add more useless information in the following days. But that's it for today.

And don't expect me to make sense anymore, by the way. Evolution says I'm turning into someone you wouldn't remember. I'll do normal posts from now on. The definition of normal varies from person to person. I don't want to explain. I just want to finish this.

Soul/Sense

I don't make sense anymore, as mentioned by somebody. I might be this insensible for the entirety of high school, who knows? Admitting my faults won't cure what might be called sanity but at least I know whoever's typing this post isn't who I want to be and isn't who I'll always be. That probably didn't even make sense either.

I don't know, is sense something you have to learn? Or is it just something that materializes within you, like the stuff puberty creates? Or are people just born with sense like they're born with tongues? I don't know which of the three is true as I simply don't have sense to figure it out for myself, but I hope sense reconnects with me. I feel almost soulless without it.

And since I've mentioned it already, I've realized some semi-philosophical love song that came into my head during yesterday's Music class. If memory serves, I first heard it while watching The O.C. about a hundred metaphorical years ago and then my mom got me Plans around two years after. It's Death Cab for Cutie's Soul Meets Body, if you haven't figured out yet, which I know you didn't.

If my calling's not on top of the Chinese highlands, I will be walking with the Vitamin String version of that song. I have this public dream I answer to everyone who asks and in it, I major in Psychology and do all those other mature psychological stuff like getting married. I wouldn't make six-figure but at least there's a little bit of happiness, right?

Wrong.

I don't know if it's proper to cut the post here but something amazing just happened and I'm too drawn to it to get back to revising this post. You don't need to be happy for me. Duh. But I find it amazing how much I've deviated from my normal self today. I could say, in my twisted language, than I became a more-than-minor mirage to at least one person. It's glorious. Seriously. Do something nice to someone and don't look back. Go all the way. Help until it hurts you. Help until you think you're acting out of character. Help until the other person leaves. God, it's the most amazing feeling ever.

And it doesn't need much sense. :)

Sorta Empty Post

I finished early with all the homeworks today and I thought I could bend my back a little more and have a post before I dive face-first into the vastly polluted ocean of pressure with occasional bubbles of har-har-har about twelve hours from now. That's a not-so-terrifying way of attempting to rename school but I'm wearing a shirt with a fish in it, and metaphorically speaking, I think I see me as that; we are all fishes. (Did I use the semi-colon right?)

I don't mean to make enough sense in this post to be considered normal. Let the fish metaphor sink in without meaning. (Ha-ha!) I'll have to admit I have nada worth posting about. I'm somewhat here just to say hello to this blog. Maybe I'll wait for Friday. But on the topic of Friday, I'm impressed with how everybody I know has decided on the co-curricular clubs they're joining. It makes me feel lost. I only have my eyes set on one club but what are the odds of me getting in there?

I'm a realist and that is all. I master self-deprecation when I'm not conversing with anybody. I can give you lessons if you want, but don't make me. That was lame, I know. Sarcasm's not my thing. I'm seriously quasi-kidding so don't think I'm some emotionally challenged self-hater. But I might need to go now. Who the hell knows what else I could rant on about IRL.

U, G, and H. I really think I'm gone now. I have no idea what I'm typing anymore. This train of thought was derailed from the start, you know? Ah, cliché. Whoever started that phrase anyway? I have a feeling it's a man. It's always men. See the abbreviated list of great people who aren't girls: Jesus Christ, No Name Plato, A. Einstein, I. Newton, A. Nobel, A. Capone, P. Gasol, J. Marsden, J. Green, B. Gibbard, C. Sugg B. Goodbye... By the way, to the person who continually asks what I'm doing, this is one part of what is.

Obviously. I'm not very goal-oriented.

All In the Eyes

The first three days of school weren't bad at all. I'm thinking this blog's more like semi-fiction now. I don't actually believe everything I blogged about over the summer because they didn't actually happen like I typed them in here. My current journal's just like this, a mid-size silver book of pretense. I know it's blurring reality but I don't do anything about it because I don't have to.

