Hey Blogspot

The junkie is currently on rehab - that means I  don't blog here anymore.

I mostly write here now > thebettertojudgeyouwith

That's all.

goodbye computer

Just like that, I got slapped. It happened in seconds. I pulled a plug. My bitch of a sister had her say, walked out, and nagged all the way downstairs. The devil I call my father got more irked and shouted profanities, most of which I could barely hear what with thoughts racing through my already spinning head. Next thing I knew, he was right in front of me, shouting. That’s when he hit me.

It’s surprising though. He got worked up too much and I was just, I stood there, didn’t even bother looking at him, didn’t even try to appear disgusted, which in so many ways I am. I just stood there, gave a look that said “you done?” “right you are,” and went by pretending to fix my stuff like it was all routine.

That night, I was watching a tv series an officemate gave me a copy of on our flat-screen. I was, I think on the second episode, when he buzzed. I paused the tv, went down, opened the gate, and rushed back upstairs. As he went up, I could tell he was still doing fine despite a brief comment directed to yours truly that well, to me, translated to a condoning of my hedonistic night-out prior, but it was okay because I figured he wasn’t that serious. Then, as I went through some of the episodes, he began ordering chores for me and my sister to do, something we all hated because when he blurts out an order, he wants it done right away, I mean fuck it, there are no exceptions, whatever shit you’re doing, you need to do what he wants pronto.

And so he was starting to get pissed at my sister, because yeah she’s the one who says, “wait lang,” a lot when our dad demands stuff. That’s when my mom came down. She asked our permission to play something on the tv, a project she’s working on I guess, something of which I could care less, I mean, aside from the fact that I had to stop what I was watching. At that point, I wasn’t really that pissed, a bit annoyed maybe, but not too much, that when I got up, I guess a pillow fell? I have no idea. I mean, yeah I did pull out my external hard drive from the flat-screen without bothering to pause it because I’m impatient that way, but I never set out to make dabog. God anu ba, I thought I could just watch it on my computer naman.

Only, that’s not what my dad saw. He was adamant that what I displayed was an act of rebellion, assuming I threw the pillow on purpose, which is downright crazy. To him, what I did was so unforgivable that it set him right off to a mad fit. I hurriedly went to the kitchen to cook rice because they asked me to earlier, but he was still at it, wouldn’t stop bitching and moaning that at that point I was starting to get really annoyed. He went on to say how bastos and unworthy and walang utang na loob his children were. God the things he said, grabe, it was vicious and utterly stupid at the same time. He even told us not to bother going with him as he drives to work on weekdays because he’s had enough of our treachery. That was the breaking point. Money was scarce and I needed to save up bad that his refusal to drive us to work mattered a lot. He was driving me nuts; I just had to get out. When I went upstairs, my fucking room was occupied. My other stupid sister was there, doing a good job at being stupid while using my computer. I had no choice, I wanted to be alone. I had to be alone. I tried asking, but she was being difficult so I pulled the plug out, and that’s when mayhem ensued.

The second my dad went out, I threw all the stuff I was holding, closed all the lights and went straight to my bathroom. I couldn’t breathe. I was lying there, on the bathroom floor, just curled up, rocking myself, thinking, bargaining on why suicide wasn’t worth the effort.

I spent the next few minutes shaking, desperately trying to calm myself, figuring out what to do next, that’s when a thought came up. It was quiet the second I got up. They were all huddled downstairs, which bought me enough time to do what I did next. I took out all the computer plugs, the keyboard, mouse, everything, and had it set-up on my mom and my dad’s room. I owe them money so I hoped the money I paid for the computer would cover for some of it. That and I just, I’m really tired of coming home to the sight of people using it, it’s like I don’t even own it anymore. And I could see it happening again, what they did to my laptop. Like a virus, they used it and it got rusty, accumulated dust, with files and folders in disarray, stuff downloaded, to the point that it just broke down. They were bound to do it to my computer anyway, so I gave it up. Not like I didn’t want it, I mean yeah it’s gonna be tough without one, but it doesn’t matter because right then, I needed peace. And I can’t have that with people barging in all the time to use it, which implies a different set of attitudes I’d have to deal with, too. I mean, it’s just peace I wanted. I’m not gonna stress on how crucial it is for me to perform at work with my A-game. Not even gonna touch on how well off some people are, and how they can afford to get each of their children what they needed and asked for. I’ve had enough. Work, I can manage. Life, I can make do with what I have, and with what the world can give me. But at home, it’s hard enough adjusting to the issues people I live with have, it’s even more stupid for them not to understand how important it is for me to find peace in my own bedroom. If that’s not frustrating enough, then I don’t know what else is.

