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 Art of Plasticity

Perhaps if you are from the future and would care to read this, you would scorn me. You would throw me into the limbo of darkness, the limbo of hell, the limbo of an ageless, bottomless pit. That is because what you are about to read may contain the truth. The truth about plasticity - superficiality - the agonizing truth about the sins of mankind. Worse, you - future person - might be one of THEM. Well, how does this affect the future, anyhow?

You know what I say about the future - when past and present are intermingled, you yield the future. And if the past spawned superficial people all the worse, the present produced second-hand generations of the aforementioned species - the superficial and of course, when your present is nearly overflowing with superficiality and plasticity, the tendency is, you'd have a third-hand generation of modern plastics.

The sudden mass production of plastics must have been caused by major cultural, economical and industrial factors. However, if we really look at it, inner plasticity is caused by a personal urge to become something bigger than it already is.

These are the factors:

1. TV Shows - People tend to think that what they see on TV could be imitated within a snap of a finger. People also tend to think that they could pull off what they see on TV. THEY'RE ACTORS, OKAY?
2. Environmental Factors - Think clique, mindset, HOME (when you bond with your yaya...)
3. Self-perception
   

Let's use a "she". Plasticity is more prone to females in my case, anyway.

What is superficiality/plasticity in the first place?

Lemme explain. Superficiality is the art of being superficial. Let's be more elaborate. When you copy/imitate/plagiarize WTH (whatever the hell) it is on those Pinoy "kikay" (so hard for me to type the quoted word) commercials/ads, you're superficial. First off, it's okay TO be like them - BUT not to the extent of changing your whole persona into something completely negative and completely off. It just looks superficial okay? And no, I'm not being judgmental. I'm being...observant. One more thing, if you pose that "kikay" (had to swallow my tongue just to type the damned fugly quoted word) pose in pictures, which is obviously annoying *cue, widens eyes, flashes toothy grin, raises both eyebrows to make eyes elaborate, shifts angles to look unfat*, you're superficial. Or maybe I could be less harsh: that event is superficial. If you meet someone and automatically as if you've seen each other before the cambrian period of human life, you are superficial. If you are trying to be something you aren't, you're superficial.


There are other definitions - MANY definitions. Listing them one by one would take me all night. And even all morning.

What is plasticity? Oh God. I don't need to explain this. Smart people get what this means.

*Plasticity is a form of superficiality.

Oh, and plasticity is also this: the act of saying "hi"or "hello" to someone you have absolutely no amor for. It's okay to say hi and hello to someone you have a love-hate relationship with - but with someone you absolutely HATE? You're plastic - go geta life. If you remain plastic with that person despite her confrontations, you are the absolute goddess of plasticity. If you remain plastic with a certain person just because YOU fear of losing, you are still plastic. If you remain plastic with a certain person just because you "don't want any fights", then you're not only plastic, but you're also stupid. Oh WTF, you disgust me, get away from me!

What causes someone to weart that mask of plasticity? Is it all that make-up? Is it all those nasty concealers that don't really conceal anything to the cunning ones? Partly yes. Is it her clothes? Her trying hard, second-grade clothes? Partly yes. Is it her smile? YES. A BIG FAT YES. Look, if you're gonna be plastic - don't make it obvious, damn you! Unless you're really stupid, you can pull a plastic move - heck, a PLASTIC SMILE. If you're going to smile, smile naturally. Yours is just so fake!

-to be continued-

Fantasy

Every night I dream of you,
Every day - I lose a breath or two.
Because your sober thoughts make me quiver
That magic makes me feel loved forever.
I know that you are miles away
And I can't even call during the day
I'm a fool, I lack strength to dial your number
Because you're the only one who makes me wonder
If my future is void, if my future is flowing
With your love, your joy, your longing
To you this may sound like a juvenile poem
That comes from a writer that's supposed to be honed
To you this may sound like the most fickle of art
But this simple thing beats from the bottom of my heart
I wrote love poems about no one in particular
When I was a kid, I mixed words and played with them in the dark
Yet this is such an overwhelming feeling,
One that I cannot describe without thinking.
I've never been in love with anybody else
Brain says this is stupid since I don't know you that well
So why does this feeling take over my veins?
Why do I love you, the night the day?
Puppy love, my common sense states
So why do I see you in my ensuing fate?
You are there, and we laugh
You make me change, and I adapt.
With every gust of the wind I feel you near
This is true love, my prince is here.
Why else would I be writing numerous words
If this feeling is nothing, just curd?
In my flight of fancy, you keep on enticing me
Somehow, if I reach out and so do you, it will be reality
I long for a slight touch, a strong hand to hold
Robust, fragments of you and I begin to unfold
How many times must I utter in my night visions -
That "I love you" is my strongest inhibition?
That "I love you too" will elevate our intuition?
That an assurance, even just a glance
Can melt me, and make my sentiments fire a dance
I love you
I know you,
You love me too.

.... D'OH

I'm supposed to be doin' something else right now - I rarely lose stuff to do, basically...but the clicking of the keys here on my keyboard is actually music to my ears. It makes me feel like I'm the editor-in-chief of Seventeen, a la Atoosa Rubenstein. It makes me wonder about my future. Obviously, fantasy beats reality anytime. How I wish I could live THAT life. The Atoosa life. The Hollywood life.

Sadly, I don't EVEN live in a super-well-industrialized country. I mean, I love the Philippines, for real. But I just wish it had more spice and mystery like the US (even though I hate to admit this), ITALY, Spain...and France. And Portugal (calling all Christiano Ronaldo fanatics!). Even if I get into a Philippine mag, I'm not gonna be dealing with the Lindsay Lohans, the David Beckhams, the Poshes, the Maroon 5s and the Rihannas. I'm gonna be dealing with the celebrities that I don't like. Heck, I can't even name a super famous contemporary Filipino artist.

This post suddenly reminds me of my diary. This is how things are in my diary, actually. I'd better call it a journal. Diary sounds too childish.

I did this out of boredom.


LOVE,

Me

Sentimental and Emotional (Dedicated to the World)

I know you love me. I know you're trying to take care of me. But some factors like Time and Distance just keep blocking our light. We still grow, only, we grow short. We need the light, okay? We really do. At least, I need it. Because I'm the one who needs the most light. Time and Distance have weakened me.

This is dedicated to the world, to the society and to the non-cynics who are created to build.. Build what? You decide.

I love you, World. I appreciate things that you give me. But we need to break down Time and Distance before we could grow to a full length.

I love everything you give me.

I love life. I really love life.

But I'm just growing too emotional and sentimental... I need the light to survive.