(Onto a real topic...)

I think it was lunchtime yesterday when I sat on the floor, and saw a weird picture of why world peace wouldn't come in this lifetime. There was a flock of people right in front of I-2's blackboard. I've known those people for years and I know I've never seen them all huddled together so close like that. Maybe their group's just one big tattered blanket woven with flimsy multi-colored (to the point of asymmetry) threads. Friends of friends of friends grouped together, in other words.

If I were to be a painter, I would spend years perfecting my portrayal of this scene. The whole thing is set in your average classroom during free time. Two people were dancing in plaid skirts like maidens in a musical. There's this girl with homicidal eyes behind them, a little detached from her own group, glaring at the dancing girls. They do look like madwomen for several obvious reasons but Homicidal Eyes made their dance look like a felony.

It was an accidental glance, how I've come to notice them. I'll see them in my peripheral vision wherever I look anyway. There's really nothing remotely funny or fascinating about it but the fact that I'm witnessing suppressed drama was worth posting about. I might just be making a big deal out of this but I just find it weird how people could act so self-righteous and disdainful over the innocence of others.

But maybe that's the whole point of it?

My dad's old self-help books were right. If you get the chance, look around and observe people's eyes, specifically the area from their eyebrows to their eye bags in a non-stalker way (if that's even possible). Just look in the eyes when they're not looking because that's the time they're not pulling off false smiles or p-p-poker faces. I know it's cliché but it's a reliable cliché.

That is all.

Social Climbers

My quasi-friends are finally coming around. It seems the only thing binding them to me is schoolwork, and a little bit of trash-talking. The latter's just one of the many woes about being a girl, and it's sadly unchangeable that every little flaw of a person has to be broadcasted and "har-har-har'ed" at. I wonder if they're really laughing. A large part of me thinks the trash that comes out of those people's mouths are induced by peer pressure.

I think they don't have their own opinions, those people whose tongues are bound to deriding everybody else. They just have a collective one and they stick by it because they could, and because it makes them feel good about themselves. High school's the time normal people morph into social climbers and I'm not surprised most people's way of talking merge into one big crappy spiteful dialogue with underlying messages of mockery, jealousy, infatuation, and general stupidity.

One other thing I couldn't stand is how they hunt people from the other gender and expect those people to like them back, online and immediately. Is that how it works now? It's like a subliminal type of prostitution, what they do to themselves online. I'm referring to a small group of my quasi-friends. They post stuff as a way of fishing boys. They did tell me these intentions directly and I don't think they even think twice about doing what they do.

Typing this post makes me seem like the loser, eh?

I seriously don't care about their standards, at least not right now. I have my own world and I think it's sufficient. I don't want to get into what the others mindlessly get themselves into. It's best to keep me as I am, anyway. I'd like to think I'm making my deceased grandparents happy by being who I currently am, some blogger who blogs with words and does nothing but.

It's just one year before summer starts again anyway. I'll be back with the CW crowd when April sets in. I vowed not to mention them anymore but I found our pictures somewhere stashed in the Internet and I don't know how to put into words what came into my head when I found those. I feel like they're not as real as they were two months ago. They just seem like spots of detail from the past, like leftovers in a dinner plate. It sucks that whatever I remember from them would be overthrown by those of the people from school.

I don't know why I managed to make a post this long (and true) but I have to settle in for the night. The day after tomorrow would be horrid. I hope I find a reason to say I made up all my thoughts during the summer because nobody likes them and I don't want to be remembered that way. Goodnight and God bless.

Summer's Ending

It's been raining hard around here (hence the necessary changes in my layout.) I don't know what on earth the lightning struck last night but I felt my wooden bed tremble. What time was that anyway? I stayed up for God knows how long waiting for another thunderbolt. I honestly didn't care if the world crumbled. I'm not even brave. Maybe I just don't care enough. By the time I was up, the sun was eerily bright. If I hadn't known any better, I would have said last night was all in my head, but that wasn't the case. The weather's just what it is, temperamental, like a lot of people I know.

