The One Person You Never Really Get Over by Ryan O'Connell

There will always be that one person you’ll never really get over. I know, I know, Connie Chung delivering groundbreaking news over here, but it’s true. Sure, you can go days, weeks, months, years without thinking of them but the second you see their face or their name gets mentioned in passing, your stomach drops and you feel like you could puke. You’ve lost control and all of these feelings suddenly rise to the surface to say, “Sup? Have you missed us?’ You’ll hate yourself for this, for all of it. You won’t be able to recognize why this one person can still garner this type of reaction. Why is your mind punking you? It almost feels like a betrayal. You want to give your emotions a stern talking to and say, “Um, hi. I thought we were over this? So why am I getting super nervous and spazzy at the mere mention of their name? You promised me that we were over this, brain. THANKS A LOT.”

You’re not over this person because you still want to see them naked. If they wanted you at this moment, you would leave everything and come to them. It almost feels good knowing that you want someone so bad. You spend so much of your time feeling indecisive about things but this is the one thing that remains the same. It drives you insane but it also brings a certain level of comfort, doesn’t? “No matter what happens, I will always want to lie my naked body next to yours.”

You’re not over this person because they still have the ability to piss you off. A simple insensitive comment made in passing can affect you worse than an insult from your best friend. Why? Why? WHY? That’s all you ask yourself as you sit, licking your wounds. It’s important to not question this too much. It’s fruitless. It just is. Maybe one day they won’t piss you off. Maybe one day you’ll feel nothing. Hope for nothing, accept everything.

You’re not over this person because you can still remember the little details, like the way their sweat smelled (ew, make that memory go away), their favorite song at seventeen, or a day you held hands in the backseat of a car.  These memories still reduce you to mush all of these years later. Can you believe it? How can some lovers evaporate the day they leave you and others stay way past their welcome? Who gets to choose who gets left behind and who gets to stick? Not you.

You’re not over this person probably because they could never love you back the way you wanted them to, the way you needed them to. They were a defective toy that couldn’t be fixed at the shop. This made you so angry and so sad and you tried just so damn hard and everyone knew it but it didn’t work. Not one bit. Because of this, your business with them will always seem unfinished. You couldn’t conquer them and seal the deal, which made getting any kind of closure difficult. Your closure needs to be done on your own. You have to accept that this person will never give you the answers you want them to.

It sucks to have this one person in your life that can derail you at a moment’s notice. But in a way, it feels good knowing that you could ever love someone so much. Or that’s what you tell yourself anyway. It doesn’t matter if something is true or not. The things we tell ourselves can become our truth.

(The One Person You Never Really Get Over by Ryan O'Connell)

It's Always Just Gonna Be Him

There are just some people you never get over. The one who got away, your great love - which in reality is only so great because of how you did not end up together. The endless possiblities and what-ifs. The stolen glances and accidental brushes. The uncertainty of where you both stand. The teasing, pushing and pulling. The years that have passed by. The moment you come across each other again after a long time, the awkward greeting and polite conversation. The sceptical goodbye and lingering look. The difficulty to try and not look back only to catch him already looking back. The next time you come across each other and he's now more confident. The reminding of the past and re-learning of him again. His cockiness clashing with his dorkiness. The difference between the guy you know and the guy he is now but still being hung up on him. After all this time and never letting go. How pathetic it is and how pathetic you are.

Now That You're Gone by Elizabeth Berry

After you died I opened every window of the Advent calendar you insisted we savor day by day, just like your Nana taught you, and ate every single chocolate under each flap in one go. It was the best way I could think to tell you to screw yourself for leaving me here alone.

For leaving me alone with my mother and your mother and their crying and her creepy photos from when you still had red hair and these f-cking casseroles from all the neighbors who yelled at us for playing our music too loud and my boss who it’s still not that funny that he keeps hitting on me but we used to laugh it off because we needed the money and the friends who are equally as afraid to be around me as they are to leave me alone and everything else that is crappy and isn’t you.

With you gone, I never remember to record Jon Stewart so we can watch them all one Saturday. I forget to rinse the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher, so they always come out crusty and still dirty just like you said they would.

Now that you’re gone, people keep asking me what I’m going to do with your clothes and all your things — if I need help boxing them up. I keep telling them that I was thinking of putting them in display cases and turning the living room into a museum in your honor, but they always look creeped out and I feel sick because that was the kind of thing that would have made you laugh.

