everything lawyerish.....

this is a load of crap

Thursday, November 24, 2005

beyond words

kaibanan.

amour.

i love you.

i could fill the space with nonsense but i just want to say thank you for all the love and care that you have bestowed on me.

you are my everything.

sinta.

padangat.

salamat.

mishap

i owe some people apology. i think what happened was a reasult of my being such a klutz, but all is well now. i just wish that whoever bastardize my friendster account reform himself.

gibberish

this sembreak i am sure i am swooning over a girl. i know it sounds crazy but i am. this is something different. words just fail to encapsulate whatever it is that i feel for her. she is in my mind every second, and her smile, my god, nothing less than perfection. i know, this is too much, but this is good, this is what i have been waiting for in my entire life. that feeling that love rules, however lame it may sound, it just is, certain wonders i can never escape nor try to escape, for she makes me live longer, aspire for better things, and just believe that no matter what, i matter because of her.

she is the best that ever happened to me. my new found love. everything that is dear to me.

horse shit

instead of jogging as planned, i am going to go to a drinking spree. as fate would have it, later i would be with the "boys". this change of pace might just lift up my spirits. as they say nothing that alcohol can not cure. in the meantime, i am going to spill the beans. write some irreverent stuff, despite knowing fully well that no one reads this blog besides me.

Stupid Stuff I want for XMAS

what are the things that i like. i shall say here something i never said before. i wonder what is there beyond the milky way. most of the time though i just like to eat milky way chocolates. i know that did not sound cohesive, or even witty, far from it, but that is what i think, and also, considering that milky way is quite expensive, i ordinarily settle with nips. this is an addiction i have to lick fast.

also, i wish i own a helicopter. what i want is a machine that will beat the traffic. it sounds costly, and it is. but to dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, well, those make me happy. happy in the loony sense of way. happy as in to make me smile.

Digressing....

i am in no mood to talk about social issues right now. as i have said in my first post, my priorities in the meantime is a little bit skewed. not to mention that the Presidential Management Staff dared not to call me back for the exams. i totally understand where the PMS is coming from, after all i told them during the interview that GMA should resign. boy, was I in the wrong place to be pontificating. too bad, i needed that job. well, maybe it was wickedly meant to be that way. of course i can say shit right now in all futility. as for the ombudsman stint, i am still crossing my fingers. i have been crossing my fingers for three months now, my fingers are already hurting. but as they say, in the Philippines, waiting is a virtue. the citizens are just mere dregs to toy with. not for long i hope, for at least when one of my classmates become president of the village association, i will hound them for free use of their respective village club houses. why should we be in power for? that is the perks of fucking bossism in a weak state. the same feathers who flock together also stink together.

my slip is showing i know. and i have no underwear.

Writers are full of Crap

ok, i will try not to fool around. it is time to say sobering things. love is a foolish thing to aspire. foolish people makes the world go round. and writers, those whose minds go mushy with figures of speech are damn fools for believing that by putting into words what they feel and think, things will suddenly matter. yeah right.

come to think of it, edgar alan poe, the celebrated writer, was a drunkard. he was a fool. he is remembered best for his annabele lee poem, a required reading in high school. education is funny for here is a poem written by a near insane man, an alcoholic, and yet people think that it is probably one of the best poems ever. now that is a good incentive not to stay sober. write poems while stinking with alcohol.

for those who think that things are now better are actually far worse than that delusional nitwits. writers are the traders of words, out to make illussions where real pain exists; fixers of dreams when day to day realities overwhelms, or something to that effect. freaking cynical people, these writers, of what is, peddling instead the thoughts of what should be. they are just buch of shy people who could not get laid, actually. as if that matters.

as for me, i have enough of those. what i am trying to write is nothing less than the words unshaped. i am making sense of nothing, and if that ever happens, i mean i recieve at least a certain modicum of success, i shall call myself a dreamer no more. i shall cease aspiring to put words when words will not make any sense. perhaps that show that i am jaded.

i am vain. this is why i think all of these matter, like as if pink is the color of blue. i have no desire to make sense. i do not think i will succeed even if i try.

just to get drunk is already heaven for me in the meantime.

writing is my alcohol, yada, yada. most of the time it makes me sick; in all times it helps me survive.

questions

for reasons i cannot fathom, i seem unable to comprehend the importance of certain "instructions". this is one big defect that i have to address since i am not exactly getting younger anymore. i am convincing myself that the norms are there precisely for a social reason; also, i have a race against time and i must do what i must--hopefully in the process perform well, and in case i stumble, to pick up the pieces, carry on unperturbed. there is no need for me bucking the system. i am too disturbed and too tired to be wanting the entire superstructure changed by my views. i am just a speck in the entire scheme of things. i am just me trying to put two and two together, counting my luck, worrrying for the rest of my not so unlucky streaks.

