hello self, please die

I forgot when I wrote this. I'd probably place it sometime after October, November last year. It's a draft that's been sitting on my archives. And truth be told, I didn't know what to do with it at the time. Perhaps it did not sit well with the theme or the mood I was trying to conjure, blog-wise, or maybe it stung too much that it made me afraid of whatever judgement people could assail me with. I realize now how ridiculous those assumptions were, but I'm sure you know how crippling fear is, and how lethal it gets when you put doubt and insecurity in the mix, and don't even get me started with uncertainty. Well now you know why I've been gone. Although whether or not this is apt for 'the now,' I can't be sure. Anyhow, here it is.

...

"She doesn't want to be happy!"
"Everybody wants to be happy!"
"Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm their depression,"
"If they were happy, they couldn't be depressed anymore,"
"They'd have to go out into the world and live, which can be depressing."
(Heated argument between Dan and Larry, Closer, 2004)

I keep thinking I lack something significant, like a puzzle missing a piece --make that pieces. I read somewhere that my sign tend to feel flooded with shrouds of varied emotions: mirth, anxiety, dread, confusion, misery, grief. That and that I, well we, fishfolk, at times don't even know how we felt. Now I can chalk it all up on ever trusty astrology, but what if it isn't that. What if I really am a sucker for depression. Dr. Larry or DOC9 from London Sex Anon has a point, really, who wants to go out and live when you could stay cooped up in your own world safe from all the harm and whatever shitty thing there is? I feel like that sometimes --make that most of the time. Maybe I should try pills. Like Calista almost did on that one McBeal episode I saw on a rerun, where Al Green sang to her in her hallucinations. I remember the time I looked up the word cognitive dissonance --and boy I sure felt pretty downcast few minutes after. I'm the most boring person there is and I hate it. I actually hate a lot of things. I somewhat hate that this post does not make any sense. It's dry. I hate it so much that I sure won't make use of any tricks or grand fuckn metaphors to wow the fuck out of people, not that I could or anything. Obviously, this is as raw as it gets, like draft dirt dry - and that sodding attempt at an alliteration just proves how pathetic I am/I feel.

I cried the other day, just random tears falling. I caught myself in shit like that often. And it's weird. A normal person would be able to identify what makes 'em tear up. I don't. Maybe it's because of piled up frustrations, a flurry of emotions all swirling in my core I can't seem to put a finger on which one is causing me one helluva fucked up time. Or maybe I couldn't feel a thing anymore. Maybe I'm numb. I hate myself. I hate being piscean. I hate being weak. I hate that by posting this I am admitting my own weakness and I am showing the world how vulnerable I am. I hate that I'm never sure of what happens sometimes. I hate to gamble when I'm sure to lose. I hate the new google logo variation and how it changes whenever there's a new fucked up holiday. I hate that I think too much. I hate it that if I write what I feel it will surely place me in a certain label, and that there would come a day when I'd be ticked off for being labeled as such. I hate how words leave a certain finality to things. How each thought seems to establish a cold hard sense of this and that, which is exactly how I always seem to feel; cold, hard, desperately wanting to detach, disillusioned, and empty, but mostly empty. I hate how, ironically, these stable words illustrate how unstable I am. I hate that I can never really come up with the right amount of vagueness when it comes to words and that that trick is something I've abused so many times already that I feel so fucking phony whenever I resort to it. I hate that I can't seem to run out of things to hate. I hate how things are never fluid as much as I'd want them to be, and that denying things or taking things back makes me seem so wobbly and insincere, and ugly, and brittle, and so fckn out of it.

Actually I am out of it. "Why do you care so much what other people think?," somebody asked me that over the phone, a few days back. I wish I had the same confidence he has... but I don't. I'm not sure if that will ever change - if I, if things, will. And it seems, I've given up hope that it would could does.

Attraversiamo my arse.

...

On a side note, I'm still waiting for the day when I can tell people that, as it turns out, it will can did. And boy I sure was full of angst.

I'm craving for a mint cigarette, blood and Joe Gordon-Levitt's dirt-naked ass in Hesher. Fuck, my mouth tastes like a paradisiac.

glibberish

I have a certain fixation with words, but not just any word, I'd often get enamored with unfamiliar ones. Ones I randomly hear people say. Especially those instances when a random bugger gets blurted out in a way that made me feel like, "whoah I totally get what that person meant," and I know precisely how to use it, in the future, even though I haven't really used that word before, so to what point of accuracy I comprehend it's mechanics, I can't be certain. It's like peeling off wrappers upon wrappers, 'til you get to the good side, like going through every clue until you solve it, a mystery. That's what it's like with me and words. I apologize, don't really know how to say that in a concise manner so forgive me for being verbose. It's just, the only way I know how to express myself is by being descriptive and hope to God I make sense/you understand it along the way. I have yet to master brevity, it seems. I'm beginning to think my mom was right when she implied I had special needs (that's another story though) because I'm all Jonah Jeremiah Jones with the way I get locked on and blabber about stuff endlessly. In case the reference wasn't that much of a give away, I am currently watching skins and --wait what was I on, again? Right. Words.

Take for example, fatigue.

