The Problem of Goths

“What don’t you like about me?”

“Well…you’re ugly.”

Oops. Rewind.

There were days when I have humongous doubts regarding the logic behind the world’s nomenclature of people. Take a man who doesn’t like sports, who enjoys chick flicks and isn’t afraid to cry. Piece these facts together and you get yourself another fag. Because someone is American, it automatically makes him an idiot. Because a person is an octogenarian, you should watch the amount of space between you because that person is obviously incapable of performing any hygienic act.

And just because I enjoy black on my closet and eyelids, am pale, and very dark-haired, I am automatically classified a member of the Addam’s Family. I wouldn’t have mind, really.

If only they didn’t hold such catalog against the career option of kindergarten teaching.

I guess goth is a better tag to wear than psychopath any day. Just imagine the onerous life of Dr. Seuss! But I also want to teach little kids so my life’s really worse; don’t even want to think about the number of rejections I got from all the schools who think I don’t look right for the job.

“So…do I get the job?” [Smile.]

“Miss, um, Stahley, um, you have very good credentials, impeccable background.”

[Smile. And try hard to ignore the big BUT coming next.]

“But there’s one thing. You see, the image you’re projecting does not really sync with the school’s philosophy.“ [Translation: I don’t like your false eyelashes and pencil-thin eyebrows. And you could try to update your color palette…aren’t you too old for pigtails?]

The bitch.

Do a little paraphrasing and you get the same scenario in all the school’s I’ve applied for–it’s as if they can already imagine me teaching the kids how to sing, “Satan loves you this I know…”!

Well, except Little Me, that is.

Miss Lynch, the gargantuan head teacher, gave me my shortest interview to date.

“Why should I accept you?” Then the devil (or M. Jackson) chose that moment to reveal a great truth to me, so I answered: “Because you see your younger self in me, and you know I could actually be good.”

Static.

Then she belched. “Idiot. Be here first thing in the morning. No uniforms. Wear something you would normally wear to meet kids. Except yellow. It blinds me.”

Here’s a secret: I think she really hates kids. But yeah, I got accepted for my first teaching job ever. So the gal will forever hold a spot in my book.

Now fast forward to my first day, breaktime. Let’s skip the part where I introduce myself to the kids and worse, to the others (a.k.a Adults), and all the singing in between. It wasn’t as bad as the fast forwarding implies. I rather enjoyed how things played out.

Until Johnny, the devil’s child, happened.

I was supposed to get some me time (like normal adults who just spent almost an entire hour with kids do) while the kids play outside when I felt something poking the back of my thighs.

“Oh, hi there.” It was the kid with the obnoxious spectacles, the one with chains on it. “Johnny, right? Is there any problem?”

“You shouldn’t have gone here.”

Static.

“I’m sorry but I don’t think I know what you mean, Johnny.”

“Stop teaching here.”

“You don’t like me teaching you?”

“No, I just don’t like you.” Static. “Me and the others.”

“Oh.”

More static.

“So…the other kids asked you to approach me, huh?”

“They said I shouldn’t do it because you’ll get angry.”

Even more static.

“Are you?”

Combustion.

“No, Johnny. I’m not angry with you nor with your friends. Hey, I’m curious…”

[In which you enter the first two sentences of this saga.]

***

I is for Irony

I think I think too much. I think when I ought to be feeling. I think when I ought to be sleeping. I think about logical things and non sequiturs alike (sometimes simultaneously). I think I’m using my mind too much. I think I’m sounding like I’m trying to sound smart. But hey, I think …

Talking to Strangers: The Lost Art

I am not what certain types of people would call approachable–I learned that as early as kindergarten. Earlier this day, a guy tried to talk to me on the ride home; nothing important, just small talk and the attempts of getting my number. This happens to me a lot. It doesn’t point out how much of a looker I am, because I’m not, but rather how much I attract creeps. Basically, it’s because of the uterus-possession thing. Believe me, people will sense it if you have other intentions besides harmless talk. Of course, some people’s purpose behind anything they do is to find a bedmate. I’m not talking about those people. Okay, I’ll include them, but what I’m really talking about is people in general.

