knowest thou of my proclivities for the perverted and the asinine. "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate." knowest thou of my struggles to reclaim the third sphere of heaven. i await thee.
There isn’t one decision that changes one’s life. Not a singular yes or no that pulls everything along with it, building your life or making it more insignificant than a mere dot in the cosmos. In choosing to be with that person, you’re agreeing to a million yeses, maybe more.
Drabble
He’s still getting used to her stubbornness. But he’s a clever guy and he’s found ways to work around her mulish behavior. When she says she doesn’t want to eat, for example, he doesn’t wax rhapsodic about the merits of nutrition and what have you, just smiles and makes her pinky swear to tell him whenever she’s feeling hungry. For her part, she’s relearning what it means to be in a relationship again and how she’s not going to let anything or anyone screw it up. And if that means moving her thumb to seal a promise, so be it.
Droubble
Boyish girl Potpot met girly boy Popoy once upon a rainy night. She was wearing a blue dress and he was wearing something that looked like a decent outfit for a womanly man. Popoy didn’t like Potpot at first sight because he thought her hair too fluffy and her bag too big to actually be of use. For her part, Potpot was quite taken with Popoy, even though he was late (30 minutes to be exact) and was clueless enough to make her walk in the rain for what seemed like hours. They did make it to the restaurant though, armed with umbrellas and a grim determination to end the evening on a positive note. Unfortunately, dinner proved uneventful, at least for Potpot, who didn’t really care for her rice with seafood swimming in coconut milk and spicy oil. The same couldn’t be said of Popoy, who devoured every bit of his salmon belly, which he washed down with grape juice. Nevertheless, both agreed that the conversation was illuminating, even if he did reveal too much about his ex and she went on and on about her weird family…
It had taken days before Popoy asked Potpot for another date.
There’s reason to be scared. Of course there is. When you’ve accustomed yourself to a life that follows a predictable orbit, it’s easy to be suspicious of elements that threaten your equilibrium. Not that you haven’t secretly wished for something, someone to upset the apple cart. But now that it’s here, you are caught between a childish longing to see the apples fly about and the fervent hope that none of it gets on your favorite shirt.
And sure, this isn’t the first time you’re battling the fates. And yes, by your own admission you’re more than ready to fight. You’ve trained your heart for this. You’ve earned the chance to win this. You say all of this to anyone who cared to listen. Except that your confidence is slowly betraying you, transforming you into a collection of nervous habits.
Folks, it’s that time of the year again. You (points to the heckler), shut up! Sorry, ‘bout that. Anyway, as I was saying, it’s that time of the year again. No, not Christmas in September (shakes head at the cute, but impossibly dumb guy in the crowd), my birthday, which happens to coincide with cabaret artist/clown Pierre Olaf’s death anniversary. Random shit. Moving on. Without further ado, here be my wish list:
1. Fug hat, (http://fug-hat.urbanup.com/4042039) because seriously who wouldn’t want a hotness decimator like that? If Zachary Quinto didn’t wear his on a daily basis, we’ll all be dead right now. I mean, the human eye is not designed to accommodate such level of attractiveness. Thus, the existence of le fug hat.
3. Because every girl needs a perfect white shirt (or countless plain shirts that only a true slacker/lazyass like me can appreciate). Also, since I’m sporting quite the pooch these days, I suggest you skip the small sizes and get the mediumish upgrade (if they have it, which they do).
4. Because I’m running out of ideas. And it’s not like you’re gonna buy me this stuff anyway. What am I saying? Screw you, person who won’t buy me this stuff for my birthday!
5. Because I spend 80 hours of my week, watching infomercials. At least, don’t make me waste my life by not purchasing anything. (80 hours? I wish I could say I was kidding you.)
That’s it for now. Can’t think of anything else, except for piles and piles of money, which you can always deposit directly to my account. With that said, I greet myself a very happy birthday and hope everybody’s miserable tomorrow so I can have a marginally blessed existence for at least a day.
God bless us everyone! (Hah! Bet you didn’t think I’d end with a Dickensian quote.)
It happens gradually, this acceptance of a fate that spits in the face of your capabilities. It begins with the little things - things that make you boil in righteous anger, leaving you exhausted and reduced to the mental capacity of an infant. As you age, you start thinking it’s time to train yourself, time to muster control to contain the rage. You mature and you succeed. Years later you see that you have lost the ability to care about the big things. Sometimes your sense of self gets away from you, with vaguely a notion of how or why it happens. On these days, you call up false memories of happier times when it’s just you and your naivete surviving the onslaught of moral perversion. Each time you come out battle-weary but more able to handle the ways of the world. It costs you your innocence, which you have been steadily losing, fraction by fraction after the first battle you have won. This is where you are now, complacent in your mediocrity. You give her up, yourself once upon a time, whose potential used to loom large in your mind. It’s a weakness, this reliance on a version of yourself, who has nothing but faith in herself and the world. She’s a liability and you’re desperate to break her. You’re convinced it will make you stronger. Better. It takes you more than a year to erase every trace of her in your life. Why is it that without her you feel emptier, more mediocre?
I spent the better part of the year mooning over someone I thought I really liked. It was meant to be life-changing, destined to make me feel like Christmas wrapped in eighteen birthdays. I liked that it made me question the belief that I was long dead inside. But what was supposed to be an event of epic proportions, became the equivalent of God throwing the unbelievably bored a bone. And damn if I wasn’t a card-carrying member of the consistently disinterested and the perpetually worn out, because there I was out on a date with Mr. By-All-Accounts-Perfect, and I was bored out of my fucking skull.
What happened was this.
I got a call at exactly 5:32pm last Thursday. It was of course, him, the object of my misguided affections. He asked me if I could join him for coffee that night. And I said yes, following an instinct that was purely Pavlovian in nature. At 7:22pm I found myself waiting for him and my tea, which was too hot, by the way, and not at all calming. Something was very wrong, because that usually ignored area of my psyche, the one that rudely tells me to get a fucking clue was going haywire. 11 minutes later, I realized why.
Now normally, I’d be all shits and giggles when it came to him, but that night I was Pompom Bennet Season 3, a Heroes reference he probably wouldn’t be familiar with. He was cute as per usual, but I wasn’t reacting to anything he was doing or saying, not even when he made that Star Trek joke that usually pushed all my giddy schoolgirl buttons. That got me panicky and sufficiently disturbed because I knew myself to be a relationship camel, loving or liking someone for years and years, regardless of feelings being returned or not. This had to be a fluke, I thought. He was still him and I was still me. There was no reason for the attraction to suddenly off itself. But off itself, it did. In fact, he lost me the minute he said hi and placed his stuff next to my shit.