ah, how i wish i can just say jumbo mambo mantra about religion and all that heady philosophical stuff to assuage that nagging feeling that i always shot myself at the foot. i make mistakes, mistakes that could always have been prevented if only i would pay more attention to details, but no, i always have to rush, bump my head in the wall, and pray afterwards that the resulting cut is not so deep so as to kill me. i am dumb as an ass at times and i sometimes wonder why i never really learned my lessons. come to think of it, as a former teacher, i used to impart "teachings", or so i think, but what i have found out however is that i just have too many things to learn, and that i would always be an ignorant at heart. painfully though, i seem never able to get over my previous errors. like a scary nightmare that keeps on repeating, i just wish that i wake up, get the whole dreadful episode over and done with.

in a sense, i have this chronic desire to kill the spirit, to stiffle the good, and just to accept a a tupsy turvy bahala na attitude. i do not know if for feeling this way it manifests an ill and depressed spirit, but i tend to get this impression that no matter what, and despite all my efforts, that i am my worst enemy. giving in to myself, to my faults makes me feel shameful, without any rudder for direction.

i wonder what carl jung would think of me as a clinical case? i would surely be an interesting human guinea pig. all i really wanted in this life is world peace and personal contentment, as well as little money on the side. now i realize that wishing for these things come at a price of constantly feeling broken hearted. life is one big mess, and sadly we are all in it. there is no relief, only added complications. this is one lesson they do not and dare not teach in school.

words, as i have said, choke me. my emotions are just raging and i seem unable to find which causes my frustrations except my self imposed limitations, and more. this is the mystery of life. to wonder always and never to find the answer. forgetting is a medicine for those who wish not to remember; and for those who remember, every second is of muffled pain.

in sum, i say that one can never be fulfilled no matter what.

the ultimate sign of cowardice and courage combined is complete surrender. i do not know where i am going right now, but i hope to arrive to that destination, wherever that maybe, so that i can finally lay in rest whatever guilt, inadequacy, and unhappiness i carry.

they say that after exams is a liberating experience. i say it is like giving labor, only one would not know if the person is giving birth to a lovely baby or an ogre of unspeakable form.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

instead of jogging as planned, i am going to go to a drinking spree. as fate would have it, later i would be with the "boys". this change of pace might just lift up my spirits. as they say nothing that alcohol can not cure. in the meantime, i am going to spill the beans. write some irreverent stuff, despite knowing fully well that no one reads this blog besides me.
Stupid Stuff I want for XMAS
what are the things that i like. i shall say here something i never said before. i wonder what is there beyond the milky way. most of the time though i just like to eat milky way chocolates. i know that did not sound cohesive, or even witty, far from it, but that is what i think, and also, considering that milky way is quite expensive, i ordinarily settle with nips. this is an addiction i have to lick fast.
also, i wish i own a helicopter. what i want is a machine that will beat the traffic. it sounds costly, and it is. but to dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, well, those make me happy. happy in the loony sense of way. happy as in to make me smile.
Digressing....
i am in no mood to talk about social issues right now. as i have said in my first post, my priorities in the meantime is a little bit skewed. not to mention that the Presidential Management Staff dared not to call me back for the exams. i totally understand where the PMS is coming from, after all i told them during the interview that GMA should resign. boy, was I in the wrong place to be pontificating. too bad, i needed that job. well, maybe it was wickedly meant to be that way. of course i can say shit right now in all futility. as for the ombudsman stint, i am still crossing my fingers. i have been crossing my fingers for three months now, my fingers are already hurting. but as they say, in the Philippines, waiting is a virtue. the citizens are just mere dregs to toy with. not for long i hope, for at least when one of my classmates become president of the village association, i will hound them for free use of their respective village club houses. why should we be in power for? that is the perks of fucking bossism in a weak state. the same feathers who flock together also stink together.
my slip is showing i know. and i have no underwear.
Writers are full of Crap
ok, i will try not to fool around. it is time to say sobering things. love is a foolish thing to aspire. foolish people makes the world go round. and writers, those whose minds go mushy with figures of speech are damn fools for believing that by putting into words what they feel and think, things will suddenly matter. yeah right.
come to think of it, edgar alan poe, the celebrated writer, was a drunkard. he was a fool. he is remembered best for his annabele lee poem, a required reading in high school. education is funny for here is a poem written by a near insane man, an alcoholic, and yet people think that it is probably one of the best poems ever. now that is a good incentive not to stay sober. write poems while stinking with alcohol.
for those who think that things are now better are actually far worse than that delusional nitwits. writers are the traders of words, out to make illussions where real pain exists; fixers of dreams when day to day realities overwhelms, or something to that effect. freaking cynical people, these writers, of what is, peddling instead the thoughts of what should be. they are just buch of shy people who could not get laid, actually. as if that matters.
as for me, i have enough of those. what i am trying to write is nothing less than the words unshaped. i am making sense of nothing, and if that ever happens, i mean i recieve at least a certain modicum of success, i shall call myself a dreamer no more. i shall cease aspiring to put words when words will not make any sense. perhaps that show that i am jaded.
i am vain. this is why i think all of these matter, like as if pink is the color of blue. i have no desire to make sense. i do not think i will succeed even if i try.
just to get drunk is already heaven for me in the meantime.
writing is my alcohol, yada, yada. most of the time it makes me sick; in all times it helps me survive.