Sinking

Today I sink delirious into this feeling of falling into, I don’t know. It’s 5:39PM and I’m just waiting for the chance to log out. I opened my mom’s Facebook account, something she doesn’t really open or pretty much can’t given the situation, and I just got S-A-D.

I guess it’s different to look at images in your head, in comparison. The blow is more static, electric down to your spine, when you look at the REAL difference, the real loss.

One night my mother didn’t let me sleep, unintentionally I suppose. It all started with me asking how she is because I want to know, and because I felt like she needed the chance to say her peace. How do I know? Because sometimes she would grab every opportune moment to say something: to complain, to compare.

It ended up with her saying a lot, some of which left me shuddered behind my wall. It ended up with me falling asleep to the sound of her voice, her voice telling stories that define my nightmares or what I mean by hate and ill-wishes. It ended up to me waking up to her hugging me, in tears, as I look away or pretend not to wake up because who in their right mind would like to see their mothers break down to pieces? I guess none. It ended up with a cycle that was tireless, pretty much my day-to-day, only in rewind. She felt like a fading picture and I didn’t want to look.

So in these satire moments when I dare, I crumble and sink endlessly.

Mornings at the Garden Loft of 5

I have to admit, every day when I get to our office, I try to find a place in my mind where I can be quiet and write (to you).

But when I see the things I have to do, or have not done from yesterday, I sink into my goody good shoes and decide to scratch off the things that must be done over the things I want to do. That is every day. I'm not complaining,  because I like my job. It doesn't feel purposeful, and the creativity it requires is thin. It's fun to work where I work, people are cool, relaxed, on the go, and young (not literally, entirely). But I don't forget that I'd like to

Talk to you
Have daing salad with you
Marathon with you (not exercise)
Hug cats with you
Pass notes
With you

When I'm in my commute, quiet mostly, I wonder if I still have a page in your book. I miss how you write my initials like a tattoo, only better, because it isn't painful, just ticklish.

Yeah, the first time I saw my name on your page I imagined how it must be kakakiliti, then kilig.

Lamming 3

I can tell if something's feral if I give in to telling my best friend. Because she's a woman who can't be bothered, unless you are me. (feelings)

But I don't want to abuse the free pass, because I am me.

Anyway. Let's seal a memory.

-----

The first time I ever broke
a rule, with memory
was when I was 6--I
climbed a pole
slid, flashed, laughed
did it over again.

So I raise a glass
for you, people of endless spinning
hearing none but a cheer
do at least once!
Do all over again
if it was fun.

It is fun if it churned your insides
to a sparkle seen in mirrored eyes

Fun if it tasted like tomorrow
and tastes the same ‘til now
spicy at the tip of your tongue,
like a name
or a song
of a dream only you would know how to spell

My first time to be scolded
for having aimless fun
childhood giggles championing
foolishness
was when I planted my feet, on ground
unknowing of who waits
hopeful for a face
breaking sobs, in between
tiny hands and little feet
dirty soiled silly dreams
turning to a 90, stretching out
hands gracefully gripping air,
realizing for sure
that none.

SONG: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBVX5qOtvA8

Drifting off

If you’ve ever found yourself fixated on a season that you feel a blur in you when that particular season shifts, then you and I must be sharing a gene or so. I feel queasy over losing summer without accomplishing something big or grand or legen, wait for it, dary.

My journal has been empty for weeks now and although I am open to the idea of overlooking the big and small, I am still badgering myself over my dullness. I’ve been making new friends in the office, though I must admit, office friendships are what I would suspect to be unsound and temporary, based on the little and the lot that I’ve experienced and heard from people’s stories.

Yesterday, I was drifting off while this new colleague told me of her love life, of this guy who once broke her heart but is now bothering her over a made out session they recently had, and about her hot friend’s perfect life but melodramatic way of living. It’s a lot to take, so I drift off as I try to listen. I’ve been smoking a lot lately. I’m not happy about that.

While drifting off aka pretending I was listening, I managed to note down three mildly peculiar things about myself and what I was feeling in the moment. I feel fortunate to remember those three things until this morning. I know this blog post is a heavy load of me-me-me things, but then again this is my page so if I would like to start each of my sentences with an I, I shall.

 1. I think my friend V thinks I’m a good listener. She’s a very talkative girl, and I think any secret I tell her will not be a secret at all. She’s a free-flow of information, like the internet, and I think she thinks I’m a good listener. I wonder if she can notice me checking out random cute clothes in the background. Boy, our building’s smoking lounge is lovely; despite the dilapidated chairs.

 2. I have been recently arrested in my own head for quite a while. At first, I thought it was just a random swing of craziness but it happened again this morning. It happened the other night, yesterday and this morning, as I was trying to get over one difficult level of Candy Crush in my commute. It scares me, when my head spins heavy like that. I don’t even know how to describe the feeling. All I know is it makes me breathe heavier and my heart beats faster when I get arrested in my head. It’s like I hear voices and all the thoughts crash into one mash of scrambled noise. It isn’t peaceful. This morning, I felt like crying. I don’t understand why it happens or what triggers it. I just know, every time it does happen, I want to hurt myself.

 3. I like taking selfies while waking outdoors. Literally, while walking down clear sidewalks. I don’t even feel ashamed nor fear what the passing cars would think of me. I never really liked cars anyway. Wouldn’t care less about what the people in those cars would think. I don’t like people.

So to officially bid my beloved season goodbye, I have been carrying an umbrella in my bag every day. It made me miss my college umbrella—a hot pink one. I wish I don’t lose my green umbrella now. I hate it when I lose my umbrella. It’s very hard to find a good umbrella nowadays.

What have you lost lately?

What am I to you?

Today’s the day I’m going back to you.

I find myself feeling busier than fuck. Interesting how hugely little turns in events can affect a life. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not doing enough. At times, I feel like I’m doing too much. Which is the greater evil? It depends on my mood swing—as everything else pretty much does.

It always starts with a girl. I will go on and on and on again, it will always be because of a girl. I live in no man’s island, and sorry to the cock blockers out there, no amount of girth can make me bother. Or wait, I’d probably puke a little. Then again, puke is vagina. Fuck, everything is vagina!

My coin purse is a vagina.

When I fold my arm, there’s a vagina.

Chicken ala king, ala vagina.

I want to go to Vigan, or vagina.

So today’s the day I tell you a secret—as if everything I put on this anonymous blog isn’t secret enough. Or pretty much, how anonymous is this anyway? The answer is anonymous until someone finds out.