A/N: Part 1 of ?; will continue depending on reviews...
A/N: Dear writer friends, I come bearing gifts. Most of you know that I treat my fics like my progeny. Now, since I don't have time to flesh these out, I'm putting these babies up for adoption. I'm counting on the goodness of your hearts, so please don't let my children go to plot bunny cemetery. Warnings: Tense inconsistencies, these prompts are unbetaed after all. Fluff and angst ahead (flangst?), recurring theme: relationship prism, prompts for other subjects to follow. Disclaimer: I own everything, until the adoption papers are signed. Please credit if you decide to raise one of my plot bunnies. Thank you.
001 It was refreshing being with someone bereft of an emotional core. It suited her just fine, reveling in the worthlessness of peeling layer after layer of a personality that would prove absent. She considered this her reward. A fucking boon after all the years she wasted on morally gray people. This was peace, at least a version of peace she was comfortable with. She was—without meaning to—happy in the cocoon of her illusionary reality.
002 I was not expecting the when-did-you-know question. Not from you, whose confidence wouldn’t, no shouldn’t necessitate the need to ask. I wondered what triggered this fit of insecurity. Boredom? Weather pattern changes? Entropic forces? Perhaps I’d never know. And while the unexpectedness of the situation did unsettle me, it nevertheless gave me a chance to quibble.
003 Sorry isn’t enough. Not when it feels like a rock in his gut, shifting his balance. Sorry shouldn’t feel like a knife, mutilating his flesh, leaving scars. It is unacceptable, this apology tainted by crocodile tears. But what his all-consuming fury doesn’t allow him to see is how her apology—lacking in remorse as it is—betrays the plain sincerity of someone caught knee-deep in sin.
004 They get a chance. God help her, they get a chance. And if that means a lifetime of hurting each other or three minutes of ecstasy, she will still take it. Aware of how beautiful and bruising this opportunity is, she grabs onto it because it allows them to be together; takes it because the moment is perfect in itself, finds herself needing it because for once, it’s not him and her against the world.
005 What did me in were not his hands but the blades of his fingers. He got me good before I could violate him. And it was a shame really, when on principle, it was always me who did the violating. Even now, I could feel the ghost of his digits running over my spine; felt it over the rush of obscenities rattling in my head, tasted it in the shivers that racked his body, mindlessly entangled with mine.
006 You go to him and it doesn’t matter if all the time you’re fighting the urge to do so. Because you need to fix this and you need to fix him; can’t help it because managing the brokenness injects you with a sense of purpose. You go to him, armed with nothing but a sketchy idea of what’s right and wrong, knows that if things don’t repair themselves, you’d rather have him completely broken than half-fixed but alone.
007 Sometimes he wears too-tight pants and you’re worried he’s doing damage to his, well, his man business. You tell him this, and he acts offended, jokes that that’s all you want him for. You smile and tell him yes and after that you don’t say anything else. You don’t tell him how much you like his collection of plaid shirts, his fug hats, and even his scary neck beard. You keep it a secret that you’re fascinated by his left-handedness, his formidable vocabulary, and his nerd-centric humor. You stay silent because he’ll think you’re all sorts of weird, when in fact, all you really are, is that and maybe something more.
008 Their first fight, it was him who raised his voice and her who stormed off. She couldn’t even remember what the fight was about, just that it had set the precedent for the rows they were to have for months and months to come. There were times when she couldn’t even think of a day when they didn’t fight. She’d be so exhausted, barely remembering her role in this relationship, which was to accept verbal abuse and then storm the hell off. She would kill him someday, she had told him this too many times before. But she hadn’t counted on him leaving first.
009 She tells her friends the slow burn version while he boasts of the first time they met and had “relations.” Of course, he doesn’t call it that but she forces him to, threatening the withdrawal of all forms of “relations” until he sanitizes his story. In return, she tries to make him more macho, tries to convince her friends that he’s got muscles despite his lanky frame. Her friends make a show of agreeing with her, never letting on that his friends have already spilled the story of how they met and what they did that night.
010 She thought you were gay and you couldn’t decide if that was just funny or fifty shades of fucked-up. In the end you settled on funny, because it was easier than being all defensive and indignant. Besides, she was sleeping over and the last thing you wanted her to be that night was jittery or self-conscious. Later, when you were all huddled up, watching Chocolat— for crying out loud—you would tone the gay down (if that’s what it was) while you plied her with more wine. In the middle of her awwing and sighing over Roux’s guitar playing, you would lean over and kiss her.
I don’t have all the answers and even with the 7-year age difference, I don’t think you should look to me for illumination. What I can do, however, is tell you things that I know to be true. Right now, you’re confused because there’s the plan. Or should I say, “The Plan,” which entails you finishing college and being a doctor. A solid plan, if I do say so myself, but it should have occurred to at least one of us to make provisions for the after, or even for the in-between. Of course, now that I think about it, the seeds of doubt have been planted long before this decision impasse. This may actually be the one instance where the usefulness of crying over spilled milk isn’t debatable.
Believe me, it surprised me too. It surprises me still. Becoming a writer is as much of a fluke as winning the lotto. Maybe not as financially rewarding, but the enrichment is just as comparable. Of the financial rewards, I can only hope that you still find the idea of pauperdom romantic, because love of the craft alone won’t be enough to sustain you. I do trust that your idealism will carry you through moments of doubt that are headed your way. I’m actually counting on it to make my job easier.
Now, enrichment. This, I think, is where things get tricky. For one thing, I’m not sure if there are even words that can help me word the spark of satisfaction that inflames me every time a story, poem, article, piece of text gets completed. Some of these will be readily dismissed by people (yourself included) as regurgitated crap, while the rest will be appreciated for their strength, message, and merit. Here is where I caution you to not treat every loss as a personal attack because writing is, if nothing, an exploration of the bittersweet and all its connotations. Rejection is part and parcel of the writing process, and out of all the insights I’m going to share with you, this is one nugget you should take note of.