And besides it’s just a computer. It’s not like I’m sacrificing my integrity or anything. I’ve work to do, thoughts to express, and life to manage, but hey, I’ll work something out. If anything, this just makes me even more determined to get out of this hell-hole if it’s the last thing I do.

It’s just weird I’m no longer fazed by it, surviving this long without anyone recognizing my efforts, patting me on the back or anything. I’ve toughen up in that sense. I’ve learned how to manage my breakdowns. It’s been years since that incident and I’ve held it together by far. And I’m quite happy that I’ve done it without needing any help from therapy or meds. I’m pretty hardcore that way and I’m glad to be, dare I say it, ready to take on whatever shit hits the fan. This stuff matures you—and that’s just about how far I can stretch out this paradigm-shifting thing.

Bouts of inadequacy, hatred and debilitating pain still haunted me that night, of course, but sleep came when I got tired rehearsing spiteful lines for my dad’s eulogy.

(to be continued, or not)


Things I want: a. have the ability to autofellate while I self-flagellate, b. make Kim Von Dall’Armi and Nicolas Rippoll DP that slut Benjamin Godfre, c. a diet supplement that’s guaranteed to make me waif-thin in weeks, and d. my own portrait that gets uglier while I commit sins and don’t age. God I feel drugged.

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.

kadramahan 2011

This is what is currently up on my profile page at Downelink, a social networking site for the local LGBT community. I've actually contemplated on having it deleted, but it holds so much sentimental crap I thought maybe I'd give it a few more years before I take it out.

KADRAMAHAN 2011

As confusing as it may seem, I don't really know what I want. I am currently on a phase where a lot of things matter more than what you probably might tag as flimsy and whimsical and dreamy and --God I cringe at the thought of that four-letter word, Urgh.

I've done accept the fact that with each coming month --week even, thousands of bright-eyed guppies, most if not all hotter than the batch prior, debuts into the proverbial pool of the shallow and superficial gay scene. I could say I'm jaded, but that's too harsh a term. Life led me to this, and I won't say 'reduced' because that's a wee bit too cynical for my tastes. I've reached a certain state where entering a commitment requires more than the delusions I've carefully preserved from my younger ideals. It's taxing, to say the least. And who am I but a fool to think that love is as simple as the boy-meets-boy-wham-bam-sparks-fly-you-like-me-I-like-you-let's-make-out-now-and-be-together-forever equation.

If it's maturity then I would have gone pat myself on the back, congratulating myself for a great job done and left it at that. But still, I can never deny the fact, that somewhere along the shifts between my swamped preoccupied vigor and the distracting solitary stillness lies a void, a hole that I, precariously try to disregard.

God knows what shit that hole needs.

I remember what someone told me a few months back. That the only time advisable for me to take chances, again, is when I don't see love --or someone, a prospect- as some form of answer, water to quench the fire --someone to save me from that emptiness most of us long to fill.

Now as sickeningly idealistic as all that sounds, I know breathing it all in would take a lot from me and my principles, so I took it with a grain of salt. But just recently, it came to a point where I asked myself, maybe... maybe that advice held a truth to it. See the thing is, most of us were taught that a commitment is intrinsically, the joining of two halves, the whole concept of soul-mates, so to speak.

But looking back now, I guess maybe I've had enough of all the trial and error crap that I find it more reasonable to just put all my sappy sentiments in a box, close the lid and keep it for the, for my, for whatever or whomever bothers to put up with my issues, I don't know, years from now, perhaps?

I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'm tired of hurting people. I've spent so much time soaking up the fringe benefits of casual dating that I unconsciously caused people pain. There. I'm admitting it: I'm not ready. And I'm not sure if I'll ever be. Yes I'm fucked up. But so is the world. So screw you and spare me from clingy suffocating replies. I'm on a soul-search. And I don't need you, or anyone to hold me down. I deserve my space thank you very much.

just don't fall recklessly, headlessly in love with me,
'cause its gonna be, all heartbreak, blissfully painful and insanity...

