Personal Essay

[zimdude]

I believe my favorite literary form is the essay. For those who want essays with stories within, the Personal Essay satisfies the need.

Care to share your favorite personal essay, or one you wrote yourself? Your e-mail and PEx posts would count - even SMS and ICQ messages, since an essay can be as short as a few sentences.

One essay that sticks within my mind, despite my lack of a copy, is entitled Reading Philosophy at Night. I cannot recall the author, but analyzing this was the goal of our of our first year English finals.

[zimdude]

Here's a hybrid short essay and poetry form that I got inspired to write just now... I would appreciate comments.


The State of Falling

1.

The state of falling is a state severe
Infatuation rears its pretty head
When words come tumbling
Loud actions scream said

2.

It is not easy to raise a crush. It starts with a gleam in your eye; a tingling feeling
of togetherness; a whisper of entrustment. It may seem like a simple thing, but it grows, feeding on the accumulated emotion that has rolled up through days, months, and years of yours loneliness and expectation.

But once it is let out, it drags you with it, falling into its calling out to the Other. Communication it needs, as it cries to be told to the Person it needs. As it is let out into the open, it is no longer self-contained, since the Other is touched and drawn into itself.

Then, one can say, "I have fallen."

Falling means the distance between you and the Other is shrinking, as you pull yourself closer and hold on tighter. You now depend on this tying of yourself to give yourself meaning. Why the word "falling," does it signify a transfer of state, from a higher level to a lower plane? For you, at this point, it's not. It's the feeling of being free, trusting that in metaphorical
descent you actually climb to a higher state.

And then the Other knows. The person you fall for takes in the fact, whether expressed in heartfelt words or revealing actions. The Other is aware of your crush, holding the power of acceptance or rejection within a mind as human and imperfect as yours.

3.

The Person you fall for gives you a Yes. Your heart leaps with joy as you have passed the test.
The next step to be taken, the level to ascend, is no longer heartbreaking as the One also bends.
The seeds you have planted now start to bear fruit, and the Flowers of Love now start to take root.
You prepare for the challenges of your life spent together. and wish, it would end - Never.

4.

The Person you fall for gives you a No. This could be said loud, or without a word said so.
You try to think about it, and make excuses to yourself, but end up saying, "oh well."
Your feelings toward the Other may go away, or stay; nevertheless you'd want to leave it for
next day. You pick up all your heart's pieces that have shattered from the fall.



[This message has been edited by zimdude (edited 07-09-2000).]

[Telcontar]

Cool!!! Nice one!!!

Grabe! Ang galing!!

I wish I had half your talent in writing! The same goes for Mister Dean. Hanga ako sa inyong dalawa!!

*Bows*

[zimdude]

Thanks, Telcontar! Actually, Mister Dean is the pro, I'm just a poser :) I can't write fiction, probably because I don't read fiction either http://www.pinoyexchange.com/wonder.gif

Here's something I wrote for a Pinoy e-zine, and was reprinted in the BROWSE newsletter. It's about life with a psychiatric condition.
http://www.msc.edu.ph/wired/blueroom.html

[juve_grrrl10]

i have a friend who writes us monthly updates about her life, but I think they can also be said to be personal essays. She writes really well and they're interesting. I made a site for her, I hope you take time to visit it, it's at http://loviedo2000.tripod.com

[bLaCk]

ganda, zimdude!

very well said!!! or written!

c",)

[Wangie]

I enjoy essays too. it's also my favorite form of writing....poetry is beautiful, but what i love about essays is the fact that it's very eloquent, clear but at the same time, poetic.

i like what you wrote, ZIM! :)

i write too, sometimes. i can only write well (ironically) when i'm in the throes of depression and despair. i'm a typically joyful person, it is only amid sadness that i become eloquent.

[angelicDAW]

zimdude: i like the way you write--direct and closely-knitted. the tone is calm and there is almost some subtlety in your declamation of what falling is. i think it would be even better, though, if you find a stronger word than "crush" :) what else have u written?

[zimdude]

Thanks for the good comments!

angelicDAW: help me come up with a better word, stronger than "crush" but weaker than "love".

I write mostly for internal company stuff, so it's not for public viewing; I'll come out with more essays for publication here!

[zimdude]

I'll practice writing by getting into the discipline of doing it over and over again. Here's a raw quickie written tonight in a few minutes.

The Feeling of One

I have always lived a life where loneliness has been a constant companion. Even during the times where I have known people, and have partaken of shared experiences, something makes me feel that I do not belong. Tonight I will convey what is inside me.

A coworker is celebrating her birthday tonight. I begged off from the dinner celebration at a popular restaurant, knowing that I would feel left out, despite the fact that I know everyone attending. Yes, I feel lonely in a crowd. I would be more comfortable by myself, or with people I could talk to and get to know. But if the night is to be spent in "hanging out" and "making gimmick" (pardon the pretension), sorry, that is not for me.

Instead I just sit here in the office, drinking expensive coffee, and listening to techno MP3 music streaming in from the Net. Typing this series of phrases and sentences serves to capture this moment and document it for the future - but what kind of future would it be?

I am described as a jolly person, but I would qualify that by placing the mirth in its place - the outside. Inside, I'm a pensive person prone to depressive moments. My manic bouts of happiness do drive others to explosions of laughter, but those moments really level out on the surface since they later draw attention to the contrast within.

It is time to go now. I drag my stuff down, and lug them away for my trip home. I will be thinking of more thoughts - happy ones, I may wish for - but being one like me, this state of being, is truly the feeling of one.

[CherieLiz]

The best thing about your essays is your ability to draw out emotion. Essays have always been factual for me. Or something that makes you think, not something that makes you feel like yours are. I turn to poetry and fiction for that... But your essays do both. Keep writing, you may just yet venture into fiction!=)

[zimdude]

Thanks, CherieLiz. I believe a shift into fiction would be a transposition of self into created characters. Let's see if I can do that, and come up with a story as well.

For now, I have another idea for essay writing...

[sardonic wench]

zimdude, congrats! keep writing.

i have my own diary of sorts online but im too lazy to make a website out of it. it's only a mailing list which only I can post.

you can subscribe to the mailing list by sending any email to janjan-chronicles-subscribe@egroups.com i dont write often but i write.

[zimdude]

I've joined the eGroup. I don't write diaries myself, but they could be the stepping stone to fiction.

I couldn't get a handle on what to write. Good thing I'm not a pro else I'd be having writer's block. Perhaps I'll review a CD, tomorrow when I buy it...

[sardonic wench]

salamat sa pag join mo ng egroups ko.

diary? well it's SORT OF a diary but i just write essays. practice for features writing.

it's harder to write essays that have no subject, have no focus have NOTHING!

so i just write my arse off and hope that people keep reading the crap i write.

[dee-dee]

http://www.pinoyexchange.com/thinker.gif it's nice...you should write more.

i write personal essays too...i think i am more comfortable writing such essays kasi medyo egoistic ako??? heheheheh...seriously mas nakikilala ko sarili ko that way. parang self-discovery na rin ang nangyayari. :)

[This message has been edited by dee-dee (edited 08-27-2000).]

[*Twinkle*]

hi... grabe ang galeng naman nun... ako den hilig ko magsulat, in fact ang dame ko nang mga composition dito nakakalat. i made one na ok naman kaso it's mahaba. gusto ko sanang mabasa niyo eh.

[zimdude]

Thanks again! I was asked about writing, and after thinking a little, I figured that the goal of my writing is to state the point as clearly and quickly as possible.

To achieve this, I try to use a simple vocabulary and appeal to the reader's common denominator. If the thought can be expressed in a few sentences, then that can complete the essay.

To make it more artistic, I count the syllables in the sentences, and use rhyming and alliteration.

[Quentin]

hmmm ... reminds me of Oscar Wilde

[zimdude]

It has been a long time since I've weaved words together, and perhaps now is the time to do it again. Now that I feel there is someone to dedicate these thoughts to, it will be easier to stitch these phrases to form an idea complete.

to be continued...

[zimdude]

The View Inside Your Window

Crafting your home site is a revelation of self. I make the right clicks and load your work, giving me a peek into your world. It may be fake, or simply surreal, yet the page finds its way into my curious mind. It gives me insight, on how you take things in, mold them with thought, and release them carefully onto the digital cosmos.

Eyes are cliche'd to portals to the soul, but I must ride your page to find your virtual psyche. I make a wish that you write true to yourself, and share reflections that mirror real life. I shut my lids, and in the darkness I see the light of what I truly cannot see. You know not of my presence, but we reach other and feel with fingers that have never watched a sunrise.

Being fulfilled by your touch, I look forward to existing within your presence live. As easy as it is to be together at the same place, the same time, and state of mind - it is as hard as making things happen, that may never have meant to be. Hoping, praying, and dreaming, I gaze upon the window that is the link between our hearts.

[sheik]

zimdude, for me, it really takes some measure of courage and sincerity for one to be able to share his/her personal thoughts to other people who, mostly are strangers, as in the case of a public forum like this one. Kudos to you. wish more people had this characteristic. read your essays. found them really interesting. think it would be best for people to get introduced to the joys of the craft by not writing head-away about general themes like Love, Society or Sex even. instead, as "Rilke" said, they should learn to write about little things that they find interesting, things that are a part of their everyday lives, things and thoughts like the one your piece "The View Outside your Window" expresses. hey zimdude, just continue writing, and you can be rest assured we'll continue reading. Peace.

[zimdude]

Thanks sheik,
The reason why I do not write so much is because I prefer interaction - meaning, participating in e-mail and web fora and writing well in that context. I have written for print before but I got discouraged since no one sent feedback.

I will come up with more mundane work...

Other writers, care to post?

[zimdude]

I revive this thread in response to the post of p-a-m-m-y, my friend, which took up the task of discussing the passion of the writing craft. I was also reminded by the talk on Poetry Reading, and my own questions on whether the short essays on this page are worthy of being spoken out.

While I deliberate upon those thoughts, I will write a piece of new work that may satisfy the needs of the Filipino Heritage Library event. This is in the hope that these words crafted together would fall under their criteria, and not be discarded and denounced by the purists of poetry.