Of your winnings—I can assure you, there will be winnings—I pray that you’ll give yourself permission to be happy. After all, these writings will be your saving grace. For every bout of insecurity that you’ll plague yourself with in the years to come, your winnings will be the only thing that can help you salvage what’s left of your self-esteem. I advise you to take every bit of bliss you can from your achievements, and to not forget gratitude. Acknowledge the people who take the time to read your stuff, even if said stuff can’t help but classify itself as regurgitated crap. These people will help you on your pursuit of purpose. They will help you sleep on nights when your parents’ disappointment over your chosen profession evinces; will help you survive the feelings of alienation that manifest whenever you compare yourself to your friends, established as they are in their chosen fields, raking in the money that will forever be absent in our line of work.
And lastly, please forgive me if I fail to condense seven years of experience into information that can help you make the right decision. Whether you choose to be a doctor or a writer is something that you’ll have to figure out for yourself. I trust that you’ll choose the one that makes you happy. If tomorrow I find myself still existing, I’ll know that romance has triumphed over practicality and that this letter has reached you in good condition.
I’ve known Grace and Mart for less than a decade, which according to the Toast-giving Manual is a requirement. Since the couple I’m toasting is a bit unconventional anyway, flouting said conventions seems to be in order.
Now, on to the good part. Grace and Mart. Mart and Grace. I’ve already mentioned the unconventional couple factor, but I’ve failed to emphasize that if you ever need lessons on doing it right, you need to look no further than these two.
Navigating a relationship has always been tricky; trickier if none of the parties involved are willing to compromise. It is a testament to Grace’s graciousness and Mart’s—let’s call it—Martness that everything works. Not perfectly, mind you, but still enough to make people believe in the possibility of a special someone, the potential of fate, and the steady comfort of love. That is the gift they have given to me, to everyone who knows them, and to each other.
And so I invite you all to raise your glasses, and toast the union of Grace and Mart. May each day you spend together be full of the small things that makes life wonderful. And may your Graciousness and Martness be perfected with every moment spent together.
It’s not so much “I have no comment in the matter,” as “I’m afraid my rambling will be totally extraneous to the celebration of her life.” To better express my sadness for the nation’s loss, I’m staying my writing hand and embracing the silence. It’s up to people of sturdier moral fiber to validate the existence of a fallen tree – one of unquestionable, monumental greatness.
If you take me apart, you’ll find out how I work. I say, the how is not as important as the why. All these functions are based on a lie.
And taking me apart, can you really put me back? I break a leg or lose an eye, do you just pop these back? Say I fracture my skull, and you’ll use what? Duct tape to cover the cracks? No, my wheels don’t turn this way or that. My wheels, they follow an invisible track.
You say you’re figuring out the why. There are after all, some truths in a lie. These truths, they just need exposure to the light. I say the time has come for these lies to die.
Nuts and bolts form a neat pile, as one lie after another face the light. And as parts come undone, I ask, “Are you my lie?” In your mind’s eye, you shake your head, still stuck on the why.
A/N: Companion piece to Blindsided. Warnings: No beta means all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Disclaimer: I own nothing except my sanity, which isn’t much considering said sanity is often in question.
And because he is unquestionably brilliant, there are some things he just knows.
He knows that the number of phonemes in human speech can range from 11 to 67; knows in fact, that to convert graphite into diamond, a temperature of 3000 Celsius and pressure of 100,000 atm is needed; knows still that 95800^4 + 217519^4 + 414560^4 = 422481^4. There are—for sure—many things he already knows, knew, and will know in his lifetime. But one thing he isn’t quite sure of is the way this woman—sitting beside him in this otherwise nondescript café—feels about him.
And so he dares to ask. “You like me?” Simple, direct, and leaving no room for confusion. Her look, which he surmises as upset disguised as shock, tells him that his question is yet again taken as a statement. There are occasions where he’ll exert the effort to correct this error but this moment isn’t one of them.
“Yes.” One word and it’s his turn to be shocked. Of course he doesn’t show it, an odd byproduct of regulating his emotions, his own brand of self-preservation.
“I see.” He says, not because he really sees it, but more to assure himself that he has heard her right.
Something (he’s not sure if it’s his “I see” or something else) creases her brows. Then it hits him: She thinks this is a problem, maybe even regrets saying yes even now. Desperate to be proven wrong, he asks “It shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
“Sorry, what?”
Now that is unexpected. He supposes that she hasn’t been listening to him, lost in an internal dialogue he often wishes he can be privy to. There is something about her that draws him so—her non-linear way of thinking, her tendency to fib her way out of situations – even potentially dangerous ones, her spontaneity – never thinking things through. All these served to heighten his fascination with her.
“Oh.”
It is starting to bother him that she is purposely drawing out this conversation. It may have been his fault for not sealing the deal right then and there. But maybe, patience does have its merits, merits that don’t exhibit themselves until cups of coffee have been consumed. Against his better judgment, he finds himself repeating what needs to be said, “I asked if we should consider this thing a problem.”
From her, he gets furtive looks sent his way, done in between sips of her chai latte. She’s hesitating; evident by the way her mouth is forming the words, like her words are caught somewhere between her heart and her throat. For all its strangeness, he still finds the whole thing fascinating.
“Why should it be a problem?”
Aaah, he notes, the Socratic Method. He knows this, remembers her telling him how she has obsessed over this dialectical method. But then again, given her current state of discomfort, he is quite sure she hasn’t been employing said method consciously. Consciously or not, though, he decides to give Mr. Socrates a run for his money.
“Because we’re friends?”
Even to his ears, that sounds stupid. He’s a man and therefore will not hesitate messing up a friendship if it can lead to a possible romance. It sounds callous, he knows, but he’s not apologizing for the way he is made.
“That doesn’t change because I like you.”
“And why should it not?” He asks himself. Friendship is all well and good but he is convinced their being more is a thousand times better. Her commitment to their “friendship” is, if not disappointing, quite insulting to his investments in this relationship.
“What would you have me do?” He poses the question as a challenge. Virtue or not, he has no more patience to spare.
“I want us to remain friends, I think.”
He’s not sure why she’s unsure. He gives her an opening so she can dictate the way this conversation is supposed to go, but she doesn’t take it. He feels frustrated that it is up to him to move things along.
“You’re not sure?” He asks because asking seems to be the order of the day (or night) for them.
“I’m not sure.” This she says with a self-deprecating grin, something he finds charming despite the disastrous turn of events their non-date has progressed to.
“I see.” And this time he really does see it. See that cases like this warrant a more explicit course of action.
She says, “That makes one of us.”
Decided, he makes do with a line so cheesy, it makes the hairs on his head turn prematurely gray. “Maybe it’s better if I show you.”