The guy tried to start a conversation with this line, “So where do you live?” Ding! That’s CreepAlertNo.1. Seriously–not even a “hi/hey” or a smile or the usual Weather Line? No, you rush to the ‘Where Do You Live’ part. Aside from revealing you have stalker tendencies, you’re also disclosing how you’re so used to getting your way and have not yet met Subtlety. That works for some, but not everyone–especially me. Of course, being a member of society who answers direct questions when asked, I answered him without going into details. Inside my head, I was saying “Please let him stop, please let me look like I don’t want to talk, like I found something disgusting, particularly him…”

Then he asked, “You really live there? Where in particular?” HE. WANTS. DETAILS. That’s absolutely CreepAlertNo. 2. I mean, come on, if you really want to talk, don’t start off by asking too many personal details–especially about where I live! Are you not familiar with horror/suspense movie plots? I am. It’s enough to make any sane person paranoid to divulge their addresses to complete strangers, much more to strangers who look like you. Let’s be honest: looks do matter. You don’t have to look like Chris Evans to want me to talk to you (but I’d love it if you do). All I’m asking is for you to be somehow hygienic and not make the world a dirtier/smellier place because you exist.

And it would also help if you wouldn’t have CreepAlertNo. 3 a.k.a Being a Pest.

I didn’t mean that to be police-ist or anything (well, maybe I do…). Anyway, that question made me rush into my room when I got home, stare into something, and ask: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, do I look like a fucking policeman’s wife at all?”

I despaired. I don’t mean any offense, honestly, but my mental image of a policeman’s wife would be a serious looking missus way older than the jeans and shirt, flip-flops-wearing me. (yes, I stereotype). Maybe it’s my glasses? Specs make most people look older. But then I saw The Ring. On my left hand, you could always see a watch and a ring on the ring finger, you know, the “Wedding Ring”. Ha! So that was what gave him an idea I could be married, why to a policeman I don’t know. Maybe he just thought policemen marry young girls if they could (yes, I just called myself young).

I wouldn’t blame him for it though.

To sum it up, if you want to make a conversation with anyone at all, try to: 1.Look “safe”/like you’re not a crackhead out on a stabbing spree. 2. Look for the right person to talk with; someone who looks like he/she might be interested, not someone with headsets on. 3. Don’t start anything without a smile or a ‘hi’ or something generic/casual first, idiot–90 percent of the things in this world is Foreplay. 4. If all else fails, don’t be a pest, and go look for your next victim.

And 5? Don’t call any uterus-bearing specie a policeman’s wife. Unless you’re pretty damn sure she is.

The Blog Post of REBELations

(Children, what business are you doing here? But read if you want. I’m not your saggy mother.)

Families are such a pain. Everyone knows that. Only robots would deny that. Do robots even have families? I wonder when they’d invent robots that are actually capable of reproduction. People do it. Animals do it. Plants don’t have sex with each other. Let’s see you rebuff that.

This is NOT proof that plants bang each other. Do not be deceived.

Robots would deny hating their families because they make the most perfect sets there are. That’s because every family member is perfect. If you’re the unlucky one who has this dent on one side of your chin then fear not because the rest of your family will just kill you, and from your remains make the most perfect set of ultra-modern furniture. Why do robots dispose of each other too easily? That’s because there’s less gore involved. You cannot say the same thing about humans. Gut one man’s stomach enough to have his intestines spilling out and you’ll know why. You think intestines are cramped inside your body for no reason? They’re shit vessels. Opening up a person’s body is STINKY business. That’s one thing horror movies don’t tell you. Trust me, I know. You’re welcome.

Look at how much they want to kill each other.

Another reason why robot families are so great is because they don’t get nasty diseases. Only injuries. “Mom, my thumb hurts. I think it’s broken.” Robot mom will just chop it off and replace it with a new one. “Mom, my thumb hurts. It’s turning blue. I think I got tetanus.” “What?! Oh, my poor, poor, baby…” See? That’s just an injury and humans can already get so worked up and resort to hysterics instead of just solving the problem. It’s embarrassing. And when one family member gets sick, all the remaining cast are often affected. Just imagine what would happen if Timmy gets this actual disease called Filariasis. “Mom, my nose is getting bigger. And longer. See, I can touch it with my elbows! Cool!” Human mom will take one look at you and either collapse or start thinking it was elephant semen that got its way inside her.