It’s 6:01PM and I don’t have business to do overtime work so I’ll be fucking up anytime now. I still have an eye infection to treat, oh yeah, today’s the first day I came to work without my blonde hair. No one noticed the change, as much as I thought they would, because I am wearing my super cool fuchsia Ray-bans the whole day, yes even as I type right now, because my left eye is swollen. Mind you, our office is very lenient when it comes to outfits—thank god—I feel like dieting til I lose half of what makes me me because I want to wear naked clothes because it’s so cold in our office. It’s so cold. It’s so vagina!

So the secret is, I don’t like hanging questions. If you’ve ever met a person who talks a lot, and asks a lot, and bothers to ask even the dumbest questions about the most atrocious details of social conduct, expect that that person is either of these two things: 1) not going to let a question rest without an answer, or is 2) me!

Few days ago, I went Amsterdam on E. Told her I missed her. Meant it.

Few days ago, I learned to sing a song for E, because I thought I wanted to ask. Didn’t need to, but felt the worse evil, the want, so I asked. She answered, pretty much. Ain’t it pretty. Vaginal answers!
What the fuck is this thing saying? What the fuck does this thing want? What the FACT, she’s delicious.

I like delicious. I like delicious feelings and moments of retro succulence that I can only go hyper with my feral fertile mind. And I guess, just in case she won’t rest until I answer. She’s vagina. Clearly, how wrong is it to see people as an orifice! But then again, were you even listening? What is a vagina to me?

YUM!

Tumbler

Back in college, I broke up with someone because she demeaned Starbucks. Well, not directly, but rather, Starbucks' price marks. She hated the fact that I go to Starbucks at least twice a day (it was planner season); thus suffer the bad effects of too much caffeine like a palpitating heart, difficulty in sleeping (to no sleep at all), and frequent heart burns.

All those reasons fuelled just how much she hated the part where a visit at Starbucks is P200, at minimum. In hindsight, I didn’t realize that she was coming from that place where she was a college student but working as the breadwinner of her family. I was too fucked over the idea that she (jokingly?) required sex at least three times a day—which I said I couldn’t.

So I broke up with her because, judge me all you want, but to me it was and still is as sound as the break of dawn… I said, Starbucks meant more to me. I said something to the flavour of, I’ve been with Starbucks for years and it has comforted me through countless number of bad days—though at an expense—but still, there for me; while she, was a newcomer. That considering, Starbucks is a more valued friendship-relationship that if I were going to choose, since she was completely making me quit the coffee habit, if I were going to choose, I’d choose Starbucks because it is a more loyal friend. (Later on, the girl did end up ‘cheating’ with someone else, thus the soundness of me choosing Starbucks over her, brava.)

I don’t remember how she took it, badly I would assume. I don’t even know who else knew about it, it was, I’d love to think, a private breakup; but if people knew about it, I know judgments were passed. Despite so, I still think choosing Starbucks was the good choice (if it isn’t the right one), because years over and Starbucks is still there—a home for P200 at minimum.

Today, I am mad over my head because the beautiful tea tumbler that I bought for myself as a birthday gift to me (yes, I gift myself with mundane things), was lost last night. That tumbler was the most beautiful thing because it had star-like cut holes as an orifice and it was a clear glass with multitudes of greens as leaves for design. It was perfect because during my last birthday, I took steps to be Wiccan and more in-touch with my earthy zone. That was my tea tumbler, because I drink from tea leaves (sans tea bags) and the star-cut lid was the perfect filter. It was perfect because I bought that to console myself of the bomb that exploded from the core of our house. It was just a tumbler for the outside world, but motherfuck, it was my sanity set to plastic jug. (I found a photo online)

And it got lost. It got lost last night. Judge me all you want, but sometimes we rest ourselves to the most mundane objects (because people can’t be trusted really), so objects develop souls, and these souls attach themselves too tightly on our hands that when we lose grip, the hands just feel so weightless. I feel hollowed.

Dancing

I write these words to you,

 

river of foaming dreams.

 

Your mouth is a poison of bitter taste,

 

your blood the chilling song I hear.

 

In this room of jazz

 

crippled vintage trees,

 

I am a patient rock

 

dancing on your skin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Magnetic Fields - Dancing in Your Eyes

Wishi-wish-wish

I hate taking medicines. I have that new age belief that medicines make us weak, vulnerable even, to more reasons to be weak and vulnerable. I know that’s not true is it not? but we all have to hold on to something we can believe in. I’m a firm believer of false truths. How sometimes, these false realities become true—The Secret, I would say—sometimes, just plain delusional.

Next week shall be the start of a new chapter in my life, a chapter that I can only hope to write well, eloquently, elegantly and strong. I have always wanted to be a writer. Not for the by line nor the fame, should there be any. Definitely not for the money because knowing me, though I know I have the bone and spine to find pure joy in the simplest things, am easily attracted to glitter and the sparkles of life. Luxury is my middle name; but like most of us, that middle name isn’t quite necessary.

So next week will begin a new chapter of my life where each day shall be a make or break point, in its most literal sense. My responsible DNA hopes to satisfy with excellence; while my playful bone can only pray for pleasantries along the way. I hope it wouldn’t be a tireless cycle. I hope for growth and a steadfast movement towards something better. It’s almost mid-year and I’m closer my “moving out” deadline. However, today, I shall be thankful for movement.

From point A to B.

From Y to everlasting changes.

To highways and pitchforks.

Credits.

Cue music.

Here comes that little teaser at the end of a movie. That elusive five second spiel you didn’t think existed, a gift for the patient ones.

I own a Toshiba something laptop that is brutally butchered into a seemingly functional piece of metal. This would probably sound pointless, or maybe even shallow, but I’m kinda looking forward to using a new computer for work. I think I will be issued a laptop, it wouldn’t be mine to own, but still mine to use and bring home and stuff, I assume. Now, knowing my paranoid mind, I’m sure commuting with a laptop that I might be held liable for should it be lost or worse, stolen, wouldn’t settle quite nicely; but I’m actually excited to have a new laptop.

Let me tell you a little something about my Toshiba. It’s so odd, because I didn’t name my laptop, or if I did, didn’t take its nickname seriously. I got this laptop three years ago when my tito asked me to return home and help with the family business. I paid for this laptop for six months and come to think of it, is the second most expensive thing I ever bought with my own money (the first being my 60k camera which until now, I have no idea how to use, really haha). I got a Toshiba because for gadgets, I always believe Japan knows best. I also got a Toshiba because I remember S owning a white Toshiba. According to her, a Mac was too expensive and complicated to maintain. Well, who am I kidding? I got a Toshiba solely because S owned a Toshiba. End of story.