I should probably mention that I’m so sorry, but I broke your ugly debate trophy from high school that you were so proud of, I smashed it against the floor, so it probably wouldn’t look very good on display even if I was serious about that idea. I was just so mad — I was wearing the sweater I wore the night you told me that you were sure you had spent your entire life looking for me and I knew I was safe forever — I was so mad because I know now that wasn’t true.

I was so mad because now you’re gone and not here and all I have are your shirts which are losing the smell of you and your damn dog who still sleeps on our bed, and the ring I found in your drawer that you never got to give me.

All I can do it lay here and hold this damn ring and imagine all the things I want to say to you but can’t, and how they all boil down to: F-ck you, I miss you, and I love you — oh, how I love you.

(Now That You're Gone by Elizabeth Berry)

Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

More Than Words

20 October 2011

You know I used to love love love love Early Grey milk tea (even before milk tea became cool, or whatever). It was like heaven in a mug, or like all the goodness in the world. I used to love it so much... until I tried taking my life by overdosing.

I'm not sure you know but I'm not capable of swallowing pills, capsules or tablets, so I usually have to open them or crush them - which I did. I put about 30 in my drink, in my Earl Grey milk tea. I wanted the last thing I take to be something I love, something that made me happy. You could see the particles floating around. It smelled and tasted awful. It was terrible and I felt terrible, but nevertheless, I was detemined to take my own life. I think I drank halfway through it before I felt like seriously vomiting.

Obviously, I failed and needless to say, Earl Grey milk tea has never tasted the same after that.

When It's Good To Give Up by Stephanie Georgopulos

I started smoking when I was 14. I used to say things like, “I’ll quit when I’m pregnant,” as though that was an actual plan, as though I could count on my addiction floundering just because there happened to be two of me growing instead of one. I made similar excuses over the course of my ten-year love affair with nicotine, none of which made logical sense but all of which allowed me to poison myself on an hourly basis without remorse. I wanted to poison myself.

But then, much to the shock of just about everyone who knows me, I quit. I didn’t chew gum or feed nicotine through my pores, I just abandoned the one constant in my life, the one companion I’d had for the past decade. The one-year anniversary of my quit date was this week. I don’t think I’ll go back.

It’s true that nicotine is addictive, it affects your mood, it changes the way you make decisions. It’s easy to point out that cigarettes are ‘the bad guy,’ the way they empty your wallet and yellow your fingertips. This is a negative habit that most people will commend you for giving up.

But we could stand to give up more often. Maybe there are no instructional pamphlets or illustrative posters to point out each and every one of the things we need to rid ourselves of, but there they are – lurking in the shadows of our subconscious. They are the people who make us feel like our lungs are in a vice whenever we see them. The humanization of our bad habits, walking and breathing and telling bad jokes.

Some people just make you feel bad. The way you can wake up smelling like some half-rate casino and think to yourself I don’t want to do this anymore, you can feel that way about people, and the worst part is that you can’t extinguish them, you can’t smother their head into an ashtray or make them someone else’s problem.

It’s in our nature to not want to give up, especially not on people; fragile, harmless people – we all just mean well, don’t we? Don’t we all just want to be happy? Don’t the things we do to achieve that happiness, the things that tear us apart from one another – aren’t those the things that make us similar? Aren’t people inherently good? Maybe. But what does it matter if that goodness is not reserved for you? What if all you extract from a person is negativity? How do we justify allowing ourselves to feel badly because someone may or may not be redeemable?

We don’t always recognize when someone is bad for us, but sometimes we do. Sometimes we become all-consumed by the disgust that’s bred from this idea that we allow hate to affect us so deeply. People create art because of it. It can drive us; it can turn us into something we’re not. And even though it’s ugly, it’s addictive. We become addicted to toxicity.

And in that case, it’s good to give up. It’s good to fight against the cancer growing inside of us by neglecting to feed it. We have to starve it into submission, forgo the efforts that help it grow. The brooding and the anguish, bury it. Extinguish whatever it is that’s making us feel badly and worry about ourselves. We need to quit allowing something that’s decidedly negative to drive our actions, our moods. We need to quit poisoning ourselves with vitriol.

The thing is, there are people who don’t make us feel terrible. There are people who listen to us and care for us and make us smile. They loosen the vice around our lungs and help us breathe. They are the fresh air. They alight us in ways a carcinogens never will. Whatever energy we devote to a toxic situation, we take away from the people who deserve it – the people whose goodness doesn’t have to be assumed; their goodness is just there, in plain sight. They are worth quitting for.

