It baffles me how oddly my mind works. There are days, months ago, when I could not go an hour without rambling about everything and nothing. Here I am, months later, with almost nothing to say. How can I possibly go from overwhelmingly large amounts of inner dialogue to absolutely nothing at all?

I'm able to find minimal solace in my current state. Although it's a tad refreshing to not feel, think, ponder anything for hours on end after spending eleven months questioning everyone and everything, I worry that perhaps my heart's just a shriveled, dried-up mess. My care and passion for that and those in my life extinguished. Terrifying to believe that I've fallen into complete and utter apathy.

So now I ask you this, oh great world. If you believe yourself to be as great for holding the pleasures of the human race so simply in the palm of your hand, why can I not find the peace that I so pondered on and hoped for those eleven months when I had a heart? Don't give me your narcotics. Don't give me your liquor. Give me my peace.

... And maybe a martini.

Whatever happened to old-fashioned romance? You know, the sort that's seen in aged, dog-eared, sepia-toned photographs, and when fairy tales and stories played a larger role in a little girl's life instead of Miley Cyrus' latest escapade.

Can we not whip out the gowns, dresses, and class? Iron out age-old gentlemanly etiquette and intricacies and prepare them for the night. For goodness sake, what happened to when knees would buckle at the slightest glance?

And it is not weakness. It is not hopelessness. It's expecting more from reality, expecting what we deserve.

Cold medicine and Disney songs

Listening to the Disney songs for half an hour straight, I realize something: I haven't felt this way in almost a year. At peace with almost every element in my life, including the negative. Some may argue that it is actually post-finals (or in my case, post-ENV101) syndrome, in some ways, it goes a lot deeper, and a lot farther back than finals. I cannot exactly pinpoint where, but... I may say this with all honesty: I am happy.

Not to sound incredibly juvenile, but I am exhibiting the common signs of grieving. I sleep as often as I can, and eat too much or not at all.

... And yet his redolent fragrance still lingers.

Perhaps it hasn't been that long ago, but it feels like ages since I sat back and watched the night sky.

I confess to not being myself lately.

How selfish and wrong is it to feel heart-broken when the other just manages to change completely without you?

In my attempts to shove goal after goal into my future, I take the occasional side-glance at my present. I see the smiles I'm missing out on, the laughs I suppress, the tears I hold back, the charged words of anger I replay over and over in my mind. For a split second or two, yes, I feel that slight tinge of remorse. I let go ever-so-slightly to the reigns of my diligence. The corners of my mouth begin to twitch upward in anticipation for the joy that will follow. And then I look again at the failing future. My heart hardens and my passion cools.

*This is overly exaggerated, mind you. Those who know me understand that I laugh and smile every chance I get...

**That previous sentence is also an exaggeration. The truth, I suppose, is in the middle somewhere, just waiting for the invention of words that will someday capture it.

This quarter looks promising for several facets of (my) Life. Considering the fact that I will no longer be required to take any English Literature classes, I've undertaken the task of studying Mythological and Biblical Literature.

Simultaneously.

I never imagined my first night back (and, of course, my first day of school) to feel like this. Calm, normal... not even remotely exciting. Some boxes still linger in the corner of my room; they haven't moved since the first day I dropped them there two months ago, eager to get the move over with. My suitcase is still packed with clothes since I was far too lazy to unpack last night. Lazy? Was that really the reason? Or am I merely hindering myself from feeling wholly welcome in this room? This house? This area?

Perhaps I want a continual reminder of how this place, no matter how much I may wish it to be, will never feel like home.

There is that certain time of the night when everyone else in the house is in the middle of dreaming, granting me a certain calmness that just cannot exist with the sun. At this time, I am at my most natural, allowing my mind to take me here and there. No need to worry about who will see me doing this, being that. And for company during such a wonderful point in my night, I prefer to have no one other than Ella Fitzgerald.

This particular emotion seems to be a crossbreed between heartsickness and anxiousness. I neither lost anything worth caring for nor is there any true, imminent danger in my future. That I know of.

Still...

It is not an alien feeling for surely millions upon millions of people have felt it before at one or several points in their lives. It exists in stories, books, films, and dreams. I cannot say what it is because I confess that it is not a familiar feeling. But something about it just makes me feel like a sixteen-year-old again.

Stephenie Meyer is, despite her success, no J.K. Rowling. I shall leave the issue at that.