Before she can react, he grabs her and gives her a kiss. He starts off slow, not wanting to scare her. Feeling her eyes close, he explores and maps the contours of her lips. And as she begins to return the kiss, he hears his breath hitch.
“This shouldn’t be a problem,” he whispers into her lips.
“I see,” she says.
At that moment he realizes, there is one more thing he now knows: that it takes just one kiss to right an ocean of wrongs; that despite an evening unnecessarily filled with cups of cooling coffee, this is where they’ll start building their tower of hope.
A/N: This is for Drei, because I understand whatever he needs to do and wherever he needs to be. Warnings: This was originally intended to feature generic characters in a somewhat realistic plot, which was a good way to excuse my weak characterization and my telling-not-showing-disease. Anyway, I just needed to let this plot bunny play, so I could go on my merry way.
(Thanks to my beta Shirls, who understands why I can’t flesh out this story now but lets me publish it anyway.)
--O--
An easy silence, this was not. No, this was awkward wrapped in discomfort and liberally sprinkled with embarrassment. He called me out. On my shit. He called me out on my shit and for some reason I couldn’t BS my way out of it. Oh irony of ironies.
“You like me.” was all that he said. Not “You like me,” punctuated by eyebrow wiggles and elbow jabs. Not “You like me,” complete with finger pointing and tongue clucking. Just “You like me,” matter of fact, without hesitation and zero hint of smugness.
I considered several options. Obviously, lying was out and so was denial. Then I thought, why not a joke? But I couldn’t call on the goddesses of comedy for some reason. And then it occurred to me. Maybe I was the joke and everybody’s in on it. Well, damn. I bet this guy had been planning this for a week. Double damn. By this time, I could sense he was waiting for an answer so I forced myself to focus. When that proved futile, I cursed my nonlinear way of thinking. Well, hell! Thinking things through had never been my strongest point. I said screw it, this was a lose-lose situation, anyway.
“Yes,” I said. Or maybe it was a whisper, I couldn’t tell.
“I see.”
And that’s all I was gonna get. The man was a veritable fount of non-answers and his “I see” had the unexpected effect of shutting me up. Great, I muttered to myself, another silence.
“It shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
Wait, did he just ask me…What? I shook my head and took a sip of my now-cooled chai latte. Of course he didn’t. That would be stupid, as it already was a problem. But maybe he was talking about something else, something I failed to realize because I was too busy being freaked out by his…declaration? Observation? Accusation? If it was the last one, clearly I had a lot more freaking out to do.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if we should consider this thing a problem.”
“Oh,” was all that I managed to say. And really, what could I say? “Next question please” hardly seemed appropriate and neither was “Thank you for sparing me the outright rejection.” No way in hell would I ever subject myself to that kind of humiliation. But God help me, I was mouthing the words before any sense of self-preservation could stop me.
“Why should it be a problem?”
“Because we’re friends,” was his swift reply.
And that it seemed answered everything. At least to him I was sure it made perfect sense. Meanwhile, I was thinking “Why couldn’t this man give a straight answer?” Weird bastard. But then again, that was one of the reasons I liked him—the fact that he was unreadable, slightly unhinged, and unquestionably brilliant. Really, I had no right to complain.
“That doesn’t change because I like you.” Not the answer I wanted to give, but it would do until I had the chance to process my emotions.
“What would you have me do?” At this, I snapped to attention. The answer to his question was obvious, wasn’t it?
“Errr,” I hesitated, “I want us to remain friends, I think.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m not sure.” I figured since we were way past the making sense phase; there was no harm in being purposely vague.
“I see.” There. Two words and we were forced into another stalemate.
“That makes one of us,” I blurted out of frustration. This was going nowhere. Not when the problem refused to resolve itself over cups of cooling coffee. Not when this was the exact opposite of how I played this scenario in my head. Not when rejection was gaining favor by the second, compared to this limbo of uncertainty he had relegated me to.
“Maybe it’s better if I show you.”
Before I could register my shock, his hand shot out to drag me closer to his side. Briefly a moment had passed before I felt the press of cool lips against mine. It was curious, this kiss. Very different from the tongue sex I assumed he was accustomed to. This was an experiment, a research where eyes weren’t supposed to meet and breaths were expected to hitch.
“This shouldn’t be a problem,” he whispered into my lips.
And because it was what the situation warranted, my last words that evening were “I see.”
Warnings: The people described in this rant will never be part of my “friends” list, at least not here (facebook, multiply, and blogger). But I do have “friends” here (refer to first parenthetical phrase), who may alert the authorities. *resisting the urge to put quotes on authorities* So this is me saying you have to have balls carved out of f*cking granite if you do snitch on me. Let’s just say, I know someone who’s never lost a knife fight. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.
We have micromanagers to thank for making it impossible to catalogue the acts of douchebaggery committed in an office. There’s simply not enough hours in a day to accomplish all that. If Satan ever needs to recruit agents to bring on the apocalypse, he can do worse than these corporate psychopaths.
On the other hand, we have to give them props for their relentless pursuit of evil. As morally reprehensible as their acts often are, we at least are given endless opportunities to be a hero where we can. The crusade against the disempowering of workers is something every employee should take to heart.
A/N: A drabble is basically a ficlet, exactly 100 words in length. Warnings: Don't like, don't read. If you do read, know that reviews are like crack to writers. Disclaimer: I own everything, well not everything in the free world, but I own these words like I own the Bruce Lee poster that's tacked on my wall.
Linda
An alias I find myself using more often than I care to remember, Linda does quite well in satisfying my innate need to be absurd. Linda makes the Marks, the Johns and the occasional Anne more bearable; their companies not needing to be more than what I am prepared to accept. There is a certain kindness to Linda that my Mel is incapable of displaying—more forgiving and more tolerant of the illogic of being human than I can ever be. For the useful, useless and everything in between, Linda serves my purposes to degrees that I’m afraid to admit.
Melody
Born of tiredness and irreverence, Melody usually makes an appearance in customer service forms, usually of the food establishment variety. The name goes well with the phony address and number I have invented just for these delicious moments. Pizza Hut—or is it just The Hut now?—has the unfortunate honor of being the repeated victim of Melody’s readiness to lie. Ditto for Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. It is this acceptance of my dishonesty that allows her to exist as a favored appellation. Melody, while inviting ridicule for its disconnect to Melissa ergo Mel, will always be useful to myself. Sammi
More a stage name than a pseudonym, Sammi performs for the deviant audience. Created to exemplify Descartes’ Error, I use her when the actress in me needs to be let out. Although Sammi is familiar with the concept of shame, she is hopelessly inept at employing restraint. And while I appreciate her popularity among freaks and geeks (I have weirdness down to a science, after all), it is rare that Sammi successfully breaks out of the imaginary world I have consigned her to. When she crosses over to my reality, however, I have no vivid recollection of these alcohol-inspired escapes.