(When It's Good To Give Up by Stephanie Georgopulos)

Make Yourself Cry by Stephanie Georgopulos

Life is woven with these tiny disappointments that we toss aside in light of our responsibilities – we can’t take time away from work to nurse a letdown; careers are not concerned with whether or not we’ve been rejected by a person, place, or thing. We feel obligated to deal with our problems in a flippant manner to preserve our pride. We need to be strong, because, you know. What would other people think? We ignore the things that upset us because it happens that there’s not enough time in the day to properly address each setback individually.

Occasionally though, our resolve takes a much deeper hit; we find ourselves in a state less like disappointment and more like desperation. The things we’re carrying aren’t just heavy; they’re soggy – dense with invisible weight. What do you do when a burden becomes too much to bear? Well, you leave it where it lies. You tiptoe around it, you get back to the scripted version of your life. Where did we leave off, again? The scene where my emotions and expectations rest idly in a protective bubble, never to be contaminated by reality? I almost forgot my lines, what with all of that scenery crashing down around me. Let’s take it from the top.

But the baggage doesn’t go away. It multiplies. After all, it’s not a backpack that you can slip off and leave by the front door. It’s a tumor, metastasizing until it’s properly addressed. Friends will notice how you’re ballooning with grey-colored gloom, how you’ve got this mass of melancholy hanging off of you like a wet tuxedo. They’ll try making suggestions. Drink some tea. Have some sex. Quit drinking. Eat ten almonds a day. Do those things, do all of them. But most importantly, make yourself cry.

Make yourself cry. Listen to that song, the one you used to listen to when you lay between someone’s sticky arms. Listen to the song your mother used to sing in a whisper, before she left or moved or died. Listen to “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley or Rufus Wainwright or Brandi Carlisle or Leonard Cohen, whichever one cuts you the most. Listen to “The Only Living Boy in New York.” Listen to your favorite song. The idea that you could like something so much is enough to make you cry.

Think about the things you can’t change, the things that are beyond your control. Remember the last words you said to someone who isn’t alive anymore. Apologize to your body for the things you’ve ruined it with. Think about the lies you took for truths, and get angry with yourself for being so stupid. Know that your mistakes have matured you but resent making them anyway. Cry about it.

Watch something that makes you cry every time you see it. Watch the last ten minutes of Donnie Darko. The last ten minutes of American Beauty. Titanic (maybe that’s just me). An episode of True Life that hits a little too close to home. Anything is fair game, really.

Cry the way you cry when you’re sick and pathetic, the way you cry when you can barely move a limb. Curl up in the corner of your bed and cry the way you did when you were five. Eight. Thirteen. Sixteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-five. Cry like you did after a fight with your parents, after a breakup. Mourn the death of something important. Cry the way you cry when you realize you’re alone, or the way you cry when you realize you’re not.

Think of your eye secretions like they’re every word you’ve held back, every sliver of disappointment you’ve devoured without complaining. Each one of them, spilling out into a mess of tears and snot and makeup on your pillowcase. Dispel of it all, because if you hold on to it, every minor and major disappointment will become a mass of misery so unmovable and opaque that it’ll become a part of you indefinitely, a mutated body part for which modern medicine has no answers.

Eventually, you’ll have to pull it together. Put things in perspective. Understand that there are situations you can’t manipulate anymore but that you’re ultimately the… captain of your own ship, or whatever. Other people’s decisions will affect you, but they don’t have the power to crush you the way your own frame of mind does. Tomorrow can be the start of a new chapter, c’est la vie, all that jazz. But right now, before you succumb to rational thinking, make yourself cry. There’s nothing like it.

(Make Yourself Cry by Stephanie Georgopulos)

What It’s Really Like To Have An Abortion by Alexis Singer

No amount of sex education prepares you for that trapped feeling. That constant cloud of concern over your head as you get further and further away from when your period should have come.  You can deny it for a while—“Maybe it’s just late, I’ve always been irregular, it’ll come soon.” And then when it doesn’t, you panic.

You buy a pregnancy test. You buy two, just to be certain, because zany feel-good comedies tell you those things fail all the time. You smile sheepishly at the drugstore clerk who double-bags your purchase, telling you “That’s the best I can do.” You try not to feel the sting of her pity. You’ve been there before.  Every month since you started having sex you have rejoiced the monthly inconvenience of your period and watched TV shows about teenagers getting pregnant, thinking to yourself “at least it’s not me.” It’s you now.

Taking the test is like preparing for a funeral. Everyone always tells you that sex changes things, that it’s the death of your innocence and you can never take it back. Sitting there staring at that pee-soaked stick, you know they were lying to you. This is the loss of that innocence. You feel damaged, dirty, nauseated. Nothing will ever be the same after those lines appear. Two, of course, and not one.