To date, this laptop has been the dearest thing to me. I know that may have sounded geeky, but I have written so many things with this laptop. Music and relationships aside, this laptop is the reason for the many little successes I have earned the past few years. This is the room I never had, my room of requirement. Every scratch on my Toshiba looks beautiful to me. I even have scotch tape over it’s track pad (?) because it’s so overused, the protective covering against static, I assume, has been completely erased out. It has a crack, not just a dent, on its side, and its battery life is almost non existent, but my god, this Toshiba is more than a laptop. It’s a SEAL. It’s an overworked soldier, tortured with years of almost 24/7 typing, multiple-almost-illegally-multiple windows, and excessive careless downloads—all of which were done without an anti-virus! But hey, it’s still alive and kicking. I am a bit sad to part with it, but I know I must save up for a new laptop. Should I be given a new laptop to work with thanks to my new job, I will be grateful that my Toshiba, though unnamed, will be earning its well-deserved rest. It’s been three years, but with my abuse and misuse, that’s three dog years for this Toshiba wonder.

With that, I hope my office issued laptop will be a Toshiba. I honestly can’t see myself using a Samsung (that will die on me), and I doubt an Acer or an HP will survive me as well. I think I can only live with a Toshiba, Sony or a Lenovo… but then again, any would do.

Still, I hope!

Of course if I end up having my own PC at my station, please disregard all the talk and stop at cue music.

Ahh... these simple almost mundane wishes make me, me.

Reasons and Excuses

Between thought and action is reason. When we lose it, forget it, or worse completely neglect its value, we become animals imprisoned by our own self-serving missions rooted on an irrational culture set to stone by protruded impulse.

Few days ago I left my email open on Y's laptop. She accidentally opened it and saw an ex's name. This prompted her to read the exchange, or at least open what it started with. It was an email I sent with a poem in it. A poem I wrote in trance while my life is in transit, so to speak. The issue for Y was: why did I send the poem.

The answers to me were simple but the anger, frustration and distrust that clouded her mind were too thick, her grace was taken away. The little bit of it, if I may say.

I sent the poem because I wanted to send the message. Sometimes, when what you want to express is too personal, digging for words become tedious and even antiseptic. That's where resorting to pictures or symbols or prose or colors come in. I found my medium in poetry and decided to pounce on it. I wanted her to know, just know, or at least grant her a better chance of knowing what little I can deliver. I've been in the position of being left blind-sided and it was never fun and safe to sit with shadows. It shouldn't matter says Y. But I've no bad blood with A despite what happened so it mattered to me that I can do something like leave a trail to MY reason so she can someday, when she wants to, know the thought and understand the action. Y can't get that. She didn't have any reasons to be graceful.

So she did something, an uproar that I can't tolerate blindly, and that uprooted some of the things we nurtured the past few months. I felt/feel an anger and disgrace, shame and sheer disappointment over the person she decided to become. Denial, repulsion, hatred set in and I struggle to meet with acceptance and heart.

There is the monster that slept. There is her monster.

But the villain in me taps my shoulder, whispers understanding and empathy. And maybe there is reason why I'm willing to swallow. The action may not be thought through but the reason is shining over an airless box. For all its worth, Y exploded right before my eyes. Graceful or not, I'm at a point where I'd prefer that than someone who will speak of me heartlessly then pretend to be the soul to which my weakness can recline with.

So the poem was set free, free enough to be whatever it wishes to be. I'm happy with the butter that was churned, there could be better but that better world is no longer for the same spirit that ignited the first lines of my poem. The changes are still happening, forming worlds cornered by numbered streets, and these changes are mine, mine alone. Mine to decide with whom I would share it. Mine to build, hide, protect and cover with sealed lips, cryptic words and beating pauses. That although A didn't understand what I was saying, the message was sent. I blame my failed style in depicting my feelings with words, sure, but I also blame "the reason" why she was unable to capture the song between the lines. The reason is change. 

Change has taken over everything.

The Disappearing Eve

On a sheet of passing palpability, the disappearing eve woke up an eternal uprising that moves across blurred out spaces and stains dog-eared corners of a double-crossing title, a slivered spine corroding on a mountaintop. It sashayed high and low along a current of hormonal exchanges bouncing from one wall to another igniting feral waves to detonate thoughts of hopeful swallows hung up with powder-blue skies of a pretend-summer's dream. An acquaintance forced by a lyrical goddess, and an expected wanting of dusk and movement, pointlessly judging delated tapes of broken promises, the disappearing eve vindicated a two year's worth of seclusion with a non-acidic page sealed with a crossroad letter shared over an unstable fast food table. And there was an applause, a reverberating "ahh..." secretly hovering with a mission, an unchanging image of peaceful poultry and elegantly stretched necks overlooking a falling river, almighty.

If you could keep a memory, real or imagined, what would you choose to remember?

LESBIAN BOOK#5 A Tale of Two Mommies by Vanita Oelschlager

Here's a children's book that touches the concept of homosexual parenting.

Of course I enjoyed it because I'm at a point where I'm willing to devour any semblance of lesbian stories/literature. On a lighter note, what I enjoyed about this book is its light and casual way of discussing a homosexual household's primary grounds on gender roles.

Gender roles, as it is at a fault, is predominantly sexist, so yes, the book touched the topic following that sexist point of view, but I think it is notable how from the child's point of view, there is no judgment.

Come to think of it, do you remember when sexual judgments began? I myself can't. Although I try my very best to remain neutral and unbiased when it comes to prejudices, I have to admit I have my lapses, but looking back, I can't really determine which point zero is.

So if you kinda miss that dotted line, perhaps A Tale of Two Mommies will help you remember... or at least realize that once upon a time, we all were clean slates.


Tell me about your ocean stories, please?

LESBIAN BOOK#4 Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins

First of all, let me begin by saying Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins is not a lesbian novel, rather it is a story about cowgirls and a lot of whoop de yee huh. It does, however, brush against the bosoms of lesbianism, with explicitness that can make CRTs grow flat, so I shall indulge myself and accommodate this title among my lesbian books.