Melissa
Stuck with this name for 27 years, I have no particular fondness for Melissa. Melissa is reserved for people who don’t know me well enough. People who, in my opinion, have a greater chance of violating my personal space because they fail to acknowledge Mel as my sobriquet of choice. Melissa serves no other purpose than to be attractive on personal documents: birth certificate, passport, résumé and the like. Melissa’s official uses, though appreciated will never explain why it’s a stranger to my Mel and stranger still to my friends.
A rose by any other name…
I’ m no rose.
Mel
“Mel, is it?” he stops me before I can grab myself a plate.
“Who’s asking?” I barely hide my irritation as I allow people to take over my place at the buffet line.
He grins. Not a good sign for me. “Three years ago, your name was Sammi.”
Warning bells drown the sounds of my growling stomach. “Sammi’s my sister. Is there anything else?” I level him with my patented stare.
He’s surprised, but he recovers quickly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” He hesitates before asking, “Mel, is that short for Melissa?”
A/N: Companion piece to Mel, Too! Reviews are delicious. Warnings: This needs beta love. Disclaimer: Own everything, especially the arrangement of the words in this post. I do not, however, profit from any of this, which makes me sadder than you can possibly imagine. Oops, pix not mine (here be the link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/envina/2994513811/)
And so the baker dreamed, while another reality staked colonies in her subconscious. This reality supported a persona, a writer who knew how to bake but lacked the necessary follow-through. As a result, the cookies she baked were disgustingly mediocre, which she rationalized as insignificant, considering her focus should be on stories and not pastries.
But baking skills weren’t the only thing she lacked. It bled into other things. The absence of a tattoo on her left hip, the missing dog, the non-existent duplex, and the never-to-be-husband called Zach. These things filled her with an unexplainable longing that fueled her contempt for the world she lived in. It made her more susceptible to a blinding need to be liked. It made her mean her apologies. And it made her seek people who would always value her sense and conscience.
For reasons unknown to her, listening to a lot of Anti-Folk and Dream Pop always calmed her down. And it was through listening to The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane that she found herself creating a character, whose personality would be the polar opposite of her own. This character, she decided, would be a baker with a fondness for Martha Stewart. She briefly thought of replacing Martha Stewart with Julia Child, but immediately dismissed that idea as absurd.
She needed another character to flesh out the baker’s personality. She needed Zach. Zach, who was charming, good in bed and had a funny nickname like Captain Awesome or Commander Sexypants. Sexy Zach would provide levity to the baker’s take-no-shit attitude. And Zach would be the guy the baker’s dog hated.
With a few more details—naming the dog Spock and having the major characters plan a wedding—she finished her draft. Perhaps, she would add a baby to the mix, maybe a new house like a duplex with four bedrooms. Money issues, she mused, would be an element that needs to be injected to the story. For now though, she needed to rest. And as her eyes closed, her last thought would be of babies and bakeries.
You said the best part was when I told you your hotness was unbelievable. I remembered emphasizing that lie by telling you that I felt like an ice cube melting in the desert. You giggled even though you knew I was on my second drink. I realized now how you never stopped me while I was laying on the metaphors by comparing you to a bolt of lightning. I was slurring my words, stringing descriptions like illuminating, flashy, destructive, and dangerous. And yet you felt like I captured your essence; that I was different from the people you associated with. I just nodded my assent, because telling you that it was the fourth drink talking would alert you to the fact that I wasn’t even trying to warm up to a more original territory.
I thought about how you wanted to take me home that night. The desperation was evident enough in the plasticine quality of your skin. I remembered how fascinated I was by the way alcohol made your makeup even more grotesque under the lights. And I could almost recall you mentioning a boyfriend, if I wasn’t so distracted by the ample cleavage that stared at my face. I ordered another drink before I took you to my place, where we danced the mattress jig—might I add—none too gracefully.
Doing it with a girl was a first for you, you said. It wasn’t for me, but I would never tell you that, not sober, at least. I was thinking how to shut you up, but then you decided that moment to give me a kiss. I gave in – another lie that won over the decision to be kind. And as you drifted off to sleep, sighing, I thought about another guy, whose name would be the last thing on my lips.
Mapping the alien brain, or maybe just permanent residents in my head…
1. You call it a kiss. I call it osculation. 2. Did Schrödinger hate cats or was he really just a dog person? 3. Never underestimate the importance of a Zombie Apocalypse Contingency Plan. 4. Yes, phasers can be set to sexy. 5. Invasion of the Body Snatchers is autobiographical. 6. Everybody needs a brain wipe (n. a moist towelette for certain memory biases). 7. Chewbacca: tapped that. 8. DEFCON 1 = my baseline. 9. Anatomically correct has absolutely no meaning for me. 10. UNF is true for all dimensions.
A/N: written for an AU prompt. Warnings: language, if you have a thing against F-bombs; general crackiness, obviously. Disclaimer: own everything, except the pix. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/14735632@N07/2531618778/)
She is unburdened by an intense need to be liked and with enough provocation, makes every sorry sound like fuck off and die. A baker with a tattoo of a dragonfly on her left hip, she’s friends with people, who never resent her for lacking sense and in some cases, a conscience.
She listens to a lot of Anti-Folk and Dream-Pop. She’s convinced her cupcakes would taste like moldy toenails if she didn’t have The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane playing in the background while she bakes. She tells everyone her cookies aren’t exceptional, but her L'Opera gateaus are from Satan’s pâtisserie. Secretly, she loves Martha Stewart. Julia Child, not so much.
Of the people in her life, she’s closest to Zach, a reformed bad boy, who oozes charm like a maple tree bleeds sap. Tall, articulate and a bit of a sex fiend, the guy is not called Commander Sexypants for nothing. They’re planning to get married soon, but with a bun already in the oven, maybe it would be sooner.
Today, she’s thinking how her dog, an Irish Wolfhound/Airedale Terrier named Spock, would take to the baby. As it is, Spock doesn’t even like the Commander that much. She wonders if she would be happy in her new home, a duplex with four bedrooms. She knows that with the money she and Zach spent on the house, it would be sometime before she can open her own bakery. In a few hours, she would force herself to stop worrying about these things. But she still goes to bed dreaming of mansions and muffins.