And as the summer's ending,
The cool air will rush your hard heart away.
You were so condescending.
And this is all that's left:
Scraping paper to document.
I've packed a change of clothes and it's time to move on.
--"Photobooth" by DCFC

To add to the gloom, the summer's officially dead today. Weather-wise, there's not much of a change as it rained all summer. Everything-else-wise, it's just sad. This is one of the few things everybody in my messenger list would agree on. Summer is our time but it ends too quickly.

And because of that, I'm wrapping up my journals. I've got four pages left. I'll spend it fake-lamenting on how I wasted my summer playing one-sided hide and seek with some of my quasi-friends. I'm not sorry said quasi-friends didn't play along. I realized one thing last week. High school (and the people in it) wouldn't matter. At least not as much as college (and the people in it) would. Maybe some are more significant than the others, but on my count, some is just barely over five people.

It's my fault.

It's not my fault.

It's my fault.

It's not my fault.

Who's to say which is right? There would be a day in my life when none of these would matter. It might not be today but it'll come and until then, I'll try not to upset myself with brash posts like this. I don't know what I meant by that. Forget you ever read this entire post. I don't want to bother delete this as I've already typed a lot. And I bet this won't make a difference. Lots of my older posts look as bad this. Goodnight.

Denny the Pallbearer

In this post is a haphazard picture of a Gehenna-based fellow that might resemble what might turn up if I combine several friends and quasi-friends. It carries no meaning worth mentioning but I love the little irony in him.

I think he deserves a slot in Nickelodeon. Denny the Pallbearer. He'll ask help from the kids to bring the coffins of the newly dead to the cemetery, making a pit stop in hell, and teach cuss words with a mix of Pig Latin at the same time. (Oh shit! We just dropped his aggotmay-infestedway iverlay!) Maybe the kids would be less threatened by Satan and his minions in hell after a couple of reruns. He'll give Dora a run for her money and put Disney Channel out of business. You'll see him as a Trending Topic in Twitter and he'll be in Eminem's music videos.

And then he'll star in his own horror movie. He'd knife the antennas of the Teletubbies, peel off the Bananas in Pyjamas until their banana blood permanently stained their staple clothing, pierce Pikachu's cheeks with modified nunchakus, and then wipe the epic bloody mess with some jellyfishing sponge you and I probably grew up watching.

I am scaring myself more than I'm making sense, to be honest. The rain's louder than the earphones I'm using, and it's past eleven in the evening. And my octopus-loving dog won't stop barking for a reason I'm not planning to figure out. I've really got to sleep now and before the lights shut off like they did a few hours ago. Goodnight.

In Seven Days...

...I'll be back to wearing plaid skirts for another two-hundred-something days of unrelenting bitcheries, feral backbiting, and minor social anxieties school. I don't want to add posts to prove my exaggeratedly hostile views on high school since I already got my head badly tainted by the possibilities of metaphorical slow deaths in the crowded hallways during lunchtime. Unfortunately, though, I'm charmed back to all those grim thoughts whenever I go online (which is nearly every day of my durned life) and see the people who would be in those crowded hallways.

I don't want to get started on the topic of quasi-friendships. I'll save that for another time, when I feel tragically cynical and loaded with reasons for why such kinds of things exist. I'm just really fearing school, more than I thought I would when summer started, and I thought having a haphazard post to look back to in the future would help.

My present, and all these documentations of the worthless stuff that make up my life, is all about that--preserving barely-worth-remembering things like this morning's dream, wherein Max Bemis was my godfather. Sometimes I think it's eating up so much of my time. Instead of keeping myself in a corner with a pen, a journal, and gloomy thoughts (as I sadly do in school,) I could just get out there and make life happen. I don't know what's wrong with who I am but I couldn't do that without feeling misplaced. I doubt this year would be any different. I'm still me.

It's safe to end this post now, before I discuss what I don't want people to think I know. I couldn't stand making lots of these posts, anyway. From now onwards, I'll try to rise up from making so many of these junk posts. Goodnight.