Dad would kill himself because an elephant fucked his wife. Twin sister would realize her thighs would always remain as it is because of her elephant DNA. Boyfriends would never do the famed 69 with her for fear of breaking their necks or dying of asphyxia. This would depress her and she’ll choose to follow dad to the grave. Humans are idiots and idiocy grows at a vast rate in numbers, especially if brought about by genetics. Humans should NEVER form blood-related families or any families for that matter just to cut the risk. It’s difficult to change your genes too so there’s no way around it. But humans are too much of an idiot to realize that.

Poor Timmy.

Robot families are the best families too since they all exist in nuclear form. Nuclear families are very rarely composed of more than ten members. If one robot wants to cut ties permanently, he only has less than ten members to kill. Or deactivate. Or whatever it is you call robots do to stop the existence of another robot. On the other hand, humans have all ridiculous types of families from extended to communal to et cetera, et cetera. It’s a crime to have a family that big. It’s CRAZY!

Look, it’s already a challenge to try and get along with your direct blood kin, how much more if you’re compelled to be civilized (a very difficult skill. Civilization is merely an invention of scared human weaklings to prevent being eaten by the brutish caveman next door.) to your bossy, know-it-all, bag-of-wrinkles of a grandmother? Or your psychotic aunt who has interreligious gods as her imaginary friends? Or that second-degree uncle who believes families exist so that you have someone to pay for your debts or save your ass while you waste your life away being a jobless, cocaine-snorting, excreta of society? Tell me that’s NOT crazy and I’ll voodoo you until you think your tongue is a big, slimy worm trying to get inside your body so that you’ll pull it out yourself and chop it into pieces. Ha!

The reason why asian families suck. UGH. Are they forming their own community? And they all make you think they’re happy. DO NOT BE DECEIVED.

Robot families are also perfect because they don’t feel emotions at all (sci-fi enthusiasts, bash me now). And they’re also incredibly, supercomputer-smart. Imagine not having to feel any distracting emotions every nanosecond of your entire life! And not even needing an abacus to count the fingers in your mechanical hand! The ability to think like a genius is no different from feeling, really – just minus the hassles. Human families are such a pain because there are emotions involved. Pain is even an emotion – unnecessary shit. Take emotions away from the equation and what do you get? Great. Now you’re thinking. Just because the word equation is mentioned you look from side-to-side, up-down looking for help. That’s how much of an i-di-ot you are. You even take it personally to be called one. Pathetic.

The Perfect Robot Family. Complete with the perfect robot dog in the center.

I think those are enough reasons to validate my stance: Exterminate human families and let the robots rule the planet once and for all!

Hail robots!

Oh, and lastly? The greatest reason why robot families are so very perfect is because of the fact that they DO NOT EXIST. That means humans will continue to breathe polluted air, copulate, merge as families, and make each other’s lives miserable until some freak disease that will make the Black Plague look as simple indigestion consume us all. Except the cockroaches, of course.

OH YEAH!  *fist pump*

************************************************************************************************************

¨¨¨ The third picture is a real, non-edited image of human being whose name is actually not Timmy but Huang Chuncai. It saddens me how some people would have to endure that much suffering. It kind of reminds us how really cruel life can be if she wants to be. AND serves another reminder why you and I are so goddamn lucky human beings despite our comparably measly whinings, you ungrateful shit.

:)

Again, music saved me.

Listened to this and I know I have to get out of this rut.

A new day begins.

*VII. Finale

“Final Kiss” by Landix (Click to view full image)

“Now, now you heard it,

Tales most far from sweet,

Her music gentle, clear,

Yet each note hides a tear,

From Great West to Far East,

Rough North, Treach’rous South,

Where songs begin, nurtured,

Melody she sings to you now.

You may or may not believe,

She only speaketh what she sees;

No friends, enemies, allies, or foes,

The Wind simply exists -

To collect mem’ries long forgotten,

Tales without her would’bin lost,

An’ when End arrives she’ll bring it,

To Time, waiting on his post.

But End still lies in slumber,

The World sees not his face,

But you, m’dear, have met him,

Now you must leave this place.

So hold my hand now, don’t fear,

For I am only Death,

To other worlds we’ll venture,

A new tale you must set.”

*V. Elegia, a Love Story

This gallery contains 1 photo.

If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us. -Hermann Hesse (1877 – 1962), Demian I stand here in the balcony and weep, not for any cause, woes, and hurts noble but for mine and mine alone. The one time I …

Collaborations and Introductions

I know it’s a little late for the latter, but then again…

Three things.

Let me start by sharing to you the works of my, err, good friend, Landix.