For the most part, love IS ironic. In the name of love, doing the things you detest seems acceptable. After all, these acts still operate within the framework of happiness, or rather the pursuit thereof. It’s called sacrifice, they say. But that’s entirely dependent on your role in this otherwise symbiotic relationship. If you’re a taker, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. If you’re a giver, well now, you’re in big trouble. (Or whipped like the family pig, whichever you prefer.) Either way, you’re still screwed. Now let’s see if you can still appreciate the irony after this.
Pity
Nothing intensifies the feeling of pain more than other people’s pity. Soothing words, consoling hugs—these may as well be radioactive. Because if we are to be honest about it, concealing the gulf between your countenance and the damages your heart has sustained is sheer hell. Nobody likes doing that, unless you’re a glutton for punishment. And if that’s not enough, you’re obligated to feel better because it’s just rude to shun the efforts of the people who—true or not—care about your wellbeing. And if that’s not a testament to the ridiculousness of the situation, more’s the pity.
Thus, it stops—the need to verbalize everything, as I find consolation in words not spoken. Here, ideas are abandoned somewhere between the definite and the perhaps, while promises of a smile die before reaching my lips.
~o~
And miracles in their fragile containers shatter as they reach my corner of earth. I’m wondering if prayers divorced from faith can find their way home.
~o~
Whereas, the little disappointments accumulate and start to decompose behind my eyes, I am sincerely questioning my right to be tired.
Because at some point, words should mean more than the breath it takes to utter them. That disregarding the forced value of action over speech, the meaning is allowed to be.
People go through unspeakable horrors every day. It’s not like broken hearts make a difference. The universe is uncaring that way.
And it wouldn’t do to expect a reward. Not for getting out of bed, and certainly not for fulfilling social obligations. It would be wonderful if we get compensated for every tear, but life’s a bit unfair anyway. The world goes on, even as hearts ache.
So this is us, trying to make sense of the injustice of it all. And this is us not getting any answers, as hearts hurt a bit more. The millions tasks we do to fill the hours, may just be us, fearing the questions that actually have answers.
It’s the faint smell of desperation that clings to my body like a second skin. It’s the clever turn of phrase that eludes me more and more these days. It’s the steady undercurrent of doubt that makes most of my decisions unsound. It’s the frustration of craving sudden found joy in everything else.
Surely, this goes beyond the ennobling of ennui. Or maybe, this is ennui in its purest form, and I’m ill-equipped to handle it. One thing I’m sure of, every bit of my being is riddled with anguish.
I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve decided to stay away before it becomes impossible to quit you. Please know that doing this is like cutting off my arm, like sacrificing my firstborn, like selling my soul to the devil. To use the clichést cliché there is, “It’s not you, it’s me.” You, of the innumerable charms and applications, how can it be your fault? No, my dearest, the blame lies squarely on my very un-squarish shoulders.
I hope you understand that this has been the toughest decision of my socially irrelevant existence. And there are a thousand things I’ll miss (two thousand, if that’s the number of quizzes you have) about you. I’ll miss the writings on my walls, my posts on my friends’ walls; the constant stalking without being registered as a sex offender (I’m looking at you Grace Anne Alviar a.k.a Khemmie and Shirley Angela Regular); the shameless self-promotion. God, I don’t think I can go on. Please continue the awesomeness, even if I’m not there. I just want you to know how much you have changed my life, and that I’ll never forget you, even as Twitter beckons.
Wait, for now. Distrust everything, if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven't they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become lovely again. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again, their memories are what give them the need for other hands. And the desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old.
Wait. Don't go too early. You're tired. But everyone's tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a while and listen. Music of hair, Music of pain, music of looms weaving all our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear, the flute of your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.
It doesn’t matter if you like him more. It doesn’t matter if you’re prettier, nicer, smarter, better than her. Bottom line: if you cannot make him happy like she does, you don’t deserve to be by his side. Yes, you can try to euphemize the situation with banalities like, “It’s complicated,” or “He just doesn’t know it yet, but we are meant to be.” And yes, you can help yourself to the wide-range of literature (instruction manuals, if you will) available out there, How to Seduce a Guy with a Girlfriend, without Incurring the Wrath of Women Everywhere; How to Make Him Fall In Love with You, Even though He Has a Girlfriend; and How to Make His Girlfriend Leave Him So You Can Have Him for Yourself. But really, that’s just prolonging the agony. If he doesn’t feel the same way about you, don’t force it. Celebrate the pain, and move on. Trust me, you’ll thank yourself later.
The waiting game isn’t a game. There’s no fun in it—perceived, delayed, hidden, or otherwise. It would be more apropos to call it the waiting hell. That way, the end result isn’t sugarcoated and we can be on our way to Fruitlesshire or Hopelessburg.
When I got my Captain Obvious handbook, it says right on the second page, “much of human life is lost in waiting.” Of course, some know-it-all twat will tell you that I have just paraphrased Ralph Waldo Emerson. To which I say, “Suck it. I have been fending off plagiarism lawsuits left and right, and I don’t really have time for twattery.”
So now, you’re on to the third paragraph, and you’re waiting for this thing to get to the point, which ironically is the point. There’s no point in waiting, and I have just used the word point three times in one paragraph, which basically renders the term “point,” meaningless. See what I mean? Waiting is to useless as jackknifing is to space monkeys. It makes no sense, ergo, don’t wait anymore for this post to have a conclusion.
These hands hold memories of men, who have died in my heart, grasping the lingering touches that have marked these palms. Beyond the forbidden promise of clasped fingers, and the reckless kissing of wrists, are whispered stories that still move me to tears.
Because I hate things like that. Crying without meaning to, smiling all of a sudden, expecting things I know in my heart, I shouldn’t.
And it’s not like you have forced it on me—to be these things. I may not be known for my self-control, but I do have my pride, which has kept me company all these years.
But why now, why at this point in my life? When I have firmly established my comfort zones. You have me checking my phone unnecessarily, anticipating when you’ll go online. That’s not the person I want to be. Not anymore, at least that’s what all these years of being alone have trained me for.
Oh but to encourage these emotions, (I feel) is as reckless as seeking the eye of the storm. What am I to do now, when it looks like I have to give up everything?
(Disclaimer: I don't own this pix, or SHS, though I wish I did. Credit to http://shinwashi.blogspot.com/, one of my fave blogs out there.)