[trixxie]

your words make me see the image of a painting, a masterpiece that slowly takes shape. i feel i am able to connect. you write in such a way that you do not conceal or protect your emotions, rather, you extend them so that we, the readers can come to gather and appreciate that generosity of yours.

like you, i am mostly an email writer. or what my ex boyfriend would say, an angst writer. i write mostly to be rid of overwhelming feelings. emotions of different colors that make me float toward limbo, a state i detest because i lose all control.

keep on writing.

trixxie

[zimdude]

Thanks trixxie! Since I have not written in quite some time, let me share my latest work which I wrote just now in response to some thoughts lounging inside my head after the PEx Poetry Club meeting.


On Being an Un-Poet

An Un-Poet is someone who is not a poet. While anyone can claim to be a poet, an Un-Poet is a person aware of his lack of poetry, regardless of whether he is doing something about it or just letting it be.

I am an Un-Poet. I realized made during the Poetry club. I joined the club for my self-education, to pick up more about the world of literary culture. I sat in awe of people whose passion for expression could not be expressed in mere words.

I offer myself up to be a humble admirer, a wide-eyed fan. I am not applying as an apprentice in this art, but not because I find myself incapable of learning it. It is for the reason that I am content in immersing myself in an artistic environment that stimulates myself in my quest to know the other.

The Un-Poet me strives to learn more about the Poet, knowing the person through her craft. By reading her poetry and listening the spoken word, I see what cannot be looked at, and feel what cannot be touched. Her words make me open my minds’ eye to the uncountable possibilities of the universe a person can be.

I, the Un-Poet, end these created phrases with the faith that works of the Poet will find their true meaning. My words shall find their way, into places and spaces that only the poetic mind can become and truly Be.

[trixxie]

it's great that you're writing again, zimdude...:)

[Dreamina]

"The Un-Poet me strives to learn more about the Poet, knowing the person through her craft. By reading her poetry and listening the spoken word, I see what cannot be looked at, and feel what cannot be touched. Her words make me open my minds’ eye to the uncountable possibilities of the universe a person can be. "


9.24.99
This is not to begin
but to oblige myself to an outpour
of sweet cadence
oblique
and delightful
as the rain.


This is a pi! A definite 3.14 Zimdude. So I can't help but reply with a smile. Galing mo.

I like to look
underneath them and touch them
where they lie flat on sheet
And I find beautiful;
the universe that you speak.

Try to read Alexander Pope, yung essays of man??? (help please, anyone) basta yung may "presume not God to scan the proper study of mankind is man. Placed in this isthmus of..." chu chu

[zimdude]

thanks Dreamina...
what do you mean by pi?
my work is round?

perhaps if I flatten it out, it would qualify as a poem. or maybe I'm too self-conscious in labeling my work as poetry even as I'm confident enough in calling them essays.

I did some searching and found Pope's:

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is man.

Essay on Man. Epistle ii. Line 1.

[Dreamina]

ey sori po. malabo ang utak ko kanina ;)

em not a mathematician but i use pi in terms of:

pi = an exact measure
3.1416...... = with long series of decimal

in other words its equal to a compliment.
you hit the mark and offered the "........."
galing basta! write more. don't be too concious.

labeling ones work as poetry, free verse, personal essay, etc. is important if the author decides to follow a critic's discipline in a more literary pursuit.
label and set your criteria and challenges.

but when one sets out to share, or to express then a few tangents comfort and appreciate the piece and the author.
be brave, blurt out and hope someone can say amen.

tama na nga, ang labo ko pa rin.

as to Pope and his verse... ganda ng complexties ng tao, no?

[syriadee]

Galing mo Zim, I felt everything you wrote :)

I love writing essays, my real first love. But when I started on poetry, I got really hooked on it, and I would say it's my true love.

Writing poetry is much, much different from writing essay. You can drown in words while writing essay, while one doesn't have that luxury in poetry. In poems, every word counts.

I consider essay as my speaking voice and poetry as my subconscious. I am more careful and inhibited in my essays while I can write almost anything in my poems(?).

Kaya nga siguro angsty ang poems(?) ko eh.

At this moment, I am still an (un)poet. But I'm very willing to learn, even if it will take me a lifetime to do it.

*sigh*

[chang]

ang galing-galing mo naman! you should compile your writings.
who knows, maybe someday you'll have enough for a book.
i'm not kidding! if i browsed a book and read your un-Poet, i'd buy it. :)

continue please, for the rest us un-poets

[zimdude]

hey thanks!! hmm perhaps one day I'll write enough to put in print, but for now, they are just random thoughs floating around my head. I think one is starting to come out, though.

kayo naman... have any essays to share, folks?

[Lush]

I'm no writer but I write stuff that I suppose could be construed as personal essays on an online diary. I'm really shy about showing them but if you're interested, I can tell you the URL through e-mail. :redsmile:

[fallen]

I'm not really sure about this but what the heck, might as well. I'm not saying it's a good read or anything but it should be worth a look or two.

www.geocities.com/dontaskmewhy18

I've my journal there and some essays. I would appreciate some feedback. :)

[zimdude]

I'm reading right now. I'm happy you get to write your heart one at the right time. Me, I don't write anything until I'm "creatively inspired," which doesn't happen too often. Perhaps that is being artificial, but then again, we all have different reasons for writing.

[zimdude]

When I was in grade school, I had a struggle with the
handwriting lessons. Writing "properly" and "correctly" is, in retrospect,
not that useful today, when the taps of fingers on the keyboard spell meaning
more forcefully than ink on paper.

What is the difference between writing correctly, and correctly deciding on what to write?

I now stare at the field of black dots on the computer screen and ponder on how a
string of ones and zeroes can convey meaning. Computers are digital, unfeeling machines
driven by hard science. Thoughts are analog: immeasurable, indescribable. Ideas that
make their form on the computer are but approximations of what they are meant to be.

Writing by hand is more analog, but no less accurate. How can the motions of your muscles
convey the inexactness of mind? When you read the twists and turns of my, do I give you
a peek into the processes of my Self?

The spoken word is a carrier of emotion, a better measure, perhaps, of state of mind.
Yet so much remains lost in the exchange of voices. How much do you wish that we could
communicate, concepts flowing from mind to mind, feelings jumping from heart to heart.

Until we can do that, then true meaning remains elusive. We will not make the connection
between ideas and indentation, between thoughts and talk.

We will continue to count the pauses between breaths, the skips between lines,
and the spaces between words.

[leelayce]

what made u think that?


PIPOL: do u have an emotion that u cannot fully express in words? or thru gestures, works of art, song . . . . . etc.....


and how do u make up for that unexpressed emotion to relieve urself?

[zimdude]

I've been thinking a lot about how much of what we wish to communicate, doesn't come out properly. I ponder more about ideas and concepts, rather than emotions - like what's in a word and the infinite meanings we can assign to it.

How can we possibly be precise in what we communicate?
On the other hand, the art in all this is in the interpretation. If everything were precise and not open to alternate interpretations, then a lot - or all of - creativity gets thrown out the proverbial window.

[Ada]

Migs, I think you should a topic in Realm of Thought. ;)

[zimdude]

Migs, I think you should a topic in Realm of Thought. ;)

I don't feel like discussing it... yet.

I'm putting together the thoughts for my next one... which is dedicated to someone, too. :sunnysmile:

[flying_house]

i'm sure my friends would know this is me... oh well, i don't care... haha!!!

----------------------------------------------------

You’ve become my favorite pastime.

I know it sounds funny, but yes, I spend my free time thinking about you. Not that it’s intentional, mind you. My friends would probably tell you that I am the last person in the world to indulge in endless daydreaming.

Yet, in the short time that I’ve known you, you’ve managed to crawl into my consciousness and fill my waking (and sleeping) days with absolutely stupid, senseless thoughts. I sing a song and marvel at how it seems so fitting for us to sing it. Sometimes I even recall how your voice sounded in one of our fleeting moments together, trying to imagine how it might sound if you sang my favorite songs.

Every decision I make is tinged with the thought of you. Will I see you if I walk out of the room this very moment? Will I be able to talk to you if I climb up the stairs that bridge your world and mine? (ouch, that’s so melodramatic, I want to bang my head!) It’s been a long-standing joke between my friends and I how you are possibly the only person in the world whose eyes don’t see how we’re meant for each other. When I go to visit Google, I don’t search for Osama bin Laden. Nope, I don’t remember him at all, especially when I’m so immersed in what I have to do for the day. But I must admit, I’ve gone as far as searching for your name to see if there are any pictures I can stare at without wondering if it’s staring back. (Okay, let’s just say I was really depressed and out of my mind at the time.) Heck, I even check our astrological signs for compatibility, look at our daily horoscopes, our weekly romantic outlooks… stuff so mundane and unreal that they make me want to ****. Or maybe cry (nah, I'll probably just eat). Or give up.

The only thing holding me back from giving up completely is the thought that there is a chance for us. See there, I keep saying “us” all the time. I’ve read somewhere that a couple is a couple if they refer to each other not as “I” or “you” but as “we” or “us”. How ironic, and well, so fitting, that I sit here saying “us” even as I wonder if you even know that “I” exist. I remember a line from this interesting book I just finished: “There exists a world. In terms of probability, this borders on the impossible. It would have been more likely if, by chance, there was nothing at all. Then, at least, no one would have begun asking why there was nothing.” Wonderfully philosophical, isn’t it? Definitely beats thinking about you, any time, any day. So yeah, well, maybe I should go back to being Ms. Sense and Sensibility.

But then again, maybe I’m not as smart as I thought.

[zimdude]

Thanks for posting, though I think that falls under a published letter since it's addressed to someone, whereas a personal essay is reflective.

Hope more could post!
I hope to write again soon... :sunnysmile:

[purple_madness]

Originally posted by zimdude
I've been thinking a lot about how much of what we wish to communicate, doesn't come out properly. I ponder more about ideas and concepts, rather than emotions - like what's in a word and the infinite meanings we can assign to it.

How can we possibly be precise in what we communicate?
On the other hand, the art in all this is in the interpretation. If everything were precise and not open to alternate interpretations, then a lot - or all of - creativity gets thrown out the proverbial window.

the day the hearer-meaning and the speaker-meaning jive will be the day wittgenstein will rise up and do a triple-axle.
sa megamall.

[zimdude]

hmmm, that led me to read on Wittgenstein.
interesting! it's also related to my work in Computer Science.

as for essays - I hope to come up with one soon... maybe if I reflect on the Arts & Lit Night or something significant...