It all boils down to one thing. I know this whole community is bursting with disdain towards the kind of people who built and stand by their monumental dating standards, some out of spite, some only out of the sheer need for something to hate. But for some, it definitely goes waay beyond unreasonable. I, too, do not understand why some people think too highly of themselves, when really they're just another delusional excuse for a homo. In my case, I put my standards up too high a towering pedestal, only because I know how big of a loser I am when I fall. And I don't particularly consider that a bad thing per se, falling for someone completely will still be, for me, the greatest present anyone can ever give. That's how I see it and so should you. The point is, I'm tired of pretending I can put out the same level of boundless dedication I've given to my past flames. I'm taking a breather. I'm saving up all this pent up need for intimacy and glorified adoration for that someone I know I will eventually come across. For now, I will be (And I am) taking measures to better myself, not only to justify my supercilious standards but to fill my own void. I'm hopeful, that's about as far as I'm willing to admit.

....

coffee with rosie

"Alam ko na kung bakit: it's simple, takot ka sa sarili mo." i gulped. if i were drinking something at that exact moment baka naibuga ko na kung anu man 'yon. it's amusing how my closest friends see me right through my pretenses. i like that. how i can shed my walls around people i trust. she was one of the few.
 

 

she knows how hard it has been, for me to let people in after that ordeal. how i've been desperately trying to, but still can't seem to muster up enough courage to take risks. i guess i needed that talk more than i thought i did.

rosie was a previous workmate. funny thing really, we took that job hopeful and optimistic until we saw the pattern. a curse as we aptly put it. first was our friend. weeks of absence, drink nights, dark heavy circles 'round the eyes, you get the idea. then it was her. i can still remember how she cried every after-shifts. some days she never got to finish. walked out of the office a one woman funeral march. she resigned eventually. i felt lucky, that no matter how the shifting work hours, the stress, seemed to rob me off of what could have been blissful moments with my then partner, i still knew i had somebody. but the bastard was cheating. and before i knew it, the curse landed on me.

"naalala ko n'un, yung sabi mo hindi ka naniniwala sa hoping but not expecting, then a few months after you told me you now know how it felt..." we laughed at how fate always seems to leave us with unexpected surprises. we all have stories. stories that, some may have only heard through gossip, but a good few felt and really understood. we we're both fortunate enough to know how deep our wounds were. there we were, two friends, talking like we were revealing to each other secrets we'd never let anyone take a peek.

it was therapy. i was recounting the last few months of roller-coaster encounters i had with men, of how i felt --how i never felt, of how i got over --how i never really got over, how i secretly pine for the ideal and how i let slip the more convenient ones. she, on the other hand, was sharing the many complications of her commitment, or lack thereof, with her first and only love. 

it was a flow of random thoughts, of maybes and of whys... an argument that will never come to a conclusion. life is dynamic that way. and the lessons are oftentimes ambiguous and subject to our own interpretations.

but she did make me realize one thing. that however different our take is on things. we still have each other to back us up, and to always be there through thick and thin. like marriage. only of the fag-hag sort. haha.

so inuulit ko dear, "...no i can't keep seeing anyone without something concrete to hold on to. hindi ko kayang magpaka-player. i'm not someone who can equate sex with just a handshake. and in the few times that i did try, boy did i feel worthless the morning after..."

"...to me, intimacy still means something. and i know that if i let someone in, someone who doesn't believe in love the same way i do, made-devastate lang ako sa huli. so guarded pa rin. i can't play it safe and be with someone out of convenience. i can't be completely happy at the thought of having someone when really what you have is nothing. when i fall, i really fall. it's something i can't control. at hinding-hindi ko isusuko 'yon. siguro nga takot ako na hayaang mahulog ang sarili ko sa isang tao ng buong-buo, because yes i might be giving them power over my emotions but i can never consider that a bad thing. for me giving someone your all is still the best gift anyone can ever give..."

"...so good-luck to us both, i know you will find peace and happiness and contentment soon. at least you already know who to spend it with. ako, im hopeful, and i will stay hopeful, na meron at meron pa rin darating na deserving..."

