Reclusion, Thy Name is I

I feel like one of those old, sick, dying book characters tormented writers write about.

I got the old feel in the pockets. My environment, it seems to me, is antique. Some of my "friends" have faded into the background of an old 50's movie that will presumably be forgettable. My previous "passions" (can't believe I just used the word in plural form) have dissolved into a new (old, actually) kind of impasse...one that I can't explain thoroughly because I don't understand much either. I feel like I just lived and excruciatingly survived 9 lifetimes.

And my birthday is fast-approaching.


So yeah, I feel old.



I am a human disease stick. My life energy is currently getting sucked up by random whirlpools that come in the forms of "friends", enemies and ... internal factors (like too much anxiety, paranoia and hypochondria). Literally, I AM a human disease stick. Today's just 4 days since my high fever bid adieu to my body...and I've already relapsed. Right now, I'm coughing. My throat feels as if a meter stick of a rose with bloody thorns had stuck to it. And there's an overall feeling of dizziness. Alas, my vertigo attacks!

And I feel like...puking which is as rare as Mowgli's syndrome. (Mowgli's syndrome is rare, right?)


So yeah, I feel sick.



I define life as an equilibrium of...things. Now that my social life has gone off the hook, I'm dead. Or at least, part of me is dead. Or maybe dying. Truth is, I don't really know. I've got heaps of problems again. I vow to anticipate the first few weeks of January from now on. Something tragic always happens weeks before my birthday. The weighing scales of my life have either burst because of obesity or anorexia. I know, I know. I could get sued for my choice of words. But getting sued is actually better than facing drama that my "friends" have bequeathed me (let's just substitute the word "bequeathed" with the word "BETRAYED" - all caps) with. How big of a fool am I, anyway? I've had let these "friends" betray me before and I've done so AGAIN. I should be awarded for this!

And this is the part where I hate them all for being so defensive for something wrong they did. They should be condemned for doing this to me. I should be hanged for being the most used person in the planet.


So yeah, I feel like I'm dying.



I always tell people: "I have a life!" ...which translates to: My life is near bliss because it's packed with a social life, a family life, a spiritual life, a career (life), a whatever life... you name it, I'm too old, sick, and dying to type.


...but I guess, sometimes, it's actually a plus to not have a life.


Still...


I HAVE A LIFE!

Revenge is Sweeter (Than You Ever Were)

Mark their words: Nemo me impune lacessit "No one harms me with impunity." Yes, that's The Cask of Amontillado to you.

Never have I ever found myself thinking about vengeance...vendetta... revenge...I'd always thought that anyone's (given that he did wrong) conscience would avenge the victim.

But sometimes, revenge gets to you in the weirdest way possible.

Are there two kinds of revenge: good and bad revenge?

Is doing the right thing revenge?

Is it revenge when it's justifiable (logically and rationally speaking)?

Is it still revenge when you're doing "it" to protect someone, say, future successors?

I don't know.

But, seriously, who knows?

These things are beyond dictionary's definition. Moreover, these things are beyond juvenile experiences.

But, readers, if you hear something in the near future that relates to ME, the thought of revenge, the thought of righteousness and morality (like a scandal), refer back to this little post.

The scandal's gonna explode like a tiny bomb. Let's just wait and see.






Only time will tell.

Fuck You and Your Pride

I suggest you read these three posts first before proceeding to read THIS: click here, here and here.

All three of 'em are directed to someone I called: "Miss Emo". And I bet 90% of my readers out there know who she is if I would say her name here out loud - she's a Shekian.

The three posts were written in (obvious) anger months and months and months ago (seems like years to me, actually) but things haven't changed. It's not that I don't do a single kilogram of effort ever, it's just that Miss Emo and I just don't "click".

So now, we're in an impasse.

In the meantime, Miss Emo the 2nd is sprouting. And I won't call her "Miss Emo". She's a lot older, kasi eh. I dub "Miss Emo the 2nd" to be: "Queen of All Emos". Iyan. She deserves it.

What she doesn't deserve at all is what she has right now: credit, "honor", "nobility".

Why doesn't she deserve that?

She's a fucking hater.

Ode to the Queen:

Is that what people call "responsibility" nowadays? Presiding by means of power and executing the tyranny of false virtues? Responsible na ba ngayon ang pag-iiwan ng tasks and duty lying on the fucking floor, waiting for the dustbunnies to fucking eat 'em to death?