[WhItEFox]

Hi zimdude!

Can i post my own essays in your thread? Can talk about other person/s at the same time tell my own opinion or reflect about it? :) Uhm, Im an un-poet too.

I enjoyed your essays, btw. :D

[zimdude]

thanks WhItEFox! :*)
sure, you and anyone here is free to post their essays or their comments on others... I'm happy that there are people who write prose non-fiction here. At the time I started this thread, there were lots of poetry posters, and I felt "not worthy." :sunnysmile:

I still have no concept for the essay... right now my aesthetic inclinations are satisfied by computer programming... so maybe I'll reflect on that.

[ready2go]

Burning Leaves At 4AM

I was about to sleep awhile ago. It was a mistake to get the final stick in my cigarette pack and click that link. Three seconds was all it took - I've found a treasure.

Another click and another puff - I suddenly found a passion rekindled. It is my curse, it is my demon - mercilessly stealing my hours of slumber. I dare not ask why and could only give in. Reason ebbs when the heart is bleeding. So why not, I ask myself. Go on, I urge my soul.

And thus, during this most silent time in my world - I'm burning my leaves and capturing the moment.

Only but the faint sound of air and the orange glow of my muse surrounds the racing thoughts within my head. I dare look around my foreign home and found pieces of me lingering to sustain this love. The beauty is welling up inside my head.

And then it fades.

Suddenly, the heart is empty and the lights are dying. I've reached my denouement. The nocturnal contemplation is over. My body is sore and my thirst is quenched.

Nothing remains but the yearning to covet what is left of the night.

[leelayce]

yearning to covet


mmm.........yearning to covet huh?

covet: such a strong word




:bubble:

[Sacrosanct]

i wrote this last year i think, kinda forgot

==============
They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Through one's eyes you can see their thoughts, fears, and emotions; and trhough the eyes you can see one's conscience. Eyes can express a hundred words in one glance, it can tell one the feelings of another. Through the eyes people of different tongues can speak to one another, and through the eyes man can communicate thoughts that cannot be put into words.

When we sleep, we look into our own souls. Our dreams are manifestations of our hopes, our wishes, and our fears. In closing once's eyes, one is able to search himself; one is able to search his soul. When we die, when our eyes will no longer be able to see, our soul breaks free from the body and begins its journey towards another life. But while we're alive, our soul can only journey as far as the body can go(*). The say that the body is the vessel of the soul. Our bodies are what our souls make of it; and through the body we can be what our souls desire. But what if our souls do not want to open itself up?

That is why we must look into each other's eyes. Only then would we be able to understand ourselves, and only then would we be able to understand others. For the soul cannot hide from the window of its being.

I ask you to look into my eyes, and tell me if you can see all the things I have tried so long to hide. And in exchange, All I ask is to let me look into yours.
==============

* - a friend of mine contradicted this. he said that our souls can journey into other people...

[ready2go]

"Nothing remains but the yearning to covet what is left of the night."

This sentence is cryptic. Yes, covet is such a strong word. Hmmm, do I dare explain that last statement? Do I dare expose my decadence that night?

From the same piece, I want you to ponder on this line:

"I dare look around my foreign home and found pieces of me lingering to sustain this love. The beauty is welling up inside my head."

I'm tempted to let your imagination speak for me, but I know that that is not always fair. Looking deeply, one would see that this sentence has a meaning beyond its obvious initial intentions.

To start with, I was inside a room not my own; and I was there - not alone.

"Only but the faint sound of air and the orange glow of my muse surrounds the racing thoughts within my head."

Inside the room, reality hums with the low purr of ecstasy and the soft shades of flesh against the dim brightness of the lamp.

"And thus, during this most silent time in my world - I'm burning my leaves and capturing the moment."

Indeed, we were silent that night, we were necessarily silent and could only speak through our minds. Trust me when I say and I hope you could forgive me, if now I say that my yearning that night was indeed to covet.

[bunny]

Hey guys! This is something I wrote last year (April, i think) when I was still single. The only persons who have read this are some chosen friends. Hope you guys like it.

My Bitter Half
By: Bunny C.

I was having lunch a few days ago in a cozy café at the Greenbelt while trying to get some work done when I noticed a couple at the next table. They were seated so close to each other as if the word "space" didn't exist. They were looking at each other's eyes as if it was the most beautiful thing they have ever laid their pupils upon. I rolled my eyes and got totally irritated so I diverted my attention to the newspaper in front of me instead. When I put the paper down, I saw them again. This time, it was worse. The couple was locked in an embrace, kissing while Freestyle's "Till I found you" was singing in the background. Talk about perfect timing. And there I was, loading myself with work while trying to forget that it was the 1st year anniversary of my loveless life. And in my heart, there was no denying that I wish I could relate to that Freestyle song.

I was loving every minute of my single blessedness life till I saw that couple. I knew I was missing out on something but I was just too darn petrified to admit it.

I have had relationships. A couple of serious and long term ones in fact. The last one was the most painful of all. I built my whole world around this one person, loved him to the core and when he was gone, my world crumbled. Nothing was left for me. It took awhile but with the help of friends (and dates on the side), my tears turned to smiles then the smiles turned into laughter then before I even knew it, I was back to my normal, hyper, jolly self!

Something about me changed though. I'm stronger now. I don't fall in love easily anymore. I now know the difference between 'bullsh!t' and sincerity. I no longer fall for the crap some men use to get inside a woman's pants. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I'm not interested in the male species. I happen to like going out with them, conversing with them, asking them about women, listening to their opinions, and drinking with them (while getting them drunk in the process, haha!). I'll have to say I'm being more careful now. I'm trying to steer clear of having a broken heart and mending it all over again. I've already gone this far, haven't I? There is no way in hell that I am going through all that again for someone who's not worth a single teardrop. After all, no man is worth my tears but the one who is will not make me cry.

I have to admit, I have become terrified of falling for someone. I'm so used to being dependent on myself, to getting my way that I am frightened of having another entity walk into my life and alter all that. I don't want to be like my sister or my friends who act like it's the end of the world just because their boyfriends didn't call or because they fought about something completely petty.

Suddenly, serious relationships freak me out. There are a lot of things about myself that I'm not prepared to compromise. No smoking. No drinking. I can't wear this. I can't wear that. I can't go out with my guy friends. I can't stay out late unless I'm with him. Blah blah blah. Blech. For crying out loud in the middle of the night, I'm your girlfriend, not your little sister. You might as well lock me in a room and leave me for dead.

But I confess, I do miss falling in love. I miss waking up in the morning with a smile on my face because I know someone longs for me. I miss holding hands while watching movies. I miss how a man's embrace can make me feel like I'm in the safest place on the planet. I miss having someone worry about the littlest things about me, like if I've had my lunch or if I got to work safe. I miss the giddy feeling I get when he's about to kiss me. I miss the way a man's smile and comforting words can make the worst day in the world turn into the best. Gawd, I could just go on and on.

Seeing that couple the other day made me realize that no matter how hard I try to brush away the idea that I don't need "someone" to make me complete and absolutely blissful, that my career and my work eats up all my time, that there are guys who keep asking me out, that I have tons of friends to go out and party with and that love is overrated, at the end of the day, I'm still going to hope that "the one" comes along. And regardless of the fact that I cringe when mush comes my way, I know that maybe (just maybe!) someday, I will catch myself using those cheesy, lovey-dovey lines as well.

[zimdude]

Wow! So many contributions.
Thanks!! :sunnysmile:

[ready2go]

Things To Do

I am one of those people who keep journals. I began back in high school and up to date, I’ve consumed more than a thousand notebook pages already. My journals are my constant and immediate link to the past. Reading them makes me see how much I’ve grown as a person and how my priorities have changed through the years.

Recently, I was browsing through them and looking for a particular poem I wrote some years back. I was planning to read that piece for a poetry reading session with some friends. As always, what I initially intended to be a quick riffle would every time end up in hours of nostalgic reading.

I consider it a matter of fate when I stumbled upon a list I made back when I was a college freshman. I still remember that moment; I was about to spend my first evening in Kalayaan, the UP freshman dormitory. I was alone inside my room while within me the feeling of independence was rushing.

That night, while drunk with the spirit of youthful idealism, I wrote down a long list of things to do. It was a special list of personal goals which I have set upon myself for the next 10 years. I began reading through the list and was immediately inundated with memories. This simple To Do list opened a treasure chest long kept locked inside my head.

The list was quite long. Items vary so much from the easy and trivial to the difficult and important. Some tasks require immediate action while others need careful planning. Instantly, I took a pencil from my desk and began checking the list, some of them I couldn’t resist but put comments on – among of which are:

> Decorate my dorm room with stuff that will remind me of home so I won’t get homesick much. (The only decoration I remember that I ever put up was a calendar I took from home.)

> Get to know my roommate well and specially see if he is a kleptomaniac. (I never really got to know him for he was always out, but he’s not a klepto, that much I know.)

> Find other places where I could eat if ever the dorm food is not palatable. (We were five minutes from the Shopping Center so this task was a piece of cake, but this knowledge did not prepare me when a case of food poisoning broke out during our batch.)

Moving along, I found more difficult items that I haven’t been able to do until now:

> Live in my own condominium or apartment. (Well at least I have my own room at home.)

> Have my own car. (Vehicle maintenance costs are so high; I’m glad my Dad owns two cars one of which I could occasionally borrow. Of course I tend to sour grape sometimes.)

> Go out of the country for a vacation. (I think I shouldn’t have declined my aunt’s offer to visit Hong Kong a few years back. Hmmm… I can’t seem to remember why I refused to go back then. I think that was the year I had an invitation for a free vacation in Boracay. Oh well…)

Reading through the list made me remember a lot of special moments. It was distinctly rewarding to finally check at that instant, some items, which I have accomplished:

> Keep to heart what the freshman kit says, “Don’t let your academics hinder with your education.” (My university life turned out to be very fruitful. I learned a lot indeed from both inside and outside the classroom.)

> Study and work hard until you earn that Engineering license. (I think I still have the pencil I used during the Board Exams well kept inside my shoebox of souvenirs.)

> Lose my virginity. (Hahaha! The story of this one is already a classic among my circle of friends.)