She drags her graphite across the off-white sheet, creating a winding gray line across that textured surface. Perhaps this is a start of another successful piece, she hoped. If not, at least she'd created another channel for her creative emotional outburst for that night. Another line parallel to the last one. One etched after another for shade. And so the lines continued to fall upon the page. With them, all the words he uninhibitedly hurled at her that night fell away.

Now, she steals glances down at her iPod in hopes of choosing the perfect playlist for this long drive home. The Republic Tigers? Whitest Boy Alive? Some '90s love songs? Anything will do in order to drown out the sound of passing cars, distracting her from revisiting the past few hours. Not knowing her fault, she endured another night of his severe and uncivil manner. And so she accelerates, taking herself and her thoughts into the dark blue night on a winding gray road across that earthen surface.

So I am now a proud* owner of a 2-month-old Golden Retriever puppy named Tobias "Tobey" Cayton.

*The adjective "proud," as seen above, can be replaced with one of the following: excited, joyful, ecstatic, abso-fucking-lutely terrified of not being completely capable of taking care of another life, anxious, etc.

Is this what motherhood feels like? Because it is just downright frightening.

My eyes burn and my joints ache. My muscles scream with every twitch my tired brain directs. I am exhausted. And here is why.

I have foolish questions for all the fools alive out there. And I am a silly nineteen year-old to hope for answers. But without your answers, dear fools, I will end up being a silly eighty year-old still asking foolish questions, seeking solutions.

What I want to know is this: Is it possible to lose part of your soul? What does it feel like? And how can you find that missing part again?

I don't know if "missing" and "lost" are even the right words to use. Still, it's better to lose part of one's soul than to have it die. In both cases, however, you are incomplete. You are left empty. How could that possibly feel like? It seems like quite the tragic case, but to be left empty, you cannot exactly bring yourself to care. Yes, it seems like a wretched situation to be in.

Is this where I find myself now? I haven't looked at my sketchbooks in months; I haven't written anything of merit (if I ever have). I want to. Oh, how I want to. But it is just not there. It is not there to help me finger through pages of old sketchbooks, to run my eyes over the assorted colors of pencils and paints, to lift my pen and bring it closer to the page. I want to. I want to.

But I just do not care. Not enough. Not at all.

So please, dear fools, help me. I beg of you.

...

I've been hungry.

I like to reminisce.

Life's Sense of Humor

Just when I believed that I finally owned Life, Life turns around to slap me once again.

Things were in order. I filed all important documents to their respective offices. Homework burned away like fuel. Running errands was the easiest. Gas prices were .1 levels below atrocious. Choir practices were wonderfully short. Vicodin is no longer that difficult to swallow (kidding--kidding about the Vicodin, I mean). I was in control.

And now? My abstract paper, I just learned, is due today. Shall we weigh the severity between the two givens? Abstract paper. Due today.

Abstract paper. Due today.
Abstract paper. Due today.
Abstract paper. Due today...

... Life hits like a girl.

So tell me, what kinds of girls do you know?

Because I am who I am

They make me laugh. I mean the trees.

There is something I miss in the way sun and the breeze work so perfectly together to create the ultimate day for walking, relaxing, reading, and laughing. The mild whispering of the wind along with the familiar but infrequent purring of engines going past made enough noise to negate the stifling silence of being alone. Still, there was always someone who existed on the other side of a phone call, of a text message, of a dream.

There is something I miss in the way my phone would ring in the evening, bearing my best friend's excited voice. The words "Hey, what are you doing?" translated smoothly and effortlessly to "Meet us here, we'll be waiting."Driving alone, singing, was merely the beginning to a night of embraces, smiles, chatter, and joy that will forever engrave memories into my heart.

There is something I miss in her smile, in his voice, in their eyes, in her embrace, in their presence, in his touch.

Appease me, Life. You owe me.

Because my class is at 11:45

I like confessions. However flawed my reasoning was to justify looking at some of the saddest, most pathetic ones, reading some of them lifts my spirits. Perhaps not, but I do find myself smiling at some of them. That must count for something.

Such was the case today, when my eyes settled over a certain confession written by a boy. It sounded all too familiar, it was typed in a matter that was all too familiar. So I held my breath as I read it over. And then it hit me.

It's not him. It couldn't possibly be him. Now, I am merely just another face in the crowd of people who deserve nothing else but apathy. After realizing that, my smile faded and I was (and am) left to face reality. How long will I be able to keep up the smile that withers the very instant no one is there to see that bitterly synthetic expression?

