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.
It’s probably absurd comparing myself to the weird uncle. You know, the guy who gets invited to all the family events, not because he’s fucking amazing to have around but because somebody (usually a mom) feels sorry for the poor bastard, even if he does make all the other family members feel uncomfortable. I guess I’m that guy now. Well, at least in the office, I am. Surrounded by young blood – absolutely the best people you can possibly meet with nary an ounce of meanness – I find myself desperately wanting to get jiggy with them like it’s 1998. It’s depressing being hella old.
No, not this guy!
I’m Uncle Joey on downers. Not funny.
Now, I’m not exactly sure how accepting an office environment is of weird uncles. Realizing that I’m one has been sort of the easy part. Coming to terms with it will take longer I suppose, but only because the young folks in the office are super nice. They enable my delusions that allow me to believe I can still get down, get down, and move it all around with them a la BSB circa ‘96.
Disclaimer: I don't have a Tumblr account. I'm thinking of getting one after this.
5857) I’m not always going to be a good friend. I am going to fuck up. I am going to make mistakes. I am going to lose my temper. I am going to get angry. I am going to get depressed. I am going to freak out. I am going to put others before you sometimes. I am going to ignore you on occasion. I am going to be a bitch. I am going to keep things from you. I am going to lie to you. I am going to be myself, and if you don’t like that, then I’m not forcing you to do anything - I am not forcing you to talk to me or sit with me or be nice to me or like me or even go near me. So if you don’t want to deal with who I am and all my flaws, then you can fuck off.
Yes, it hasn’t been easy lately. But as you’ve said, we’ll take our suckiest days together over not being with each other.
I think we’ve become different people in the sense that we have another person to care for besides ourselves. And we are no longer islands. There’s no more Melandia or Normandy. Just Poypotopia.
I try to always be there for you because I don’t want to miss a single minute. Some say that a couple seeing each other everyday is bad for the relationship. I don’t buy that for one second because married people live under one roof. But it is true that a little alone time won’t hurt.
You’re too generous. I’m not as kind as you say I am. But I try to be a decent human being.
I don’t think you’re selfish. I know you’re giving this everything you’ve got and I am thankful for that. I think I’m the more selfish one because I’m overprotective and can be quite demanding. And since I acknowledge that I can be selfish, I try to make an effort to put your needs above mine. Even if it may hurt sometimes, because that’s the essence of giving.
You’re always good to me, even when I’m at my worst, and that’s more than I deserve. You sacrifice daily to keep our routine. You put up with my idionsyncrasies and make an effort to work on your issues. The tears you shed you swiftly replace with a reassuring smile, to say that it’s alright.
I promise that I won’t stop trying. I owe it to you and to myself.
A promise is a promise. Sealed with a pinkie swear. And a chuu.
Proving that the technology gods have a wicked sense of humor, I, the acclaimed quasi technophobe has been chosen to test a smartphone. Which one, you ask? As a firm believer in the 1 picture = 1000 words equation, let me present for your collective nerdgasm, the HTC HD Mini:
Now, I've had HTC's Mini for seven days, make that eight (editing deities, you'll be the death of me). And my initial impressions are documented here for those who have IQ points to shave or brain cells to damage. At this point, I think it's only fair to introduce the Mini's fiercest competition (at least in my heart, where everything counts), the Sony Ericsson W660i:
Page 1 in the annals of badassery
And now for the tale of the tape, here be the pertinent statistics:
No concluding statements yet, as there are still aspects of this showdown I haven't fully investigated. All I can say is, stay tuned for part deux of this battle.
It’s a tragedy, this crippling need to say the right words at the right time, especially for someone who has spent most of her life cataloging emotions, organizing thoughts and basically mistrusting her judgment of people’s characters. It’s a shame, my shame that I am constantly disappointing people. From my hatred of serious discussions to my inappropriate use of humor, this to deflect attempts at involving me in discussions – discussions that could turn serious at any given moment, makes me a hopeless case. It is, as they say, unfortunate.
So, change. Of the people I disappoint on a regular basis, I’m quite sure this has often crossed their minds. Disappointing, I may be, but dense I am not. Change, however, is as unappealing to me as being part of a serious discussion I cannot get out of. I have learned to accept myself and have never expected of people – the same group I disappoint on a regular basis, even the tiniest measure of understanding for my shortcomings. It’s only now that I have really started to care. See, when your significant other is severely hurt by your emotional vacuity, you try to get over your aversion to things.
And that’s where I am today; getting over my initial dislike of serious conversations and change. Trying, because I have taken a really long look at what I have now and realized that resisting change can cost me everything. Out of all the realizations I have had in all my 28 years, this is perhaps the most liberating, having come from a place of pure love instead of fear or insecurity.
Indulge me now, as I deviate from 28 years of disappointing behavior.
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.