Math Without Numbers

I went from jealousy to envy, OH to NO, and plain sin to capital sin in a span of two seconds. Then I had to lie because that was my only ticket out of a conversation that only proved the sluggish pace of the good change (i.e. more human, less Melinda Sordino/Doug Hanson-ish) I wanted to go through. One of the people who lived nearby was right. Happy people should not mingle with the not-happy people because like integers, their dispositions negate each other, hence making whatever existing communication between them a lost cause. These are the equations:

Positive multiplied by positive equates to positive. Happy x Happy = :)
Positive multiplied by negative equates to negative. Happy x Unhappy = :(
Negative multiplied by negative equates to positive. Unhappy x Unhappy = :)

That's simple math that serves for a better use than the Pythagorean Theorem and I do genuinely thank the one who told me about that a few days ago. That equation could be expanded in a lot of ways but in my situation, it only means I should sign out of messenger, which I've done several minutes ago, because I just couldn't share with somebody's happiness as much as I'd like to and it's making me feel bad. Online messaging wasn't supposed to make people feel bad, anyway. There are more emoticons that support happiness than gloom.


While going through the list of tiny faces, I realized the yellow guy up there is the saddest emoticon in the list. Sure, there's a pouting emoticon and a weeping emoticon but those are rehearsed, in human terms. A straight face shows nothing, and nothing means a lot. Sadness is sadder when it's suppressed and I salute him, Mr. Straight Face, for making me realize that.

Or maybe I got him wrong. Nothing could be anything. Maybe I mistook him for being an internally sad emoticon. Maybe he's really happy inside but he's disinclined to show it because there's already a chock-full of emoticons for happiness and if he became one of them, he would blend in, and if he blends in, he doesn't exist.

I lost my train of thought in the middle of typing all those. I'm just a severely jealous person who wishes she hadn't been, but more than that, I love metaphors and I've just dropped a big one in this post without particularly meaning to. I think it's time for me to end this post and get back to the 62nd page of Are We There Yet? by David Levithan. I'm fine spending a few hours of the last week of summer with it. I don't think I'm going to do well out there with real people these days, anyway. I might as well just be carried away by this book about a certain triangle. Goodnight.

A Halftone World...

...was born in my head today.


I love how it looks like it came right off a sci-fi graphic novel, but the digital magic isn't the reason for why it's in this blah blah blah blog. It's the little insignia from my new fountain of stress faucet of love and I thought I'd leave it here so I could have a reason and a neutral topic for a seventieth post.

Summer's dead in this side of the northern hemisphere and I start school on the eighth of June, which happens to be the day Kanye West would turn 32. (I'm not a fan of Kanye but I would be if his birthday had been a legal and global holiday.) I would expound on the drama of going to high school with the different species of MRP's during the following days for sheltered reasons but at the moment, it only means one thing: this unexplained Halftone World Project may be seventy days late. I should have pursued the idea of it during the last days of school, when I wasn't so aloof with everybody but I didn't. The sparks were only set off today and there's nothing much to burn, other than a fraction of my self-esteem.

Why? I did not, not, not do anything noteworthy this summer and I do not, not, not want to be reminded of that. Other than being with the organization of strikingly witty (and down-to-earth to a certain extent) people for twelve days, there was nothing significant to set this apart from all the other seasons in my life. I thought, by now I should have already learned how to ride a bicycle without instinctively and unconsciously putting my feet on the ground when the thing starts to wobble. I should have read The Fountainhead and understand whatever the octaves are supposed to be but I did not. I did none of those.

This whole post isn't going anywhere pleasant, I predict and feel it. I'll leave this paragraph hanging. I'm not getting a grade for this, anyway. I can mess everything up without massive regrets. And to prove that, I will not justify the paragraphs. It's usually a vexing thing to see the crooked ends of the paragraphs but not today. I somewhat deserve this anyway, an unjustified post to justify my minuscule anxieties.