"...sa cute kong 'to imposibleng wala."

ghost of valentines past

Hey Kiddo,

I miss you. If only there's a way to freeze time and make things --make you, stay as precious as you are now, I’d take it in a heartbeat, whatever the cost is... I don't exactly hold the answers to all your difficult questions --the next sentences won’t even come close. I am simply giving you a glimpse of what is, what has and what led, and hopefully, through this, we can both figure out where we should, how we could, and what we can... Pretty neat, huh?

Where am I right now, you ask? Well, I’d love to sugarcoat and say I’m lost in the in-betweens, but that only makes things worse, for both of us. I’m stuck teetering over the edge. In three short weeks I’m going to be 23 and I’m still confusing love with desire. No honey, it’s not the same. It never is. You will learn that along the way. Let’s hope you don’t, but it’s a sad truth that in due course, you will. I’m lucky I’ve gotten a few instances where I got to experience both in the same person at the same time and I hope you do too. Heck, I wish all your encounters will be as dreamy as the few special ones I had, but that’s being insanely optimistic. You fall too much, too easy, too soon. I still do too. The only difference is, I’ve seen things, met people, felt sparks, anguish, nonchalance, guilt, every emotion you dreamed of getting immersed on. And as the glint of innocence in your eyes reveals how perfect and blissful you think falling for someone is, it’s not. I’ve come to detest that quality we share. The truth is: a relationship is only idyllic at the start. People can and will hurt you. It’s inevitable. And you crash and burn like everyone else does.

Love is intricate. More than you could possibly imagine. I’ve long given up on finding a formula or a guide or whatever, because love has this sick tendency of stunning you in the most unpredictable of ways. One thing life has taught me is that Loving does not only take the form of the romantic aspect. You’ve got your family –no matter how annoying they can get, and yes, that part does not go away. You’ve got your friends. Quite a number of interesting ones will come, several of whom I trust you’d know you should steer clear of, eventually. And lastly, you’ve got yourself. That’s probably the only secret I should reveal. Loving yourself is the most important thing in the world. You have got to soak up in every bit of self-love while you can. Spoil yourself, Indulge, Seek, Experience, Revel. Because when you come across dashing princes who sweep you off your dainty feet, you are bound to --as I, without-a-doubt know- give your all.

Your best features are, and will always be, your heart and your soul. If I could throw hints at why, you know I would, but what I can tell you is that the insecurities that trouble you now? It will always be there. You can spend time reinventing yourself all you want, but looking back now, I guess you don’t really have to please people that much. But if it can’t be helped, use those two valuable possessions –your heart and your soul, as beacons of hope to guide you through. You are special, unique, a rarity. You shine in that department, you always do, please try to keep that in mind.

You will most likely want to experiment, to bask in the grandeur of things, the feel of being grown-up and mature, but let me tell you that however exciting those things seem to you now, It’s not all that. Still, it pays to be able to retreat into your own corner and savor the simpler things in life. I’d give the world to be where you’re at right now.

You know kiddo, it’d be nice to talk to you, ask you about stuff… You see kid, the world is so different now. It’s a lot harsher and far worse than what you feared it could get. I know people have been telling you, that what does not kill you only makes you stronger. Well it’s a lie, and a big fat one at that. What does not kill you makes you less of who you are. I’ve dealt with potent strikes that I have to admit, shook me and left me with lifelong scars –and stronger was the last thing I felt. Well, depends on how you put it, I guess. Life is full of unexpected turns, massive blows of which the world is dead set on racking you with. I wish I could hand you a warning for every hit, but it doesn’t work that way. It just doesn’t. Just try to stay vigilant, and hopeful. And another thing, fragile is weak. I know how much you believe that that weakness has its own subtle appeal --it used to- but it doesn’t work for me now as much as I imagine it does for you. Try to balance things and draw strength from the people you hold dear. Although, when I do try to stay unfazed in my own share of bouts, I never really brandish toughness for show. It’s not something you build yourself on. As you well know how iffy we both feel about people like that. It’s perfectly okay that you –well I guess I could say we, wear our heart on our sleeves, no matter how crushed, beaten, wounded, palpitating, bleeding, flat-lining, or whatever the state it’s on is. We’re made that way. Emotions are our refuge, but using that to take advantage is a thing worse than selling out. I’ve been there. And the guilt I felt was the worst. I assume you know the feeling of betrayal? Well, betraying one’s self is a blade ten times sharper. Do try not to be so scheming, dear. Half the time, those ploys will only make things more complicated. Besides, wouldn’t you agree that getting ahead thru honest means is something much more worth getting proud of?