The first test, of course, turns out ambiguous. Is that a second line? Is it just the shadow of one? You aren’t quite sure. You down a bottle of Coke, you watch a movie that ends far too quickly, you take the second test. It is not ambiguous. That second line is staring you down, decisive and willfully triumphant.

The walls of the already-tiny college apartment start to close in. You feel like you are being squeezed into the space between those two lines. How ironic, that those two lines represent the two solid options you have before you. Option A and Option B. For a moment, you have to chuckle masochistically at how perfectly fitting those letters are.

The person sitting beside you—your significant other—is already crying. They are religious. They think this is a baby. You are exhausted before the conversation you must have even starts.

The next morning you make the call you know you have to make. You cry a lot.  You don’t go to class for three days and you stare blankly at The Food Network and sleep. You empty your bank account. You wake up in the middle of the night the night before and find your significant other in the next room, lying on the floor, talking to his mother on the phone, trying to find solace in her promise that they aren’t going to Hell. You wish someone were there to make you that promise.

You sit at seven thirty the next morning in a waiting room that makes no attempt to be cheerful or reassuring. You are numb and exhausted because you cannot sleep enough right now. Everything feels white.

Your significant other will turn to you, while you are sick and shaking and scared as hell in that waiting room, and they will say to you, “Let’s just keep it.” And you feel the most mournful weight you have ever felt because you have to look at them and tell them that you can’t, you just can’t.

No one tells you how it feels. How the waiting feels, like endless time. No one tells you that you will lie there, totally open, totally lost, and that it will hurt. It will hurt like you are having your intestines sucked out with a garden hose and you will cry, at first in pain, and then in relief. You will erase all of those thoughts you had for the past week. All of the fear, and the thoughts of an alternate path that no longer sits, unmoving, in front of you. You no longer have to worry about screwing up a whole bunch of people’s lives, especially that of some innocent being that came about in the most unintentional and resented way possible. You will cry, momentarily, for that second option. And then you will cry because everything can go back to normal.

Nothing goes back to normal. Your significant other will grow distant afterward, they won’t touch you. You will wonder, and you will be relieved, and you will not regret.  And you wonder if you should. You regret not regretting, because you should, shouldn’t you?

(What It’s Really Like To Have An Abortion by Alexis Singer)

How To Always Be Unhappy by Ryan O'Connell

Come into this world thinking you’re owed something. Have a permanent chip on your shoulder and always feel like you’ve been slighted in some way. Expect things from people. Fail to be gracious. Take rather than give. This kind of attitude not only lends itself to complete narcissism, it sets you up to always feel disappointed in people. In your eyes, you’re never being loved enough or appreciated.

Always blame things on your parents and childhood. Maybe you were dealt a bad hand and some pretty horrible things happened to you. Or maybe your parents just didn’t buy you enough crap. Whatever the case may be, hold on to terrible things with an iron grip. Never let go. Fail to understand that when you hold these things in a suffocating grip, you’re also suffocating yourself. You’re not allowing yourself to move forward and progress as a human being. While it’s true that we had no power over how we were raised, we do have power over the way we deal with it. As you get older, you can either bathe in your own misery. You can lather, rinse, and repeat, finding comfort in dwelling. Or you can consciously start to let go and make a life for yourself on your own terms. If you pick the former, you’re bound to be unhappy.

Be a complete and total narcissist. Never stop outside of yourself to look at things through another point of view. Never meet people halfway. Ask if they can always meet you on the corner of Me Me Me street and I Am Limited Avenue. Maybe it’s because you’re lazy and don’t care enough about someone to switch your way of thinking. Or maybe it’s because you’re genuinely incapable of doing so. You’re emotionally stunted and broken in some way. That’s real. Some people actually can’t recognize their shortcomings, which is terrifying because it means they’ll never be fixed. Hence, unhappiness.

Be someone who can’t move on from things. Get stranded in a land mine of your own memories. Try to escape and find joy in the present but find it to be incredibly dificult. You’re caught on the “What If’s” and the “Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda’s”. Your fear keeps you there and it will continue to keep you there until you find a way to free yourself.

Find beauty in sadness and believe that it makes you special. It’s, like, your thing. You’re The Depressed Friend, the one who’s needy and sucks all the energy from their friends. You say you want to get better and be just like everybody else but that may not be entirely true. Some people thrive on being damaged. They don’t understand how dangerous this kind of thinking is until everyone has finally given up on them, and they’re all alone with their special sadness. Are you ready to be happy now? The Boy Who Cried Depression.