Second of all, to compensate whatever disappointment with what I just said, this novel was adapted into the comedy-drama-romance story that it is, through the talent and beauty of Uma Thurman as lead. Watch the 1993 movie trailer here.

Sissy and Dolores, horsing around.

Third, Heather Graham, nuff said.

So cute this womyn.

Now the book. Well, written in Tom Robbins' signature tone--wit, sarcasm and a deliberate collision of subtlety and explicitness, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues is an out there type of talk flipping the walk. With his consistent metaphors on love, life, government and technologies; reading Cowgirl style definitely brought out the arguments straight to the tip of my boring normal-sized thumbs.

This novel, which dealt with over-sized fingers and freeloading travelers, was fun, light and my kind of poetically confusing tact, perfect for woozy summer days.

Surely, this book has left me inspired to stretch moon beams to a night of cosmic yee huh.

Why? Because love is the opposing thumb. It is the reason behind pebbles thrown to dance above quiet lakes. It is the doer of all saws, and the handler of every digging top. Remember what they said about a finger on a finger, when the fingers on battleground are thumbs of colliding characters.

PS. I was at National Book Store (Bestsellers) the other day, and they confirmed that the gay and lesbian titles are no longer carried and were put on sale for discontinuation. That news deeply saddened me because now it's a step more difficult to find lesbian literature to immerse in. Fortunately, gems such as this Tom Robbins book may be found in secondhand bookstores like Book Sale! I got my copy for only P30, that's less than a $!

Desert Storm

My mom mouthed "thank you" as I handed her over some money. I'm not made for all this maturity-responsibility shit because I've always seen myself growing up, hippie style. Before I butchered my hair as I have had my heart gang-raped, I had long semi-virgin (allow me) hair, down to my waist, with curls (and horrid tangles) casting pretty shadows on pretty shadows. I've always been the type who would wear a flower crown--still am, always will be.

Earlier today I walked from our office to this chipipay salon nearby for an out-of-nowhere mani-pedi. It was high noon. I loved the walk.

The warmth of the sun touching my skin felt like much-awaited kisses from flaming lips (of tongues on fire). There's something outlandishly lovely about soaking up the sun. I would if I could be a solar battery, be a solar battery.

Last night I was feeling blue because I was worried for our employee. Given the circumstances, I feel more concerned about her losing her job. I'm still utterly saddened by it.

Last night I saw our four puppies crawl and try to stand on their paws. One of the four, the darkest bundle of dark coat, was able to stand upright. It was magical, to see such little creature find his first drop of strength to carry himself. He also tried to shit upright that very night, although that second feat was a bit of a failure because his shit was probably too hot to handle.

Life is shit. I feel shit. But it's my shoot tomorrow so I might as well suck it up because if I don't, how the fuck will things get better. I mean, even if I can't imagine any good thing to milk just to make me feel a hint better, I am still enforcing a leave of absolution. I want to get to that point where the heaviest of sins would be absolved in my mind, so the rest of me will follow. I hate to admit, really, but I can't afford to flail.

There are things that are best left unsaid. Then things best left mouthed and read.

LESBIAN BOOK#3 Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters

I always find myself entering a second-hand book store without any idea what to find. Frankly, I trust that the beauty of the visit is in that, in the unknown. The likeliness of finding a gem among abandoned, neglected, dilapidated, and sadly, untouched books shelved and stacked upon stacks of opportunities is titillating for me. It's not that mystery is sexy, but it's alluring, that's for sure.

So one dreary and dry afternoon, I visited Book Sale and found a book by Sarah Waters. If you don't remember Sarah Waters, she is the author of Fingersmith, yet another lesbian novel that I posted about earlier this year. When I read Fingersmith, and liked Waters' style, I knew I wanted to read another book by her but just don't know where to find copies. I didn't want to make a request as that would be too eager, so I released to the Universe and boy did it hear me out. I found a copy of Tipping the Velvet for a very affordable price!

Nothing like two overexposed women to get my attention, thank You for my perversion. I couldn't have found this copy if it weren't for my hawk eye attention to details that refer to women, especially when they're undressed.

First, I have to say, that compared to Fingersmith, Tipping the Velvet rolled slower down my tongue. It was however easier to translate to typical modern affairs of which I myself experience or witness unfold. Of course, there's nothing more lesbian than a story that opens up to a world of oysters. Granted, I expected a sexual anecdote about how one should eat an oyster right--the chance to apply this anecdote has yet arrived--I still found the bits of metaphors that strained and plucked the issues of finding yourself a lesbian lover, and more importantly, persona (?) believable, endearing and oddly enough, comforting.

Tipping the Velvet is hardly a coming out book but it did chronicle how the process of realizing your orientation yourself sometimes hits where it's most unexpected to strike. Although, one may even see Tipping the Velvet as an example of corruption, I see in it my own take on my path as a lesbian: how on the surface it may seem like a choice you need to make, but down to the very center of the feeling, it isn't. I never felt compelled to choose this road because my attraction to the same sex is as natural as liking music, or humming to the silence of a still night.

Speaking of music, Tipping the Velvet heavily draws mystic upon the allure of the grand and dreamy stage. As a place of worship and despair, I would expect many of you would appreciate (maybe celebrate) the part where Tipping the Velvet may be found on Youtube. As always, the book should be better than the movie, but it surely wouldn't hurt to see the halls come to life. The singing and dancing too.

(Disclaimer: I have not tried watching the entire adaptation online, so I would like to apologize in advance should the video sources on YT be insufficient somewhere down the road; but if you're eager to watch how Kitty and Nan's story turns out, you may peruse the video link below and just head on forward from that first cut)

PS. Like Nan, I helplessly fell in love with Kitty too. Odd how she affirmed how much I hope exes stay away to never reappear, even the slightest.

How did you find out you're a lesbian?

Madness

There are times when we set things to keep our ground solid and sturdy. And when these things we set in place quake, it is a bit more difficult to manage. I feel mad. I have grown to see the bribe behind my mom's gifts, so she hates me when I point it out; but I can't help it because that's what she does. She gives me something for something. I guess, in a tragic way of looking at things, I learned That from her. She taught me how people manipulate, etc.

I guess, in a good way, she taught me how to be street smart. But there are forms of smart that I wish I didn't have. Things I wish to unlearn, such as the sharp eye to see a hungry emotion. I wish I didn't know the difference between a need and desire. Only then can I sink into a false reality where the world is sincere, because That I know, I am.

