10AM Guilt
All the blue books and pens doing the necessary scratches. Friction. Enumerate twelve signs why Kevin has been doing roughly nothing lately. Oh yes, I’ve been in this war in Zimbabwe or someplace and I had to befriend a general. If not, we’re stewed. There is this slight buzz in my head in my ten-minute walk en route the apartment. The bliss of guilt. The comparisons. Two years ago I would have made quite a little effort for an exam. I rarely learn from exams (in the strictest sense of the word). My French professor must have been wondering what the hell have I been up to? That happens when it’s the only subject you have in a day. In my case I tend to slack and watch porn. Read some article about this and that. The boring life. I just want to keep myself busy with my lips, peeling off the skin. Now it’s like seeing craters off some distant red planet.
For a 10AM class I smoke a cigarette. I find comfort in the dust of the leaves. Whenever I say ephemeral–well, I don’t say such word. Some words are just really manly, like cavort or raucous. Ephemeral is much like gossamer hung with a wooden clothespin.
Saturday always gets it.
Wait, I have this hangnail and it hurts. You’ll know when it hurts. Tried fishing my wallet in my pocket, I ended up yelping.
This entry was written by , posted on September 1, 2010 at 3:10 am, filed under IRLs, Life at UPLB. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Death of the Immortal
This is ridiculous. I’m so absorbed spending all 160 characters in a single text message, that a single affirmation, a yes, I’m goingtext becomes yes, I’m going, and if you’re not going you can meet me tomorrow around 9PM in the apartment, third floor, third door on the left side. All the possibilities are compressed in a single message. Creative, yes, but text messaging has been consuming more time, and it might just kill me while driving (I don’t have a car), or while crossing the street with my fingers texting Dad: I might not go home this week, though it depends if the Math exam will push through. Will my roommate would lend me money?
These days, shortening (distorting) words in a text message is not a crime. It’s pressing me to be practical, to the point that I shall type wrds lyk dis. Oh, I don’t know. It’s nice to look intelligent with whole blocks of words, like an essay, in a text message.
Though it successfully abolished the option of forwarding quotes from the inspired and the God-driven, texting, in my case, is becoming a… Herculean task (I shiver at the term because I discovered it from a friend’s notebook back in fifth grade, and I still have the guts to use it!). Very, very Herculean. It’s taking so much time.
I can hear the pleas of friends in their apartment windows. It’s either they ran out of load or they ran out of load.
Fuck, groupmates, let’s just chat on Facebook.
This entry was written by , posted on August 17, 2010 at 11:43 am, filed under IRLs, Opinion. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
90%
A friend, who had the knack of explaining the most beautiful things in life, said that humans only use ten percent of their brain. She said this like a normal fact. She also said that when humans use ninety (or a hundred?) percent of their brain, they can have the ability to resist hunger and thirst, and they can fly.
I said it’s bullshit, and whoever made that ass-fuck research was either high on weed or high on weed. So I told her I don’t buy it, though it’s pretty interesting to believe in it. It’s a human fantasy to fly, to escape. To see things the way birds do, because birds are free, because they can fly at their own volition, knifing the wind and the sun and the rain.
This entry was written by , posted on August 6, 2010 at 9:03 am, filed under IRLs, Opinion, Pensive shits. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.