Furthermore, I noticed that the items most difficult to accomplish are those which needed much dedication and perseverance. Such items are:

> Get that washboard abs and muscle-toned body you’ve always wanted. (I’ve decided that this is impossible. I love eating much more than I love working out, besides even if I get this; I would have to maintain it. I think I’m gonna instead go for a healthy body.)

> Have enough money in my savings account before 30 to start my own business. (With the country’s inflation rate and the kind of lifestyle I’m living, it’s so hard to build that capital. Although not totally impossible, it is required that I rethink my current financial strategies if I want this done. Wow, that sounded very professional!)

And then there were these items which made me really smile:

> Never stop reading and learning. (I’ve managed to collect a cabinet full of books through all these years. Reading made so much difference in my life.)

> Keep writing in your journal, you’ll thank yourself for doing so. (Yes, I must agree. It is very rewarding. And after almost 10 years, I’m still writing.)

> Allow yourself to be vulnerable and learn how to love unconditionally. (Even back then, I was already the melodramatic, hopeless romantic.)

And of course, the sole item which I believe would make me immortal:

> Write and publish that best-selling novel inside your head. (Too bad J.K. Rowling beat me to that wizard schoolboy story, now I’m out of ideas. Nevertheless, I’m still hopeful that an excellent story will come soon.)

The schedule I kept back in college somehow made me forget about this list. It was fortunate that I stumbled upon it just in time to arrest my impending quarter-life crisis. That is a term coined by a friend to describe the feeling of emptiness which young urban professionals usually experience when they reach 25 years old. Reading the list affirmatively brought about a catharsis. It made me see the abundant triumphs I made over the years and the many challenges I still have to conquer ahead.

I made a new list that night. I took those which I still haven’t done, revised the others and added a few more. I hope to again stumble upon this list in a few years time. And once again, as it was that night, feel and be renewed with that fervor for life that I first felt in that dormitory room almost 10 years ago.

[the_phenom]

lovey-dovey

you know.....

[wends]

zimdude: i didnt know that you are also a writer.. what can i say? i'm impressed *okay*

[walangdila]

PHALLIC MONOLOGUES

"I'm more than a bird" - from the song Superman by Five for Fighting

My name is Twink. I am four years old. I am small, cute, and shy. I always smell good. They always use mild soap to clean me. Shampoo is also good. I love the bubbles it makes. They always put powder all over me to make me smell good. They kiss me always and smile at me. Others think I am really cute. Sometimes when I pee, I giggle. I feel chilled, but it feels good. I am always happy. But one time I got scared. I heard a bad news. Soon they will undress me and cut my upper skin. That might hurt me. I pray to Papa Jesus so that I will not cry. I am also afraid of growing up. They say my head will turn big. I don't even have a head! They say my skin will harden. They say that many hair will grow all around me. Like grasses! Oh, I will be separated from my friend Belly Button! Thank God, I have the twin Balls for my closest pals. But they always seem to be always shy and angry. They have wrinkles all over them. Oh, I must talk to them often than sleep all the time.

db db db db db

Don't ever call me Di(k. Call me Richard! I'm not a kid anymore!!! See I just got circumcised six months ago. Look at my head - proud and always standing. That's how strong I am. And mind you I need a lot of space to grow! Out you go clumsy briefs, welcome boxer shorts! How can a fish grow and develop in a small aquarium! Besides it's getting crowded here. These freaking hair follicles are sprouting like mushrooms everywhere. Plus I have the tendency to drool every time I sleep. No it's not gross you slimeball. It's perfectly healthy. And I'm not being disrespectful each time I stand in full attention when a lady comes. I am a gentleman, mind you. Some day, some lady will be proud of me, you'll see.

db db db db db db

I am a penis. My master earns his pennies because of my undaunted effort to contribute my devotedly manufactured soulful essence to various sperm banks. I vomit at the thought of it. Sheeeesh. My beloved seeds taken away - frozen in some preservation tomb, half-filling its plastic cup which shares its color and bleakness, so that some ugly bit(h will implant my handsome genes into her filthy womb. Aaaarrrggghh. The nerve. But that is far better than earning pennies by forcing my precious vulnerable head in and out of some freaking fairy's or hag's slimy halitosis-infested mouth with the hissing, slobbering tongue, and worse, some fecally brimming hole. Yucch. It's not easy to be me when my master grooves into the stage of the night bar with the eyes of screaming **** melting my very soul. Oh, how I want simple life. I want to experience the safety of not having to reveal myself to various doctors for STD check-ups. I want to wear luxurious cotton-made underwear, not these foul filthy loin clothes with baconlike garters. I'm tired of being choked and forced into different places. I want to experience a peaceful slumber and faithful communion to some passionate vagina, whose juices will make me feel loved and longed for.

db db db db db

I'm an old (o(k. You can't teach an old (o(k new tricks. So my owner went to the drugstore. Why? I can't remember why. We just went there. I'm an old (o(k, I don't know why. Oh, I remember. We asked for viagra. Out of stock. How about some Diatabs? The lady pharmacist gave us that puzzled look. My owner told her: You, bit(h! I may be old, but I'm not stupid! Kung yung tae ko nga napatitigas nyan, e yung +i+i ko pa kaya.

db db db db db

Without me your male species will suffer the inability to remove bodily waste fluids that cannot all come out in the tiny pores of your skin. Without me, imagine what sex is like. Imagine the semen released through a male's nose. Or mouth. Disgusting. Some people hardly know that I used to be a god once - or at least a symbol for a god. If you traced back fertility cults in India, most of the statues are made in my image called lingam. Brahma statues are conical - lingam in shape. Others adore my image and immortalize them through artworks. You'll find me still honored as Baguio souvenirs: paperweights and ashtrays. Unfortunately now I am usually thought of as an icon for sexual perversion, patriarchal system, and chauvinism. Religion and etiquette have made my image a taboo. Gay websites turned me into a commodity. Perverts treat me only as a pleasure tool. Scientists treat me as a specimen for study and experiments. Most men are conscious of my size. They abuse me with their sexual exploitations. I am tired of all these associations. If only people return to the basic definitions. I am simply the male organ of urination and copulation. Treat me with respect. I'll stand by you.

[tEaMooN]

just an excerpt from the crappy piece i wrote weeks ago...

Natural Born Loser

If you’re expecting an inspiring story, the following crap might just confuse you.

You can back off now while you still have yourself in one piece.

This is not a story of some rags-to-riches stuff, nor a long-forgotten phony love affair. I have nothing sensible to offer but a story of a fuc*ed up loser.

Yes, I was a loser since birth.

People around me are all bound to call me pathetic. Not that I am the type of person who infuriates their day-to-day activities that make their life normal and less complicated. It just occurred to me lately that I am not becoming part of them anymore. Should I feel like being ostracized or condemned, it doesn’t matter to me anymore.
I am just tired perhaps. Tired of seeing the day-to-day bric-a-bracs that normally complete a person’s normal life. And these people start to dislike me.
They consider me pathetic and unorganised because I don’t bother enough to open a savings bank account like they all do. The desk calendar that is unconsciously displayed on my table is always two months behind because I am not entirely aware of the passing days, weeks, and months. I don’t keep an organizer with me, ever since it was fatefully invented. I don’t display any petty angel figurines or live cactuses on my table, which are believed to drive evil spirits and negative vibes away. I am the last to sleep because I don’t pray at night, this means that I normally do a lot of thinking before I trudge into another life’s surreal dimension – dreaming. I often receive a smirk or a grunt from my co-workers whenever I failed to pronounce Loui Vuitton correctly. My computer appears so boring for them because I don’t place a photo of Britney Spears or Linkin Park as my wallpaper. I don’t have a nice-to-look-at transcript of records. I can still remember how my few friends in college used to tease me by saying that my TOR smells like 555 sardines. Yes my TOR indeed stinks as hell. And one more thing, I don’t bother to avail myself of any life or educational insurance plan. Planning and organizing are not really part of my vocabulary. And I am thinking why is everybody entitled to blame me for that.

I don’t have too many valuable possessions to care for except for my single- disc vcd player, a number of pirated video discs, and a couple of Salinger’s books. These things are fair enough to drive me crazy. But these few things I gladly own somewhat tell a little of my personality. But I always make sure that these things don’t tell too much about me. Too bad you can easily define some people’s personality and perception by simply looking at the things they possess. And this truth makes me a little sad.

This is not really a piece that tells about the things I “don’t do”, but rather of things “I choose to do,” whatever it costs, whatever the consequences are. I’d always love to taste the sweet and bitter results of my every impetuous decision-making act (if I may call it). Maybe that’s why they perceive me as a loser. That’s the way people describe me by simply smelling the epidermal layer of my being.

Sometimes few people brought up some arguments on me, as if these talks were going to save me, as if they were matters of life and death to me. They often question me on how do I set my priorities in life, or do I have any priorities at all.

Even my boss urges me to take my master’s degree while I am still young and capable of doing great things in life. But I tell her that I want to taste life as slowly as I could. Nowadays, people are always in a hurry. They perceive life as a racetrack, you have to run as fast as you can before somebody knocks you off, reaches the finish line and snatches the lone trophy waiting ahead.

“Hey, don’t you have any plan of enrolling this sem? Everybody is making a life except you.”

“I still don’t know what I enjoy doing e. I am still on the process of knowing.”

“Yeah, it seems to be a never-ending process to you. Stick with what the society demands of you.”

“Nah, I stick with what I want, with what I know that will bring the worse and best in me.”

Are other people’s achievements the indicator of how much others should be gaining or losing?
When I looked back at the things that were fatefully happened to me, I was accustomed to questioning myself. “Have you ever done anything that makes your life a little better?”
Whenever I feel that this question is going to knock me down, I always take hold of myself and thankful that for the past 23 years of my luck-stricken life, I was able to put myself together. It is sometimes easy to pretend to be strong when you know that you’ re still alive. And being alive entitles you to life’s millions and millions of possibilities, even if some of these possibilities hurt. And I am not afraid of getting bruised and hurt anymore. One of the several good things in life ever invented is that if you get yourself too used into something, it becomes a part of you.
...............

[with_a_K]

walangdila: it's good for a man to have a rapport with his tool.

[purple_madness]

:lol: @ with_a_K

[stockpiler]

the poetry of lines and words
written on darker days

I know this person whom I know I will always remember to be the one of the very few who appreciated me for the things I never said but only did--in deed and in writing. She never really encouraged me to write these essays I so faithfully keep until now. But I guess I can say this is her one lasting gift to me--the gift of writing.

