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.

Redirection lifted

I feel really down lately. It’s probably out of not blogging, or not writing anything at all, that every drop of loneliness goes up in my brain, and maybe that’s why I’m choking myself up with all the happy hormones. I’m guessing something’s wrong with me lately. What, exactly, I couldn’t pinpoint. I could fill this post with similar expressions about life, saying it’s out of sync, or reeling sideways, but it wouldn’t help.

This time, though, I’m positive that this isn’t about the beer and the smoke.

P.S: You guys must have thought I bought Google, but it’s actually because I haven’t paid my hosting on time.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on June 24, 2010 at 7:41 pm, filed under Life at UPLB, Sentemotional, Slang and random, Stress ball narratives. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

6°

I miss drinking with my friends.

I miss smoking.

The sense of missing something goes to effect in its very absence. I know it’s silly to reiterate this over and over again, but at certain times I would like to put this in paper and paste it somewhere. I miss my vices, alright. I miss my friends. I miss people in my age, you know. I even miss texting (the fact that I abhor it so much, that should say something), and going to the nearby sari-sari store to buy PHP25 worth of load, pang-immortal.

Three days ago I had this sudden urge to drink, so I emptied a bottle of Smirnoff, just to make me feel warm in the basement, because Dad went earlier for Manila, because I told him I’d stay for two more weeks here in the States. I don’t really regret; I’d love to be with my Mom longer. But that night tells me–as I frantically walked to a nearby 7-11 to buy some cigarettes because I craved for the booze-and-puff combo only to discover that the 7-11 was closed–I miss being me. That incident tells a lot, really. I braved my way with a jacket and pyjamas at 3AM, scared of my family knowing about it, scared of cops asking me and about my knowledge with their curfew (or is there?), scared of the six-degree cold biting down to the very marrow of my bone, and I was shaking, and the convenience store was locked. The door wouldn’t budge.

I really, really, really would die for a smoke right now.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on May 14, 2010 at 10:52 am, filed under IRLs, Pensive shits, Photos, Sentemotional. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.