Which reminds me, please throw that Dorian book in the dump, burn it, and vow never to worship its enticing lies ever again. It’s a crapload of bull. No matter how romantic Wilde speaks of corruption’s aesthetics, tainting your pure heart is not at all as grand as your fickle mind assumes it so. Neither is it an effective way to reason out your hedonistic curiosities. Actually, were you? Justifying, I mean. If so, then I’m surprised at how sly you were even then. Stop underlining his words about punctuality, friendship, beauty and love. I find  making that book your bible the most unwise thing you ever thought doing.

Speaking of unwise, I know we both have the penchant to measure love on how much we put out. I’m still debating if that is indeed something hasty and absurd... Maybe? Then again, maybe not. I would’ve gone ahead and told you to hold back. To reserve something special meant for that future love --the one person you are destined for- but that betrays the whole concept of loving we both are notoriously known for advocating. But consider this kid, like Gray’s decaying portrait, I have gone well past my prime. I don’t care much for love (the romantic sort) these days, not out of spite, but out of inadequacy, weariness, complexities, fear of deception, trauma --things of that sort. I’ve nothing left to give but my own baggage, a whole Pandora of issues, insecurities, doubts –quite a package, huh? I’m not like you kid. I’ve spent most of my existence sacrificing almost everything just to please. And that left me with what? A giant whopping box of empty.

 

Hmm… Come to think of it, there is something I have left,

You! I still have you! You are the hope left in that box of ruin! 

Because no matter how the worst ones left my heart in sorry shades of black and blue, no one, no relationship as of late, has ever really gotten to a point where I’ve completely felt like my sixteen-year-old self again. No one ever really came close to bringing you back… I guess now I could say that I’m both excited… and reassured.... that someday, someone actually might… And it would be such a delight for me to introduce you kiddo. To shed my pretenses and return to becoming you, all for the right person, and the right reasons, in due time... Love is definitely still worth believing in, thanks for making me realize that. Maybe there is hope after all...

Love always,

You, six-seven years after,

give or take. ;)

photo taken here

ganymede

I was once a god of a billion lies,
for which I declared I am glorious, amicable and divine,
yet at one particular point, of which I was lazily
peering through earth's monotonous spin, 

I was struck by your thunderous smile,
where the stars shone brightly in your lightyear eyes. 

There and then, I took the descent.
 

To you, a lowly mortal, who paints with words
in a somewhat unconventional way,
words that leave me bursting and dazed. 

You who dream of warm sighs and cold winter cigarettes,

whose paths shift, changed by every spontaneous impulse. 

I am your stranger.

"But I despise love, I marvel in it, no wait.. I am love,"
coyly you surmise, as your indecisiveness tugs at my beating soul. 

With each conversation, the spark intensifies within. 

As you take me to realms I've never even heard of before,
with your ever-changing masks,
unable to conceal the hunger beneath.
"I am here for you to consume...," I whisper to your neck,
and thus we ignite.
 

And it's then I discover, worlds out of and within my reach. 

And I gaze at the open sky, your sky,
a different sight up from where I was before. 

Hands at the back of my head, I pondered,
on how this grass I'm lying on feels more real,
more intrinsically comforting,
than the clouds I was used to.

Then I see you, blocking my gaze. 

With that breathtaking smile, and a ready laugh.

And suddenly, it dawned on to me...
That I, who once was a god,
now knew what heaven really meant. 

***Ganymede, a literary contribution I wrote 

for our college paper back in 2008. photo was taken here

justifying an inebriety

When moments, fleeting, like common people you previously chanced upon but casually forgot, throughout the course of your jaded life, takes a few good forehead wrinkles to remember, vaguely.  Like the word refuge, or disarming --strange, yet leaves a slightly odd nostalgic feel.

Like how I made myself breakfast when you held me captive that day, willingly, in childish joy, like all was just a playful game, and that huge hotel room was our playground --those blissful hours just before you left, the way your kiss promised me you'd come back. The feel of longing and content and peculiar freedom as I woke up after a good six hour sleep, after the sex, after you left, after your promise. As I walked on unfamiliar corridors, elevators and floors, quaint streets and Makati alleyways on weekends serene. As I rummage through convenience store shelves looking for what to eat, what to eat…

A moment where people never cared, and the bellmen half smiling as I went back, and the walls, the bed sheets never seemed to mind --I felt so wide-eyed and obscure, which is fine because I knew I meant everything to you.