It all started with simple notes exchanged during class hours that developed into letters scribbled in blue ink on a yellow pad. Those were primarily discussions on what were happening then--stories we dare not share with anybody else but us. And along the way, those almost daily updates developed into something more than that--the expression of ourselves in a manner only the two of us could comprehend.

The language was still simple English that developed into something more eloquent. Then the poetry came. They were basically sets of rhyming lines--all about the simple happenings of an otherwise dull high school life. And it got more intense with the new twists and turns brought about by the raging hormones adolescence is most commonly known for. With awkward moments shared every now and then, poetry was, perhaps, the best form of release--of the tension, of the pressure, of the uncertainties that hound the tie that binds us.

And somehow, the rhyming stopped. And the insights we shared through simple poetry and meaningful glances were all lost somewhere between her artwork and my essay. She drew her lines; I weaved my words. She breathed life into what she created in monochrome. I gave life into what I wrote with emotions I never shared with anyone else.

And for sometime, and eventually thereafter, it was just down to our medium and us. I would never come to know what she meant by what she draws. She, perhaps, could only come up with interpretations with what I said in writing. My writings and her drawings were not just the expression of the shots of glances we so often threw every now and then to each other--they were diversions that keep us from missing the friend we are losing.

She would sit a few feet away, even inches from where I am. But even glances were not enough to let me see through her. And it's just my writings that keep me in touch with her--letters I would love to send to her, recollections of what has been and where we might have gone wrong, compilations of four years' worth of regret of meeting someone I would later let go with me not really wanting it.

And up to now, the words keep on flowing. They would always sound the same. They would always speak of the same person. Because my writings started with her. Because my writings are for her.

[with_a_K]

Originally posted by purple_madness
:lol: @ with_a_K

:p

[with_a_K]

Needle Point

My search for worldly permanence among personal transience has led me to down a path of sharp steel and bloodshed.

I’d heard, from one of those MTV insta-celebs, that the experience was comparable to acupuncture, save that it sacrificed the Chinese art’s finesse and substituted a flood of basic pain; a back brain overload of nerve ends cooked over hot coals and served with garden fresh veggies. But you could go into the pain, the forgotten airhead insisted in a blurry half memory, dive into it, and let it swallow you up.

Right on, stoner boy.

The search was neither long nor hard; I found the man with the skills I required for this piece of work, advertising on the Net. He was, practically speaking, a next door neighbor. Down a street, and turning corners, plying his trade within the border streets of the metro’s last bohemia. Freakside, darkside, starside, poser-side, art central; coffee shops built up around shanties, built up around ancient history, all of it in the shadow of newly built five star hotels and in the path of the night sea breeze.

I had to wait though, couldn’t go for it right off the bat, since this wasn’t a solo endeavour. I needed a second hand, a getaway driver, someone to stir the brew while I added ingredients. I needed my sister, bonded blood and flesh, the lost girl, who writes poetry, and leaves it unsigned. I’d known her long ago, and knew her still, even after our personal paths had split in a way as to be beyond reunification.
I needed her to bear witness, and I wanted her in particular, because among all my friends, she understood my quest for ‘that which will endure’. She has her own search on, and the going has been just as hard as mine.

Minutes prior to high noon, we met the engraver at the door of his workshop. He was bald, young enough, and the badges of his profession lay half exposed under his plain clothing.

He sized both of us up, his eyes tracing over our faces in a long glance, and his expression shifted to serenity, as his game face came on.

“You’ve got a design?” he asked, his soft voice layered over a background of acoustic rock.

His workshop’s interior was wallpapered with the evidence of his skill, other works, other times, other searchers, who’d found a part of what they sought in the care of this man.
On a cabinet sat a plastic toolbox, half open. Steel glinting in the depths, oil layered over sharpness.

I passed him a piece of paper on which I’d copied my decision, and we laid out the work in progress, finalizing the details, the color and the shape of it. I gave him an affirmative nod, and he retired to a corner and set to his own preparations.
My sister got a whiff of the nervous tension in the air, and filled her lungs and mine with industrial grade toxins.

“You’ll love it,” she said, at some moment before the real start of things.

I’d picked a blind spot. The mirrors have lied to me before, but she has yet to. I relaxed, marginally, as she smoked herself into false calm. I wanted to be proud of it, and to be proud of myself for choosing it.

“Take a seat,” the artist told me, indicating a plain chair.

From his toolbox he produced a gun of inexact caliber, it’s barrel as thin as a hair, it’s trigger like a guitarist’s stompbox, underfoot, working on pressure.

The artist had a metal plate with shallow indentions – his pallete, I realized, when he poured dull black paint into a little hollow. I faced the wall, and lowered my head.

“God, I hate blood,” my sister said, placing herself where her view would be unimpeded.

A vast centipede with needles for it’s feet took an extended stroll along my back.

“I’m the first right?” I asked, my sister, through a barrier of my teeth. “Among all of us?”

“Yup,” she said, witness to a battle of tiny samurai, with swords as real as they were mythic.

“Okay?” the artist asked.

“Sure,” I said, managing a thumbs up.

Pain like fire and hammers, all of it on a miniature scale. My skin in open revolt. A sensation like my spine had been exposed to the air, and was being chewed on by rats.

And yet, there was a state past that pain, I could feel it, tugging on the corners of my mind. A call for me to relax, to go into the stream, and feel it flow.

Interrupted by the sound of my sister, cheering.

“All done.”

I found a mirror. It told me the truth.

Designed to last as long as I do, it was beautiful in a way that killed description dead.

It still is.

In plain black letters, I’d cemented my beliefs, my past, my future. My quest, my hunt, my search, not over, not even close, but I knew the roads now, and how they are different for each of us; those who are looking the enduring facets, whether they be out in the wide world or nestled in our own hearts and finding that they are often, as everything important seems to be – right there.
As close as our own skin.

Before I left, I had a word in private with the artist.

“Mike… I’ll definitely be coming back.”

[kurakoy]

confessions of a cranky crammer

it's just one of those days when i have things to do but i just don't want to do them yet. maybe at times you also feel the same - the moment you make an outline of the things you'll have to do you may be able to fill a sheet of yellow pad for it but still you just can't get to concentrate on reviewing for an exam or start doing an assignment or read an assigned reading. i am not advocating that everyone should just lounge around and cram the work they need to do after wasting precious time, but what can you do if you want to do something but just can't do it? ideally there's no excuse but to do what we ought to do and exercise a bit of fortitude. after all, our parents will not want to spend a hefty sum of money just to see their children lying around, doing nothing.

i don't remember if i have always been a crammer. though i can surely remember my mom always nagging me about being lazy - practically lazy about almost anything. it appears that i want to always delay myself from doing the tasks at hand. it hurts to admit it, but i guess sometimes my mom and some of my friends are right when they label me a crammer. however, i believe that i am not a universal crammer. i don't procrastinate in all my projects. there are times when i schedule things, and get cranky when my schedule is disrupted by an unanticipated circumstance. my being a crammer (or being lazy) has been a subject of countless arguments, but i do not want to live forever with the impression that screams out loud to the people - hey, i am a crammer.

at times i observe my behavior towards group projects. initially i lay down plans, and these plans seem to be perfect for the job to be done. then after building the image of a successful outcome in mind, things and people slack off. maybe i fail to follow things up, or probably it's due to the lack of initiative of the other people involved. then when deadline is already showing its ominous face on us, we work double hours to get things done. if we are lucky, the project is ready just in time for us to make necessary adjustments before it is due. as for my individual projects, well, i never fail to pass them on time, although in the process i might have probably made other people's day turn from bad to worse.

people have the ability to change. we have the power to change, as long as we mean it and we will it. i, for one, resolve that i do not want to forever procrastinate. it is such a bad habit. and i do not want to be at the mercy of murphy's law until the end of my days. however the realization i came up with about myself and this thing about cramming is this - true, at some(?) occassions i may be a crammer, but still i am the kind of person who likes to stick to schedules, and plans everything so that things go on smoothly. well, sometimes opposites do coexist with each other.

then came "the seven habits of highly effective people" by stephen covey in my life. one of the things the book discusses is about putting first things first. it is about prioritizing what is important, not dwelling too much on what is urgent. it takes time to fully absorb the principles in the book, but i am happy and satisfied that i can see improvements after reading and truly understanding and trying to practice the seven habits. for one, at certain occassions i have successfully "carried my own weather" and be unaffected by trivial things which ordinarily will instantly piss me off. and i have learned how valuable it is to schedule one's priorities, and not prioritze one's schedule. but still i have a long way to go before becoming really an effective person, in covey's terms.

procrastination will do us no good, even if sometimes we give the excuse that we produce better results if we are under (time) pressure. but why choose to be pressured if we can avoid it, right? but if there is no way we can avoid it, remember: grace under pressure.

by the way, i still have an exam to prepare for! oh well, there goes my being a crammer, again.

[rampage]

Lately, I’ve found myself smelling more and more like my son’s infant formula. Either that or Johnson’s 70% Isopropyl Alcohol. Even as I type this, little Miguel’s fingers are banging every-which-way on the keyboards and I have to wipe the baby drool off every few minutes. His head is tottering precariously, threatening to dive into the monitor.

I haven’t bathed and I haven’t bathed him as we’re waiting for him to make pooh-pooh. He’s supposed to be asleep at this time but since I’m gonna be busy, he decided to forego his nap and be cute instead. If you think a crying infant is distracting, try a laughing, playful one and see if you can even go to the potty.

My head is starting to feel sticky and my arms are aching like crazy and my stomach is growling and I am loving every minute of being a mom.

There is nothing quite like the smell of your little baby’s skin- even if he just regurgitated on himself, and there is no more beautiful sight than him sleeping peacefully while the rest of the world rumbles about.

They say that nothing changes a woman like motherhood and now I know this to be true. And the thing is that I have changed not in order to obey convention or tradition- not because I am afraid of what the rest of the world will say about my mothering skills- but simply because I want to be a good mother to my son.

When you become a mother, the otherwise difficult things become easier- like self-sacrifice and generosity, compassion and understanding, among other things. It’s not that I have become so noble and righteous- when you become a mother, you do not decide to be selfless or loving- it just happens. It is not out of a conscious effort that you lose your focus on yourself- it follows, it is necessitated by the love you feel for your child.