"Thoughtful" na ba ang paggawa ng isang bagay na MUKHANG bukal sa puso...but deep inside kumukulo ang dugo mo sa paggawa non?

Is doing THAT to your grandmother "respect"? You told me once that you had a menacingly strong aversion towards your grandmother. You told me once that this grandmother did wrong things. You told me once that this grandmother has made a lot of mistakes. Ask yourself this before I put your brain into the oven: To whom did she do the wrong things to? To whom were the mistakes attributed to? Sa iyo ba? Ganyan na ba ang respect ngayon? Binabastos mo siya eh. Sure, she has made a lot of mistakes. Sure, she's done a lot of wrong things. But she did those "things" as a PERSON not as a GRANDMOTHER. Right now, you're treating her as a PERSON, not as YOUR GRANDMOTHER. Your grandmother needs to be respected - like it or not.

People make mistakes. And just because those mistakes don't make the path to YOUR journey CLEARER doesn't mean you should curse them to hell.

I see you're jealous of me. Lantad na. Hindi na kailangang itago. It's forever etched in my memory - but that doesn't mean I won't forgive you. Even though I saw the intense emotions you channeled that day - the day when material possessions grabbed a GOOD hold of you. Sabi mo pa nga (this I will never forget): "IKAW! HA! Kahit nagrerebelde ka nakukuha mo lahat ng gusto mo!"

That was so random. That was so sudden. Hindi mo machachannel ang isang bagay na ganoon ka-intense kung wala kang pinagkuhanan niyan. Hindi ka makagagawa ng intense emotion like that within just a blink of your fugly eyes. Kaya. You know what that means? That means despite ALL the trust I'd given you, you'd been boiling wrath, irate bubbles inside your arterial chambers.

Ang trust kapag nawala, mahirap nang ibalik.

Bakit ayaw mo akong pabayaan? Bakit laging pinakekelaman mo yaong downfall ko? You're like one of those media-mongers. Like a paparazzo. Waiting for people to fall flat on their faces to get a good snapshot which in turn will wind up all around the globe. But no, yours isn't the globe. Yours is your heart. In short, bawat pagkakamali ng tao, sinu-scrutinize mo sa puso mo. Masama yan. Hindi yan healthy. Sino ka? Si Poodle? Papatayin ka ng insecurities mo sooner or later.

You can't find well-being from a person's mistakes. That, my friends, is why the world is at par with hell.

Nahulog mo gamit ko. I said: "FUCK!" Obvious namang pinaghirapan ko yung ginagawa kong cut-outs di ba?

Wala ka man lang sorry?

Ah, "sorry". I remember, you've never said a sincere "sorry" to anyone else in this universe.

Remember your best friend? Didn't he say sorry? What did you say in return?

Wala.

Pride.

Pride mo.

Fuck you and your pride.

Why are you so fucking mad at the world anyway? You're JUST like Miss Emo but on a slighlty different angle. When I told you about Miss Emo, you were all: "Ang irrational nya." So are you.

When your mom said (in a reprimanding, serious, mad voice): "May topak ka ata ah!"

Queen: "May topak talaga ako!"

So why aren't you changing it?

You see your fault right THERE. Do you change it? No. You sit on your arse and wait for the world to turn its axis. You're hoping... for the world to COVER and BURY your mistakes, flaws and faults.

That's not gonna happen. Never. Ever.

You are the most irrational person I've ever met. You think you're otherwise. You think you're perfect.


Masyadong mataas yang pride mo. Hindi ko ma-reach.

Why do you hate the world so much? If you give me a GREAT answer to that, I will never bug you again.

Definitely, it's not because you grew up in a dysfunctional family. I grew up in a dysfunctional family my own but I don't hate the world.

Hindi rin ako KJ.

Hindi ko rin binabastos ang sister ko. I don't treat her like shit the way you do.

I never talk crap about her behind my back. I'm no nark. But you?

Puro na lang side comments!

Is that the rational way to behave?

I hate the ones like you. Yaong mga pakealamera. Before you go bitching on someone else's life, world, physical looks, intellectual capactiy, emotional status, soul, spirit, personality, attitude,characteristics and VALUES, look at yourself in the mirror.

You might even see a reflection that isn't as wretched as the Devil's face... You might see something a tad bit more revolting. Your pride.

Screw the World

Sudden fit of rage.

Why do people automatically "recognize ""Math and Science Geniuses"?

No, no. Don't answer that. That's a rhetorical question, stupid. Sheesh. Does the world not know how to differentiate rhetoric from non-rhetoric?

