Parks are bullshit

In a debut the mother was crying. She was trying to compose her message as the fountain behind her spews water like a geyser in the middle of Bryant Park. You could fit in a hundred debuts in the price tag, so her relatives couldn’t figure out if she was crying over the bills. She said she’s proud to have a grown-up girl. She said she would really love to go home. The debutante sits on her throne, watching the projected Skype conversation, webcam and all. At first, the people who attended didn’t fret in their seats, but they scavenged over an entire neighborhood of grilled chicken. They ignored the waiter’s warning that the buffet’s not yet ready, the chickens not yet carved.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on September 1, 2010 at 2:40 am, filed under Slang and random, Stress ball narratives, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

And then–fuck

And then I couldn’t write anything out of my father’s stories, nor could I find the will to write that knock on the door at 10AM, or about escaping an African war in my dreams. I lack words. I couldn’t read books anymore. I lost faith in movies months ago. My Livejournal has published some fifty-something posts in a month, all are bouts of frustration and the futility of writing without any other audience.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 28, 2010 at 9:56 pm, filed under Stress ball narratives. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

I’ll walk my thoughts with a cigarette

My readers,

Too much vignettes I’ve been writing lately. Probably because I’ve been into Livejournal these days (made it three years ago and it’s only now that I’ve revived it for very personal reasons). Been listening to a lot of Up Dharma Down these days. Depress the hell out of me by singing the lines from The World Is Our Playground And We Will Always Be Home: I swear I belong / this is where I belong.

Triggers have been sent. I just woke up one day not feeling comfortable with my roommates. Our thoughts clash, our philosophies in a state of derision (because derisive is such an awkward word). Problematic enough that I’ve been planning to move to another apartment next semester. Problematic enough that I reside in the apartment to sleep and wake up. I even forgot my keys a while ago. Signs are surfacing. I’m not buying this shit anymore. It’s probably just me overreading things but I’d love to stay in another apartment and do (cook, smoke) anything I want.

And then I badly need a housemate. Like Sheldon Cooper, I do have a single requirement I’d rather not discuss here for the fear that my roommates would read this. We should have the same interests. That’s it. I don’t care if he’s limp or, I dunno, messy or anything.

My poetry class have exhausted me last weekend. I had to write five Tagalog poems under a theme I proposed (that is: tragedies in everyday life, where images of calamities should and must surface throughout the poems as organic as possible, and that it is a commentary with the mundane). It actually made me think: tragedies occur in the everyday. I’m proud of doing poetry for a while but I fear I should stop it. It’s too heavy to handle, too emotional, even. It’s not definitely as light as fiction. I’ll post it some time.

To bombard you with the mundane:

1. My wallet was lost last Tuesday. Contains several twenties. My ATM closed last June so I don’t have to worry. Sadly, all my Cinemalaya tickets are there. Memories: receipts, ID pictures. A condom. More receipts. My fucking school ID. How lame.
2. I’ve quit alcohol (thank god it’s working for a month and a half now).
3. I’m addicted to something else.
4. Health is at the least of my priorities! That’s… surprising! I jogged once last week, once two weeks ago, and I feel like I don’t have the will to run. Who am I running for, anyway? Back then I run for myself, to trim the fats and everything, but now I’d rather run away from myself because OH FUCK I’M RANTING.
5. Been skinning my lips again. I’ve been working on it, but it’s a sign of insecurity. Problems. Spaced-out days. The dry weather. Overanalyzing things. Stigmas. Issues. I’m getting moody sometimes. This is bad. Lips tell a lot, really. Basically you just have to stare at my lips to see whether I still function. (But that’s awkward.)
6. This is one of the lowest points of my life, but this is Livejournal shit I’d rather not write about.
7. For three months I’ve only went home four times. Last time I went home I slept for twelve hours, and then another twelve hours, then another. Dad thought I died. Friends have been calling me, asking where the fuck are you? Oh, I overslept.
8. I have one mushy line in my poetry, and it says (translated from the Tagalog): I’d want to tattoo your name in my body / under my eyelids / at my shoulders / at my nipples. It’s funny. No, I made up that nipple part.
9. When you do poetry and you’re shallow as fuck (just like me), you’re either of these: depressed-slash-suicidal or wide-eyed-romantic. You can’t go in between. You’re just either of the two. Labeling poetry classmates as these is a very honest pastime.
10. My professor in prose said you have to lose faith in something to know if you do have the passion for it. After a brief discussion on metafiction, I winced. I’m starting to hate the world (specifically the contexts I’ve been noticing in the world, in the society).
11. When blog posts start in you, as in “you, who shakes the bed with me,” it all gets whiny and mushy at the same fucking time.
12. Man, did that make you laugh.
13. Cloud 9 is made of win because they put cereals on it nowadays.
14. Seriously, this is one of the lowest points in my life. Friends aren’t friends anymore. I couldn’t disclose everything with them. Now friends should understand you, in a way, but most of them? They don’t.
15. See how the “you” sounded pedagogic? And mushy?
16. I haven’t watched too much Big Bang Theory that much (a couple of times, really) because I might get addicted to it. I get addicted to easily.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 5, 2010 at 2:19 am, filed under IRLs, Last song syndromes, Life at UPLB, Pensive shits, Sentemotional, Slang and random, Stress ball narratives, Stupid, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.