A More-than-Minor Mirage

A mirage does two things--it appears and it disappears. I do the latter quite well but with my aforementioned complex, I think I'm inherently unable to do the former. So it's a thing of no use, right? To keep on disappearing in conversations, little gatherings and the like when hardly anybody realized you were there? It leaves me sad most days, to think that whatever I'm in is unchangeable because I've been clouded by the complex since I was five and I never got used to it.

It's hard to tell what I mean by this but I want to be a mirage.

I couldn't get into the specifics of what I'm referring to. I don't want to be assailed for admitting what I may or may not be going through, or what I may or may not want to get into. I could consider this a private journal and extensively type on every flipping thing about it because that's oh-so cathartic, but no it clearly is not since this thing is semi-public (i.e. can be found if thoroughly searched for, which nobody would do because like me, this blog disappeared before it appeared. To put it in simpler terms, nobody knows.)

A suppressed confession is the closest I could get to an actual confession. I believe I've presented the basic facts about what I failed to explain. I do this all the time. Heck, I do ask myself why I could get so temperamental in this blog. The answer's not a rainbow-wrapped baby thing. I'm always obscure and sad and happy and spiteful and grateful because if I don't do that, I will have nothing. And if I have nothing, I am nothing. Per nusquam, ego sum nusquam.

(That was copy-pasted from an online translator. I'm not aware of any available Latin courses around here but it looks pretty the way it is so I won't dare correct myself, if I made any inaccuracies.)

I got far off-track already. What I'm saying is I love this blog and I won't stop making what the public might consider drivel because it makes me believe I have this other world where my life is more than minor, like what Pudge wanted to attain as he chased the Great Perhaps. I'm not being dramatic with the comparison of my life and some skinny fictional guy's life, by the way. I'm just trying to make a blog post.

Journal Snippets

I don't write real literature as much as I mindlessly complain about the existing state of affairs, specifically the one of the Bastardias or whoever most people complain about now, but I'm quite proud of what I have been dedicating cheap black ink to. If Charlie had felt infinite with The Smiths, I feel infinite with my journals. My writings are all I really have. People always leave, like Peyton says. Some fly to Canada, some are forced to transfer due to expenses, some move to science high schools, some feel too harassed to remain, some would do all it takes to evade the swimming pool, some are just gone and some never came to stay.

But the written words of my journal, they stay, as badly-phrased as they are. I don't know why I found the need to mention that, but browsing through the journal I used from June 10, 2008 to December 31, 2008 (Journal Intime #4) changed a little bit of my outlook toward some of the people who were in my life then. That "then" is still very recent, by the way, but it's still distant.

That was it. That was the last hit I'll take from that bitch.
--Me, referring to a friend, September 12, 2008

She left, I stayed. I expected that because eventually, I had to know my habits are either lame or too responsible.
--Me, on a two-hour lunch break, September 26, 2008


Eventually, she found out about him and then teased me. But there's no way in hell we could "be."
--Me, while having an online conversation, October 25, 2008


I'm disoriented. People from the Upper Crust are my friends?
--Me, in disbelief, November 11, 2008


Although she's quasi-suicidal, she's willing to take her time. I tell her to, anyway. I hope she takes it to heart because I don't want to think all my good friends drift away like dust.
--Me, having an emo friend, November 14, 2008


She didn't need to hear any of it but she wanted to. I thank God for her concern. I'm happy. I don't know if I did anything to deserve this but thank God.
--Me, in the middle of the night, December 19, 2008


Chatting isn't supposed to be challenging. I don't know about this, though.
--Me, adding a second sentence to a weird conversation, December 30, 2008

Seven short cheesy parts of my life should be enough. I do miss the times worth writing extensively about and especially, the people involved in those situations. I was with all sorts of good people. They were seriously of different sorts and I often wonder how that could have been possible. It didn't faze me that I might not be seeing a few of them anymore and I wish I'd done something about it when it mattered but June's coming around and it's late. I have to stop being a cheese ball and resume to be the old AM. This is an awful time for pouring these things out anyway. I'm not even going anywhere. How'd I get this personal about me, anyway?