Why is it that when you're a math and science person, you get to be automatically deemed as "smart", good in analyzing, logic and critical thinking? Is the world's current basis for "intellect" NUMBERS? STATISTICS? DATA?

No. No. No. A BIG FAT NO.

People don't recognize those that excel in the field of English and Filipino. You see, even when there are awarding ceremonies, people award those that win in Math competitions. Science competitions. Math. Science. Math. What about ... us? The writers? The speakers? The English erudites? The lit lovers? The linguistic quiz bee champions?

See there's this BIG FAT discrimination here in Chiang Kai Shek. Not just CKSC. Even the world. I have proof for this but I'm too enraged to actually type DATA right now. Sure, you need DATA to prove things. But are mathematical and scientific data the only KINDS o' proofs you can garner?

Don't people get it?

When we the linguistic people write our essays, we THINK. We DON'T just put our opinions down. (Well, opinions do root from a brain, you know.) We extract "facts". We digest "facts". We analyze "facts". We avoid logical fallacies that can be extracted from "facts". We apply these "facts". We use our style to encompass these "facts".

So yes. We think critically, logically and analytically.

The moment those Math and Science people write a Pulitzer prize-winning editorial, and get up the stage to speak an award-winning speech, will be the only time that I could consider them "geniuses."

Disturbia (A Story Not for the Faintest of Hearts)

If you'd look at my Shelfari profile, you'd automatically grasp the idea that I'm semi-anti-Chick-Lit now. Semi, my friends, semi (thanks to Twilight, of course). And if you want me to expound on that semi-anti-ism, well I wrote the whole deal on this vignette-esque thing entitled: "The Override of Chick-Lit" (may be published on the 2nd Issue of The Quest which is to be released on Feb '08).

That is not the point, though.

The point is, since I'm all semi-anti-chick-lit, I don't limit myself to Chick-Lit anymore. Yes, that's liberation! So now I'm back to my old self - the one who writes all kinds of stuff.

Here's a semi-gothic work (I use the word "semi" a lot these days, don't I?):

WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINTEST OF HEARTS. PLOT MAY DISTURB YOU. (well, if you're a chick-lit girl, then the plot will definitely disturb you. I THINK.)

Disturbia

If you know me, you'd call me passionate, driven and determined - even to the extent of obsession-compulsion. But in spite of those three virtues, I had never known what my true calling in life is. That is, until tonight.

It's raining and I've just gotten home from my friend Rebecca's house. There's nothing between us really. Just friends. . . if you're thinking we're something more than that. Although I must admit. Sometimes I succumb my manliness to her beauty. Fine features. Fine, pure and striking. She is a mixture of all races, colors and nationalities. Though I know there are instances when I yearn for the pleasures of the flesh, I know I'd never get to have her as a girlfriend, a lover or a wife.

I'm a tired, sleepy and paranoid man. I say to the bearded face on my mirror. I'm growing old, too. Going 30 but still loveless. I inspect my face. No wrinkles, no lines, no traces of old age. So why do I think I'm growing old? Is it because even though I am a handsome man, no girl comes into my life? What is the basis of handsomeness, anyway?

Something tuggs at my insides. Yes, yes, yes. It's one of those things. Those unpredictable, unexpected things that happen in stories and movies. That tug-tug thing. Suddenly, I remember my fetish for books - Gothic books, to be exact.

And as the clock ticks 11 PM, I rummage through my small, library. Pretty rare to have a library at home in the 21st Century, now, right?

As the clock ticks half past 11, I read.

And as the clock ticks 12, something in my head disturbs me.

Oh, this is going to be a long night.


~0~


It's 1 in the morning and I have gathered nearly all of the ingredients and materials for my experiment. I see a silhouette in the dark. A man approaches. It's my friend Daimler.

"What brings you here at the the dead of the night?"

"The tug of the soul, my friend."

"What are you talking about?" He asks, painstakingly scrutinizing the plastic body bags on my hand.

I wave at him with the hand free of the mysterious body bags. "I'm doing an experiment that requires me to be passionate, driven and determined."

"Do you want a smoke?" He asks and brings out a pack of cigarettes.

"Tempting offer. But I've quit smoking already. Remember?" I regain composure and stand straight, like a poised male model, if I may say so. "How about you? What brings you here - such a daunting place at night?"

"Ha ha see, I'm just passing by. The workers at the firm... we, uhhh... decided to have a great night out. You know. Have it with the ladies."