I don't like it when people use and abuse. Most people feel grandly self-entitled and it nauseates me to imagine that the statistics are against what I want. That the likeliness to find someone you can trust and sincerely find dear is low. Sometimes I wish we're not just tiny dots, but I'll settle with wishing that at least we're sparks.

There are days when I feel flailing like an artist on speed. Well, I've never tried speed (or most drugs), but judging by the name, I assume speed makes the background fade into a transgression. This week was a drug-filled week. I was sick beginning Monday evening and until last night. I had zero chances of surviving without paracetamol and to make it worse, I had so much responsibility to attend to (considering the many shoes I strive to fit in). Today, I feel sick to my stomach because my reality is keeping me stagnated to the very dailiness which I hope to change. My parents have placed on my shoulder the responsibility to tend for the family, not directly financially, but I'd like to claim bragging rights that it is so. I don't bring home the bacon but I fucking feed the pigs--and for what? For them to nag on my face that I don't wash the dishes so I can't say if a dishwashing liquid is good or not?

I'm sorry I don't wash their dishes. I eat on my own, since the whole implosion last September. I always feel alone at home, a feeling which I wish to remedy with books. "Nauubos pera mo sa libro ha," my mom would complain. Frankly, I wish I found the guts to reply, I'd rather that than my peace of mind.

At home, I sometimes sleep on the couch because that's where I find myself forgetting my self-inflicted dreariness. I don't watch TV for there really isn't anything good to watch. I wish I could watch DVDs but I can't seem to navigate through our home theater set up for the life of me, so I find silence in books. Books about angels falling, about ghosts haunting, about books missing and people sexxxing (sorry, I just had to). At nights I sleep on the couch, I usually wake up with a hurting back because clearly, a couch is not ideal. But quite frankly, a hurting back is preferred than a heavy mind. Peace is something valuable to me and if it would require a bit (sometimes a lot) of discomfort for my distorted spine, I would still commit.

Sometimes, I sleep on the floor. We have this little carpet that feels like yarn and looks like grass. I like sitting on that carpet probably because I am a cat. I am doomed over things as such.

I'm also doomed to chase, I later realized.

Today, I feel a hurried need to just let this all out while it's raw. Sometimes, people belittle other people because they feel self-entitled to greatness or authority. Sometimes, people set standards a fish can't ever comply to. Sometimes, the world just spins madly in my mind. This post is desert storm.

I miss you.

Conventions and confectioners

My world spun or spiraled, whichever available, yesterday. The day started with a confused bang, then there was coffee, large Fries and a tedious walk under the morning sun. These were then followed by a stolen rest, a stolen time, a stolen glance and a heart stolen by default. It was a conspiracy to deal with the turn of events, but it was also a magical spectacle to have seen it close with a reunion, a gathering if I may, of souls lost in misery and conjunctions, simultaneously.

I was with my tomboy friends last night. It was an impromptu tomboy convention, I can leisurely recall. It was a promise kept and a promise made. It was a promising acquaintance and a knot made to never ever falter against the changing names of gift cards in scrapbooks, well-hidden and structured by dreams.

People may find it hard to believe, but I join the renegade feeling of "feeling friendless". I'm a very out there person, and friendship is something I am open to granting upon first second of intertwining souls; but at the end of the day, I have only a few number of people I can truly, whole-heartedly, confidently and without hesitation, call as my friends. I like it that way.

So last night I was with my friends, two of which were friends since the beginning of time, one of which was a friend made when the beginning of the now spun close. Before that, however, I was with a dear friend who unknowingly achieves the personification of my unseen moonrise. Admittedly, she is unprecedented. I can't put my finger on how she acts towards me, neither can I put my finger on who she is; but I find myself in a comforting tunnel, a faltering abyss of mixed silence and whispers, I don't need to know.

Late in the night, as my unforgiving wooziness got the best of me (thank you BioFlu for allowing me to wake up the next day a bit saner than expected), I concluded that break-ups aren't the reason why relationships end. Relationships end because they stop happening. Relationships stop happening because people cease trying. Sometimes, the causes would be circumstantial, sometimes emotional. Sometimes, the causes would be rational (if you're lucky), but often, the causes would be unspeakable (quite literally). So amidst my running (pun) nose, I decided not to believe in break-ups, as heavily as I decided not to believe in a Catholic God (until they recognize homosexuality as an equal act of love, they can keep their crosses to themselves).

I tried breaking up with her, again, and she won't let me. I don't understand how far she's willing to go every time I am willing to go--so illegal things happened, and once again we're back on square one.

I'd rather believe in fairies. I do.

Black Cat

I think it's really nice to have something annoying and endearing in one fur ball, literally or figuratively. I think tonight, I'd spend some Q-time with our four newborn puppies because I still am unsure whether any (or all) of them would be given away.

So despite the craziness of yesternight, I look forward to the goodness that lies ahead.

This is for you who loves to read, to annoy and to be my cat.

Do you love cats?

5 LDR lessons

"The room suddenly spinning, she walks up at you and asks how you are. So you can smell her perfume, you see her lying naked in her arms."

A few days ago, I have been invited to join this exclusive contest that tackles the sad reality of some, missing out due to distance. I would be blogging about it on my "professional" blog than here, if it wouldn't hurt anyone to have me talk about missing out on life due to distance. I was in a long distance relationship for almost four years. Those four years were hard--but also very easy, come to think of it. Days passed faster, months meant nothing, each minute only mattered when our timelines met. Those four years were valuable, though agreed, there's a unique blend of sadness that flows through the veins of a long distance relationship. There's the anxiety of not knowing, of patiently waiting and of losing one another through the inevitable way life can take away things. Don't get me wrong, I still think long distance relationship's possible, I knew we would've made it if we didn't lose a lot along the way, but it's hard. It's hard to miss out.

So let me give a few thoughts on how to make long distance relationship work. Warning, this is not a success story. This is coming from someone, who learned.

1. Keep lines open.
The harder time is against you, the more those lines should be open. We're lucky we have technology. Imagine how difficult it was ages back when people can only rely on telegrams and snail mail to connect with a loved one living afar. Take advantage of the comforts made available by this modern world. You don't have to talk 24/7, please get some sleep and give each other "psychological space", but bridge that atmosphere with quality conversations so the "geographic space" between you will not grow into an abyss. It's easy to lose things in translation, so be open. Be interested, genuinely. Every little thing you share as a couple would be foundation to what you can share when finally, you beat that distance down to the ground.