But I admit, when I'm in my late sixties, this would probably be what I will be spending my time on. I'll either read about the past or write about the present and make it pass. I might even post here in this blog, occasionally. I hated how this blog started but I embrace it now. My life's in here as well. Isn't that nice? You're part of my life too? My head. I'm sorry. My head's escaping normalcy. It might be a little sad for you, normal people, but I will always be an introverted, dweeby diarist and I'm happy the way things are.

This is some extra content for someone who might read.

Then it's the Purple Devil fest.
--Me, in the middle of the night, January 23, 2009

Quasi-Idolatry, Pt. II

I got my slight happiness, thank you.

Watching the season finale was like waiting around for New Year's Eve, though. You get only one thing to look forward to but everybody else arrays the occasion way before the central celebration, which gave so much room for the performances of the has-beens from a hundred years ago (not that I actually have a definite opinion regarding them or their demonita makeup), alongside your typical advertisements.

The show's great, to say the least, but do I need to mention how short-lived the actual euphoria is? The moment Kris Allen hugged his wife, or whoever that girl in yellow is, was the time a message is transmitted to every human brain watching the reality show, "Show's over now. You get your lives back."

I'd like to discuss more but I'm not going to add much to this post. I'm afraid I already got sucked into the mainstream method of blogging. Whatever opinions I've got left would be sadly disposed of. I'm sort of in the middle of a commercial break from the second rerun anyways. I'd want to finish another round of the staged revelry before the thought of school knocks me out.

(June 8! Ahhh!)

Quasi-Idolatry

Inhuman is the adjective that comes to mind when the subject of Adam Lambert comes up. I don't mean to say he's some savage eyeliner-wearing confusexual beast but, despite the crazy good range, his so-called Steven Tyler-ish getup voice is just too uncanny for me. I'd rather have the other guy Kris win this season, even if his Kanye West cover was the only song I remember from him.

But then again, I seldom watch American Idol. I haven't even seen tonight's show. I don't think I will. I mostly just linger in the Internet masquerading all over the web with a psuedonym and I think I will do so again tonight. So who am I to judge, right? But I was just browsing through a couple of the AI Trending Topics and they're going mad. (Wasted time... tsk, tsk, tsk.)

[The quality of photos uploaded in this blogging platform is way behind the Web 2.0 circle.]

But the sad truth is this:

I don't care much but I'd be slightly happier if Kris does win the competition of global sellouts. But I don't know, I'm not even American. I only did this post because I badly needed to cover up the posts before this with something more mundane (e.g. a totally mainstream reality show by the Americans.)

Now that I have enough content, I will now proceed to clicking on the orange button.

Oh, We're Not Worthy!

[The old, old, old February AM is back.]

I don't know what I want to happen. Sometimes I just want to drop dead in the middle of crossing an alley and just slip out of existence and out of everybody's memory. I'm barely as significant as the tires of my dad's car these days and the prospect of going back to school in June is a growing thorn to my viscera.

I don't mind studying. The other side of high school, which is mostly unspoken of by the authorities, is what I'm fearing. That's an unfortunately expandable topic. The Notria Damne Bastardias do exist in the modern times and I fear, being nothing striking, that I will be figuratively pushed around and around and around until my face hits the dirt their soles would set on. The Massively Rude People and Notria Damne Bastardias would have the last say about what matters and what doesn't as though they're the Julius Caesars of this generation. What happens to the people who are there to actually just study? Everyone's at school to do that but my God, sometimes some people really make education a lost cause.

And do I need to mention the inevitable back wounds?

You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends,
Pontificating to each other
Forever competing for that one moment of self-aggrandizing glory
In which you hog the intellectual spotlight
Holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless conversation
Oh, we're not worthy!
When you walk by a group of quote unquote normal people
You chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff

I think I listen to the above Say Anything lyrics too much. I might need to go back to Katy Perry. Or maybe it's just me.