Yes, typically you. Typically modern. You all just hit women like that. Chivalry is dead. You don't know how to treat them right.

"I bet you should be off now, my friend!" I say in such a manner that made the small hairs on his arms, nape and back ... tingle.

And with a nod and a smile, he's off!

Time to get back to my lovely business.

As my pocket clock ticks 6 AM, my ingredients are all complete.

~0~

Like pieces on a puzzle, my ingredients for the experiment, I lay on the table. I begin to question why I started doing this experiment. But then again, this will only prove my three virtues. And as soon as I complete this, oh, I'm sure my life will change.

One tiny bit of problem.

The body bags. Where must I hide them?

A place that will not ignite sparks of curiosity...

The loft? The chimney? The garage? No. No. No. Too simple. Too easily noticeable. Too... boring.

So... for the thrill of it all...

I'm hiding the bags under my bed.

-to be continued-

The Tick and the Thinker

Some say it is a mortal sin - in the field of humanities - to admit or, proclaim - rather that you are part of the humanities. So if I say "Hey, I'm a writer", I should be condemned.

However, it is a mortal sin - in the field of academics - to admit or to proclaim that you are part of the academics. So if I say "Hey, I'm a writer therefore I'm automatically a thinker (and a feeler - but let's talk about this some other time)", I should be thrown into the limbo of what they call pit of the pride.

So how am I supposed to proclaim to the world what I truly am without sounding too abrasive, without seeming to proud? How am I supposed to tell the world that because I am a writer and a thinker, I think, act, and am different? How am I supposed to tell the world that because I am both a writer and a thinker, I have certain qualities that the half of the world deigns not to know?

How am I supposed to make known my true components - my characteristics, my insecurities, my traits, my everything?

Frankly, I do not know. I have answers ringing in my head - why? how? when? what? But I'm unsure of them.

One thing's for sure.

There are days when the Writing Syndrome completely cripples my system.

It's not writer's block but simply a neurotic-crap happy mode that writers switch into involuntarily. Yes, involuntarily.

Today and perhaps the whole span of 14 days prior, is one of those days. The Writing Syndrome days. That tick came to me by surprise. At first, I was unable to recognize it but later I realized how much I hated it and loved it at the same time - most of all, how at ease we were with each other.

It should be noted here that the Writing Syndrome makes one uneasy with the world.

Truly, it has made me feel as if I don't fit in. It made me want to switch worlds. Then, I remembered again: I'm suffering from the Writing Syndrome. This Syndrome... it makes me want to spend a whole month alone - just thinking, analyzing, writing and being me. This syndrome... symptoms include neuroticism, anxiety, ecstasy, elation, happiness, hypochondria and most of all: paranoia.

-to be continued-

YKWYA (You Know Who You Are)

My angst is more intense than the dire problems of the country. This is angst overridden. This is angst exposed - without fins, scales, skins or masks. This is MY angst. And I'll bequeath you with nothing, nothing at all except for this angst!

Did God intend his creations NOT to be made of the finest materials - not of marble, not of bronze, not of gold - BUT of the most rotten foibles? I doubt so for I highly respect God.

Do you intend to expunge superficiality - not propriety? I am questioning your choices. After all, you know what they say - it's your choices that show you who you are, far more than your abilities.

Dearest Friends,

I wanted to tell you a thousand things - a thousand things worth-knowing. Positive ones! Negative ones! But did you deign to listen? No. You said you didn't want to. It implied that you didn't want to get hurt. The problem is, I wasn't even trying to get you hurt in the first place. Even if I did, the positive after-effect would be: your strength not mine.

I've been a friend of yours for a long time now! Listening is the only gift I wanted you to present to me! It was the only gift I wanted - the gift I longed for as a kid, the gift I yearned to unwrap during Christmas or any given Sunday. But it was the one gift that you couldn't give me. I've helped you with a lot of things. I've helped you with your inner psyche. And all I wanted was for you to listen. Just please, please listen. If it wouldn't be too materialistic of me to bask under the light of this non-existent gift... But you didn't give me this gift. Perhaps it was too expensive? Perhaps...?

Our inconsistencies have left a huge gap on my outlook towards you. I don't like you anymore. It may sound like the most hypocritical thing but really - I don't like you anymore. I don't want to be with you. Even if I'd want to be with you, it's because of old times' sake. I don't really need old times' sake with someone who was "not there" since the old times, right?

The worst part is, the opposite just happened. Instead of me hurting you, you hurt me. Now I'm trying to drown any forms of life with my music.