Masakit pa rin ang puso ko.

I need an anchor.

Recuperation

As John said, we clean, we cut our hair, and we smile.

We smile until we, ourselves, believe that sorry gesture of facial muscles.

Sex & The City

Have been watching. Will be watching.

"Don't you want to stand still with me?"

Hang On Little Tomato

by Pink Martini

The sun has left and forgotten me
It's dark, I cannot see
Why does this rain pour down
I'm gonna drown
In a sea
Of deep confusion

Somebody told me, I don't know who
Whenever you are sad and blue
And you're feelin' all alone and left behind
Just take a look inside and you will find

You gotta hold on, hold on through the night
Hang on, things will be all right
Even when it's dark
And not a bit of sparkling
Sing-song sunshine from above
Spreading rays of sunny love

Just hang on, hang on to the vine
Stay on, soon you'll be divine
If you start to cry, look up to the sky
Something's coming up ahead
To turn your tears to dew instead

And so I hold on to his advice
When change is hard and not so nice
You listen to your heart the whole night through
Your sunny someday will come one day soon to you

Foreign, ballads, and lounge jazz are my consolation at the moment.

"Leslie, have you registered?"
"No, not yet."
"It's not too late."

On a superficial level, such questions have been asked of everyone. Everyone has their busy schedule; everyone has their own life. Failings in any one of these matters will bring one down slightly, and almost insignificantly, on the grander scale of things.

"Leslie, have you thought about it?"
"No, not yet."
"It's not too late."

Thoughts are incredibly necessary on certain matters. Usually are of the utmost importance. Failure to do so may harm one greatly in the future.

"Leslie, have you looked at the stars?"
"No, not yet."
"It's not too late."

Admiration of beauty--something overlooked and rarely done on a mental, emotional, and spiritual level. Some would say that the urgency to do so does not exist; thus, aforementioned admiration may be forgone to more "pressing matters." But what they don't realize is that that continuous failure to appreciate the tree that gives you shade or the stars and moon that light your night will eventually leave you dead and withered inside.

"Leslie, have you fixed it?"
"No, not yet."
"It's not too late."

Reparations can be done either physically, mentally, emotionally, and/or spiritually. Just like the previous case, it is sometimes overlooked despite its looming importance in our lives. But personally, I would like to believe that it will never be too late.

Happiness Is Not a Warm Gun

23 February 2007
Enough is Enough

People really do have some nerve these days.

Seriously, now. I am NOT anyone's doormat. I dare you to step on me.

And don't you dare cry when you foot gets bitten off.

I found that while I was browsing/reading old entries of mine from late '06 to early '07. How wonderful were the days when Deca, school, and friends were the only things that worried me. Halfway done with 2008, I can honestly and whole-heartedly say that I remember happier times.

Oh Joy for Another Paradox

It is 2 hours and 7 minutes past midnight, and I type aimlessly away at my laptop, hoping to find some visual solace from traffic and lifeless buildings. I am, if you will, looking for my inner peace. From what could I possibly want peace from? Can not even one person agree that "everything" is enough to suffice for an answer? Thank you.

Certainly there are practical ways to mentally, emotionally, and spiritually remove one's self from the hectic hustle-and-bustle of modern society. But what I seek is the freshness of virgin air (or what could be the least polluted), bright sun (or un-American cloudiness), and Nature's song (or, again, I will settle for anything not-so-American). I basically want to fly from this mainland for something new despite the obvious and ever-so-celebrated diversity of the American scenery.

I don't want the sunset-draped beaches of the Western American Coastline. I don't want the rolling hills or the endless valleys offered by the Midwest. I don't want quaint Eastern life nor the bright-city lights that drape the North-East. I don't want the national forests (at least for right now). I don't want... home.


I want the tribal hospitalities of Pacific-Island nations (Hawaii is the closest I may tolerate, but only to enjoy family property on the island of Kauai). I want the fresh coconut juice and the papaya that tastes sweeter when picked straight from the tree by my own hands. I want to walk the road of the European country-side and perhaps even sample the historic cobblestones of ancient cities. I want to listen to the ocean with waves either violently crashing amongst the rocks and cliffs or peacefully grazing the sand.

But in order to get that piece of foreign relaxation (even sans the luxury), I must give up my momentous peace that I was graciously allowed by lying in bed 2 hours and 25 minutes past midnight.