Be too smart for your own good. Understand things too much. Know just how bad life can get. It’s like there’s constant noise going on in your brain that you can’t turn off. You just want to hold a hymn, listen to some charismatic speaker and make it all go away. Because of your intelligence, you’re unable to relate to most people. You don’t understand how others can live the way they do, how they can’t comprehend the things you get. What you wouldn’t give to not understand.

(How To Always Be Unhappy by Ryan O'Connell)

How Fiction Ruined My Life

 Spending most of my time reading fan fictions over the internet, I've come up with these stupid wants: I want someone who'll challenge me as much as Draco challenges Hermione. I want what they have. I want how and who they are to each other.

I'm in love with the idea of a perfect partner that is so unrealistic, he's already broken my heart for it. You see, I've got this totally warped sense of romance now. I can see him and me fighting about grown-up things and stupid things all the time. I don't know if we eventually work them out but judging by how we don't end up parting ways, I guess we do. I can see me wanting to kill him but (besides the obvious fact that it's illegal) I'd miss him so I don't. I can see us having this destructive, dysfunctional love-hate relationship. I can see me doing crazy, stupid things with him. I can see me trying to keep my temper in check because he likes riling me up as much as I do him. But I can also see us not going to sleep angry at each other. I can see us actually caring for each other and being sensitive to each other's needs. I can see us having long talks and no awkward moments. I can see me actually putting myself out there for him and trusting him enough not to break my heart. I can see us being friends. I can see us with our friends, my friends and his friends. I can see us on a couch in our shared flat, talking about our future and our family.

But I've come to realize that stuff doesn't exist in real life. I believe fiction has probably ruined life for me; real life has no appeal to me anymore. If I remember correctly, it was also (sometimes) the reason why I missed classes, meals and sleep. While it has ruined my life, is still ruining it and will continue doing so until I manage to pull myself out of it, it has also opened my eyes to the world. Through fiction, I've experienced things I never would've imagined experiencing - I've traveled from London to Paris to Italy to Greece to Milan and gone around the world; I've learned about cultures, traditions, practices, behaviours, etc.; I've understood and seen from other people's perspective; I've grieved for people, things and events I have no relation to; I've fallen in love or least felt it even a bit; I've had my heart broken over stupid decisions, right choices, separation, fate, circumstance, life and death; I've expanded my vocabulary and my horizons; I've learned a thing or two about myself; I've seen what life is like from different walks of life; etc.

Although I've neglected myself in so many different aspects, I don't think I have it in me to be able to just stop for a minute (and smile - no, screw you) to sort out my priorities. I'm way in too deep in the world of fiction; it distracts me so much, too easily from real life.

I know the printed word (actual books) is very much different from the fan fictions I read over the internet. And although considering most of them are amateurs, I can't help but get sucked in because I'm always on the search of a great underrated story. You can probably compare it to listening to mainstream and indie music. Although I must begrudgingly admit that some 'mainstream' stories are good, finding great 'indie' stories gives me some sense of fulfillment.

There was a time when I thought I've read all the good ones on the internet already, but the internet is just so vast, I don't think anyone can ever compete with it if they tried. Everyday it just grows more and more and I try so hard to keep up but I just can't. I'm just stuck somewhere in the middle of the desert, leaving marks in hopes of finding them again, only to abandon them completely and move on to an entirely different route.

I don't know how someone can just fully give up on the world of fiction when it's so much better than real life. When I try to pull myself away from it, I get these weird feelings I can't describe - desperation, probably - and I ask myself, "Is this how a withdrawal feels like?" See what I meant by experiencing things now? I don't have to take drugs, smoke whatever shit, or do something illegal to get a withdrawal. But what do I know, right?

(One thing I do know for certain is that I suck at endings.)

My life in pictures.

So, basically,

and

Most of the time,

and I wonder

Sometimes I just think

But, I just want to give up, you know?

In truth,

I mean,

and

But I tell myself,

and

It's not enough though and I don't think it'll ever be enough. I mean, what if I'm beyond saving? What if I can't be save any more? What if I don't want to be saved?