When you come back, oh, I don't know. Will I be gone? Will I partake in this mutilated friendship? Will I sink? What will happen?

Nothing happens unless we talk. Unless you give me that gift.

But right now I don't think I want to take it anymore.

Three Posts Cannot Sum It All Up

Screw filial piety.

Fuck whoever designed the Chinese code of ethics. Whoever that irrational person that is. Fuck you Fillial Piety, you do me no good.

Two Posts Cannot Sum It All Up

There's a positive side note amidst all this drama. That is, I finally express three quarters of my emotions thoroughly.

I told you I'm the least complete, least whole person in the universe. Even self-expression comes short at three quarters.

What I'd stifled for 15 years comes rushing at the world now.

Now if only I could get someone to comment in the cbox...

One Post Cannot Sum It All Up

I have a strong aversion towards big men with fat bellies who curse the Filipino curse word a lot, and at the same time release a slew of irrationality and illogical, narrow-minded gibberish in the course of doing so.

They simply remind me of my father.

Abortion

Mother, am I a lie?

Mother, am I one of those everyday things you mouth to father?

Am I a demon in disguise,

Conceived by that one thing you can't hide

A lie?

Mother, am I those catalysts that ignite

Father's wrath during the night?

Mother, why murder me

With those crucial lies?

Mother, is that murder?

Mother that is a sin

Mother that is one of those things

You told me you taught me

Not to commit as a kid

But mother, why lie?

Mother why kill me with your lies?

Why manipulate the family's life?

Mother, why oh why oh why?

Mother, am I adopted?

Mother, why do this?

Mother, this sin

Is as strong

As the ones

You hate

In the Bible and psalms

Mother, don't abort.

Mother, don't lie.

Mother, never ever lie.

Of Stage Moms, Irrational Fathers and Filial Piety Part 2

Here is a very sexist statement I just heard:

"Babae ka lang. Hindi mo kailangan ng mataas na pinag-aralan. Lalu na babae mas mataas ang pinag-aralan mas nakakainis, walang may gugustong lalaki, mas walang kuwenta."

What the fuck is that?

Well, do you wanna know where that STATEMENT came from? My father's mouth. His big fat mouth.

He didn't aim it at me. He aimed it at someone else. Of course, I happen to care and love that "someone else" so I guess he should just.... URRRGHHHH... See, this is the perfect epitome of a fucking broken family. Broken on the inside, complete on the outside. Broken family.

I wish parents would just stop screwing things up FOR ONCE. Can't they all spare us ONE NIGHT? A SILENT NIGHT IS ALL THAT I ASK FOR.

This shows why I'm so messed up on the whole.

What he said was so fucking discriminating.
FUCK!

I won't say anything more... I'll bite my tongue - after all, that's what I've been doing all these years, right? Biting my tongue about my family because of fear that they may know what I think about them? Yes, false pretense in terms of family. False pretense. They've been living a lie!!!! Living with the truth hurts, but living a lie is not living at all.

This time, you be the judge.

Grrrrrr

My mother is a drama queen.






I just wanna........





If it wouldn't be a sin to verbalize words that........







She lies.


She cheats.


She swears.


She manipulates.


She exaggerates.


She social climbs.




And I'm being frank.





Her life is a lie.

Of Stage Mothers, Irrational Fathers and Filial Piety

Sometimes I believe I'm the most normal person in the family. 

My family's a fucking mess. Perhaps you guys would be saying: "psshht" and some others might say: "Catherine's exaggerating." and others would just shrug. Not caring. Thinking I'm creating another perfect epitome of drama.

I wish I was creating THIS. I wish it wasn't real. WISH.

But it's real.

Allow me to speak. And dare not judge.

My mother is terror.

My father is a monster.

My parents.... I don't even know where to start. 

Well, they curse a lot. 

They curse Filipino CURSES a lot. I'd rather hear 'em curse the F word or whatever. That would be more normal. 

My brother... he's a mini-me version of my father and a male version of my mother.

My sister... she has become dark because of my 'rents. But. We're partners in crime!

I'm not saying I don't love them. I'm saying I'm sick and tired of them. Heck, I'm 15 years old. This is 15 years of excruciating family drama. You know, in a sense, we're a broken family. No one's happy anymore. I want to tell them how to mend the "brokenness" as I type this. But they won't listen.

(Well, as I type this, my mom is bitching; I stifle the urge to hurl a bitchy yet rational response to her bitchings. I'm biting my tongue right now.) 