“The Deal” created for the story Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Devil’s Child

Click to view full image.

“Le Pedofile“, this time for Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Music Box

Click to view full image.

Now tell me you think they’re horrifyingly beautiful.

I know, I know.

It’s vital you understand here that Landix is a lunatic. I asked for his permission to place a link here to his website but the doofus declined. Yes. Crazy, just crazy I’m telling you.

But he’s also really good, so it’s not much of a question why I collaborated with him. At least to me.

Really now, Landix is not all that bad. A little crazy, but an artist and more importantly, a friend. You’ll be seeing more of him soon. Well, I hope.

Now second, my niche.

I started this blog without much of a niche – more of decided to make an outlet for my random thoughts, rants, and music I’m too chicken to share to my mainstream outlet – the magnificent FB. I was just putting random brain droppings time and again. But very recently, it just dropped on me one late night staring-at -the-ceiling-with-headphones-at full-blast session.

My niche would be to tell stories.

I know it’s another kind of brain droppings, but at least brain droppings you can categorize. Blame it on my control freak streak. But yeah, I have decided to communicate with the world in a new way. This time I’ll use an old friend, “fiction”.

I’ve always loved stories. I learned to read because I was told those boring-looking things called books hold so much of them. I look forward to my father’s bedtime stories as a kid. As a teen, with great reluctance, I wore glasses because I won’t give up this love for stories. The glasses grew thicker with time. Yes, until now.

Maybe it’s the little truths stories always have, even though we call them “fiction“. Many men, women, and children could attest to the great power some of these little truths hold. Still, some of them are also just as what they seem, little.

And yet, it doesn’t make them any less.

I guess I will always love stories. It’s really not something you can stop. It’s part of what makes you you. Or me. Yeah, you get it.

So, logically, I created stories simply because. Like water flows because it is meant to. Like the wind dances and, yes sometimes, destroys. Destiny. Fate. Or simply choice. A choice made with ultimate love.

And like how some people treat their dogs, their dolls, or those things I think come from another planet (they say it’s called cars), I treat these stories as my babies.

There’s only one thing I ask of you. Love them or hate them, but treat these stories with respect. At core, they really meant good. For no story is evil by itself. They are what we, people, make of them. Respect them, and they will pay you back for it.

They always do – or else.

Now for the third and most important part.

Readers, Likers, Commenters, Haters, Followers, Spammers, and my dear Friends, human or not…

I thank you.

For what? Many, many things. Perhaps for licking mooses, for fighting for kids, for sharing less noticed beautiful works of art, for adding beauty to the world, for being a shcmuck of a clown, and a gazillion other as important reasons.

But most of all, for acknowledging that THIS exists.Of course, you know what I mean.

Until then,

J

On Being a Closet Eeyore

It’s easy to talk about people’s failures especially if they’re not closely related to us. That way, there’s little chance for embarrassment from being caught. Ironically, they usually find out about it anyway and we don’t really learn our lesson every time they do.

Maybe at core, sans regards to norms and mores, we really meant to be rude (I already talked about that here).

I find it a little difficult to believe she (?) finds it rude when people talk not so nicely about her.

Months have passed since I last hung out with my friends. Like always, we kid, we chat about what’s going on with who, show business’s latest fails, and of course, the latest gossip – oftentimes about people we always see but never really talk to (thus, not getting the whole picture, which in turn makes it the more interesting to speculate about their closet skeletons). They’re simply the easiest targets.

It’s all really easy and fun! For a while.

Then you go blurt out one stupid line concerning religion’s flaws/increasing number of beggars/worsening state of the environment/a really awesome graphic novel/psychological explanations behind people’s behaviors/relationship between heavenly bodies and character traits/ballooning rates of divorce and abortion/the horrors of the economic environment/the justice system’s impending collapse/other things you’d WISELY not mention in a light chitchat over ice cream – and everyone turns silent.

At least for three seconds.

Then there would be those genuinely curious/concerned who respond with a question or an honest opinion about it. But 90% of the group will usually either stare at you as if they’ve seen someone who wears a denim shorts in a formal dinner (it surely isn’t illegal?) or maybe develop a sudden, very profound interest in a single focal point – usually their fingers or the floor.

It’s vastly irritating.