This is why I am enjoying it so much. For the first time in my life, I was not motivated by a dream or a plan or a goal. I have no real aim in loving my son, I have dreams for him, yes- but even if none of them came true I would love him nonetheless. I wish he would grow up to be a good man, but loving him would not be enough to see to that. So you see, we love our children for the sake of loving them- and simply because we cannot do otherwise.

NOVEMBER 4, 2001
LAS PINAS

[m0n1c4]

Sometimes we feel as if we are at a crossroad in our lives. At a foot of a road that splits in two. We know the path we have taken so far that has gotten us to our current destination, and we wonder what if something different could have happened years, months, days ago; something that would alter our entire lives would we do it. I asked myself that very question for years, content with my life most of the time but sad at lives that were left behind, lives that touched my soul and made a difference if only for a short while. Love betrayed and broken because of my own insecurities and pain inside, never realizing how much my heart cried for them until they were gone. I have heard that we can have many soulmates, so if that is true and we do have souls, will we reconnect one day? Are we forever somehow connected through thoughts and paths we choose? I dont know what I believe in as far as spirituality goes but it sounds nice and comforting sometimes. Or people telling you what the future hold through tarot readings and psychic hotlines. If there was a real, easy answer I would have found it, for I searched for years. Some would argue that religion would free my soul of all pain. I can hear them now, “Let Jesus in and you will be free. Bow down your heads to the Almighty. Shell out all your money in the basket we are passing around, for the Lord.” Get the point?

Well, I think searching into your own self can help you be free. I have gone through solitude and other perks to dive deep inside my own subconscious, only to have faced memories and pain that I thought I had gotten over long ago. Only to realize I had just buried it deep down where it could slowly fester until finally it erupts, and then still trying to stay in control. I have always tried to be in control, even when my own thoughts were conflicting. Tried to stay strong while inside I am a pool of conflict, writing, expressing myself artistically, and absorbing myself while also absorbing the world.

Still I must face the adversities from the past that I keep pushing away, so that is where I will begin. I guess I know where I am going, after all. :)

Monica, December 20, 2001.

~*~

it helps reading this again. my boyfriend just broke up with me, and i must admit my world revolved around him. i am presently trying to find myself again. i hope this piece helps you in some way, too :)

[rampage]

Originally posted by ikitbabes
rampage...i wish all mothers feel the same way as you do. your son sure is lucky..

THANK YOU, I ASSURE YOU THAT I'M NOT THIS PERFECT MOMMY, NOR DO I THINK I'LL EVER BE. COMING TO TERMS WITH THAT HELPS ME GET THROUGH THE TIMES WHEN I DISAPPOINT MYSELF.:)

[ready2go]

An Over-Sentimental Journey (Because Once In A While We All Deserve One)

If you like surfing local online magazines, then I should apologize now for not being too creative about this essay's title. I know, it was very unoriginal of me.

With hands clean now (hehe), I move on...

Firstly, I would like to inform you that the main motivation for this discourse is basically (well, you obviously know it already) - LOVE. (Besides, what else would you write about during Valentine's Day, right?)

You are now either nodding your head in agreement or rolling your eyes and saying to yourself, "I wonder what's the point and story of this essay?"

To you who is the latter, I say: "Patience is a virtue."

Hmmm... before I get charged of putting lame posts in this thread, I better start and give my piece now.

Honestly and seriously now... this will be, after so many years, my first Valentine's Day when I'm actually in a serious relationship.

<long pause>

Whew! That took some time to sink in to my head.

But anyway... well... I guess that's it - the sole point which I wanted to share to all of you patient readers.

And now - a song for my only love (the word mushy suddenly comes to mind). Blame me not for my naked emotions, since it's now almost a year since we exchanged our "I love you's".

Who would have thought that we'll go as far as we are now? There was no magic then, not even the sweet sound of music; but alas I will tell, there was a bohemian friendship and an extraordinary understanding which forged us to bind like Mighty Bond (not too poetic for an ending, I know - so what, this is my post).

And so on that note, I end my over-sentimental journey.

Measure your life in love.

r2g :coolhat:

..::..::..::..

Without you

The ground thaws
The rain falls
The grass grows

Without you

The seeds root
The flowers bloom
The children play

The stars gleam
The poets dream
The eagles fly

Without you

The earth turns
The sun burns
But I die
Without you

Without you

The breeze warms
The girl smiles
The cloud moves

Without you

The tides change
The boys run
The oceans crash

The crowds roar
The days soar
The babies cry

Without you

The moon glows
The river flows
But I die
Without you

The world revives
Colors renew
But I know blue
Only blue
Lonely blue
Within me, blue
Without you

Without you

The hand gropes
The ear hears
The pulse beats

Without you

The eyes gaze
The legs walk
The lungs breathe

The mind churns
The heart yearns
The tears dry

Without you

Life goes on
But I'm gone
Cause I die
Without you

Without you

Without you

Without you

[rampage]

Today is Valentine's Day, I was told.

Over my solitary lunch of Jamaican patties and San Miguel Superdry, I cheered all the happy young lovers out there and cheered all the happy old lovers even harder. Then I started choking on my beer so I gave it up and choked on my cigarettes instead.

Better than choking on tears. Choking back tears.

But i have shed my tears, and today there are no tears to shed, no one to shed them for.

Does this mean I feel better? Perhaps. It could also mean that I have ceased to feel.

Again.

Could it be that they were right? That some people are better off in the solitary confinement of their own soul where they could harm no one, not even themselves?

It's a safer place. It's a saner place.It's a colder place.

But would you rather be out there, where the next monster can take your heart out and feed it to the dogs? Is love worth it?

I don't know. I know people who love genuinely and truly, I know people who have never found somoeone to love, and I know people like me, who make a sport out of falling in and out of love.
It's all the same- we get our hearts broken at some point.

It's Valentine's Day today.

I wish I could give a damn. It's not even bitterness. what's there to be bitter over?

No. It's just loneliness, amplified by the vast amount of flowers and red things and heart- shaped food I see around me. It's chocolate overdose.

Whatever it is, tomorrow I'm sure it'll be gone.

Just like Valentin'es Day.

[Jeffreyw]

I have a number of essays stored in my PC, but I'm hesitant to publish them here, I felt that I still have a long way to go with my vocabulary and grammar.

Mahiyain kasi ako minsan, 'man with a few words' kumbaga, so i need some outlet to burst out what's inside me. The last 6-10 months pa ako nag-start sa pag-sulat-officially.
:( :)

[Stiletto]

You are, as usual, asleep.

I am so angry. So angry- and I do not want you to feel this same anger. Not ever.

You see, it burns you up and consumes you and once you allow it to live inside you, you are changed forever and you can never go back.

Let me be angry for both of us.

I’ve been damned by this emotion before, and you saved me- simply by being alive inside me, so that the anger and the hatred dissolved almost instantly. Hence I lived.

In peace?

Almost.

There are still remnants of theses ugly things that stain my memory, always threatening to resurface. It seems I cannot expect them to leave me just like that. After all, my anger and my hatred have been my sole companions for quite a while.

Some nights, my dearest, it’s so bad- so awful, that anger almost seems like a comfort and hatred is almost a friend.

Now I have you.

You are my world, dearest. I love nothing else. I live for nothing else.

When I first beheld you, happiness, anger, pleasure, hatred, sorrow, fear, bliss…they all cease to matter. Everything that has come and gone before, every feeling I have ever felt before pales in comparison to this. They melt, much like a palette of colors, left in the rain.

I hope, my dearest, that you will never let these intoxicating troubles consume you. I would not be able to protect you from every heartbreak, nor shield you from every kind of suffering. I can only teach you to be strong so that whatever comes, you can face them like a man.

A greater man than I ever met in my life.

Know this, my dearest: that whatever happens you will never be as alone as I was before you came. You will never have to stand before horror and grief and disappointment alone, without a hand to hold.

You will always have me. Always.

[^PoloBOY]

ive been in this realm of life for quite sometime now.. and still mornings are always different.. you never get the same mornings twice, have you noticed that? You wake up and its sunny, people are moving all over you and then you go back to your cozy bed and start dreaming again. Tomorrow, you sleep all day, and never even experience a morning, all you see are dark skies all day long, i dont even think you can call it a day, coz you never even saw the morning sky.. how come?
Mornings and their Morning persons, tragedy..

[ynon]

I am not really sure if what I will post here is an essay or not. What I am sure is that it is personal :) So please if you will find this otherwise, just tell me and I will look for a thread that this (and a lot more) would fit or if not I will just create a new thread.

:)

It All Started One Summer Morning

The morning is cold in the tropical summer month. Judging on the mauve colored sky reflecting on the cloud formation, it's not going to rain. The wind is blowing bringing tears in my eyes. It is hard to even take a cat's nap if you feel the monotonous humming and the dizzying oscillation of the sea beast. So, with no sleep for 22 hours, I strain my eyes what image is forming on the horizon. Thirty minutes from now, I am going to enter a new realm of existence.

There is excitement in the air. The first-timers are all on the deck talking about their relatives, the places they are going to visit and maybe the opportunities that may be in store for them. For me, I have been there when I was just a kid. I feel no excitement. It’s more of apprehension actually. My first visit was sort of traumatic. The situation I experienced only brought confusion to my child’s consciousness. I am not to forget it.

As the beast moves its nozzle towards the threshold of urbanity, the water changes from marine blue to murky brown. The air turns from sea wind to suffocating smog. The transition is so pronounced that one may think that once you’re in, you’re trapped and there is no turning back. One has to live with it.

The last ten minutes of towing seems too long for me. Memories of my childhood flood through my mind as if it has to run a last two-minute game. As if I have to run it down so that it would remind me for the last time before the metropolis will consume me. What I will become? Who I will become? Will I ever be the same again?

I grew up in an extended family system, but I never lived with it. Although I am a responsible member of the family, doing the role expected of me, I have learned to detach from the mainstream of a family. I lived in my own world. Nobody knew it, but I was successful. From my world, I became very strong, almost invincible. I became a being who had forgotten to cry. Though I was not number one, and I never wanted to be, I am above average. No one knew it either. They did not want to notice. The family, the people, saw the other side. Was I happy? I am not sure. If happiness was what others saw on the outside, then, I was not happy. But I was happy.