These are my little treasures.

KOST or Icky Thump

It's not a drink that I need. I remember full well that I've described several of my favorite moments. And I am in desperate need of one of those.

More specifically, I need the freeway instance with a few select people. May 16th marks the day two of them will be back. Perhaps then, things will settle; I will find peace.

I Still Cannot Sleep

Is it wrong to say that I think I need one drink right now?

When I Cannot Sleep

There are tales and tales of mysterious doors that yield to well-hidden keys. Surely, then, there is at least one tale of the opposite occurrence. An adventure, in turn, ensues for that single solution: that one door, that one key. What then if only the knowledge of both door and key exist, leaving but two solutions to be sought?

What awaits behind both door and key that is worth the trouble of a search? Can anyone tell me that?

EDIT: Spoke to John. Somewhat comforted. Somewhat not.

Grouphug.us

I read this one incredibly personal confession addressed to a specific woman. Not gonna lie, I bawled oceans (a symptom of the menstrual cycle, I'm sure).

Dear D.L.N.*,

I still love you. You’ve broke[n] my heart twice now and I still love you. I flew across the country to be with you for one night and you shut me down, just like you did when I came to Israel for you only a few years before.

How do I know I still love you? Because even after suffering without you for six years, after being acquainted with so many other women, you are still without peer in my heart. Because I am more intimately acquainted with your flaws than anyone else. When you shut me out of your life for three years, you didn’t need to tell me you didn’t know how to deal with what you were feeling. I had to carry that pain in my breast for three years. Through every night when I couldn’t sleep because all I could manage to do was cry, I still loved you.

Through every hard moment when I needed someone to be there for me and there was no one, I still loved you.

Through every beautiful place I’ve seen since then that was tainted by not being able to share it with you, I still loved you.

Through every time I wanted to reach out to someone and tell them I love them, I still loved you.

Through every time I woke up alone with that quick, loathsome sting of the heart upon realizing you weren’t there, I still loved you.

Every day, for the past six years, from the moment I was first aware of your existence, till now, I still loved you.

And yet, you have the audacity, the sheer gall to say that we can’t be together because I’m not mature enough for you? Wasn’t my intelligence and maturity for my age [the things that] attract[ed] you to me in the first place? Didn’t one of your ex-boyfriends used to send you pictures of his turds to marvel over with him? I’ve been waiting six years for you, and you couldn’t even give me one fucking night when I flew 3,000 miles to be with you? I didn’t want to have sex with you, and yet, that’s all you could see in me when I was with you. And so what if I did want to have sex with you? For the last six years, I have waited for you, not so much as looking upon another woman. I view my virginity as a beautiful gift to give to you, something I can give that you can never return, and that I can only give to one person on this earth, and I wanted to give it to you. I wanted you to teach me how to be a real man, in more ways than just the crude and obvious.

And now I’m stuck. How can I even have sex with anyone else when I love you so much? Why would I want to share that gift with someone who I don’t feel this way towards? I’ve never even kissed a girl, and you couldn’t even give me that. How can I even date another girl when I know I’ll never be able to care for her even remotely as much as I care for you?

How dare you portray yourself as some sort of arbiter of empathy, some sort of force for justice in this world, when someone who cares for you so deeply was so hastily and carelessly cast aside because you couldn’t put up with my being a little nervous around you for an hour. Not to mention an hour that was borne from months and months of romantic build up, of promises of romance and adventure galore.

Do you know what a poison it is to promise to a man that he’ll be able to hold you, to kiss you, to whisper sweet nothings, to take you on grand adventures, to do these things for the very first time, and then renege at the peak of his excitement to be with you? Let alone twice!

And yet, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man you needed to me. I’m sorry I let you down. And I’m ashamed at myself, because even with all my hate for you, I know I’d still do absolutely anything for you. I know my love for you is as strong as it ever was. And it’s the absolute most elaborate, intricate, excruciating torture to know that a woman of your sheer perfection and class exists, and is capable of loving me (as she has twice prior), and refuses to give me one more chance when I have been so steadfastly dedicated to her.

And in the most bizarre of ways, I thank you. The first time you hurt me, anyways, as bad as it was, was a learning experience. I learned more through that than I could’ve through any amount of schooling or time or work anywhere else. You taught me maturity. You taught me patience. You taught me how to deal with heartache. You taught me wisdom. But most importantly, you taught me how to forgive. I only wish you would learn how to, too.

