Point 02

To humiliate a person is to drag him to the ground. Some people deserve it, but some don't.
I have been humiliated a number of times already, and I feel bad about those. I have humiliated people, as well, and I am not proud that I did. I feel bad that they have to feel bad, but I have to do it whenever I think it serves them right.

the demonstrative effect

Ever since I saw this girl wearing a headband with crystals and stones, I have been searching around town to find that shop which sells the stuff.
I badly want it, just because I am unable to wear a head dress in public for fear that people might take me for a fashion-forward entity. I have no intent to be a trendsetter. I just want to look cute, nice and a bit different.
I found the only store which sells it. Even though I was hesitant because it was way more expensive than the rest of the headbands I have ever owned, I still bought it. I know I will not be able to sleep if I am not going to buy it. (Had I known, though, that I will have a problem with sleeping tonight I would have let it pass).
So I marched happily, away from the seller who was busy touching the other items for sale with the money I paid her. It turned out that my purchase was her buena mano (I am the first client for the day) . That made me happier because for some reason, whenever that happens, I get lucky.
And I did.

Point 01

Liking something does not necessarily mean that you have to know everything about it. At least for me, to assume that would be wrong.

Reaction Uncensored

Expletives were everywhere as I watched Naked Weapon for the second time. Back in college, I was able to watch it with some of my classmates.
I'm not one of those who loves the sight of too much violence on screen. Just the sight of blood makes me want to vomit. I managed to finish the movie, alright, with much regret that I had to say $h!t like a hundred times.
I'm probably going to watch a hundred love stories to fend off the haunting images brought about by the film.

About Insomnia

I thought I was done dealing with insomnia.
I know I've made a list of days when I would have to stare and stare at wall clocks and wristwatches just to watch how slowly time passes by. And that was how I started hating wearing wristwatches.
It still gives me creeps to remember my first time to experience 48 sleepless hours. I went to Baguio, read several chapters of a thick paperback book I never managed to finish, met with my friends (then student-of-law Lury and disk jockey Divina), had coffee with them at a Shell station at 4 in the morning, and done some more crazy stuff.
After that, everything else was relatively easy. I never think of the need to sleep because I was always busy. I never thought about the importance of getting sleep because I never take a second look at how hollow my eyes would get if I miss out on those precious hours of sleep. I just wanted to enjoy every second of life.
Eventually, though, something changed. I got lazy and then I had time to sleep.
And then, I had to deal with nightmares.
Thank heavens, now I'm back to being an insomniac. It's better than having nightmares.

Distracted

It's almost nine in the morning. I skipped breakfast and I intend to keep myself from getting a cup of coffee. I have to get myself to focus before anything else.
My bestfriend is giving me a visit today but I haven't done any cleaning in the house yet. And it's not just the house, I'm a total mess right now. I've been feeling distracted since Monday: when I found out I got all the wrong info plotted on the reservation sheets for my classes' film viewing activity. And then there was yesterday's freaking attempt to be lazy: I just wanted to ditch my class and sleep.
Now, it's Wednesday. My free day. I am not supposed to waste it trying to figure out just what went wrong. The plan is: entertain my bestfriend, get some avocadoes, check my student's papers, clean my shoes and bags, watch a movie, and sleep.
Oh crap. It's not going anywhere. I still want to buy that damn good bag.

tired of the same stuff

Yes, I am forced to believe that history is fond of repeating itself because it is so lazy to produce a different outcome.
I have grown to be more cautious about believing what people around say and do. I have learned to accept that this world has billions of lousy liars and billions of smooth talkers. I have learned that the best way to beat them is to kill them so this world can offer better adults to cute kids. I have learned to hope that it does not get to that point because it will be a bloody mess.
I know this will not make sense to anyone, because I am not ready and willing to divulge every single thing that was part of the trauma I endured just months ago. The point is, I made it look like a piece of shit I can just forget about after my recovery.
I am getting back to my old self: the woman who once had an ambition to be successful and rich, the woman who wrote poems and believed in fairytales (not those love-related stuff that you are probably thinking about), the woman who just loves to run after any available adventure, the woman who is not afraid of her limitations, the woman who can be described and judged correctly by her closest friends, and the girl who loves yellowbells and everything that shimmers.
I am that woman, and no man would ever come too close to me if they cannot satisfy my every want. No man would ever have any significant amount of my time and care if they are just playing around. No man would ever stand the chance to make me cry. No man would humiliate me. No man would physically and mentally abuse me. No man would redefine me.
I know I need someone to make me completely happy. And I don't care if I have to date every single damned man this planet has to offer, as long as it's not me who's paying the bill, I will go out. I will scare them to their wits and scare them away.
And I will be happy.
Until one comes around: One who will know exactly how to tame lions. Or trick lions. I don't care. I probably won't give a damn care about it until I find myself getting confused.
Right now, I am all about finding my own happiness. Let history burn in hell and add all "men busting underaged girls" (and that phrase came from one of the movies I've watched, I forgot the title though).
Amen to that. (God, I love hearing people say that in chorus).