I reached the age that it’s too young for me to be called a man and too old to be a teen. My mind was unleashed and recognized the beauty of freedom. The feeling of being responsible of my own actions is overwhelming. I am the captain of my soul and no one can dictate me on what I must do. I never worried being reprimanded, and if I did, the feeling of remorse never lasted. I never wanted to hate, and neither keeping any grudge on people. I always thought, "Hate is something not worth to treasure”.

A sudden thud stirs me from the memoirs of my childhood. The beast has finally touched the ground. Its innards flank out from the long agony of the journey. The voices of different dialects resound in my ears. Finally, I arrive...

[cyberdoc95]

WOW!!! is the only word I can think of this thread. I felt so bad about myself being a member of PEX for sometime now and not being able to see this thread. I really admire all of you who have contributed to this thread. I do keep my essays but I am not ready yet to put them on the thread. I read all of your essays and I love all of them.

I remember my high school days in Ateneo de Davao University when I really hated English because I wasn't good at it. Until a high school teacher taught me writing a diary through essays. What she told me to do was really simple and yet true. She just told me to write whatever I See or observe or think, whatever I feel, and whatever I want to say that happened during the day. Be it bad or good, sad or happy, whatever it is as long as I can write something. In short, Putting my throughts into writing. Then after 4 months of so, I felt the difference of how I feel about myself and towards English and then I get to write the Essays of my life. It never stopped ever since.

I Love what you do WRITERs. Keep those essays coming. ZIMDUDE-thank you for starting this!

[^PoloBOY]

People always use so many words to describe this and descirbe that.. People say this and say that, always, about so many 'stuff'. About emotions, about reason and sometimes even other people, well, thats another story.

But if you look at the whole picture, in general, youll see that its all about life, in general. I love him.. I love her.. I love this... I love that.. I life, excuse me, uhm. My life.

Words and Life, what a duo. A few days back, I heard somethin in my head say.. `Words are life given existence by men'.. remove the ..'etc. part'.. you have Words are Life, you get what Im sayin? I bet you don't cause its about life... its the Absolute truth.. its all their is.. inexpressable. But men can always try right?!

Life, in general.. dont you tell me its a matter of point of view? stop being so skeptical, its the new millenium for cryin out loud, we need to have a philosophy for life. you get what im sayin? (im new so give me a break k).. anyway as I was sayin life is...
Life are words given.....

naah forget it, its too deep for the human soul to conquer and besides m in another realm of thought, get what im sayin..

I love her?!...

Thats life for you my friend! thats life for you..

[^PoloBOY]

ibalik naten toh!

[zimdude]

Thanks for sharing!
I haven't written much though...

[^PoloBOY]

It really must suck for the part of all those writers out there to have this so called World Wide Web being such a fad. They have worked so hard all their lives pefecting their skills in literature and language hoping that someday this God-given talent they acquire would be used in a way that would help them sustain their mortal lives. So many Philosophers out there, so many Poets... and now so many words left unspoken? or is this phrase out of line.

[^PoloBOY]

its 541 pm, jus woke up 2 hours ago but seems like ive been awake for eternity. I should've been awake by 3PM actually, but I was still too lazy. I could've been awake by 12:00PM but still, I was dreamin in my bed and rested. I could've also been awake by 9AM but thats another story because I jus slept around 5AM so it would be so improbable for me to sleep for only 4 hours since I am in the period of growing.

But now realization comes to though, what if I jus pushed it? what if I jus got up? maybe everythin would've been different?! or maybe everythin would've been worse?! who knows?! the PMs awhile back may have been a good present for me rather than jus a solitary past.

Anyway, so now Im awake and still got nothin to do but explore.

[ina]

i have something to share... i just submitted it to Youngblood a few minutes ago. i hope it's ok to still post it here.


Of Love and Fairy Tales


I am 22 years old, and I still believe in fairy tales. Rather, I used to until just very recently.

Back in high school, everyone believed that things could happen just like in fairy tales. We believed that our prince charming was out there, searching for us. And one day he would come and rescue us and we would live happily ever after. But life’s events can change our view of things, and one by one each of my friends lost that vision. Except me. I held on to that hope, listening to my friends’ stories of heartbreak and loss, but never letting it affect my idealism.

Then, one day, my prince charming arrived. Our love story seemed like a dream come true. I was his princess and he was my knight in shining armor. We were so ecstatically happy together. And that’s how I thought it would always be.
But I guess I was wrong to assume that I was immune to heartbreak and pain. Because somewhere along the line, things changed. He had less and less time for me, and I became more and more clinging. Until things came to a point that I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I broke up with him. And that shattered my fairy tale dream.

In the end, I cannot say it was entirely his fault. Nor was it entirely mine. My prince truly was wearing armor, an emotional armor tough as any steel. It was part of what attracted me to him initially because it made him seem strong. But it kept him isolated from me and prevented him from fully sharing his life with me. He had to be tough, and shut me out instead of turning to me when times were difficult. As for me, I saw him as my prince come to rescue me from my tower of insecurity. At first, he was only too willing to rescue me and carry me away from that dreadful place. But as the journey lengthened, he realized that I had brought my troubles with me and he couldn’t carry me and my issues forever.

I remember a bedtime story he told me when we were still getting to know each other. The story was about a princess who just happened to have the same first name as I do. She had a hundred suitors clamoring for her attention. (Hey, this was his idea, not mine.) Now there was a dragon that was sowing terror in the kingdom, and so the king promised the princess’ hand in marriage to whomever could slay the dragon. Each of the hundred suitors attempted to do so, but none of them succeeded. At this point, I interrupted the story with, “And so the princess got fed up by the ineptitude of her suitors. She took a lance and went and slayed the dragon herself. The End.” Of course, this was not exactly what he had in mind. In the story, there came a certain Prince James (which happens to be his middle name, I just didn’t know it yet at the time) who came from a faraway kingdom. He heard of the kingdom’s dilemma and he had heard stories about the beautiful princess. So he left his kingdom and went to slay the dragon. Of course, he succeeded and Prince James and Princess Corina got married and lived happily ever after.

But I guess I got the story right the first time. He can’t slay my demons for me, I have to do that for myself. I have to be able to conquer my fears and insecurities. And this experience, although heartbreaking and painful, is helping me do that. I have realized that he is not a necessity in my life. I can survive without him. My worth as a person does not depend on whether or not there is a prince charming in my life. I have my accomplishments, my work, my friends, my family, my own life to live.

Having said that, it doesn’t mean that I am not willing to share my life with him. On the contrary. But if I must slay my own dragon, he must also remove his armor. He has to be able to show me his vulnerable side, and talk about his feelings, his past, his troubles and worries. He has to be able to share both good and bad times with me. He has to be able to trust me enough to do this.

And if this happens, if we both do our parts, then maybe the next story can be about the prince and the princess getting back together. I don’t expect it to be a fairy tale anymore, I know there will continue to be difficult times. But maybe somehow we’ll make it through together. And the love story will have a happy ending. I may not believe in fairy tales anymore, but I’m still a sucker for happy endings. Ü


:angel:

[purple_madness]

ei migs :beam:

[^PoloBOY]

Jus the other night we were at the house watchin TV. Everythin was goin fine, til it hit me that i am the only one posting here, how do you get a blog?

[ina]

^PoloBOY
ei, you're not the only one posting here. :D you can get a blog by going to www.blogger.com. i have one too, kaso not yet open for public viewing.


:angel:

[hemplock]

“It’s better that way. Nobody has to call anybody in the morning. Nobody sends flowers to anybody and nobody expects flowers. Nobody cries. We all put our pants back on and go home.”

Me talking. Twenty-two, single, unattached, sane and sober.

Female.

I’m not unique in my sentiments. The same doctrine has come out from the mouths of dozens of other women I know- and I cannot help but gag on repressed laughter whenever my guy friends hear this kind of talk coming from the so-called weaker sex, and either applaud or turn pale.

“You’re beginning to talk like- like, MEN.” my best friend Erin and her sorority sister were told by a frat brother, after clearly enunciating their less-than-traditional views on casual sex. Said frat brother was a bonafide serial bonker who has shared beds with, like, a hundred or so campus coeds.

And he’s talking like its a bad thing, this thinking like men. Hah! I knew something was wrong with the species.

Indeed, women today are learning to look at sex the same way men do- something that does not necessarily have anything to do with that L-word.

The other L-word. The one that ends with E and lives happily ever after.

We didn’t get this from shrinks. We didn’t get this from our mothers(at least, not most of us.) We didn’t get this from Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul.

We got it from YOU. From MEN.

From our encounters and relationships and our conversations with hideous men, we have learned to play the ball game by the same rules that you live by. It’s the only way to stay in the game without getting whupped in the ***.

Personally, I think I’ve had one too many conversations with these hideous male creatures. Now I can’t go back to my rose-colored perspective of the way things work in terms of relationships and the whole interaction thing between men and women.

I’m the farthest things from a feminist and I have no apologies but really, sometimes talking to men can fry your brains and well…harden your heart. Not to mention turn your stomach.




Hideous Male # 1:
Chris, 20

Chris: So, there, they told me that the chick really has the hots for me so I’m gonna go ask her out.
Me: Er, did they say she “has the hots for you?” as in those words exactly?
Chris: Not sure. Why do you ask?
Me: Well, if she said explicitly that she’s hot for you or something then of course were looking at potential SEX here..
Chris: Does it matter? I think they told me “she likes you , man, really.”
Me: (rolleyes) See, now it matters.
Chris: What do you mean, aren’t they the same?
Me: Sigh.


Hideous Male # 2:
Robert, 29

Me: What do you mean men and women cant be friends? I have lots of guy friends!
Rob: They’d stop being your friends the minute you sleep with them.
Me: I do not sleep with them - that’s why were friends. And that’s not true for all cases. I have a friend, a real great friend- and I slept with him twice but were still friends and we didn’t do it again after the second time.
Rob: There was no friendship to begin with. The guy was just waiting to get into your pants all along.
Me: Hey, I resent that. I refuse to be led into thinking that there’s now way that guy could have liked me for something more than sex. Believe me, its been three years and were still the same way.
Rob: So you’re an exception to the rule. The exception proves the rule: men and women can’t be friends- Sex will always get in the way.


