"And I don't feel like singing tonight

All the same songs.."

--City, Sara Barreiles

They all told me: NO.

I understand why they say No, so you have to understand why I say Yes.

STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL

not NON-EXISTENT.

NO WAY OUT

and here i thought Law School was my easy way out of working for a TV Station.


I was dead wrong.

Treading Water

"The only thing that can shatter a man and bring him to tears is the woman he loves."


I say:

"And one thing that can hurt a woman more than being left by the man she loves, is being the person that man runs to when he is shattered by the woman he loves."




I am not a fan of masochism, or being a martyr. I am not a hopeless romantic, nor am I a love fool. But something is making me hurt from the insides and there is a constant pain in my chest where my heart should be. I know the remedy is you, but how do i remedy the pain, when I know the pain is because of you?


We all have the tendency to forget why we are here swimming in suffocating situations, so we tread water to remember why we are here, drowning.

Internal Conflict

I know where I stand, but I fear dwelling in my own place.

So I float aimlessly in circles, stagnant.

Eulogy

There was a boy I used to love.

I met him when I was fresh out of highschool - eager to be in a new world, eager to be a different person. I met him when I was trying to figure out who I was, what I wanted, who I wanted to become.

We lasted for almost three years, and while I was with him, I experienced almost all of the emotions one undergoes while one is in a relationship. It was hard, harder than I thought it would be, harder than I wanted it to be. What I thought was an intimate, physical relationship turned out to be one of the long-distance type. I held on, I held on much longer than I should have, much shorter than I wanted to... I held on with high hopes, with vivid dreams and unsatiable longing.

I was content, I knew I could make do with just emotional attachment. But he couldn't. And like most relationships, it had to end.

I found it very very very excruciatingly hard to let go of him, after all, he knew me inside out. He knew when to shut up, and he knew exactly what to say at the exact moment. It was hard to let go of him, to get over him because he was there when I was trying to build myself. He was there when I was trying to be me. He knew me. He knew me so well, and I believe that at that time, he knew me better than I knew myself. I needed him. I needed him to keep me sane, I needed him to remind me how it was to be whole. I needed him. I needed him so much I didn;t know how it was to be without him.

I tried so hard to hold on to relationship that I knew was about to end. We were different, so similar but so different. We lived in different worlds, matured in different ways, different on how we saw our relationship, and met different people along the way. There were hollow parts in his life I could not fill, that I will never be able to fill. I knew that the last time he said goodbye that it was for good, that he was going somewhere where there was no space for me.

All I wanted for him was to become a better man. To beome a better man for himself, for me. All I wanted for him was what he wanted for himself, and what he wanted did not include me. I was forced to let him go, I had to let him go. I should have let him go.

Yet I tried to save us, I tried to save us high water or hell. I wanted to save us. But it was something that couldn't be saved. He didn't want it to be saved. By that time, I already forgot how it was not to be with him.

When he left, he left a big whole in who I was. It was such a big whole that I got sucked in in the emptiness. It was an emptiness that ate me alive, that lingered til there was nothing else to feel but nothingness. I got sucked in in that emptiness too much that I became numb, stoic, jaded and indifferent.

Then I found myself, then I found my way back home.

And then I talked to him lately and all it did was surface forgotten emotions. After all, I still have a soft spot for him. I loved him, and I always will. I will always love the Lance I loved 5 years ago. The Greta that existed 5 years ago will always love that boy, that man. There will always, always be a spot for him in my heart. Because no matter what anybody says, I loved him, I loved him with everything that I had. I loved him fully. I loved him faithfully. I loved him with a love so whole that it left me empty when he left. I loved him too much that I lost myself in the process. And I am sorry that I lost myself.

Now, he keeps reminding me that now is different, that we can never go back to who we were. He keeps reminding me that he can never love me the way he loved me before. He keeps telling me to move on because he already has.