A self-renounced fascist friend of mine says I have a crippling case of inferiority complex. It's some kind of psychological thing when you're fazed by thoughts of being less than everyone else, hence leading to either timidity or aggression. She's no doctor or whatever but I'm convinced I know myself enough to actually nod to her hypothesis. Maybe that's the goddamn answer to all the golden questions (e.g. WTF aren't you talking?) of the people who don't actually know me. I have no definite control over it, it seems, but I don't really mind admitting to this little blog that I might have it because it makes me feel normal and a little bit hopeful that maybe awareness would shoo it away.

You don't believe me. I won't believe me either. Blah, blah, blah.

This post makes me feel bad. I don't even know why I started this. I might as well go.

Non Capisco, Amica

[A pressure-induced post. Skip this one because I honestly think this would be a waste of anybody's time, mine included. I just wanted my sidebar to look longer. Believe me, believe me, believe me.]

I love la mia vita falsa. Is that the right way of terming my false life? I was drafting a casual story with somebody I would disintegrate into a tiny piece of reprobate nonsense without and we tackled Italy in the early 20th century. You'd say it's childish. Yada-yada. At least I'm not maligning my friends.

So, in our little Italian venture, my friend, Puzzo, gets shot in the leg by one of the La Satanas boys as some sort of drunk gesture while they par-tayed with a couple of Notria Damne Bastardias in some infinite liquor pub named Legno Orientale (Eastwood in English) at midnight. Puzzo and I apologize for mixing up French, Spanish, and Italian, by the way. I don't know how Puzzo came up with that but Pegorino, or yours truly, enters the next scene in a motorbike (Did they have those in the 1910's?) and guns down the La Satanas and the Notria Damne Bastardias à la Scarface with a fully-loaded Fedorov Avtomat for revenge. The La Satanas were all guilty of income-tax evasion anyway. The Notria Damne Bastardias were just stupid enough to not run away and think their multi-layered evening gowns would save their sinful skin. As an additional scene, one of the Bastardias survives the gun wound. She isn't overlooked by Pegorino, however. He walks over to her with the rifle aimed to her makeup-laden forehead. She's stammering out a plea or whatever but Pegorino cuts her off, saying, "Non capisco, amica."

The hero Pegorino clicks on the trigger. She overdramatically drops and hits her head on the glass shards of some cheap wine bottle, much to the horror of the pub bartender.

Boo-hoo.

Pegorino would then haul Puzzo's body to the motorbike nonchalantly with a cigar on his mouth or something, and they would drive off to their headquarters, which is some fancy bricked building in the middle of town named Casa Del Serendra located in front of the largest gun store in Italy, Completamente Caricato (Fully Loaded in English). They would disappear into the darkness of the Sicillian streets and the camera zooms to the full moon. It's a low budget foreign flick all of a sudden. I was carried away by speed-writing. Another disorganized post is better than none, in my twisted way of thinking. Some of my friends are just dousing my brain with malicious stuff and hate is very contagious. See what we came up with? Totale merda with loads of symbolisms and poorly translated terms.

This wouldn't be the last of the Bastardias. Once people complain to me about things again, the Bastardias would probably resurface out of my frustration. I do not, not, not (triple negatives negatives equate to one negative) care but some people are making me.

I think it's time for breakfast.