- S


*Name changed for privacy purposes.

Alright. Let's get this over with.

Before many of you rise up in indignation at my juvenile frustration with the trivialities of my(our) daily life, I politely and respectfully beseech you to shut it. Because while there are those of my kin who are suffering under poverty, disease, and corruption back in the Philippines (a fact that even a simpleton cannot deny), it does not mean that I possess the same mental and emotional stamina to be as spirited as them in all my daily mundaneness. I may be significantly weaker than my impoverished counterparts.

Breezing through several psychological and anthropological aspects, surely it cannot be denied that when roles are switched and I am placed in a tropical shack whilst those under financial distress are put in a situation of being stable in all aspects of living... reactions may seem to vary but are, in fact, similar in the sense that they are "trivial" (a description that I'm beginning to find rather irritating) and evoke reactions that stem from exasperation with the dull. If one observes the "normal" toils of the average young adult belonging to the middle class, what does one see (listed in no specific order):

1. The urge to branch out and explore either mentally, emotionally, sexually, geographically, financially, etc. The idea of expanding horizons still remains. And how does this come about?

2. BOREDOM. Now that's not to say that absolutely everyone becomes bored with everything that they do; but I will be bold enough to call you a liar and a bigot if you claim to have never once felt an overwhelming sense of ennui in any particular moment in your life. But for this rant's sake, I do limit the criticism to those who tire of everyday routine or those who seek excitement and spontaneity (woo for you!). So if you believe yourself to be completely content with your mediocre life, then good for you.

3. And since I just happen to love being vague, the third category will include all problems that you, surely a person of the middle class (higher, lower, doesn't matter), face. Now what could that possibly be, you ask? For starters, one could never be without too much money to pay off several things like your car, the ever-expensive gas that goes into that car, your college education, your clothes that make you look oh-so-chic, the food that you crave at ungodly hours of the day, little luxuries that are subjective to an individual (personally, I enjoy notebook, journals, and sketchbooks), etc. But not only is that one problem. Looking at the social aspects of our insignificant little lives, there always exists tiny problems within relationships between even the best of friends, disgustingly sweet lovers, the most darling pair of mother and daughter, and so on and so forth. Going into the work-/academic-related problems is just asking for a brain aneurysm due to the recollection I will have to undergo in order to create an impassioned point.

It is pretty obvious to almost everyone that there are worse things going on in the world. However, bringing up that point as an argument against someone who chooses to complain will do virtually no good. One chooses to utilize that argument to make the aforementioned complainer to stop. Surely, then, the brute ends his tirade, much to your and everyone else's relief, but it does not erase the tiresome burden of the problems he spoke of.

I do not mean to belittle the "worse things" that are going on in this world right now. If anything, I confess to several times during which I wish for the whine-y fellow to shove it because of complaints of, let's say, "not being able to pay off the two Beamers [he] bought his twin daughters for their sixteenth birthday" (true story, by the way). In no way can a mere observer experience the pain of war, famine, and plague. In no way can a mere reader of newspapers feel the anger and the hate of those who suffer under inflicted political, social, and emotional pain.

But I do not ask for much--not money, not love, not even hate. I only ask for the smallest amount of patience towards a lowly 18-year-old girl and her entrance into a hypocritical reality with no expectations of being able to talk to anyone.

Conversation with John. He said something rather interesting and there exists a minute possibility that it could be true.

I certainly hope not.

Seeing as to how computer IM lingo has invaded the realities of speech, here I go:

LOL.

As pessimistic my views are regarding the world and everyone residing within, I have hope for my cousin.

It's Okay.

"My ex-boyfriend calls me a lot more frequently than your boyfriend calls you."

"How long has it been since he told you that he loved you?"

"Hm. A lot less enthused about talking to you, I see..."

"Your particular flame seems to be dying down."

"New phase of your life. New phase in his life. New people. You know the drill."

It's all okay, right? He's just been busy is all...

By gawd, let me be unreasonable.

Right now, I just cannot accept the inevitability of human flaws. Allow me to be unreasonable and attempt to attain perfection. I know it will only disappoint me, but let me be disappointed. I'm already disappointed anyway, so what's one more added to my list of infinite letdowns?

So let me also be jealous right now. If he, at any moment, favors her manner, her behavior, her eyes, her gestures, her being over me... then I will make sure I have no regrets in the future.

Is it normal?

