lol

I don't even remember what the last entry was about. Wtf.

Something I realized recently: singing cheesy love songs by black artists from the past four decades at the top of your lungs with a best friend is very effective as a purging of emotions.

When some things in life get really stupid, do something sabaw--they cancel out.

Wait. Am I thinking too much?











Probably.

p.s.

I'm looking forward to seeing old friends later today. Shit. I really need that.

Imagine an empty room, devoid of furniture, but with all kinds of trinkets and mementos strewn about like a junkyard of memories. Some things, especially angular ones like books, were easy to sort and pack into boxes for efficient use of space. Unfortunately, most of the stuff I had to deal with was very difficult to pack – old Matchbox cars, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, the occasional crumpled test paper.

I have this shoebox, and inside, memories of loves had and lost.

I have a box of long unread comics, the pages stagnating from being pressed upon each other, devoid of the touch of light or a reader’s eager, probing eyes.

Beside the box of comics, there is an assortment of balls, plastic guns, a foam baseball bat, and the weapons of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

It was a room of memories, and I feel that I moved out without resting in it.

I recall childhood memories as precious, irreplaceable moments. The memories reside in the fading part of my mind like shimmering minerals clinging steadfastly to rocks, refusing to be swept away by a rushing stream.

(part of a work-in-progress to be mercilessly criticized by my Jedi Master)

* * *

ANYWAY, people, the new house has one good perk: Teh_Sw33m1ng_p00L. 'Yun na yun.

We must all wade in my backyard.

People are burdened with the endless questions that come with unexpected tragedies.

~

I can almost feel the loss firsthand -- it's made even more palpable because a good friend of mine, one of my best friends, was there. He was close. Somehow, the trauma and the pain of loss brushes at me like a faint chill in the wind -- taunting me despite the thousand-mile buffer. I find it hard to laugh or smile. Fuck.

Bro, thank God you're safe. Tangina, get the hell out of there and go home. Go home.

Constant snacking is good, but i have to stop.

I can't decide if ignorance is good or not. Can't you just come clean? You're driving me nuts.

* * *

I can't decide if I like Apocalypse Now or not. The movie isn't like any other war movie I've seen before. Every movie I've seen has a certain aftertaste, a lingering feeling of the overall tone, nailed into the psyche by the climax. I'd elaborate on the aftereffects of Apocalypse Now, but I started writing this for no reason; and that can only give me enough articulating juice for so long.

So just spare two and a half hours of your sunny summer day to watch this piece. Its quality lies somewhere in the realm of amazing, disturbing and draggy.

Thank you.

We're actually doing really fine. :)

I don't even know if you'll read this.

Thank God for the people who remind you of the good things -- the things that really matter.

Summer is near, but it already seems bittersweet.

YES.

Thank you! :D

I miss playing CS. Now all the fun I get is from music and pretending to sing. Hopefully joining the futsal club in Ateneo pays off in the fun department.

Aside from her, nothing's been very enjoyable. Everything's been... steady.

Lucky for me she's mine. :P

God, how come I seem so angsty when I'm really not? Haha.

Hi. I have to memorize about 154 lines of poetry... so this is part of my memorization. I like this one.

Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who
Make love without love? Beautiful as dancers,
They glide over each other like ice skaters
over ice, fingers hooked inside
each other's bodies, faces red
as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth
whose mothers are going to give them away.
How do they come to the come to the
come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their
joined skin. These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will
not accept a false messiah, love the priest
instead of the God.
They do not mistake the lover for
their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they
are alone with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes,
their overall cardiovascular health --
just factors, and not the truth, which
is the single body alone in the universe
against his own best time.

Pretty cool piece, methinks.