The other day on tv, Rachel Bilson asked an assistant for a venti soy latte, before she gets "fatigue". Sorry, did she meant overfatigue? chronic boredom? some lethargic sickness? Bah whatevs. I mean, I get that the dialogue meant for her to flash her New York flair to the southern simpleton, but what did she meant by "fatigue" really?

Fatigue can work on a lot of different ways, and on so many levels at that.
Urbandictionary.com lists two meanings for the word fatigue;
number one says loss of strength
(can it get any more ennui than that? I don't think so),
number two - fat people. (LOL I won't comment)

Fatigue holds more to it than just being plain bored, and is a lot less scathing than being fed up. I guess it can be possible for me to nurse fatigue, to let fatigue take the better part of me. Such a handy excuse when you're trying to evade things, trivial or otherwise, like, perhaps, invites, work, people knocking, the inevitable, a deadline - heck, even life itself can be suspended, just by the use of a single word. Fatigue, so debilitatingly chic, no? After all, once you stay aloof, you survive... but that's debatable. Still, you owe it all to the magic of a single word. A bit of a lie in itself, innit? To allow yourself to bask in life and all its grandeur while maintaining proper social pleasantries. Fatigue allows for an elegant excuse to grant you freedom from the shackles of responsibility and obligation.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking of doing this thing again, something I've done when I was younger, and classmates were still as gullible as five-year-old babies. I'd go to class, not say a single word for hours, and when I got nudged, I'd fake a coarse mumble saying, "I had too much karaoke," the night before, or something to that effect. Then I'd alternate between mouthing the words, "cant talk," and writing on a piece of paper, if it's that important. Usually I'd be able to keep it up until the last minute, and when I do the big reveal people would just die of laughter. Some would compliment the ingenuity, the slyness, you know, that sort of thing. But they never went as far as to ask me why. Not that I mind though. I get it, people just assume. I was goofing around, but more than that I really only wanted to shut up and not have to talk to anyone, bit of a peace and quiet, you know? I have that, now. I'm "in-between-jobs". Therefore, pretending to be mute seems ever so pointless. I'm just bored. Pretending to be stupid though, that's a different story.

In Love Happens, a rom-com that stars Jennifer Aniston and Aaron Eckhart, Aniston plays Eloise, a florist who caught the attention of Burke, played by Eckhart, a motivational writer-slash-speaker who wrote a best-selling book about dealing with grief. Now the first time Burke sees Eloise, that's where the fun starts. Burke was walking, on the hallway of his hotel, he rounds into a corner, where Eloise, supposedly fixing her flowers, was minding her own business. It's here that they literally bump into each other and go yadda yadda yadda Eloise gives him a deer-caught-in-headlights look, he apologizes, stares, they linger, she runs away, you know, the usual cheesy film clichés. But as it turns out, right after Eloise leaves, Burke finds a pen on the floor, looks at where she might've probably used it for, and finds, at the back of a painting, a word scrawled in bright purple ink: Quidnunc. Look it up, I'm too lazy to do it myself. (Fatigue! Lol.) Clearly, we learn that the film exploits highfalutin words as a key device to navigate the story, and apart from quidnunc, we also learn about poppysmic and sesquipedalianist and so on and so forth. Not that these words are any good for my compositions but, I don't know, don't you think the way they had it incorporated to the story is clever? No? What do you mean you don't know? I'll say yes if you say yes, otherwise it's not. Okay it's not, sorry.

Also, on the movie, there's this part where Eloise uses sign language to blow off Burke, right when he tries to make his first move. It's great 'cause the look on Burke's face was priceless, and it reaffirms the whole beauty is only skin deep cliché. (Oops. Used that word twice already. Sorry Strunk & White.)

not the scene but it's the closest I thought of sign language, in my head of course lol.

Anyway, maybe I should learn sign language, change the world you know, one cute guy at a time. There's a voice inside me that asks, "by what, flirting with them?!" and I block out the nagging by entertaining the dreamlike nonsense and taking it a step further. I mean how cool would it be if I could, right? Change the world, by talking to cute guys, in sign language. Right... I suppose I could bring this all back to reality if I could ferret out something profound out of it but like I said, I'm too lazy fatigued to function. So it stays ridiculous that way.

Moving on, I humbly posit that for a post to be remarkable, it should be done as if you've thrown random tangents into the air, caught them all each and tied them all into a single piece of shrewd insight.

So here's the brilliant lesson: there isn't any. What I can say though is that I am a guy who has an affinity for hot girls with a somewhat raspy quality to their voice, like Zoe Hart, or Brooke Davis or Effy Stonem or whatever. That and that I dream of being cultured enough to know silly words and obscure references to make me seem cool, just like how a normal 23-year-old should be. Also, I am crazy.

There. Sorry for wasting your time. This post is not remarkable. Whether or not you get something out of it is not really my problem. And if push came to shove I might just have to end it all with a sly grin, like Effy does.

*grins slyly, like effy does*
This post has gone haywire enough.

By the way, I'm back.
Now excuse me while I do something about my fatigue.

I'm dying to: devour the chapters of that North Morgan novel, drown my world by repeatedly playing the sixth track off of Mute Math's Armistice album, and have hot make-out sessions with Tom "Will Donner" Sturridge. Jeez, I reek of desperation.