I hope that I have not grown far too attached to you, but I do confess that having gotten to know you, to love you, has spoiled me to the extent of having been [probably] too lucky to have found you.

There are days when work, friends, family, even our own bodies, keep us from talking and even seeing each other. It is no exaggeration when I say that I feel only contempt for those days despite the many justifiable reasons behind our absence from each others' lives. Is it normal that not being able to speak to you--and I mean actually speak to you--saddens me?

Browsing around GroupHug.us, I came across this confession:

"i cant last a day without talking to you… i feel so empty if i dont hear from you.. is this normal?"

I read it three times. First, it was in curiosity as to why it seemed to stand out from all other confessions. Then again, feeling it tug at my heartstrings. And finally, in disbelief as to how such a confession matched my own. And it's true. I cannot, for the life of me, last a day without talking to you; it really does leave me empty. It was concise; it was accurate. It was true. But for some strange, unknown reason, I just cannot bring myself to tell you that.

Wow. I'm in love with you.

Aloha Oe: I Remember You

Aloha ʻoe, aloha ʻoe

I thought of you today as I walked around the brightly lit city at night. That is your favorite scene, no? I do remember.

...I'm sorry that I said nothing on the 16th of February this year. My silence, consequentially, seemed only to emphasize your two-year absence from your friends, family, and me. Two years. It has been two years and still you have the ability to move me to tears.

E ke onaona noho i ka lipo

Your departure was too soon, they say. And it's true.
You were such a good person, they say. I believed it, too. You were the only one who found that claim unjustified and false.

Still you found it in your heart to gently sing this song to me every time we said good-bye. Oh your heart, one of the gentlest and most fragile one I know of.

One fond embrace

I confess that there are times during which I regret not having been better to you. But knowing you, you would frown at the mere thought of my feeling guilty. "You have nothing to feel guilty about," you would say, smiling at my innocent show of shame. It's that familiar smile that torments me inside since I know all too well that you would mean that with all of your damned heart.


A hoʻi aʻe au

I'm happy now. Surely you'd be delighted to know that he is just as kindhearted as you.

Yes, I am happy now.

Until we meet again.

I'll always remember you, M. Analei.

--

It is true that he would softly sing this song--specifically, the chorus--to me before he and I parted ways. "Farewell to you, farewell to you / The charming one who dwells in the shaded bowers / One fond embrace / 'Ere I depart / Until we meet again." It is about time that I sing it back to him as I take the final step to reconcile my feelings after the passing of my first love.

I'm pacing around my room right now, hoping to receive any sign, any word from him. Angry, bitter, sad, upset, joyful, solemn.


Just to know he's okay.

Nuovo Cinema Paradiso

Having posted the Amélie clip up, I've received something lovely in return from a fellow Decathlete and friend.

And I must confess that I find the ending rather charming with a touch of nostalgia provided by the music composed by Ennio Morricone. All of this while I attempt to finish my final paper for my World Literature class. But as I try to concentrate on the concepts of identity, independence, and ever changing gender roles, my thoughts drift back to the moving harmony of piano, violin, clarinet, and flute. With that, mental images form into the montage of old Hollywood romances. So I recall the recurring actions and ask myself this: What is in a kiss?

I will confess that this scene never ceases to make me melt like the damned girl I am.

Coddamn Insecurities

The title explains it all.

I was fine. I just hope I've accumulated enough confidence to realize that he does, in fact, love me for who I am.

... I hope who I am is enough for him. Enough for me.

I've been lacking in titles lately. I don't know why.

Onto my main reason.

There exists this sinking feeling within me that prods at my mind and my heartstrings: we rarely speak as we used to.

I called a friend selfish for certain reasons.


What I don't want to realize is that I am selfish, too.

I remember a time when I rarely ever let my hair flow down my back so freely, let alone half up. It was from about 3rd grade to 9th grade. My hair always needed to by tied back.

I don't exactly remember why that was or how it changed. It just was a simple recollection of how I managed to change in appearance from childhood to whatever stage of life I'm in right now.

It makes me wonder as to how such a change came about. Am I more comfortable with myself? What happened to me? And why can I not remember?

Why am I who I am?
Why do I do what I do?

Why did I say what I said?

And with the Green Fairy, I realize...

... the silliness with which I wrote the last entry.

I must say that I reach dangerously low points of emotion when lacking human contact. My roommate's jests were enough to pick me right back up.