2. Celebrate occasions.
I know this may sound funny because you're apart, but the times either of you stayed up late just to greet the other a Happy Valentine counts. See the blessing being apart grants. At least you get extended holidays (her and your timeline means at least 48 hours of Christmas). Greet her. The holidays are painful when you can't spend them with your special someone, with every couple rubbing their togetherness on you even! So greet her. For the mushiness, for the romantic notions and for the comfort it would bring. Never forget the occasions. The things that you can afford to not miss out, take them. They matter.

3. Don't live vicariously through each other. Be your own person.
Make use of the time you don't get to spend together as a time you can dedicate to your own becoming. It's so easy to be so attached to technology, but don't smother each other with attention at the expense of your personal growth. Consider the long distance period as gestation time. It's time for you to grow and nurture that life you will someday share with each other. If you trust in the strength of your relationship, you should trust that living a life individually is not tantamount to foregoing life in a relationship. Growth and space, these are things that long distance couples can very much enjoy while the situation is still less than ideal. Become, then share. It will help each of you gain the respect of the other in the long run.

4. Be optimistic.
We girls are great in being anxious. We girls are amazing at over-analyzing things and even self-deprecation, don't you think? Relax. See the good things in every situation, and people, especially your partner. Dark thoughts are strong and can eat up every hint of light in a situation, it's your duty to keep at least a flicker alive. Don't be too afraid and never forget what lit that little flicker up in the first place. When you always keep in mind what made you risk it all and be in a long distance relationship in the first place, you're bound to surpass every dark corner.

5. Keep your promises.
Trust is the number one thing that makes a long distance relationship capable. Keep your promises, even the little ones, because the little shards of broken promises you collect, they pierce deeply.

So anyway, today wasn't supposed to be the launch of my I Love 5 section but heck. Songs inspire.

Today I felt a good kind of missing, something people who are or have been in a long distance relationship must be familiar with, I assume. It's the type of missing you can feel warm and fuzzy and thankful for. It's the type of missing that serves as a reminder, refresher and even as a re ignition of every promise and every plan you made with your partner, even when she's far.

"You just have to see her, you just have to see her, you just have to see her, you know that she'll break you in two."

Confession, I guess I love ghosts, and You?

When everything is about me.

Today I will make you shift your head to the right, direction.

I guess February is about winning and losing. About the handsome price we pay when we want something, and then some more. Of course life is about some things, some ones, and maybe a lot of some where's if we grant it some of our time. Perhaps February is about the ransom we're forced to relinquish, like a dowry or someone else's money.

For all its worth, February was cold and swiftly turned into a promise of hope, a walking muscle shirt, an idea hiding under moving paper cups, a confirmation of some sort, and then some other worlds too unreal to explain.

"My feelings are my reality"

"But that's not always correct".

"Doesn't change the fact that I feel them."

Last second randomness:
I like being in the middle to meddle and wiggle my silly ass off. What do YOU like?

Jealousy is a lesser evil.

"Are you the jealous type?"

"No."

I'm not a very jealous person. I feel, like I have exhausted majority of my jealous genes when I was a kid--over the most shallow things, like a classmate with a new doll or the one with the highest score in class. But I'm a very demanding person. My pride, though I know when to put it to rest, is very aggressive and fierce. I demand attention, affection, dedication and exclusivity. I don't share--not dessert, not my girl.

So when jealousy flickers in the background, it usually touches my billowing skirts. Then there's fire. An insulting burn that will not go away. I may even dare say, I have been insulted well enough to light up for two people.

So earlier this morning I found out that the Y continued talking/texting/flirting/tweeting the girl she kissed while we were "dating" (in her defense she said she was so drunk and so high--and yes, she lived in a world where drugs was apparently a valid excuse, which of course I worked iron hand on to correct, duh--the other defense was "we're not formally together" so she didn't think it was an issue, but if this was presented in court, then 'your honor, may I say, that the kiss happened the very night she had my initials tattooed on her skin, so if we would validate the "we're not formally together" excuse, your honor, may I request that whatever weight or meaning and value that tattoo earned, be retracted. Thank you.')

I got infuriated. The issue with that girl, who has no playlist, library or even word bank to be proud of, is older than our relationship, was rectified from the very beginning--or so I thought. So I am insulted, disgusted, not jealous cause clearly, can I please be jealous over someone more deserving of my anguish? I'm angered and distrustful.

So this is my Valentine's letter for Y. More than anything, I truly value, my peace of mind.

Dear women, I know that you're worth all the confusion, but recognize, I'm worth the security.

It's not that we're broken up but we're broken. It's not like we live together but we always separate. It's not like we're flailing but it's downhill. It's not like we're hopeless but we fail often. I want someone who wants me so much that's all there is. I don't want to settle for less so let's not be friends, not exes, not estranged, not whatever. I just want us to be good people towards each other. I can't be in this relationship right now, right.now. I want a better love where I can always just be the better person. I'm not removing myself from the picture because I think I'm a problem or because there's a problem. I'm calling it quits because I'm spent. Let's be lovers or friends or names on each other's list. I don't mind. I just want to focus what's left of my self respect to being a good person for me, you, and the people I hate. I always think it's better to kill with kindness. I'm done. You don't have to answer. I didn't ask for anything, which is a mistake I tag myself with. I'm recognizing how the mistakes we've been doing all lead to this close. I hate you. I hate Florence. I hate hate. I'm sorry it's this big. It grew and grew and I didn't ask for you to kill it when I noticed how you weren't being sensitive-anything to save us from this release. I'm sorry for that. On Friday, I want us to meet with clean plates if you still want to meet. I just want to forget, take what I can keep and start anew. I just want to move on from this incredulous turn away. Thank you for writing my name as 8th. I like that infinite number. Symbolically, it's very apt even. Two loops, one sacred point.

Are you the jealous type?

Lamming 1

Let me begin, formally if I may, for we did not begin, properly. We only rustled, witnessed lips and leaves, detach from each arm.

In a notebook, of dotted women, in dire need, of connection and form, my untrained hand, copied, your words, for safe-keeping. My selfish strategem, for remembering, this, but your soul, it came, in creeping waves.

So let me, begin endlessly, this search for tide, rather ground. My darling little mortar, a pounding goddess, my dear, locket of heavy heart.

The eye of the sky, is watching, elephants mourn, the deaths, we share, yet we blame, the trunks of trees, pushing, from each seed.

The secrets, we threw, in casual waves, were collated, by a storm, in, calculating, little squares, a graph, a line understood.