Fuck. It's okay to open your mouth non-stop when what you say makes SENSE. But when it doesn't? Just shut up.

I'd rather have my parents not talking than talk crap and blindness.

I'm scared of my father.

When I was a kid, I realized that he wasn't instilling respect. He was instilling fear. When you instill FEAR to a kid, you don't expect her to respect YOU! 

God. 

They'd probably kill me the moment they read these posts.

Whatever. I don't care anymore.

True. I've made mistakes. I've been disrespectful. I'm not even the best daughter in the world. Heck, I'm not in the Top 30. But why is that so? Is it only ME to be blamed? Low parenting skills, I'd say. 

And maybe when I click the "publish post" button, I'd regret writing this post. 

Because of fear.

I am so sick of pretending that everything's perfect. It's NOT. It's the complete fucking opposite, okay? Why are you so afraid of showing it? WHY??? Why do you do that to the extent of instilling fear to your children? Does it NOT occur to you that instilling fear in a family basis instills fear in a child's societal life? 

I don't wanna say that I'm smarter than you.

I just want you to hear me out.

SO LISTEN! 

Freaking Pissed

Again, I'm supposed to be doing OTHER stuff right now. I do feel the need to shout: EFF YOU ALL SO MUCH.

I wish I could put the whole F-word here. It's just so nice saying it. It makes me feel more of a human being and less of a superficial naive.

Every night the same rituals materialize right before my eyes. I hate hearing your voice. I hate seeing your face. I hate listening to your words and I hate you more than any words could depict, sketch, paint, draw. Whatever. F you!!!!

WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FRIGGIN' STOP SAYING THOSE THINGS?

They don't make any sense to me at all. You are an irrational, delusional climber. And that thought alone is enough to ruin anyone's mood forever. I can't stand you. Listen to yourself. LOOK at yourself and maybe your hatred would turn itself in on you. That would be better. I would then finally live a peaceful life. And then maybe I could freely go to Heaven. Without your voice, your words, your thoughts, your face, your life. I don't want you. I don't like you. I hate you.

Eff you.

Fcuk you!!!!!

HmpF.

The more you make mistakes, the more you learn, the more truthful you are to human existence.

But what if, like in my definition of immaturity, you run from your problems - you run from these mistakes? Shield them with a weak shield that is created to last a quarter of a fragment of a lifetime only? What if your immaturity limits you to expressing how you really feel?

Immaturity is, after all, developed in the subconscious mind.

You disgust me. You purely disgust me. Whenever you come near, I feel like a polar magnet, one that negates your negativity. You disgust me.

Every moment you come near, I feel a sense of filth, of dirt. You are so dirty, I don't wanna go near you. You make me feel like you have SARS and when I come near you you will deliberately cause an epidemic of gigantic proportions.

You hide your darkness in a bubble of superficial lightness. You are so dang superficial to me.

Hmpf, plain, hardcore plastic.

You keep blaming the world, you keep hating it.

Has it ever occurred to you? The world does not revolve around you. Accept that. Deal with that. The world will not change for you. Besides, why should the world change for you? True, the world is a mess. But aren't you a bigger mess?

Why can you not control your emotions, your problems, your flaws FIRST before you trample with other people's businesses?

The fact that you cannot determine what your problems are is a proof that you aren't ready to deal with the problems that face the world you live in. Get your crap straight.

Why must the world kowtow to you, in the first place?

Who are you in the first place?

No one. Just a small negative, pessimistic voice amidst a rational, analytical, bright world.

Go fug yourself and die.

I've changed again. The world has changed again.

So what's the problem? Is it because you are left behind?


Hmpf. Don't expect me to come running to you and tell you what to do. I'm not that person. Find a piece of skin to leech on to. Not me.

Go fug yourself and die, disgusting creature.


Oh, PS. Since you wallow in selfish self-pity, you hate the world, right? Well, bad news, Miss Tough Luck, the world hates you back.

:) ^_^

Expect the unexpected, bitch.

I Have Bigger Problems to Worry About...

...like my exams for tomorrow. And my literally bleeding ear. And the fact that I, well, ......


(oh, ellipsis)


But instead, I worry about this:

....


To better explain, expound, elaborate, I'll write a few fictional paragraphs. And yes, you can consider this a short story. But no, the events are not what you call factual. Ask the feeling for the gist, why don't ya.

Oh btw, the main character is not ME. The main character might even be a SHE or a HE-SHE.


