First of all, 1-5 are some of my favorite books of all time. I love them passionately, I have read them each about 4 times (or 6 or 7 or). They seemed, to me, to have a good balance of light and dark, adventures and jokes and drama. The best, to me, were probably 1 and 3—mostly because I feel…
“I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. If you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.”—Roald Dahl (via tenyeardrunks)
Sundays (and weekend productivity) only begin after mass. And most of the time, these are afternoons with Lolo, who could never let his favorite apo (wink) go home without buying her something. The rest of my 2013 Sundays often go like this.
I welcomed December by eating an ice cream crepe for dinner. Not in any way healthy, but sinfully delicious. I’m ending the first day of December by (finally) working on my thesis and writing down my plans for the last month of 2013.
Another month closer to a new adventure. I can’t wait.
“People say I love you all the time - when they say, ‘take an umbrella, it’s raining,’ or ‘hurry back,’ or even ‘watch out, you’ll break your neck.’ There are hundreds of ways of wording it - you just have to listen for it, my dear.”—The Curious Savage (John Patrick)
Unconsciously, I took an extended sembreak for the past few weeks. No thesis. Clearly, there’s no one to blame but the student but… No. Don’t even continue. There is no one to blame but the student. I need to start again. This is it. Get to work again you lazy ass.
For a self-proclaimed, social retard, I made friends really easily. Now I just have to know how to keep them. Or learn how to reply without freaking out first.
CW100 is great so far and this means: (1) the realization that I (ironically) write too much… or I have no control over my words and I need to stop rambling because it’s annoying and unprofessional, (2) listening to my professor talk about his travels with his wife and how she influences his writing is so sweet - I am jealous, and finally, (3) I am incredibly sensitive of my words, my self-esteem will probably crumble with just one negative comment - clearly, I need to get over myself.
Most people thought it was suicide (perhaps a milder term is better but I can’t think of anything at the moment) to willingly choose 18 units + org duties in my final semester as an undergrad. I thought so too, for a moment. But the curious and studious child in me really wanted to learn, and I said to myself that I wouldn’t have this opportunity again. Open yourself to new experiences, they say.
Because tomorrow is the last time I’m going to enroll as an undergrad. .______.
[ ] Worried about getting bullied by fratmen/sisters or getting killed in a riot. [ ] Got bullied by fratmen or was killed in a riot. [X] Witnessed a riot. [X] Watched the Oblation Run. [X] Made friends with a teacher.
“Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.”—Chuck Palahniuk (via neverbethevictim)
Sometimes, I think about why I write. Or why I want to write. If someone were to ask me that question now, point blank, I’d say “I write because I want to tell a story.” It couldn’t get any less complicated than that - and yet it could be more.
“1. If you like someone, wait.
2. Give lots of compliments, even if you’re shy. Everyone else is too.
3. Change. Get a haircut, try new perfume, get new sheets. Become better than you were before.
4. Eat healthier. Learn to cook something fancy.
5. Get up earlier and watch the sun come up.
6. Wear soft clothes, take a bath, drink something warm.
7. Meet someone new, even just a friend.
8. Become closer with your friends and your family. Call your mother. Cry with your best friend. Tell everyone how much you appreciate them.
9. Keep your room clean. Buy some candles. Let the natural light in.
10. Make a list of reasons why you’ll be better off without them. Believe they are true, because they are.
11. Listen to new music.
12. Write everything you’re thinking and feeling. Write letters. Write happy letters, sad letters, and angry letters, even if you’re never going to send them.
13. It’s okay to be sad, but not forever. Sadness is not as beautiful as music makes it seem. Lack of sleep makes your eyes droopy, not deep. Wake up every morning and tell yourself you’re going to have a good day.
14. Go to the library. Don’t forget to look in the music section.
15. Remove them from your life. Get rid of the things they gave you if they make you sad. They’re not worth it. You will never be happy if you continue to hold on to the things that make you sad.
16. Make new memories.
17. Try to find something to appreciate in everything you do or experience.
18. Being alone is okay, you don’t have to surround yourself with people.
19. Become your own best friend. Buy yourself coffee and drink it alone in a cafe. Take your time.
20. Learn to love every bit of yourself.”—
How to feel better and become better by me (via timidgeek)
Won’t let anything or anyone drain the joy in me. :-)
I like how you mispronounce words sometimes, how you fumble and stammer and stutter looking for the right ones to say and the right ways to say them. I appreciate that you find language challenging, because it is, because everything manmade is challenging. Including man, including you.
When you sleep on your side, I like to map the constellations between your beauty marks freckles pimples, the minuscule mountains that sprinkle your back. I like the tufts of hair you forgot to shave and the way you smell when you haven’t showered in a while; I like the sleep left in your eyes.
I like the way your skin dies in the middle of the night, how you die from embarrassment the next morning; how you writhe in the snake casing you’ve left behind. I like that you think pillow snowflakes carry more weight than pillow talk; that you think my opinion of you is so fickle that it could change overnight. (It’s not.)
I enjoy seeing you insecure, vulnerable. I like to watch red steam light up your cheeks, a spreading mist of shame when you think you’ve done something unacceptable like missing a step on the stairs or not having the perfect answer to something I’ve said. It’s like you honestly don’t know how wonderful you are, it’s like you have no idea.
The burns, the scars, the black and blues on your face body heart, I want to know their stories. I want to know what hurt you, who hurt you, how bad the damage is. I like your hard, ugly toenails and the layer of fat that lines your belly, the soft parts you try to hide. It’s okay to be soft, sometimes.
I appreciate your ability to get inappropriately angry as much as I appreciate your willingness to apologize afterward. I like how your passion manifests unpredictably and uncontrollably, how your feelings cannot be caged or concealed, how you’re incapable of apathy.
I like how you can’t dance, how you have pedestrian taste in music, how the worst song on every album is your favorite. I like how enthusiastic you are when you hear it, it’s like you don’t know how terrible it is, it’s like maybe how you’re able to love someone like me. (Perhaps that’s your biggest flaw, perhaps that’s the one I love most.)
Your flaws single you out, set you apart, make you different from the rest, and thank god. I don’t just put up with settle for accept your blemishes, I like them. I like them because they make you human, and humans are easier to love than photographs and illusions and ideals; humans fit more easily between arms and between legs; humans are welcome to their imperfections because if there’s one thing humans can do perfectly, it’s love. Humans can love, they can do it flawlessly.
First photo at twenty. Still the same bespectacled girl with messy hair and an awkward smile (so she’d rather stick her tongue out) in her chaotic bedroom. Not much has changed physically, I still get mistaken for a high school student once in a while. But I’d like to think I’ve matured in the past few years
It started with a book, and was inspired by a television show that led to numerous notebooks filled with character conversations. Then, from pen and paper, there was a shift to keys and white screens. It saw light online, and stayed and grew for a few years. It ended abruptly. Time was limited and procrastination crept in. Inspiration was not drained, but lingered in daydreams and visions.
It’s beginning again, with a need for new stories. Looking for a tale that only a few could satisfy. A promise emerges, one made almost 10 years ago. Scraps and fragments of scenes are about to be tied up in a single story. Time is still limited but it won’t be a hindrance again. Procrastination is another block, but one that can be easily dodged with discipline and perseverance.