When I wake up in the morning, I just think,

Because

Midnight Madness

I don't know where it came from but as I was taking a walk a while ago, it suddenly came to me that I don't even trust my very own family anymore. I mean, we're much closer and tighter now more than ever but there's just something in the back of my mind that's making me doubt everything. I can tell them everything because they're family but I find that I can't entirely rely on them. It's not that they do a shit job at it (All right, maybe they do but that's not the point.) but I guess it's just me (It probably is just me, really.). I'm not sure when these thoughts have started forming in my head but I'm thinking I don't even like them very much. (As if they even like me at all. They're just merely tolerating me out of obligation of some sort.) But when you're all fucked up, who else can you turn to other than your family? I mean, we're all just so fucked up. I think that my head is just so messed up right now that I'm probably making an issue out of something that is not. Or maybe I'm just more fucked up than I actually think I am.

Sure, you can roll your eyes and think that I'm exaggerating. You don't even know my story: I have trust issues and that's not even the half of it. But I have amazing friends who are there from time to time but are never enough and who I don't think I even deserve. I don't know how it could be but I tend to get too attached to people but I also find it easy to let go. My family is an entirely different thing. People think I've got a perfect life but truthfully, it's far from it.

I've been living in a protected bubble for so long that going out to the real world totally threw me off. It was all just too much for me and I just went down crashing. I hit rock bottom and my current situation isn't very far from it but my feelings towards it have changed. I'm thinking I might need to see a psychiatrist or something. It'll also tackle my trust issue. Since it'll be a professional relationship, I can just tell that person every single thing I want to without second thoughts or holding back. It's like paying for a friend. I think that's all we really need friends for - to listen to whatever kind of bullshit we come up with.

I just think that we all need someone to talk to or else we'd go barmy. Maybe that's why out of the blue, my siblings would just sit in front of me and start talking as I'm using the laptop. Maybe that's what a boyfriend or a partner is for. Unlike friends or best friends, they're somewhat obligated to be in touch with you all the time. Maybe I should just get myself a boyfriend and save me some money instead of getting a psychiatrist. But I don't think that would work out very well for me; I'm laziest person I know, I procrastinate a lot, I'm shit at keeping in touch be it just replying to text messages, I randomly pop in and out of people's lives and I seriously contemplate on whether or not some things are worth getting out of the bed for like going to the bathroom or eating.

I am well-aware of how terrible of a person I've become and how badly I need to change. But to tell you the truth, I just don't really give a fuck about anything at all right now. I'm not feeling any sense of urgency or doom of some sort that I should probably be considering my current situation. I haven't any drive at all. I've been so passsive about everything lately; I'm practically a zombie, just going about day by day without any care at all for anything. Honestly, if I were to die right at this moment, I wouldn't care less at all.

Delirium

"The most dangerous sicknesses are those that make us believe we are well."

"I said, I prefer the ocean when it's gray. Or not really gray. A pale, in-between color. It reminds me of waiting for something good to happen."

"You can't be happy unless you're unhappy sometimes."

"It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed."

"I'd rather die my way than live yours."

"One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart. One day you have parents; the next day you're an orphan. One day you have a place and a path. The next day you're lost in the wilderness. And still the sun rises and clouds mass and drift and people shop for groceries and toilets flush and blinds go up and down. That's when you realize that most of it - life, the relentless mechanism of existing - isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead."

"I've learned to get really good at this - say one thing when I'm thinking about something else, act like I'm listening when I'm not, pretend to be calm and happy when I'm really freaking out. It's one of the skills you perfect as you get older."

"I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone."

"Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do - the only thing - is run."

"Everyone you trust, everyone you think you can count on, will disappoint you. When left to their own devices, people lie and keep secrets and change and disappear some behind a different face or personality, some behind early morning fog, beyond a cliff. That's why the cure is so important. That's why we need it."

"The deadliest of all deadly things: It kills you both when you have it and when you don’t."

"I guess that’s what saying Good-bye is always like—jumping off the edge. The worst part is making the choice to do it. Once you’re in the air there is nothing you can do but let go."

Speak now.

Real life is a funny thing, you know. In real life, saying the right thing at the right moment is beyond crucial. So crucial, in fact, that most of us start to hesitate for fear of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But lately what I've begun to fear more than that is letting the moment pass without saying anything. I think you deserve to look back on your life without this chorus of resounding voices saying, "I could've but it's too late now." So, there's a time for silence and there's a time for waiting your turn. But if you know how you feel and you so clearly know what you need to say, you know it; I don't think you should wait.. I think you should speak now.

I know I might regret this in the future but right now, I'm bored.

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails." (Mark Twain)

I've always been such a good girl. I live in a conservative country, go to a Catholic school and my parents keep me grounded. No, not like the bad kind of grounded - I don't even think that's in my parents' vocabulary. I have no vices. I don't drink nor drive. I don't do drugs nor people. I don't smoke. I don't even bite my nails. The worst thing I've probably done is cut classes.