I remember feeling whole –caught, half-anticipating, half- what's the word...something about not caring, living in the moment, in stillness... perhaps, secure? ...peaceful? ...I can't be sure...

I remember you and your scent.

I remember each time you held the door for me, on those secret dates we had. The way you squeeze my fragile hands, on the off chance that no one was looking. Moments, forever etched in my memory.

The look --ah, yes the look you gave.

Of wonder and excitement, I was a breath of fresh air, you say.

I remember the first time, the first invite; you just had to have me drawn to your corner. “What’s a cute kid doing all by himself in a quiet cafe?” I remember smiling, sensing, hoping that that could be the start of something wonderful. The simple advances, the careful steps we took, towards each other, it’s interesting now how we inched our way closer to what we were never really sure of. But we couldn’t care less, only ‘cause we both were thrilled at what could possibly come of it.

I remember holding you as you fell asleep. I remember looking at you. Kissing your closed eyes --my way of telling you how safe it was to dream. On the off chance that this might be it, that I, that we, might perhaps, have a chance --my way of trying to prove to you that dreams can come true.

I remember clutching your pillow as I tried to inhale your scent, the moment I realized it's morning already --and for the last time, you were gone.

I remember bits and pieces of our encounters, the good ones,

Ones I’m willing to remember, and keep...

Because when parting, harsh, like the heaviest of traumas you desperately try to put behind, lost between the vivid and the lies, takes a few good swigs of beer to unlearn, momentarily. Like the words, trust, rely and expect, paired with too much --trite, yet still pokes sharp stings on your weary heart.

It’s true that in sleep, the moment you start questioning a dream, you wake up only to realize how silly it was to think it’s something you can hold on to. You fumble, as each strand of thought escapes your grasp. Those moments will stay as such, and really, that’s all they’ll ever be: intangible memories, encounters, dreams… Much like these flashbacks...

Still… It’s nice to be reminded of how happy we-- I was… once…

photo taken here. 

heavy rains

1rain noun \ˈrān\  water falling in drops condensed from vapor in the atmosphere

Last night’s rain bothered me. Yesterday afternoon was a definite scorcher, but last night seemed like the gods were throwing heaps of massive water globules all over hapless towns in the metro, like a whale of a childish one tree hill assault/prankfest.

What bothered me more is not the fact that the sudden weather shifts are happening one too many these days --all that environmental mumbo-jumbo whatnot thingamagig, I really could care less about that, what I hate is the fact that people, more often than not, equate rain with solace --deep heart-rending painful solace.

Why can’t people be reminded of how happy rain is? Like… like how nearly-wilted crops benefit immensely from a sudden downpour, or how Laida does the funny sundance, amidst a heavy rainfall, all for Miggy’s amusement, the ending to one of Philippine cinema's cheesiest films… or… or how Mister Gene Kelly (bless his soul) happily sings away pitter-pattering in a drizzle…Why does rain always have to remind us all of gloom?

“Things don’t always have to be about chasing after boys you know…”

I was talking to a friend in facebook. A kid from Cagayan. We met once. A friendly date. And it’s then I discovered, the boy actually writes. And he writes good. He even worked as a magazine contributor once. I was reading through his facebook notes when I began to recognize a recurring theme, most of his notes were about… well, boys. He seems, for lack of a better word, obsessed.

Now, it’s not that I’ve actually refrained from going after guys, it’s just that at this point, I don’t really see it a priority in as much as I see it part of my future. Partly because,

Boys are overrated. And people are all swirls of issues --but when did that ever come as an excuse? Nakakapagod lang kasi talaga. “Im looking for baggage, that goes with mine...” says Mimi, right before she discovers Roger taking AZT breaks, too, like she does. Rent? The musical? I mean the movie? Watch it. So you’ll know how Mimi ends up nearly dying in her quest to find “someone to live for, unafraid to say I love you…” Well baggage schmaggage,