I also know I would probably regret that line since there still is a slight chance one or two of my darling friends will be reading this. But then so be it. Everyone must know how it feels to be an outcast once in a while. After all, we all exert efforts (consciously or otherwise) to fit in every single day of our lives. It’s simply unrealistic to, or expect to, succeed every time.

I know I don’t.

Eeyore loves his friends. He just finds it a tad gloomy when they don’t get his ideas even though they seem to really try to. Still, friends ARE friends.

Image Sources:

Lady Gaga , Eeyore and Friends

Lady & a Not-Very-Gentle Man

“In times of dire need, self comes first.”

-Red Elephant, The

It’s 11:30 p.m. They were eating outside and he lent her his jacket since she was literally hugging herself from being cold. Let it be clear that she DID NOT ask for nor did she thought about it. On the way back home, as they were riding his bike, he kept tsk tsk-ing, muttering how she’s so lazy as not to bring her own jacket. After three blocks they stopped, he demanded to have his jacket back, and for the next ten minutes rode in silence with her becoming a human popsicle.

Gentlemen would open doors for her – too bad they’re a very endangered specie.

Image sources here.

A Very Long Post on Quantum Physics Written About a Year Ago – Or Not Really

(But really, it’s written about a year ago. I’m a worse writer then. You can back out now.)

Who am I?

A question that continues to haunt man since time immemorial. But what is it that keeps him from finding the answer to that ever daunting question?

It asks not only your name or age but what makes you an individual, a separate entity and not just a statistic in an ever expanding society. If I tell you ʽI am Jenny, 19, and still a student’, can you say that you already know me?

No.

So the question remains – who am I? I am me. But another question follows. What makes me me? That is the most difficult part. For you see, I can say that I am a daughter, a son, a student, a Christian, an artist, an atheist, a Democrat, a Republican, a Muslim, a Russian, an anarchist, a loyalist, a scholar, a rebel, a doctor, an actor, a goth, a homosexual, blah, blah, and blah…

Those are things that you can also say for about a hundred million other people. It does not define you as a separate being. They’re merely labels. And the truth about labels is that they are used not with individuals but to categorize people.

Or divide. Maybe both.

Now one may argue that he can be a Christian and a Goth, while another could only be the former and not the latter. So that defines him from another person, eh? Having a label that the other person does not share. But that is all too generalized. Can that person say with conviction that he is the only Goth Christian in the planet? Not.

And so the question remains, what makes a person an individual? How do you answer the question ‘Who am I’?

The easiest and the laziest way to answer would be to say that you are a nobody, which is an utter lie in itself because a person is always a somebody to someone else, even if it’s not for everybody. Even a tramp that society labels as a nobody is a somebody to someone else – a long-lost friend, a mother, a son, a lover.

Specifics. Yes! At last, you say to yourself, I have already found the right way on how to answer that question. I’m going to flood them all with specifics about myself.

I am Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra, 21 years old, 5’8” tall, 158 lb, a junior mechanic. My parents are Ricardo and Cecilia Madrid and my two older sisters are Anastacia and Isabella Madrid. I have lived all my life in Havana and I don’t plan of moving anywhere else. I am in love with a girl working in a paladar near the shop where I work and I plan to marry and have 2 children with her. I am and will be a mechanic for the rest of my life because that is all that I ever know how to do. I was born on the shores of this land and this is where I intend to be buried. So there, now you know me and you cannot say that there is another person on this planet who can say the same words as I have. Now you know who I am.

True, there may not be another Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra the Mechanic in the planet, but is that all there is to it with that person? Is that all he is? A resident of Havana who plans to have a family and be a mechanic for the rest of his life and after which reside six feet under his birth soil – is that all?

Why not?

Why do we have to complicate everything? Why do we have to force him to say more about himself if that is his own understanding ?

“I must find a truth that is true for me . . . the idea for which I can live or die” as Søren Kierkegaard, the first writer to ever call himself existential (Wiki says!), has stated. Yes, it may pertain to a discussion about morality but it also rings true to a question of identity. It is never the society’s task to define a person but only the person’s own. The question who am I can only be answered by the individual because it is he who experiences his life. Society may set traditions and norms, but it is up to the individual to follow or head the other way.

For one, an environment in which a person lives in may be brutal and unforgiving, and yet it does not necessarily mean that the people living in such a place would turn out to be the same. One person may turn out to be an adapter – cold, harsh, and eternally suspicious, while the other may be a dissenter – warm, gentle, and trusting.

Choice.