But for how long?

I Bring Only Sadness Upon Myself

"You really are a hard one to impress."

Is that all too true? Certainly, I would hope not; I merely seek one thing of the boy: that he prove me wrong about the universal thought of males. For you see, being a realist, I held an almost lowly regard for all and refused, absolutely refused, to let my kneed buckle at the slightest glance.

In the recent past, I'm glad to say that I have not been broken by the selfish, lascivious ways of the majority of men. Until I, as I would like to believe, met one who has proven me wrong. Kind, gentle, compassionate, with an edginess that fortifies his self, what more can I ask of a gentleman?

Nothing, right?

This is where my cousin's statement mentioned at the beginning comes into play. Surely his gallant manner should be enough to dissuade me from self-imposed homosexuality. I believed it so. Until my one question is his simple answer illuminated one obvious factor that I chose to ignore: he's a guy. Of course, he is a much better one that most, making realize that there are those who are essentially better than the dumb majority.

And what kills me is the following statement that my inner self found it troublesome to mention: but he has not proven you wrong about the nature of men. As I've said before, he's a guy.

And I realize the reality of it all; nothing can be done to change the natural state of masculinity. Nothing I can do, that is. No amount of complaining, no amount of tears at night will change that one aspect that makes men men. Why is it then so impossible for me to just accept it? To just, basically, lower my standards in order to include at least one male into consideration instead of leaving myself in complete emotional and physical celibacy?

I don't know. Perhaps this will all blow over with a good night's rest and some soul-numbing alcohol.

One of Those Days

Having risen with less than 2 hours of sleep in each eye, it's only logical to assume that I would embrace my bed after my return from choir practice.

That's exactly what I did. Well-rested now, I'm far too late to begin any large activity and am left with the option of mere exploration. And that, really doesn't sound bad.

On days when I'm alone and half-unwillingly to see friendly faces, I feel at the most ease and the most natural. No obligations to anyone save a phone call or two when necessary. My time is my own. My world is my own. Some would argue that this sense of freedom I feel is wholly deceiving, asking me to ponder upon the metaphysical state of Freedom and Truth, and what they really are.

But in whatever honesty I can conjure up at this moment, I can say that right now, I can give a rat's ass about such things. Surely I worry enough about such questions during the week. Right now, let Apathy be my mistress and let us be.

Let Me Be at Peace for Once, California

'Tis a cruel, cruel cycle. Being a freshman, logically, I begin with only a meager amount of units due to the, well, lack of "experience." Illogically enough, that is my punishment.

The CSU system, lovely as it is and perhaps not the only one, deems it appropriate to give priority registration to those with higher unit count and/or unbelievably&disgustingly high amounts of school spirit. I suppose it's fair to give such a right to those in need to graduate and to get the hell out of college already, but due to such an inefficient amount of resources, there's nothing to be done to destroy a rather disastrous cycle.

Following the above logic, this would mean that underclassmen such as myself are left with later, far later, registration dates. As time progresses after the first day of registration, lower-division classes--high in demand, you see--metaphorically fly off the shelves in order to satiate last minute GE requirements for the older, wiser group of procrastinating super seniors. Oh joy for us younger folk. Now that would mean that there would be many upper-division classes left. But let me enlighten you with one little truth: lower-division classes are usually prerequisites to get into most of the upper-division classes. OH BOY!

So now I am left with 2 classes (still paying more than $1000 mind you!), meaning that I am not exactly fully enrolled for next quarter while one of those classes only meets one GE section. So in the end, my dear friends, I am oh-so-glad to tell you that I will be contributing to the super senior rush when I am older, angering the ickle little freshman who will scavenge.

..Just as I am doing at this very point in my life.

It's been quite a while since I last poured my entirety onto a measly web page. I discovered that he actually does read this and I, now self-conscious, stop myself from typing down anything too revealing. But I seize this very moment in time when such inhibitions are nonexistent to live that one facet of my soul that raises only self=scorn.

Sensing his absence on the other side of the camera, I decided to verbally unload the burdens that settled into my mind this past few weeks. I don't choose to leave all else out; it is only inevitable that I forget. So here exists the most important thing.

In no way do I enjoy any overflow of emotion. If anything, I prefer emotional neutrality, deeming emotions dangerous when they manage to gain complete control. Which is why, as the most logical solution, I "told" him this:

Only for you am I willing to take a broken and battered heart. Only for you.

Enough.