She sits in the chair, hating the world for what it couldn't do for her. That is, make her feel loved. Useful. Unlike a dust bunny under an eon-old bed. She read a passage - the one from life. The one that no one frequently reads. The one that she will only choose to love. And while reading this passage, she pondered and thought.

She's reclusive, truth be told. And sometimes the recluse makes her so isolated from time and its pace. Yes, her pace is slower than time. Yes, her pace is not moving at all. Just steady. Just slowly trying, hoping to make the world turn back its axis. And undo her past mistakes. Un-hate the people that she hates and has hated. But she's smart enough to know that it will never happen.

This makes her angry, this makes her hate the world more. But out of all the darkness, the devils and the diabolical, she chooses to hate another girl. This girl is a girl who, normally, possesses higher sense. Knowledge. But is, like everyone else, flawed. So why did she hate her so much? Because this girl's ability to reason - rationality and superiority - intimidates her? Perhaps. Nonetheless, we may never know. Or maybe because she is insecure of the attention that this girl stirs? She is, after all, void of understanding herself. She believes this girl desires power. Grandeur - she even glanced a meaningful glance at her friend when the Girl She Hates admitted honestly that she desired power. But who does not?

Miss Emo believes she does not.

That was two days ago. Here's RIGHT now:

Is Miss Emo honest enough to admit that she is blind? That she is irrational? That she should not, by any means, try to mingle, trample, get into other people's lives because she per se cannot control her own? Is it obvious to Miss Emo that she hates the world mainly because she hates who she is? That she wants to change it badly but she subconsciously refuses to want change - because she is reclusive, abandoned, psychologically imbalanced and broken? Does she want war with the Girl She Hates? Does she even KNOW the Girl She Hates?

So many questions, so little of a brain to answer them.


Miss Emo believes that the Girl She Hates should die tonight. In fact, she wants to be the one to be the bringer of the death. She hates the Girl She Hates. Ever since last year. Ever since two years ago. Why? Because the Girl She Hates has a personality that is different from hers. A personality that is rarely found in the hallways of the school. The Girl She Hates is different. The Girl She Hates is unique. So is Miss Emo. Is that why they clash? Miss Emo's DISABILITY to comprehend that not all things can go her way and the Girl's eccentric, loud nature? Truly, does Miss Emo have the right to ignite a war because she hates a person's attitude, characteristics, personality? No. But she does have the right to hate the Girl She Hates.

Does Miss Emo have the right to brag and bitch?

No.


Does Miss Emo have the right to make it look like the Girl She Hates is the bearer of the torch to blame out of all this? No. But whatever this rift is, 50% of the problem lies in Miss Emo. And the rest lies in the Girl She Hates.

But if you ask me, the simple - biased - narrator, I say, blame 99% on Miss Emo. She started it all in the first place, right? She couldn't bear the burden no more. She couldn't pour all her hatred into the world. She had to pour it into the girl.


She still sits on her chair, teeth clenched, fists tightened into a ball of rushing blood, eyes forcefully vanished, heart seething. She hates the Girl She Hates. She hates her, she wants to kill her. She can't take it anymore.

She raises her clenched fists, ready to aim.

Aim where? At who?

Better watch out, Miss Emo. She has forgotten who the Girl She Hates is. And how this Girl plays her game. Don't raise fists, Miss Emo.

The Girl already pulled the silver trigger.

Where does the bullet aim?

At who?

I Played Baseball Today

Strike One.

Strike Two.

Strike Three.

YOU'RE OUT!

To be frank and completely honest, with all my heart, soul and paw, there's no such thing as "strike three, you're out" in my summer life JUST YET. But who knows? I'm already halfway there. That's one thing I'm sure of. But one thing I'm not sure of is what the referee is thinking.

True. Like what Lifehouse said (please ignore my constant allusions to Lifehouse, I'm obsessed with Jason Wade): "Silence is golden, but I think it's gonna kill me now."

His silence (or maybe the referee's a "her") is really killing me now.

She's so unreadable. But at the same time maybe I'm just taking the ball with a grain of salt. You wanna know what I think? I think there's been too much salt in my life lately. Apparently, there are only two options: either swallow the salt or throw it away. Barf it away. You can't really do anything halfway, can you? At least, I can't. That wouldn't be Catherine at all, you guys.

Maybe I should just sharpen my senses?

After all, it's just a stupid baseball game.

No Name Face

It's simple, plain and a piece of cake.