I’m fascinated by metanoia and its psychological implications. That such leeway is given for psychotic episodes, even encouraged, is amazing to me. Forgive me if I’m wrongly interpreting Carl Jung’s psychology. Yesterday’s homily focused on the concept, and so I have decided to look into it.
Of course, the theological meaning is quite different. Still, I want to explore metanoia as it pertains to my current situation. Come to think of it, metanoia either as repentance or as breakdown of the psyche, produces symphonies of curiosity, that ignoring such obvious writing prompts will be like spitting in the face of destiny. I exaggerate, but it’s not like you can stop me.
This morning, I found myself praying the Stations of the Cross. And one passage provided me with such insight.
Matthew. 27:32; 16:24 (The Cyrenian helps Jesus carry the Cross): As they went out, they came upon a man of Cyrene, Simon by name; this man they compelled to carry his cross. Jesus told his disciples, "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.
He didn't ask for it, but Simon was given help when he needed it the most. There was something so humbling in that story. That for all the crosses I was given, God never said that I alone would have to bear them. For the first time, I was glad my pride took such a hit. I was blind but now I could (at least) squint.
You are my simplest truth As basic as the mole on my right hand As plain as the nose on my face As real as the pricking pain on my left side
And I'm acknowledging it now Before overthinking clouds my judgment Before my insecurities are brought to light Before I allow people to change my mind
Because if you suddenly decide To open up your heart I'll definitely take that chance Because of you Because it's you.
Thank you for purchasing a Mel Rodriguez V81. It is important to read this instruction manual before using your new product for the first time.
- Do not use your Mel Rodriguez near a Myra Tacadao. - Protect your Mel Rodriguez from damage by bathing her twice a day and feeding her small meals every six hours. - Always leave sufficient space around your Mel Rodriguez for ventilation. Do not place Mel Rodriguez in a bookcase, pigpen, closet, cabinet, or baby grand piano. - Your Mel Rodriguez may leak fluids every month. This is normal. Explosion may occur if disposed of in fire. - Keep your Mel Rodriguez away from heat sources such as stoves, radiators, fires of hell or any other apparatus that produce heat. - Protect your Mel Rodriguez from being walked on or pinched particularly at cheeks, buttocks, and other cushioned areas. - Do not use your Mel Rodriguez during lightning storms. Your Mel Rodriguez will atrophy when unused for long periods of time. - Unless signal lights are on, do not touch your Mel Rodriguez's sensitive surfaces. - Avoid exposing your Mel Rodriguez to exhibitionists, freaks, psychos, and the like. - This product should only be used for the purposes for which it is sold, that is, entertainment, violating no copyright law.
Today, the mother ship has called to let me know my mission has been put on hold. I am to go back immediately and prepare for my appointment with the Queen at 0900 earth time. Though I'm hesitant to leave, I cannot shirk my duty. M-Pax has zero tolerance for disobedience. And I will not go into details, but in earth talk I believe that translates to, "scaring the living daylights out of somebody." Forgive me, if the phrasing is awkward. I have not fully assimilated your planet's ways.
With No Experience In Such Matters by Stephen Dunn
To hold a damaged sparrow under water until you feel it die is to know a small something about the mind; how, for example, it blames the cat for the original crime, how it wants praise for its better side.
And yet it's as human as pulling the plug on your Dad whose world has turned to feces and fog, human as-- Well, let's admit, it's a mild thing as human things go.
But I felt the one good wing flutter in my palm-- the smallest protest, if that's what it was, I ever felt or heard. Reminded me of how my eyelid has twitched, the need to account for it. Hard to believe no one notices.
76. What would you do if you liked someone at first sight: Nothing, but I’m probably gonna imagine I’m licking his face (choz!) 77. Celebrity you want to go out with: Shinhwa boys 78. How many kids do you want: 3 to 4 79. Something you really want to be good at: Playing the piano 80. What you want to be in 10 years: bestselling author 81. Someone you’re jealous of: BB Gandanghari 82. A word that you use a lot: Fecker! 83. What you do upon waking up: Wash my face 84. What would you do if you picked up a million dollars? Look for the owner, I guess 85. What would you do if you became invisible? Panic 86. Best performer in your opinion: In what field? 87. Singers you don’t like: Joaquin Phoenix (stick to acting, Mr. Phoenix, sir.) 88. Type of men you don’t like: Cheaters 89. Type of women you don’t like: Manipulative bitches 90. What would you do if you found someone you love more than the person you’re dating right now? Errr… 91.What you would feel if you see someone you’d broken up with on the streets: Hide so he doesn’t see me or pretend I didn’t see him. 92. Most important possession: My body 93. First thing you do when you’re online: Check e-mails 94. Event that surprised you the most: Learning that The Hills is fake (hahahahaha) 95. What you do when you can’t fall asleep: Pop a sleeping pill like Rivotril 96. What/Who were you in your past life: Aliens have no past lives. 97. If you were to be reincarnated, you’d come back as…: a kangaroo 98. What are you going to do after you finish this? Post it in my blog. 99. How honest were you in answering this questionnaire? 74.32% 100. Last thing you want to say before you post this up: Do you feel like a Korean idol now? Hmmmmm…
51. Something you’re most worried about: family matters; my health 52. Times when you look most weak: after an odontectomy (death to all wisdom teeth in the universe!) 53. How do you NOT get dumped: Don’t be in a relationship. 54. 3 things a person NEEDS the most: family, good health, great job 55. Your grades in school: were okay from grade school to high school and turned to absolute crap when I got to college 56. #1 on your speed dial: God (I wish!) 57. Your mobile provider: Globe 58. Your phone bill every month: I honestly don’t know. 59. Places you want to visit: Korea and Japan 60. Your favorite TV program: Infinity Challenge, We Got Married 61. Last movie that pissed you off: When Love Begins (seriously, that was a total waste of Aga Muhlach’s talents…) 62. Most meaningful movie you’ve seen: In the Mood for Love or any WKW movie for that matter 63. Last movie you saw: Ang Tanging Ina Niyong Lahat 64. Movie/s you want to recommend: The Wrestler (haven’t seen it but my brother says it’s really good) 65. Favorite movie character: Stephen Chiau in God of Cookery 66. How many forums are you a member of: 2, maybe 3 67. Which forums do you frequent the most: soompi and asianfanatics 68. What you feel about these forums: I’m not much of a poster, but I really enjoy reading other members’ comments. Yeah, I’m a lurker and proud of it! 69. What you want to say to the mod of these forums: Lovely people like you should be rewarded. 70. Do you believe it is okay to marry someone else to save the person that you love: Huh? (Editing powers have reached their limits) 71.What would you do if your parents don’t approve of your would-be husband? Threaten them until they say yes? 72. Are you a player? Err, that depends on the game that is being played. 73. What time do you wake up? 7am (M-F); 9-10am (weekends) 74. Your usual bedtime: 11pm 75. If someone you met for the first time asked for your number: I’ll check first if he or she doesn’t look like someone who’d post my number on a dating site, and then I’ll let him/her have my digits.