We, have no umbrella, to claim.

If I want to, I would, put a comma, to kill, ev,e,ry, fucking, pe,ri,od.

LESBIAN BOOK#2 Fallen in Love by Lauren Kate

Do you think there's a wanting of lesbian literature in your country?

Cause from where I'm from, I feel like there is. I live in a country where it is painful to admit, our own literature is most likely in a shadowy corner, than the grander center aisles of a bookstore. And in that shadowy corner, is a more shadowy section of gay literature. I always feel a strong rush of excitement when I see a lesbian book when I search my favorite bookstores. It's that rare. Perhaps, the gay community were steps ahead putting their voices and stories in print than us lesbians, I don't know. All I know is, I want more. I want to hungrily devour whatever lesbian literature I can get my hands on--better if its from a local scene.

With that, let me share with you a pleasant surprise I was blessed with last night. Because something happened post-sex, and by sex I mean something else--I just wanted the drama, I couldn't sleep. I decided to start reading this young adult book that I pulled out for one of my book reviews, Fallen in Love by Lauren Kate.

This book cover inspires me to have black hair.

Fallen in Love is part of the Fallen series, a love story between angels. For Fallen in Love, what we have are back stories of the characters of the Fallen series. Think of it as fan fiction, or the unnecessary author response to the typical reader's question "what happened to characters A, B, C?"

Nonetheless, I have to say, I was pleased to find out that within this young adult "supplementary" book, is a lesbian love story. I am very pleased for various reasons, beginning with 1. Fallen in Love is a book with a young targeted demographic. I really think it's important to incorporate such forms of love, heterosexual and homosexual, in the literature we feed the youth nowadays because the issue between the sexes is more alive than ever in this period to which they're born--even blessed with.

But what truly delighted me was the part where in the lesbian chapters, the romantic conflict the author decided to focus on was in the issue between them being angels, not both girls. I have always dreamed of a community where our sexes and preferences would be taken as a matter of flatly. Where to be in love with the same sex is treated with as much normalcy as being in love with the opposite sex is. The lesbian story line in Fallen in Love fed that fantasy. It wasn't a grand story, Fallen in Love wasn't a grand book, but for that effort, I give it my fondness.

I wish to find more lesbian books/stories to share with you. If you know any, please do share with me too.

I worship--

My story usually goes like this, every single thing that she touches, physically or in essence, will be marked. So yes, I am owned upon first handshake. If she gets me a glass of water, and I drink from that glass, I am owned from the insides. Imagine if it's a 3-second embrace.

There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person.

Let me put it this way. If I come to a decision that I like you, you can pick your nose in front of me and I would still like you. You may annoy me down to my last patient gene and I will still like you. I try to pretend, or at least would like to believe that I pull it off, that when I decide that I like a person, I refer to a you-ness that perhaps only I can grasp. No, I don't turn people into a concept. I take the person I like first as a name, then as a concept, til I feel her as a beating muscle, and I reconcile word and flesh. I bridge with her resonating sound, wrap my thoughts with her warmth, fog my mind with her breath, put none to waste, til her last falling hair--I commit to everything. Come as you are, says that song. If I decide that I like you, I'd like you in everything that you are and are not.

It's fascinating how almost always, people who seek my acceptance are those who I'd accept (most likely, have already accepted) in every way possible. There's something completely overwhelming about the way I like a person. It's scary, and almost always, it's because I get too scared myself. So there are words, and there are songs, and there are torn pages, and endless cursors blinking through the midnight's plight. 

From Tumblr

All the cool songs and hard-to-spell words, they're yours. 

I like reading.

Only two things can truly keep me up all night long: a good book and a girl.

So today I decided to re-arrange my bookshelf in search of my seemingly lost copy of Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson. It's such a valuable copy/edition and I feel my heart break a little more every time I fail to find it. Yes, it got a bit more broken today.

On a lighter note. I piled up magazines where I wrote for and ended up with this (sorry, had to remove photo... privacy shit). I think I started writing around 2009, but only on the sides, and I'm quite a happy bee to realize that they're not as few as I thought they were. I got to cover the entire table, yey!

Other than my articles, my Starbucks 2009 2008 planner also resurfaced. This is probably my busiest planner because it has so many add ons and stick ons and whatsoever. It's truly more a scrapbook than a planner. In the spirit of commemoration, let me share with you a lovely conversation, an exchange on paper to be precise, that I got to experience with this girl I "dated" in 2009 2008. She's someone I fondly call K, and it's so interesting how my entries of her feel a bit fresh in my memory. I guess it goes without saying that when something good and honest happens, no matter how badly or even how soon it ends, it's fond to remember the good times.

K: So??? I don't know. I can't judge something that comes from the heart because there is no right or wrong answer. Actually, your "letter" just brings up more questions. I guess I interpreted it differently because I don't know how you felt when you wrote that. Has the person you're writing about read it already???
Me: Yes I think. I gave her a copy. It's a closure letter. Like before I go, I just had to say things I didn't get to say. Do you think it's okay?
K: Hmm... A goodbye letter... S? (S-- WTH I don't know how to spell her name) Yes it's ok... but sounded like you were still hung up on her when you wrote it.
M: S-- yeah, I guess I was but it's okay. Like after I wrote it, I'm good.
K: Hahaha!!! I knew it!!! Sorry sorry sorry. But that was like very recent huh... May, right?
M: Yes. Let me read please (pertaining to a paper she had out)
K: It was for class. About my dog that died. That's it. We had to write it on the spot. It's nothing, and stop changing the subject. So did she reply to your "closure letter"?
M: No she didn't. I'm not changing the topic. I'm begging you to let me read.you. Can't I know you more?
K: Know me? Haha... you won't find out anything from that worthless paper. It was like seatwork. Why do you want to read it so bad?
M: Because I really want to know what's in (points to a drawing on the paper, pointing on the head)
K: Wouldn't you rather like to know what's in (points to a drawing of a heart)
M: I do.
K: So it's better you don't read the paper. I am ashamed of it because it does not show what's in (points to a drawing, two arrows pointing to different things: the head and the heart)
M: Let me read something that's from your heart.
K: Well you have to learn to read me because I don't put it on paper or words because my lame words doesn't do my heart justice.
M: I try, always try my best to read you. I don't know if I do it write :s
K: Haha! No you don't do it RIGHT sometimes (mocking). Am I really that hard to read? If I am, I guess I like it that way.
M: TANGA KO!!! I wish I just cut (class, we were in class at that time, she sat in my class that's why we were exchanging papers) and we just hanged out or something. And yes, I think you're hard to read.
K: Ok. (then she drew a big O and K, encircled the K and put an arrow to it, pointing to an M, that was inside a heart... my college nickname starts with a letter M)

--- June 24 2008

Seriously... 'til now, I have no idea what that wild moment was about!