Hideous Male # 3:
Randy, 24

Me: And he said that men and women cant be friends! Do you believe that?
Randy: No. (pause) Of course they can be friends.(longer pause) Sometimes. Most of the time- sex happens.
Me: What? Is this all about sex with you guys?
Randy: Mostly.
Me: look, I have like, guy friends I’ve known since kindergarten- don’t tell me they think of diddling me too.
Randy: (looks at the sky)
Me: What??? But I haven’t slept with them so I suppose were all friends nga.
Randy: Have you asked them to sleep with you?
Me: What? No!
Randy: There you go.
Me: Are you telling me that….
Randy: Honey, ask and these friends of yours will probably ditch that friendship in a second. You’re friends cause they haven’t gotten you drunk enough yet.
(Stiletto ditches beer and reaches for iced tea)


Hideous Male # 4
Jon, 21

Jon: Yeah, were all good. I’ve been going out with her for like, three months now.
Me: Exclusively?
Jon: Sort of. But she knows that were in a semi-open relationship so its all cool.
Me: So you have other women on the side too?
Jon: yeah, we both see other people. I have this girl at work and that gorgeous new ramp model for ****.
Me: Don’t they sell exclusively for men?
Jon: Yes. And Brian is their best looking new recruit.
(Stiletto swallows with difficulty. The very open-minded girl Jon is dating is her friend from pre-school.)


Hideous Male # 5
Jared, 25

Jared: Some women I love but I don’t take them seriously. Some women I take seriously even if I don’t love them. I’m gonna marry the woman if I can love her and take her seriously at the same time.
Me: Huh?
Jared: See, I find it hard to take a woman I love seriously because then that gives her so much power over me. And sometimes, the women I don’t love are the women worth keeping because they’re manageable- I let them think they’re the boss because once they do, that’s when they become-well, malleable, putty in my hands.
Me: Wow, you’re a regular *******, honey.
(stands up to walk away)
Jared: Does this mean you wont have dinner with me tomorrow?
Me: (tight smile on face) It means I wont be able to have dinner for days ‘cause I’m so disgusted with you, you cowardly piece of ****!


Hideous male # 6
Glen, 26

Glen: I’m 26 years old. I’m not getting any younger. It’s about time I start taking relationships seriously. The women I date nowadays should be potential wives- not just flavors for the month.
Me: (nods head approvingly)
Glen: I want to fall in love- passionately in love with a woman I’d spend my life with- the woman I’d care for and look after forever- the woman who will be the mother of my children-
Me: (pats hand. Almost sniffles.)
Glen: My girlfriend- we’ve been together for four years but I just know I don’t love her anymore. I’m just here cause I don’t want to waste four years…
Me: Excuse me? you have a girlfriend?
Glen: Yes. Four years now. I’ve stopped loving her a long time ago. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity to break it off. Been waiting a while now.
Me: Er, right.

Hideous Male # 7
Lester, 28

Me: Are those two guys to the right of the bartender gay?
Lester: I dunno.
Me: Look.
Lester: Maybe.
Me: Cant you tell? One was really cute too.
Lester: I wasn’t looking at them
Me: What the hell were you looking at then?
Lester: Boobs.
Me: What? (cranes neck around) Whose?
Lester: Yours.

See what I mean? And that’s not even a quarter of the men I’ve spoken to- nor are these excerpts the most sordid talks I’ve had with them. They have been edited for the sake of the readers and so as not to completely obliterate every shred of respect and faith that women have in men.

Much as I love men, they can really be appalling sometimes.
First off, they have really weird interpretations of what we say and do and think. I have an ex boyfriend who once got mad at me for being too nice to his friends. According to him I was manipulating his friends into having loyalty for me so that when **** happens I’d have them on my side. Hello? I spoke to the friends for a grand total of fifteen minutes and he was there the whole time!

They have fragile egos that need to be fed by hand- and they bite the hand that feeds ‘em too. Why do you think men like getting head? It’s not just the obvious sensual pleasure they dig- it’s the ego trip that comes out of having a woman down on her knees in front of them gagging (if there’s enough to gag on.) That’s why I never swallow- it’s enough that I’m down on my knees buddy boy!

They are wayyyyy too preoccupied with SEX- scratch that, “preoccupied?” More like, it’s their main occupation. The point is- why do they have to think by their balls? It can be really useful, you know but generally, it’s been the cause of many problems in this universe. Insatiable sexual appetite is one thing but insatiable sexual appetite for MORE THAN ONE WOMAN? Don’t you men have only one penis anyway?

Finally, when it comes to relationships, commitment, marriage- men can be total jerks. Like that dolt who stayed with his girlfriend even if he no longer loves her- why not just tell her its over? Being considerate about feelings is one thing but totally taking your woman for a fool who cant deal without you is presumptuous and insulting! Like she’d die or something? Like, he’s doing her a bloody favor?

Sigh.

Oh but for all your shortcomings and laws and weaknesses, I still love men. I wish I could love but one man- however, I haven’t found one that fits the bill. Men can be such great ******** and the true test of finding Mr. Right is not about finding the nicest guy- its finding the guy you can live with, bad habits and all- the guy who truly loves you. he may not be perfect but if he loves you enough- he’ll be good to you, good for you, god with you.

After all, who cares if he’s a jerk if he’s YOUR Jerk?

some parts of this essay were conversations with pexers. tee-hee. guys, if you recognize a few lines you said, consider it a compliment that ive included you in my list of hideous men.

[^PoloBOY]

pero may problema...
ayaw magbukas ng page
laging nakalagay..
PAGE NOT FOUND..
sa tingin mo ina_?

[pathosmelody]

THESE ARE RANDOM THOUGHTS I WROTE AT THE OFFICE EARLER TODAY...

2:20 PM , At the office in front of my PC

This is how it must be. I was born a pretender. I must bear this and pretend to stare blankly with furrowed brows while I sit and spew innocuous words, breathe unjust thoughts all in my effort to break the banality of this nothingness. I shall type stupid things, open reservoirs of unwanted demons . I shall pretend that I am alone and inside a tesseract . And so I am not really here. Not in this stuffy office, with pretense-filled people mumbling inanities. No I am not here, not in front of a lonely mug the color of jade, unfilled and unused as I am. Instead, I am here in this place before my childhood, before this life. Here, where I can be pristinely evil and yet be at peace with myself. And yes, in this wrinkle in time,. I shall be free to burn mouths and catch falling torsos with my hands. These soft hands, remnants of my innocence.

I am thinking now of Howard Roark, of how I am him in a sense that is unbounded by gender. I think now of the nights long gone fresh with an understanding of my despair. I was not sick then, I know it now, It was during those nights and the pain which seared them into days that I was most alive. I UNDERSTAND IT NOW, Mr. Roark, why I could never be like them. That the days when I have tried to change, I have done nothing but kill myself to pieces. I am my own fountainhead. As I must be…

I am angry at them for being mean, for deludedly thinking that they are something. Can they not see that the only way to be something is by becoming what they could not accept? I am saddened by the fact that they can no longer be my friends, not even R whom the world has taken away from me,. I think sadly, how hard it is to be civil to former friends and not show pity. I think of S and T and J and G and E and KJ . In my heart I know they are the only kindreds spirits I can share my self with.

So this is what I must become. To write in secret. And like Ayn Rand I shall only write for myself and allow the words to stand for who I am and for the inherent web of beauty and truths I shall belong to someday. I shall continue to bake and cook and experiment and create wonders for the senses because it has become as natural as breathing. My hands, they seek the softness of flour and the rough promise of sugar. I shall bake and give in each morsel a part of me. So that for the few who shall partake of my gifts, they will have unknowingly tasted my own pasts and find nourishment from them.

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”She should have worn fitted jeans with that shirt!” R commented. . There was malice and something ominously evil. Was it envy? When a friend defended my outfit and asked R her reason,“ Eh para makita yung kanyang long legs!” a hint of smugness in her voice. R made this comment while I was just a few meters away, definitely within an earshot .We have not seen each other for almost a year and it was supposed to be a reunion. Now I think of all the past instances where she did her thing: make scathing remarks on my person to one of our other friends with me around to hear it, and competing with my ghost of a self with no other rules but to come out on top. How cold she can be!… and how she knew how easily she could hurt me.

Why is it that we sometimes stick with people even though we know that they will only bring us down? I think of R and the past seven years., our turbulent years. Of how our friendship soured from being almost like sisters to becoming silent combatants, enemies of the ugliest kind because of a precious past we have shared. And I think of how I am not so different . My actions different only because the things I noticed and hated about her I kept to myself .

I think of the silly plans we made during our better times. Of long hours spent cracking jokes and giggling about some silly crushes. I think of all our efforts and frustrations, our forecasts of a future, our intertwined future. Each lonely year dragged with its passing another gap, a bigger chink to our dreams of lasting friendship. I think of how we have become too different and too unneeded by each other … And how we may never have a chance to even say a proper goodbye.






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Battles come in different forms. Sometimes the deadliest battles are the easiest ones to win.

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I am thinking of all the people I have met in my life . How even the shortest meeting of eyes or words can in some otherworldly way change us. I am sitting here remembering the scene this morning on my way to work. ..

It is Wednesday, My personal hassle day, my adventure day. The day I have to commute to to work. ..

I am thinking now of that young woman who flagged the jeep in Shaw Blvd. I have seen her from a far, decent: black slacks, a dark blue blouse, sandals. Her big, bulky , tattered backpack somewhat out of whack with her outfit. But the minute she rode the jeep it became clear that there was something wrong. She almost instantly began hurling vicious and almost indecipherable words at the driver. She was babbling so hard, almost crying in anger that we could only look at her in shocked wonder , a few knowing half-smiles forming. What I could string together from her litany was that she was forced out of a house and that four young people were killed. She was hysterically blaming the jeepney driver for those deaths and kept referring to greed and money plus something about Cambodia. After about ten minutes, the driver had had enough. He gruffly asked the woman to get off the vehicle. She obeyed but not before she cursed us all and swore that our jeep would figure in an accident and that we would all die because we were “ mga walang-hiya , demonyo” . I can only wonder and conjure the events that can force someone like her to snap. I smell the stench of poverty’s triumph. Another person, a new death of sanity. How can this be? How come I feel so helpless and afraid? I cannot imagine the pain she bears. Her wrath must have stemmed from something truly terrible.

I cannot permit myself to imagine myself in her place.