My life is currently going adrift. Everyone's at a quarter-life crisis lately –well, most of my friends are- it’s not even funny anymore. I mean I’m actually doing fine, so far, and its not that things have become frighteningly unbearable, it’s just that there are days when things become all too crippling. But even so, that could just be another anxiety attack sneaking up on me. Well, I’d seriously doubt that? but where else can I point the blame on? As weird as that may sound, I haven’t really been too keen on where or how my anxiety disorder manifests itself --something which, in itself, could pass off as another reason why I cannot chase after men. Apparently, not a lot of guys in Manila find neurosis adorable. Another stellar reason is that,

I’m not getting any younger. February’s nearly here. There are two dates I dread in February. One of which is my birthday. I will be twentythreefreakinyearsold in about a few weeks time and I don’t really think I’ve accomplished anything I can proudly call an achievement for the past years I have boringly existed. Actually, I’m most definite I haven’t accomplished anything remotely significant I can proudly call an achievement for the past few years I have boringly existed.  Sure sucks to be me.

The second most obvioooous date is... Valentines. Yep, blinding-redhearts-lovestruck-silly-cupids-die-all-you-mutherf*ckin-parkbench-smoochin-lovers Valentines. That’s pretty self-explanatory, since I’ve explicitly brandished my false appreciation over singlehood to almost every friend I know to date.

“I love you…” 

It’s been a while since I heard that whispered to my ear. It’s been a while, too, since I caught myself whispering that to someone --and actually meant it. I’m like a walking love disaster. Ask the last three guys I dated, well semi-dated and –actually no, DO NOT ASK the last three guys I dated. Haha. Yep, it’s that bad. There really should be a warning on my forehead when dating men; a sign that says “Pick me if you want your life screwed!”

Not that fate bitterly transfigured me into an old shakespearean shrew --last I checked, I haven’t really gone all frigid with love. I mean I still want it. I really do. It’s just I figured if I were to dive headfirst into a colossal world of rose-colored stupidity, I’d rather do it with/for someone worthy, someone… dreamy (wouldn’t hurt too if that someone had a car and/or a huge paycheck to boot, but yeah, haha.) I’m choosy as fuck. But who can blame me? Heartache made me this way. (ika nga ng aking trusty Relaks Puso Lang Yan planner, Quota Nako Sa Panget.)

My friends all know what I’ve been through --in terms of love. My heart has been trampled on so much that it got to a point where I began to think that the love shared between two males, the sincere type? tsk, that shit is obsolete. From Charlotte York I’ve gone Samantha Jones all of a sudden it’s actually a lot scarier now that I put it. But I’m over that. I mean sure I still think of love as a lie --well not really, but the complexities that shit down a commitment makes it seem so. But I have to admit, still, there would come nights when I desperately crave for warmth --and its shattering when that comes to surface. I’m only human after all, despite the green blood I carry. Haha. Lame sense of humour. I know.

It’s not that I lost it, you know, it’s just… I just… lost interest is all. I know I can love someone, but I also know I can never really trust anyone with my bruised heart right now. ‘Cuz now it’s more “you can never really know a person too much, enough to hand over your heart, your life and your everything, especially not with the painful baggage life left you with...” (Again with the baggage?!) Sometimes I think pretty soon the world will all have tumbled down and gone to rest and I still won't find the happiness I deserve. But enough sentimental crap. After all, “…not everything has to be about chasing after boys,” right?

It’s just sometimes I wish I could take a break from all the forward-thinking stuff I’ve been trying to preoccupy myself with lately. You know. Just to stop. Take a breather. Have a glass of wine or two. Snuggle up close to someone, as that someone’s exhilarating scent comforts me and the feel of his arms around me makes me feel all safe and protected, and warm, the warmth that no amount of rainstorm, or hail -or deluge for all I care- could ever subdue --that kind of stuff.

But I won’t fight tooth and nail for that fantasy, at least not yet. I’ve got stuff to do. Life awaits. And I won’t stick around daydreaming or spacing out over things that I know will eventually come –that much I’m willing to expect.

After all, “…things are, most definitely, not all about chasing after boys.”

whooty woot woot

Yuki, a phallophobic asian girl from the webcomic, Menage a 3.

I was minding my own business one night, when an IM window pops up.

tianabalister2157: Is he out there?  