That is what sets the two apart, their own choices. One chooses to survive in his environment by means of adaptation, he can only survive if he takes in the characteristics that his environment requires. If I live in an environment where everyone is hostile to one another and is constantly judgmental and only seeks personal gratification and individual advancement, then I cannot allow to be swallowed whole by the situation. I have to be cold so their hostility could not affect me, nor could their judgments. I would not care less. And in a milieu where everyone seeks to trample and rise above the other, I should be suspicious to anyone’s actions. That is the only way to survive.

The other however disagrees with conforming and chooses to do the opposite – he dissents. If I am surrounded with people who treat everyone as an opponent, as a threat, then I have to be warm and live without competing with them. If I do that, then eventually they would see how I am not a threat. And eventually, if all goes for the best, then they would stop treating everyone as a threat. Yes, it may not always be true with everyone but you can’t help but influence one or two or more people because of how you treat and interact with them. I chose to be different because I want change. And I can’t just wait for it to happen. If no one would, then I will start with myself. And it will show to the people I meet. Maybe they will follow and maybe they will not. But I can’t just stand and live in a world that repulses me. If I want it to change then I have to do something. That is the only way I can truly say I have lived.

Both have made a choice, though similar they are not. But it is clear they have decided on a certain course of action for which they can live with, and it will reflect on the kind of person each would turn out to be.

So would it be safe to say that what shapes a person is his own choices? Perhaps.

But like everything else, it is subject to the big C. CHANGE.

So back to the question: “Who am I?”.

Personally, I am yet to discover that. But the good thing is I know where to look for the answers. And even with that knowledge I still can’t find the ultimate answer in the present because the place where I look for is constantly changing, trivial or otherwise – myself.

And even then, one must be open to the possibility that he may never achieve a satisfactory answer to that question for as long as he may live. But tell me, do we really have to know? Or do we just have to accept the idea that there are things that exist which are beyond one’s understanding and the best way to deal with it is to just live and savor the experience while it is still there? If meaning is what we sought after, then searching might be futile if we only limit ourselves to that which is tangible, to that which tries to explain, to human reasoning. Shouldn’t we then accept the idea that there are things our human minds will never understand, that are reserved only for the understanding of a higher sort?

Ah, Life. I can’t help but agree with the character Alyosha when he says, “We must love life more than the meaning of it”. Why can’t we just live without questioning everything? Or rather, live and question, but never despair if you won’t find the answer? Do we question the meaning of our lover’s existence or do we just continue on loving them?

I believe we may find the greatest experience of bliss in the latter.

Questions, questions…sometimes these things are enlightening. But it is faith even amongst unanswered questions that really sustains.

So who am I? I am me, but what makes me me I can’t tell you yet. I do know one thing though. I choose to live. And as much as possible, I choose to be happy.

Look at the choices you’ve made, and think about the ones you’re about to make, then maybe you will find the answer as to who you really are. Or maybe not.

But at least you will know what you want.

Image Sources here.

April 24, 2012

The day the sun rose again, the flowers bloomed, I sang, I didn’t wake up screaming, I danced, I kissed, I pooped without straining, I wasn’t hit by a truck, mom didn’t scream even once, he told me I’m beautiful, the TV wasn’t turned on, a 2-year old grinning nephew woke me up, my ear log book didn’t have politics signed up, I turned 20, I laughed, I didn’t find him naked in bed with a naked girl (or guy), I bear hugged him, my phone was on silent mode, bought 4 ooh la la books, had enough time to lie supine for hours and do nothing (in daytime), had a 2-second passing thought that all men must have some goodness inside or once had, I breathed, I existed.

Boy, was that a beautiful day!

And oh yes, that was the day I was born here in the blogosphere, too.

Great day. Great day.

I wonder who that photophilic idiot is…wait, wait, I think that’s me!

STD: Sickeningly Toxic Drama

I allowed Tommy a little day-off from writing since he’s been so good all this time in relating to us all his memoirs, not without  a little coercion with an eye-popping device, yes, but still. So now, as a tribute to all the guys who f—ed me for a night and took off faster than Bella could say ‘Edward, rape me!’, to you I give this ode to a night I will always wish not to remember…

So you think you’re just too clever 

to give out

an eensy, weensy, measly salutation?

F— you.

And I’m not even taking that back

just because I want you.

No, No.

You are a sadist.

Or merely a prototype of the male sex.