Newbie

I got my first credit card today. I thought about the many things I want to buy online. I thought about the advantages of having it during tough times when I am short of cash. I thought about the extra responsibility of keeping it.
Tomorrow I will no longer think about this. Oh crap! How can I say that?
Tomorrow I will no longer think about this. There I just said it again.
Tomorrow, I will... (Hey, stop reading! I don't have all night to type.)
Good night.

If you can borrow my mind, you probably will

Just to set the perfect mood for drama, I got out of my mother's office wearing my casual black tee, maong shorts, silver peeptoes, and brown khaki bag.
Nobody would sit on the seawall at two thirty in the afternoon, that was my presumption.
So when I showed up, I was alone to enjoy every single second that I stared at the waves, the nearby mountains, and the occasional appearance of planes.
Perfect.
I stared at the plane above. I imagined it flying low, circling around and suddenly crashing down. I imagined indescribable monstrosity staring back at me. I imagined feeling happy to have witnessed one like it.
Then suddenly, I changed my mind.
I stared at it again. I imagined it flying straight above me. I imagined I know the pilot. I imagined the feel of being proud that I know someone who flies an aircraft.
But I changed my mind once again.
I decided to look at the sea. There was a coconut floating. Or was it a skull?
I don't know. Maybe I was just imagining. And I was.
I picked up my bag and left. I only want to be scared inside my mind. I only want my fear to be a controlled fear. Something that I create within me. It should never again come from outside of my mind.

let's talk if you have time

It's been years and I am still wondering who left that note on Hawthorne's book that I was reading in the library.
It reminded me of those hours I've spent staring at the fire exit, imagining myself hanging dead and being changed into beautiful butterflies that most likely resemble the creation of an Alexander McQueen.
It reminded me of strange faces I once knew.
It reminded me how I silently mocked the cowardice of the person who wrote it.
I have time. I have a lot of free time. I can even cancel some stuff so that I can say I have free time. But I will only make another one know about it if they need some of my time.
Talk. What will I make out of it. Words. They mean nothing. So why say some words? To communicate. I have a limited understanding of things. I have my own expectation of things. I have my own conclusion about things. It's very simple and it works for me. To communicate would make things a little complex. To discuss feelings would be difficult because it deals with things I cannot understand. To question me about how I view things might just perplex others. I have an eye that sees colorful lines dancing. I have an eye that sees bubbles instead of raindrops, but I call them raindrops because everybody says it is what they say it is.
When I'm running out of time, perhaps, I will find reason to talk. Talk with sense. Talk about things I am familiar with. Talk about things that would be understandable to anyone. Talk so the big mouths would finally shut up. It's all about finding the appropriate time.

checklist before falling in love again

Checklist:

1. Must have a sexy hairline and soul-devouring eyes
2. Must be physically fit
3. Must not talk a lot
4. Must be financially stable
5. Must be super funny
6. Must like bars and cool bands
7. Must like the beach
8. Must be a boy friend to all my friends
9. Must like rough rides
10. Must be honest

Going to the market is not really part of my life. So I thought it would be a great idea if I took a picture.
I'm always afraid of feeling that I am being domesticated, maybe because I once felt that and I thought I didn't want it.
My thirty minutes stay there allowed me to embrace everything I hate about the market: the smell of fish and meat, the annoying sound of people trying to make a good bargain, and the display of vegetables and beans I can't name.
My market encounter wasn't hard. The first stall that was selling chicken wings was my perfect stopover. Obviously, for someone like me who was not versed to look at which seller has fresh meat, saying "This please" was just another line.
So I was out there the next second.