Wow, who's this? Normally I'd have closed that window and brush it off like it never happened, but I was bored and I was feeling particularly chatty that night.Little did I know how interesting things would go from there...

tianabalister2157: (ding) 
tianabalister2157: Is he out there?

ericthespaceoutjunkie: if by he yer referring to me, im here. who are you?
tianabalister2157: Hello there.. My name is Mrs Whooty.. Got ur ID through Messenger Directory :)
ericthespaceoutjunkie: what's that?
tianabalister2157: I love chatting with new people.. Would you like to chat today? Where are you from?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: im from the philippines.
ericthespaceoutjunkie: are you someone i know?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: is this a prank?
tianabalister2157: Can i ask you a quest?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: a quest?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: what quest?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: this is weird.
tianabalister2157: Do you like big booty girls with big tits? lol seriously cuz thats what i am/have..Is that too much for you to handle?
ericthespaceoutjunkie: haha! im gay.
tianabalister2157: Do you know what a whooty is? Would you like to see me i'll show you my Whooty....
ericthespaceoutjunkie: this is sumthin i dont get everyday. haha. what a laugh you gave me.
ericthespaceoutjunkie: no no thanks...
ericthespaceoutjunkie: whootys scare me.
ericthespaceoutjunkie: :)
tianabalister2157: lol Whooty is a White Girl with a BOOTY!  i wanna show u mine...
ericthespaceoutjunkie: no id much prefer you show it to someone else.
ericthespaceoutjunkie: i suck dick.
tianabalister2157: ok let me set up my camera for you honey..
ericthespaceoutjunkie: hahahaha! *okay getting scared now*
tianabalister2157: um goto http://www.smallu.net/a56x and we can go 1 on 1 chat. Just click Accept Invite on the left!
ericthespaceoutjunkie: great. a talking computer virus.
tianabalister2157: Don't worry baby its free to join this site all you have to do is register

At that point I was really freaked, but in about less than five seconds I managed to: close yahoo messenger, open a new browser, type in the words www.dudetubeonline.com, hit enter, and calmed myself down with pure adulterous manflesh. I'm gay, and yes, I really am scared of whooties -or any kind of female booty, for that matter. I think my ym's infected. That or somebody signed me up for that... that... atrocity. Whoever did it, I really hope he burns in hell for doing so. I'm reminded of how my straight friends would often ask me, how can I be so adamant with my preference when I haven't really actually tasted (ugh. wrong word. I shiver in disgust.) the alternative.

It's simple. Vaginas scare me.

To me, a woman's groin, with all its labial folds, 

is gross, filthy, repulsive and sickening.

Much like how Yuki, a character in the webcomic, Menage a 3, has phallophobia --an anxiety disorder precipitated by the fear of penises, or simply put, the fear of erect penises. Yuki sleeps with girls and her dad, a hentai author, draws tentacle doujinshi for a living. Each time Yuki  sees a man's privates, she goes all wacko and screams "TENTACLES!", as if she actually sees phallic tentacles and ends up either tearing out the thing, if it's on paper, or kicking the guy in the groin, if it's actual.

(refer to these links: one, two, three, four, five)

Now my crazy's not THAT bad. If I could think of something to match Yuki's phallophobic manifestations, that would be dentata, vagina dentata. Google it. (God! The fangs! That stuff's the stuff of nightmares!)

A genuine factor would be me having three charming, lovely little sisters, mostly teenage ones, and seeing them in almost every state of undress will never,  in any way possible, arouse me. Again, I shiver in disgust.

To this I say pass on the pussy,

I'd rather have me a fresh serving of  
smooth boyhole manmeat love! ;-)

...

of ginsberg and writing

James Franco portrays Allen Ginsberg in the 2010 film Howl.

Just last night, I was watching Howl. Allen Ginsberg’s biopic: A film about the obscenity trial of his published piece, Howl. Set in the 50s, the movie centers on a court trial, where the prosecution regarded the material (Ginsberg’s Howl) crass and insulting, something that requires banning --defense thought otherwise. Several witnesses, some of whom were credible literary giants, at the time, were called forth to the stand, in court proceedings, where arguments on freedom of speech and creative expression were explicitly discussed --whether or not the actual poem has literary merit. In a nutshell, the trial went in favor of the publisher. And all’s well that ends well in that San Francisco courtroom.

The real beauty of the film though, lies not within the court drama, but in the effective retelling of the poem itself, replete with breath-taking animation and rich images depicting the subcontext of each of the poem's lines. I won’t spoil much but I do recommend seeing it for yourself --figure out what lead me to say, with full conviction, that Ginsberg truly was a genius.