Lately, I've been into recording videos of myself - singing and being silly. My mum warned me that I'll regret it in the future and I just simply said to her, "I don't care; I'm bored." I know it might seem very out of character of me to other people and even slightly barmy but right now, I just really don't care. What I say or do is none of their business and I'm not going to change my opinion on that matter because of what they think. I do admit that there's a huge possibility that I may regret this in the future (because from time to time, I do) but right now I'm just thinking "Whatever, I won't be young for long. Let me live."

Honesty can be a bitterly cruel thing.

I'm sorry.

“The people I thought I could trust left me.”

I can apologize several times for that but I know there will always be a shadow of doubt in you and I understand that. I know what I did was wrong. I should’ve faced you and stayed with you but instead, I chose the coward’s way - I wrote you a letter and left. I’m sorry, you’re not the first to get that from me, actually. It’s just what I do. That’s how I deal. I don’t think I can be like the other girls acting like they love you when they’re in front of you but secretly hating your guts. I don’t think I can tell you straight out in your face that you’re a bitch or I don’t like you and expect everything to still be the same. If I did that, I know we’d just be secretly hating each other but staying as friends for convenience. I think we would’ve gone off far worse if things happened differently.

We needed a break from each other. We needed to re-evaluate ourselves. We needed to grow. We needed time.

I knew somehow we’d go back to each other, you know. I knew we’d be friends again. I knew we’d be better. I knew we’d be stronger. I’m not sure if you feel the same but I consider you as one of my best friends - although not officially, just in my heart or something. See, we’ve grown, seen our mistakes and corrected our wrongs. There’s nothing that I don’t like about you anymore. I know that’s very wrong and I feel very undeserving to be your friend but I wanted to like you, I wanted to keep you as my friend, I didn’t want being friends with you to be a burden or obligatory or out of pity. You were becoming too heavy to carry and I knew I just had to let you go.

Again, I’m sorry. Just know that I appreciate being your friend. Sometimes I feel unimportant to you but I just accept it because maybe I am and I can’t really hold that from you. You know how others say, “I’m tired of being second to those who I put first.” Well, sometimes I feel that. Sometimes I just want to give up on us. But then, I start to remember how much of a good friend you are, so I hold on a little longer and just hope that maybe I’m something to you too.

Bookworm-ish.

I feel pathetic for feeling like crying because I can't get what I want. What is it that I want? Books. It's kind of funny though because I'm serious.

I feel bad because I can't buy the books that I want that I see on the internet. It's either I don't have money, or it's unavailable in our country. In times when I actually do have money and am in a bookstore, I just feel overwhelmed with all the choices. I want to get the best book but I don't know what it is. I want to buy almost all the books on the shelves but I know that I can not.

People find it weird how I consider a book store "heaven". I just can't help but feel very excited and euphoric whenever I see one, especially Book Sale. I can't help but think of the wonderful surprises it holds at a very cheap price! I imagine the hunt for the perfect book to buy. I imagine the feel and the smell of the books and I think that one could just leave me in the shop for hours. I imagine those hard-bound books and I just can't help but want to buy them all.

This seriously makes me feel like coming undone. It's just so beautiful. All those books and the architecture of that building - it looks like heaven to me. I do worry though that it might unexpectedly rain and it'll be too late to save all those books outside.

I admit I can get a bit greedy, if you may call it that, when it comes to books. I want too many books that even though I haven't finished reading them and it's becoming a growing pile day by day, I can't help but buy more. Currently, I have about eleven books that I haven't finished reading yet. Oddly enough, I don't like reading only one book at a time. I always feel the need to grab another one and read them alternately. I love suspense too much that I even give it to myself. Whenever something major is happening or is going to be revealed, I would stop reading the book and go on a break. Perhaps I just like to form my own assumptions and conclusions first before I find out the truth or the facts. I'd have to admit though that the most contributing factor for having such a huge number of unfinished books is that I get distracted far too easily for my liking.

I find that I'm a bit possessive with my books too and there's always a voice nagging in my mind whenever my book isn't in my possession - like whenever I'd let other people borrow it. I'm not really the type to recommend books to other people though because I'm afraid of what they might come of it about me, or that I have poor judgement and the book's actually terrible.

And yet, despite all that, I have committed the ultimate book crime. I was just too tempted to do it that I actually went to Book Sale to look for a hard-bound book especially for this purpose. I've read the book as I cut through the pages and I actually found it interesting. Good thing I cut it in a way that no print is affected. I can bind them together if I want to.

