Obituary

Her mediocrity has been staring at her in the face, so she put a bullet in her head. It's the only redemption left, the end choice among all Ends.

Chai asks, How do you quit someone

you gather the hurt in the chest one last time, let it spread all over, kill it. and if you fail there, act like you've forgotten him, it's the only escape-route left from looking desperate

6th thought bubble:

It's raining strawberries and apples. Wow.

7th thought bubble:

For Thommas. Bubble, bubble, bubble, rumble bubbles in your inbox bubble.

5th thought bubble:

Watching a thousand droplets of water from a faulty faucet is therapeutic.

4th thought bubble:

Puerto del Sur, Puerto del Sur, Puerto del Sur, that could be the name of a planet.

3rd thought bubble:

I miss Thommas. Even if he has short hair now and Even if it looks better on him.

2nd thought bubble:

Hehehe.

1st thought bubble:

Stupify me. And don't ask me what the word means.

Coffee again

Can't understand the world lately. Wanna suspend myself in Alone Zone and paste thought bubbles in the air.

Everything...

is a downer lately.
Except maybe Thommas who's a perpetual shooting star.
Whatever.

Tonight,

the moon is an undecided smile.

My story is I saw a cat yesterday afternoon

On the roof of a running car. He looked so shocked, must have woken up from sleep. The driver, I assume, doesn't know a pusang kalye is there. I want to be the cat, bag-ong mata, nakuratan, nagtan-aw sa mga nagdagan nga mga balay ug makalipong nga dan. I want to be the driver, nag-drive, munaog, unya makuratan sa iring, makatawa.

So, today I'm clean

Any day, any day at all, could be, would be, all depends if I ought to say it is.
But today is the day I choose.

Among other reasons, it is a holiday (a holy day, holy-day, holi-day, ho-u-li-dey, sing allelujiah, take the jump).

Another is the silence of it, the incomprehensible idea of a day born from a calendar that doesn't know how to end, or, really, doesn't even know how to begin, what to begin with.

Next is the disappearing act of those around me, a theatrical exit from all corners, all corners empty, hallway empty, heavy with the absence of sound, or, the presence of myself, alone, stripped, naked in front of the TV playing pop music videos, and then on the bed, Love in the Time of Absence.

Fourth reason: state reason, examine my mind, check my cellphone inbox, call some people, ask, answer, think, think, think, something, something, something somewhere, ah, the make-up kit, a mirror. Foreign locals. Surprise walls. Dust-driven mind. Hanging clothes. Guitarists. Magicians. Choppy English. Good god, it's a holiday, I should ride a random bus.

Comfort (an excerpt from Alice Munro's short story Comfort)

The disease had three styles of onset. One involved the hands and arms. The fingers grew numb and stupid, their clasp awkward and then impossible. Or it could be the legs that weakened first, and the feet that started stumbling, soon refusing to lift themselves up steps or even over carpet edges. The third and probably the worst sort of attack was made on the throat and tongue. Swallowing became unreliable, fearful, a choking drama, and speech turned into a clotted flow of importunate syllables. It was the voluntary muscles that were affected, always, and at first that did indeed sound like a lesser evil. No misfirings in the heart or brain, no signals gone awry, no malicious rearrangements of the personality. Sight and hearing and taste and touch, and best of all intelligence, lively and strong as ever. The brain kept busy monitoring all the outlying shutdown, toting up the defaults and depletions. Wasn't that to be preferred?

For the love of God and all stories that can be written in one email

Stop telling me who I am because even I don't know myself yet. Get your own mirror. Spell sex. Eat Western food. Find a decent job. Rebel. Travel. Introduce yourself as the assasin. Or, introduce yourself as a nun. Pray. Excuse me. Excuse yourself. Smoke. Sing Britney Spears. Get the governor to talk. Say you deserve love. Say you prefer the internet. Talk to it. Talk to me. Watch the moon. Wish you were a fisherman. Smell fish. Love me. Hate me. Swim because there's nowhere else to go to. Dread birthdays. Forget anniversaries. Disconnect.

Inevitably, strip.

I met a man

It's all about timing, I guess. He came, or I came, at a time when things are beginning to take hold on both our worlds. Or the worlds of the people around us.Some nights I think there's a grand plan somewhere, that no matter how this part of my life ends, it IS for the taking, now, today, tomorrow, and the day after that, while there is still something to hold on to. Some nights I fear I will lose this again, drive him away, tip the balance-scale dangerously, suddenly, surprising him, hitting him in the middle of the night, while he sleeps beside me, or while I sleep beside him, when nothing with the day that just passed by said something, something is about to happen, an inevitable running away.