To those wondering, I figured it'd be proper to begin this post with No Umbrella because to me it's a song that is hugely about seeing things through with a person.

Right now, there's this girl who's territorial. I sometimes wonder if she also wants to own my past--something impossible because the past is over! Sometimes, it comes to a point where I wonder if she'd rather I have an empty past than like this, where I have these stories (bigger than life, or alive more than ever in my mind) where she is not a part of. I don't know if it's wrong to remember, I always figured, it's very honorable to do so.

Today I finished reading one of the books E recommended. I really liked how it ended. There was such a beautiful coming together as the novel reached that inevitable close. It was like a gorgeous display of fireworks where the tiny explosives you planted on air would light up together with the booming sounds and blooming pyro display. I liked how it went down my throat, how it made sense of the different flavors that I had to understand from beginning to end. It was an exquisitely aged wine, washing down the confusion with a just explanation.

When I read the above "memory" off my journal, I remembered how on that first lunch date with E, I got to read a few of her raw words. It was a poem fresh off the furnace, made in class, probably as her mind floated away. She immediately and rudely pulled the paper off my hand and I never got to read that particular poem again. She said she would email me a better poem, that she's just a bit too shut about her words especially when they're not yet on their final and polished stages. She emailed me already, but I'm still unsatisfied. I'm truly insatiable, I will not argue with that; but reading above "memory" reminded me of how she said she would also send me that very poem, once it's finalized.

I wonder how much waiting would cost, this time.

Some answers 3: Warmth

A friend asked, "what is light/warmth/affection?" as if I knew how to answer, and I took the responsibility of indulging as if I have answers to betroth. This friend is the becoming of scratched surface and wine, FYI. I have no idea why she would bother seek my thoughts, though if it's because my mind is hardly locked in her presence, I shall never know. She said she knew pain and tenderness, perhaps like a bruise that never heals. But I think when she said she knew longing and loss, the "little" that she comprehends about loving isn't so little at all.

Is it just me or has it been cold lately? This Christmas weather is long overdue. I can only imagine what it feels like for people who like their holiday weather to happen during the holidays--lack of order must be painful for some.

I on the other hand am enjoying this chilly season. I think it's beautiful to surrender to things you can't control nor really expect in the first place (ie. weather, people).


What is warmth?
It is when you cup your hand and you put it near your nose, you smell home brewing your favorite soup just like when you're ailing and all there is you need of this life is a gentle broth of another person's care.

TMI, few nights ago I slept naked because the situation called for nakedness. It wasn't really because of sex, not even because someone wanted to insinuate sex, but rather because nakedness just felt fit. And in that moment of vulnerability, I just had to lose myself to this pressing need to finally answer the last question E asked me to answer, what is warmth?

Perhaps there's no better way to discover its meaning than in the openness I was at, at that time. Turn the dial to three years from now and I believe I would even dare say, warmth is the contradiction of what we know as cold. That what defines point A is point B--my least preferred definition, that of which is co-dependent to another, as if we can't find meanings on our own.

In constant solitude.

But the absence of thread made me think, warmth is not what your wrap yourself with--fur or person. Warmth is what lights you up. I laughed a little, sooo not what you want to hear when in a state of shared nakedness, but I did. I wouldn't forgive E for entering my mind that time, but I give it to her, yet another point taken.

Warmth is what lights you up. (What is light? here)

It is what triggers you to feel rage and compassion from one minute to the next. I think warmth is the confusion that awakens every dormant organ to life. Suddenly, you pee a little bit more. Suddenly, it feels a bit colder today. Warmth is that enriched feeling of sense. That little blank space where everything beyond the line, though completely incomprehensible makes sense.

If I may dare say, warmth is also your mind playing tricks on you. It is the mystery that may never die, but may easily be displaced so let me share one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books: Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.

"It's not at all unusual for love to remain for a lifetime. It's passion that doesn't last. I still love my first husband. But I don't desire him. Love lasts. It's lust that moves out on us when we're not looking, it's lust that always skips town--and love without lust just isn't enough."

Warmth on the get-go is a desire for something. Maybe a person, maybe an event, maybe even just an answer. Because to me, when I get really nervous, I turn really pale and cold and my voice takes on a higher pitch and a faster slur. But at the end of that wild moment, all the blood in me rushes up my face and I settle with the warmest regards to experience, a charge at having tried--because I can't say I didn't.

Especially because I would even dare, since my engine's warmed up right now, I would even dare insist that my name is a palindromic distraction.

As conclusion, let me share the last of the answers that I needed to ask for.

I decided to ask this young adult book that I bought today because there's nothing more refreshing than a quote made for a child's mind.
1. What does she think of me? 
"I wondered if the dimples on his back enabled water to travel over his body more quickly and if that gave him more life than having regular dorsal fin. I watched him swim." 
Grayson by Lynne Cox

I decided to ask my long-overdue copy of The Glass Castle because I thought the question required an intelligent answer.
2. What should I we do about this? 
"Stop the truck. We can make it on our own from here." 
The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls

I asked none other than Antoine de Saint-Exupery's words for this because I think he knows best to figure out the essentials that the eyes can't see.
3. Is this cheating? 
"One of the miracles of the airplane is that it plunges a man directly into the heart of mystery." 
Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Since I'm asking about worth, I decided to ask a Business book.
4. If yes, is this worth it? 
"Those who say theory 'isn't the real world' don't understand what theory is."
101 Things I Learned in Business School by Michael W. Preis with Matthew Frederick

Fin

February Stars - Foo Fighters

here until I'm gone
I'm right where I belong
just hanging on
even though I watched you come and go
how was I to know
you'd steal the show?

one day I'll have enough to gamble
I'll wait to hear your final call
and bet it all
I'm hanging on
here until I'm gone
right where I belong
just hanging on

even though I pass this time alone
somewhere so unknown
it heals the soul

you ask for walls
I'll build them higher
we'll lie in the shadows of them all
I'd stand but they're much to tall
and I fall

february stars
floating in the dark
temporary scars
february stars