UR So Gay

Does the title count as a metaphor? Or is it just a Katy Perry song fitting for lonely boy Dan Humphrey? Or some other person I've yet to meet? Or someone I know? Hahaha. What's so wrong about a Hemingway-reading gay/guy/person? NOTHING. ZERO. NADA. When I'm close to euphoria, my mind goes tralalala to the back alley of sense. What for is the human brain if you're happy anyway? That is the question, right? Seriously. That's why Lindsay Lohan has sagging armpits. Or has botolinum toxin penetrated that junction? You know, if you're with me IRL, there's a sad possibility you would laugh insultingly at how I can't enunciate some of my words right. I have a temporary lisp right now so it's TYPE > TALK. But I don't talk. Right, classmates? Hello? LOL. What else, what else... I'm actually speed-writing because it's been three days since I've last posted and it's actually working for me, though it probably shows that this post doesn't belong... Did you know that Mr. Flipping-Gorgeous-Adonis-With-No-Flaws-Whatsoever Edward Cullen was turned into a vampire to avoid contraction of Spanish Flu ninety-one years ago? Yes, yes you do know that because you have read the entire series. I don't need to be a psychic to see the epidemic. RHYME! Speaking of vampirism, would you rather be a vampire than have the pig flu attacking your organs? I wouldn't want to be a supergorgeous glimmering porcelain walking-talking thing. Someone bored and unemployed might write a horrendous book and thesaurusize a way to let the cash in. But a movie adaptation and a soundtrack with two Paramore songs on it should compensate. No? Of course not. Okay, I don't know which transition word I should use here... One of my friends from my summer classes said the word moronic a lot. Did I mention she prefers blue ink over black? That's uncanny. But jah, her word applies to this very post. I'm changing my Twitter name too and I've got guilt all over me, but I hate double G's in the middle of the name so I might revert it back to what it started out as. I can't even tsk, tsk, tsk myself with my lisp. To Gehenna with this post. This is the most disorganized one ever. And I hate word walls.

Weird is what I think of this side of me. But I like it. Oddly, I feel like I'm pretending to be someone else. I do not know why.

[This next paragraph's mostly for the benefit of Seeing Gray and for what it's worth, I will type seriously.]

The actual meaning of my last post is far too grim and dangerous to be stated in this blog, or anywhere else. With the help of some self-renounced fascist, I came up with symbolisms, through punctuation marks. Symbolisms for what, I can't exactly state, but it's somewhat related to asphyxia/suffocation. That's as far as I could go without giving away the soul of the poem, or what made me write it.

Comma Splice

In Europe
A schnauzer
But chariot!
The gremlin
Is an albatross
To Optimus Prime
Or the Thing

Flipping rain clouds
Colonized by the retina
Of the closeted Buddhist
In a costumed Catholic
Embalmed by ambiguity
And lurid attempts
To asphyxiate the cycle
Of barricading doors,

[I am grateful for an underwater ally.]

Candles

Every story is worth sharing, even if nobody cared or cares or will care.

I was under the summer sun in our unused lot a few blocks away at midday, watching the molten wax beat out the fire of the largest candle in the house while my thoughts whirled around like the gaseous product of fire. I gathered three white candles (the aforementioned largest candle in this house that would probably outlive me, one-half of the one I used during the renewal of my baptismal vows, and a random white vigil candle with a sunflower painted on its container) and laid them in an old pillowcase with my journal and a note addressed to God at the center. That small piece of lined paper contained my intentions and all I knew of the situation. I planned to burn it so the wind could carry it upwards, exactly where it should be. I wasn't fully acquainted with who I was doing it for but I knew I had to do it, even if the ritual is all I could offer for their resilience.

I had my own mini-liturgy with the beetles and bees shortly thereafter and, coincidentally or not, I discovered that John 15: 1-8 (i.e. Vine and Branches) was the Gospel for today, for the second time this week, and for the third time in my working memory. If that had meant anything at all, I think it would have to relate with the fact that Jesus remains, if we remain in Him. It’s a lovely cycle that starts with faith, and the most we could do in this life is to not lose it. So don't lose it.

That said, I think whatever I got myself into was worth every second of heat. I don't believe everything under Catholicism but I believe the words of the evangelists, especially the one in the Gospel for today, which I find myself oddly attached to. I haven't done anything that peaceful my whole life and knowing that I just had accomplished it with good intentions made it even more fulfilling for me.

The weather pattern in this side of the earth is still unpredictable, though. The rainclouds settled in with the sun a few hours later. I took everything to the little shack in the lot. Like what this blogger would have done, I headed back outside with the rain soaking me. There it was, momentary pleasure in the form of raindrops. I walked back home at that point, because I couldn't stand starvation and it was way past lunchtime.

Micah, if you read this... :)