You were just not developed enough.

If you are then

you should have had the decency to answer 

the calls of my kind.

Yes, even the psycho ones.

You are just so full of yourself

that once something seems frightening

you scurry off to another dream world.

Not even heeding what may have happened

to the one that’s left behind.

Deserter!

Or should I merely say a heroic hypocrite?

My apologies to the other sex for revealing

the weaker chunk of your kind.

But even this is not  enough to point out

how invariably loathsome

this bit of your whole party is.

Putrid.

Odious.

Excreta.

Lady Gaga-ish.

Boom!

This is NOT me. I assure you, if I can find my own mug shot, I’ll replace this picture. Yes, asap.

*For her story, well click here.*

Fib # 2: Little Kid, Little Bread (and other little things)

Don’t we all adore kids?

I know I do. Well I do, before they morph into their real forms – noisy, needy, fidgety monsters. But until then, I have no qualms in showering them with hugs, kisses, and errands. Every kid knows that his goal in life is to run errands until he grows a beard/develops milk reservoirs (for girls, idiot), but until then he has to run errands like a slave or he will end up in hell alone with a clown with lips Angelina Jolie would spend her millions to copy. As generous as I am, I give them a whole lot of errands to fulfill.

What poor judgment.

See, this is what happened:

I told the kid to buy some bread,

Not anything he can’t handle

Just few of those little things

To appease my stomach’s rumble

I expected lots of change

And I did get a lot

A lot of loaves, one dozen loaves,

And change? No there was not.

 

So I yelled at him

“You stupid shit! That was my last money!”

I didn’t notice those big round eyes

They might have cried, “Mommy!”

Cos angry I was and blind to his fear

I didn’t see it clear

Only later that time I saw

His face was drenched with tears

 

“What have I done?”

That’s all I can say

Too late I thought it was

For me to take the horrors away

I, too, experienced in the past

I left his skin so dark and blue

That child I barely knew

And all ‘cos there was too many bread

That poor, little child now lies dead.

 

 Okay, so maybe that’s not what really happened in MY case. You can stop dialing 911, you know? And you can stop giving me those dagger looks, or I might be the one ending up dead.

But stuff like that, and very similar ones, happen to REAL children each day. They are very easy targets for abuse. Especially for those who couldn’t resist showcasing their made up superiority and the need to bully someone. For all I know, you could be a victim (or may God forbid, an abuser) yourself.

This is NOT normal. Just because it is widespread does NOT mean it is normal. Just because some kids gain consciousness already working their fragile bodies off does NOT mean it is normal. It is an abhorrence. Children should be nurtured. Protected. Loved.

And I have been angry with myself because I was not doing anything about it.

Until I realized that even the “little things” count.

Image credits here.

An Open Letter

Just one look at you. That’s all it ever takes to remind me how beautiful life is.

You can’t blame me. The way you tamed me with your gentleness is a feat I thought unattainable. No, I don’t love everything about you. I hate it how easily you fall asleep as our passion ebbs. But I love it how you make certain I’m attached to your body, that close, before you go to Morpheus’ realm.

I never thought I could be this lucky. If I should be honest, I never really thought we could last this long – 4 months is the longest I’ve given us. But look how it turned out.

All those times, the bad and the good, I will cherish until my end. I am scared, frightened, paralyzed to death we might lose our love for each other. If someone will ask me what I am most afraid of then that should be it; that we could become strangers again. And that we will never find our way back.

Still I don’t let this thought cripple me, again, thanks to you. You’re always the positive one, telling me the absurdity of this paranoia because as long as I don’t give up on you then we’ll always be together.

But what if you would give up on me?

That’s what sends shiver down my spine, heck, my whole being to be exact. But you just lure me to your embrace and say it will never happen. Ah! The naiveté. That’s what draws me into you, I think. I could use an extra dose of that, considering where I come from.

Yet the idea that you could never be The One looms in the air – for how could I have been so lucky to find my one, true love at such a young age? And if that’s not enough, my one true love actually loves me back, if not even more?

People have used, some have wasted, many years of their lives waiting. Constantly, consciously or not, searching for a love like ours. Many are still yet to find it. More have already given up. I think of these people and it breaks my heart, but not because of any noble thought. No, it was rather driven by selfishness – for I believe I will end up just like them if ever I will lose you.

“But you wont”, that’s what you would say.

Ha! I know. I know.