Even though I have turned into a different color this summer, even though I still spend time with my closest friends and have fun with them in that pursuit, even though I have gained nice, new summer friends, even though I'm a mathematical genius once again since my brain wanted it back, even though I try my best to get an A+ on this subject called "being human", even though I feel fulfilled now, something just goes wrong.

S0mething is going wrong currently in my system.

This something is something I haven't felt for the past year.

This something is a little bit on the verge of scarring my mind.

This something is pulling too much pranks and mind games on my day-to-day life. And I am a hundred percent sure that it would seep through the school year - which, if you ask me, is a bad thing.

This something is a little thing called jealousy.

I have the power to be jealous, and I am in the right vantage point to get jealous.

It's not even envy. It's just jealousy.

What am I supposed to do? JEALOUSY is something you cannot let your soul control, it's like a reflex. And how do you douse reflexes, huh? By throwing reflexes back? To make this person jealous? This person doesn't even know how to get jealous, dammit! Is he/she/it doing it on purpose? Seriously?

There has to be some way! I mean I'm at wits end here, sitting here, typing this damned message when I KNOW for a fact that while everything here is killing me, everything that's killing me is making him/her/it alive. WHY?

Why does this kind of thing happen to me?

Am I supposed to just sit here and watch ANTM to make all the jealousy go away?

Am I supposed to ignore this kind of thing and start memorizing the value of Pi? Am I supposed to turn my head and start going to the gym to neutralize this kind of feeling?Am I supposed to pull a Lindsay Lohan and start focusing on my "career" instead of my party life - or whatever "life" this person is in? Am I supposed to ignore it? I know for a fact that ignoring an emotion, a feeling, a thought is like provoking it. Down with the torpedoes, full speed ahead. And that's where this feeling is going - full spead ahead.

To hell with this emotion. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Dammit.

Can I just refuse to acknowledge this feeling? It's a Monday, after all. A Monday that isn't even rainy enough to shatter my shield. My invisible shield. Whatever that may be.

Am I supposed to sit here, just like that? HOW CAN I GET RID OF THIS? I'm not even insecure anymore! Just jealous. Really. Just, just jealous...that destiny didn't provide me the right place, right time, right feeling that is meant to be pursued.

Now I'm stuck here listening to something called "Broken" by Lifehouse.

BOOM!

She's coming back again. She's HERE again. She's ruling over me again. She promised me to stay HERE for only ONE night. And I don't think I can handle her.

SHE? HER? I'm guessing you have no clue at all. Well, it has to be LARGE and HUGE because I'm writing like TWO posts for the night. She HAPPENS to be the doppelganger I mentioned in my other blog post "Fictional Autobiography of a Teenage B". And it's not my fault she's back. QUICK! Lemme get this down before she attacks. OH WAIT. She has already possessed me. And whatever you will be reading for the rest of this evening (after this paragraph) is HER writing. HER post. HER wrath.

Enjoy.

I was wrong. Boy I was wrong.

My target way back was easy. She was weak and vulnerable and easy to pulverize with my perfect shiny, metallic angel-spawned, pistol-lookalike crossbow. I aimed it at her. She died.

But not quite...

I won, really. I did. I killed her. But then I didn't know she had a doppelganger too. And her doppelganger was like MY doppelganger. It was bad and it was good. It was in many ways wrong and in many ways right. So I let go of her.

Hell I still ain't gonna care.

My crossbow MUST explode soon for it has reached its caged, bounded limits. It's time to wreak havoc. It's time to cause chaos. It's time to make war.

TO HELL WITH YOU!

And no, I have not found a target. Or let's just say everyone's my target. Shoot me. Before I shoot you first.

Why don't you kill me now? So we both end our misery?

Shut up before I stitch your lips using the nails of a dead man as the needle and the hair of a dead corpse as the fabric. And then stitch it up some more with the eternal flame of life. SHUT UP before I get my crossbow and stick it onto your mouth and morbidly engrave it there forever like a name engraved on a tombstone. Or whatever the heck you call that. I don't care. And you're not supposed to, either. Just shut up. I don't need to hear your words. Matter of fact, I'd be glad - ecstatic even if you ask me to bazooka them back to where they came from: from Hell (remember?). Then I'd stuff you back there to where you belong. Where? Hell.

One day, one day I'll lure you into my traps.


-- END --

Catherine's note: I read this all over again and I realized HOW EVIL my doppelganger was (and is). And shoot, I can't believe she said all those stuff. Catherine "Cath"(I), would never say those stuff. In fact, I'm actually scared for my alter ego. Hope she's not scared for me.