(Forgive me, the picture's actually flipped. The camera does weird things when it takes pictures.)

Bucket List.

I want to do this before I die. Or maybe die from doing it. Naked. Why not hit two birds with one stone? But.. maybe not. I haven’t enough guts to do it.

Hate me.

Just to get it out there, I am very unladylike. I swear a lot and I curse a lot. I don't think a day has passed by without me uttering obscenities, or at least screaming profanities in my head. I am very sarcastic and I've got a dry sense of humor, which doesn't really bid well with people who don't know me. I get such drastic mood swings that I'm starting to believe that maybe I have multiple personalities.

Okay, I'm gonna stop bashing myself right there. If you don't already hate me, believe me, you will. I mean, I honestly don't like myself either but listing down my oh so brilliant qualities, I've only realize now how unlikeable of a person I actually am. It's like I'm warning you that I'm this and that but that really shouldn't excuse me for being so! Not at all.

Everyday, I'm in a constant battle with myself (whenever I remember to analyze myself, or at least think). I'm surprised I can even fix other people's problems and give advice in the very least. By other people, I mean the depleting number of people I actually can hold conversations with besides my relatives - yes, I'm that terrible of a person.

I need to change, I know. It's not that I don't want to but I'm still too busy burying myself in self-pity to actually do anything about my life. If I could just end it right now, believe me I would. It's not really on the question of being able to do it or not but more on having enough courage to actually do so. I'm too much of a coward to do anything at all. I've failed and hit rock-bottom that I don't think I'll be able to handle any more of that. Think of it, failing on ending the failure you call your life.

“If somebody likes me, I want them to like the real me, not what they think I am. And I don’t want them to carry it around inside. I want them to show me, so I can feel it too. I want them to be able to do whatever they want around me.” (The Perks of Being a Wallflower)

Trust issues.

Know that no matter how many knives we put in each other’s backs, that we’ll have each other’s backs, ’cause we’re that lucky.

Am I that lucky? I think not.

I've been through enough to know that I cannot trust anyone but myself. Not my childhood friends, not even my best friend in the entire world. My family, maybe, but others? Just.. no.

It's simply setting yourself up for disappointment or getting hurt. It leaves you too vulnerable. People always leave no matter how much they assure you that they won't, or that it's "forever" - what a foolish thing to believe in.

No one's obligated to stay in your life as long as you want or need them to. Eventually, we're all going to have to move on. In some point or another, we're going to leave the people we never thought we would. Whether it's taking each other for granted or people changing over time, bottom line is someone stops trying. That's life.

Lesson: Trust no one. (I don't even trust myself!)

In an attempt to being not so negative (or realistic, as I see it), I just thought that I should share what my former high school teacher once said: Of course, people may dump us as they dump rags and disposable diapers, but that's no excuse not to seek eternal friendships. We just have to remember that we can't please everyone and we can't be all things for all people. We just have to be we (which of course is at times difficult if not perilous), without regrets and apologies. You gain some and you lose some.

Excuse me.

I'm the type of girl who likes journals and blogs. I keep letters, pictures and souvenirs. I keep post-its my friends and I pass around in class. I keep stickers and receipts that remind me of important events. I'm starting to think that I might be too sentimental for my own good, actually.

This is not my first blog. I used to keep a blog in Xanga back in 7th grade about my daily activities - nothing personal, really. Sometime around first year high school, I got tired of it and only then did I find out that a lot of people actually read my blog. I was surprised to say the least when people started approaching me and asking me why I shut my blog down. I actually didn't, it was only a fake shut down so I could still read my posts at my own leisure. After a while, I started keeping a personal journal - you know, like a Dear Diary you actually write on everyday. They're really worth the time and effort and I still go back to them whenever I feel like it. Back in first year, I also used to share a journal with my best friend and another one with my clique although they were both short-lived. When I was in fourth year high school, I started keeping what I call a "suicide notebook" of some sort. Obviously, I haven't committed suicide yet. It was just a notebook for all my negative thoughts; I didn't want to stain my journal. Aside from playing soccer, it helped me keep my temper in check. I found keeping that notebook very relieving, as if I'm writing my worries and problems away.

As I've said, this is not my first blog but I think this might be my first very public blog. I usually keep my blogs private or only for a few people to see but I'm trying to.. change. I don't like change but I'm trying to get used to it. So, excuse me if you find yourself reading about incessant rants and petty or nonsensical things; I'm still trying to get used to the idea that practically just anyone can read this.