26. Something you want these days: Clear mascara and my chuchay (just because I know bee will be reading this…hardiharhar) 27. Things you do when you’re home alone: I pretend I’m somewhere else. 28. What you say to yourself when you’re standing in front of the mirror: You’re an alien. 29. Clothes you’re wearing right now: grey drawstring pants, blue top, white and violet cardigan 30. How much money do you have in your wallet: less than 200php 31. What you want to buy for your boyfriend: a new girlfriend 32. Does height matter to you? Yes. 33. Your karaoke staples: Irreplaceable, Say What You Want 34. What would you do if you had plans with your friends but they never showed up: I’ll throw the mother of all tantrums. 35. What would you do if the person you loved cheated on you: Become the person I am today. 36. How long can you wait for the person you love: 5 minutes, tops! 37. When was your first kiss: with or without tongue? 38. Facial feature/s you are most satisfied with: ears. 39. Facial feature/s you hate the most: T-zone 40. People you miss the most right now: Badzie, Emil, Phoebe 41. When was your first love? Grade 6 42. Year when you cried the most: 2004-2005 43. When do you feel most grown up? When I pay the bills… 44. What you don’t like: This questionnaire. 45. When you feel happiest: After I’m done with this questionnaire. 46. When you were most flabbergasted: Every 7 minutes. 47. Best looking person of the opposite sex you’ve seen so far: UP Oblation 48. Why aren’t you going out with anyone: I’m going out with someone. Who wants to go out with just anyone? 49. What you feel towards that person: What person? (Lost in translation ini…) 50. What would you say to the people actually reading this: I’m sorry I can’t pay for your burned retinas.
The closest I'll ever get to being a Korean idol...
1. Name: Melissa Rodriguez 2. Sex: Female 3. E-mail address: Sorry, but I’m scared of rabid fanboys…(haha!) 4. Birthday: September 16 5. Family: Mang Mel, Aling Meds, Badz, Badzie, Bamzie, plus the 8 million people claiming to be my relatives. 6. Height: 5’5” (Oh, I thought you meant ideal height.) 7. Weight: 100 lbs. (when I’m nekkid) 8. Something good about yourself: My kneecaps 9. Something bad about yourself: I have the forehead of a fifty-year old woman. 10. Describe your personality in one word: weird 11. Celebs that you like: local or foreign? 12. Songs you like: As long as it doesn’t fall under “songs I don’t like.” 13. Favorite season: Summer…sucks! 14. Game you’re good at: Pick hakbang 15. My ideal man: Park Myung Soo (hahahahahaha!) 16. Younger or older man? No preference. 17. Your mood right now: So-so, which is why I’m doing this… 18. What you have in your pocket right now: lint 19. Your take on sleepovers: Good, as long as alcohol isn’t involved. 20. Alcohol tolerance: 4 bottles (beer) 21. Drinking habits: Hmm, I’ll have to ask my drinking buddies. 22. First time you drank alcohol: High school, I think, can’t really remember. 23. When do you want to get married? In three years or so 24. About my singing: What about it? 25. About my dancing: What about it?
glitter-graphics.com At first I couldn’t understand how someone like you could like someone like me. You were perfect in every way I wasn’t. I was particularly drawn to how you were exceptionally gracious in situations where most people would be showing their true colors. You had warmth that made me want to dip my toes into what seemed like very deep waters. You were Father Christmas, Gandhi, and John Lennon rolled into one person. In short, you were a dream and I was, well, I was the anti-dream.
Naturally, I had my reservations. I kept thinking about what other people would say. I was scared they’d take one look at us and shake their heads in wonder. I worried and worried until I was too tired to muster a single thought. In the end though, I just went with my greed and allowed us to be.
Of course, I was happy. Crazy happy. Who wouldn’t be? By then, I had resolved not to look this gift horse in the mouth. The extent of my happiness was such that had the world been torn into three pieces, I wouldn’t have noticed. It was insane. I was insane. But like I said, I was too happy to care.
Then came the day of reckoning. Actually, days of reckoning. It was Murphy’s Law. No, it was Murphy’s Extended Law. All of a sudden, you became another person. The kindness was gone. The charms I believed you possessed dissipated into thin air. You were still you, just not the you I had believed myself to be in love with. I was left thinking I had been with an impostor. “I was duped,” was the only explanation that made sense to me.
And did you take responsibility for it? No, you did not. I was broken in ways I did not know were possible. I realized now that you had it all planned from the start. In the end, it was my fault for falling into your traps.
I don't even know why I'm surprised that Wikipedia has a page on New Year's Resolution (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Year%27s_resolution). It boggles the mind, well just my mind, which I realize isn't as boggle-proof as I know it to be. Anyway, since this is my first post for the year, I'll keep the digression to a minimum and just get on with it.
1. Stop procrastinating. Quite convincing, considering I'm writing my resolutions on the fifth day of the new year. Let me clarify that. I'm going to stop procrastinating right this moment. That's gives me about 360 days to unmake my procrastinator rep.
2. Be more positive. Apparently, there's this thing called Positive Realism, which I'm not gonna get into today, because I don't know jack about it. I do know what positive thinking is, at least the basic theory. It's just the application that needs to be perfected. (My affirmation for today: Loving myself heals my life. I nourish my mind, body and soul.)
3. Lead a healthy lifestyle. Post holiday pounds have got to go. Ditto for my addiction to diet soda and sugary treats. I do have commitment issues when it comes to exercising. But I do think 30 minutes a day (cardio plus weights) would not be a problem.
4. Flex my writing muscles. I admit I have neglected blogging last year. For 2009, I'm looking at 120 posts for this blog and about 10 short fic drafts. I just hope my muse cooperates, if not, I'm gonna have to find another job.
5. Pray without ceasing. It's a love-hate relationship, the one I have with the Almighty. Honestly, I just want to eliminate the hate part. For today, I'm holding this thought close to my heart: For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Rom 8:38-39)