Truth is, I've moved on. I have learned how to fill the emptiness that he left inside me. I have a new life now. And I am tired of playing games, I just want to be friends with a man that was a big part of my life.

The Legend of Shitty Ideas

A friend read to me a text message she received:

"Never hold in a fart. It goes up your spine and into your brain. And this is where you get shit ideas from."

Eureka! Now I know why some people are full of crap.

BANG or BREAK

One thing I would really want to do right now: BANG MY HEAD AGAINST THE WALL.


Not in a very emo-ish type of way.


It just feels right.


I feel like my bones are breaking inside and I know exactly why I feel that way. But since I'm very stubborn, I just sit still and listen to my bones break -- listening to every crack. I feel like there some big, ominous, unwavering forcefield around my brain blocking every single sane, rational, logical thought. And I desperately feel the need to take that forcefield down that banging my head against concrete wall sounds, well, a pretty good idea.


It's not that I feel stupid. It's just that I feel both the need to stop feeling and the lack of urge to to actually act on my urges all at the same time.


So even if I believe that banging my head against the wall is something that I should be doing right now, I'm not hearing any thuds. I'm just hearing the same cracking noise from my bones.


No. I'm not depressed, nor am I sad or hurting or lonely. It's just amusingly painless when it should really be excruciating. And what's even more interesting is that I'm starting to like the sound of my bones cracking. But then again, I like having my bones whole and unfractured, hence the urge to make thudding sounds with my head against concrete.


Hah! So I really have to choose soon, bang my head against the wall or hear my bones break until there's nothing left to break. Hmmm...

ON PAPER TOWELS AND PEOPLE WHO KEEP SPILLING THE MILK

There's no point crying over spilled milk. You get a paper towel and wipe it off.


Yeah.
Right.
Sure.
Ok.
Fine.
Hah.


Im one of the laziest people on earth -- no, that would be an understatement -- i am a sloth. Wiping and cleaning are not on my list of fun (and necessary) things to do. But I am patient, not very patient but patient enough to put together as much paper towels as physically possible and get down on all fours to wipe off other clumsy (sometimes stupid) people's mess.



Someone spills the milk. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe.

Sister spills the milk. Wipe. Wipe. Whine. Wipe. Wipe. Whine. Whipe.

Brother spills the milk. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Whine. Whine. Wipe.....Wipe.

Mother spills the milk. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Whine. Whine. Wipe.

Father spills the milk. Whine. Whine. Whine. Wipe. Whine.....Whine. Wipe.

Friend spills the milk. Wipe. Wipe. Wipe. Whine. Whine. Whine......Whine.



But people can only spill so much milk. And I run out of paper towels too.



See, I don't even like milk that much. Clearly, I hate cleaning. But the stain of spilled milk on my otherwise perfectly spotless marble floor is like a scorned, nagging bitch haunting me to sleep. And that is not a very appealing way to spend my very very precious time alloted to turning off the reality of back-stabbing friends, a non-existent lovelife, a "floating" career and well, an absolutely moneyless christmas.



Testing my patience on wiping and cleaning seems to be the fad. And people seem to think I never run out of milk -- or paper towels. Apparently, they sometimes even think that they can deny spilling the milk.

(Yeah sure. The milk magically jumped out of the fridge and spilled itself all over the damned floor. How stupid am I to think otherwise. Im sorry. I was very judgemental. To make it up to you, I will clean up the mess. Stupid milk. Stupid, stupid, idiotic, moronic, stupid milk.)



I am patient but I am not that patient. I am trying... very very very very hard to fight the urge to shove my now filthy paper towels down their stinking, rotten throats. It really takes a hell lot of effort to restrain myself from becoming a serial throat stuffer. Shackles are welcome any day.



When milk gets spilled:

a) wipe it off with a paper towel and hope and pray to all the gods that they would actually find it in their selves to replace it.

b) buy a new carton of milk, duh.

c) leave it there to curdle, to hell with the damned floor and go get a bottle of ice cold beer.


I go for C.