There's drunk driving, drunk dancing or singing, drunk texting... And then there's drunk blogging. And I did it first.
I'd probably be deleting this tomorrow morning, as soon as I sober up. But hell, Edgar Allan Poe created his best works while under the influence. So who am I to fight the urge?
I am not really drunk, just a little tispy. I have earned this tolerance of alcohol over the past years. Being intrapersonally intelligent, if I may add, helps control your tongue in the presence of liquor as well. I have definitely learned to shut the fuck up.
This reminds me of the many drinking sessions in the past in which my then boyfriends would suddenly tell me that I have had enough because I was already getting annoyingly and incontrollably talkative. I, in turn, would stupidly wonder how the hell they knew.
The thing about being drunk is really not about letting the moron in you shine, but having an excellent excuse to say what you want to say wherever and whenever you want it. Alcohol fogs the logic. It puts you in the perfect stance to voice out the thoughts that should have been in the brain recycle bin. It liberates.
Saying all of these while alcohol is swiftly taking over me is like deciding to cheat on my partner. It's like spilling somebody else's secrets. I really am not making sense here.
I would love to talk about love right now. Love seems to be an ideal topic in times like these, but I'd rather not, lest I be accused of being old-fashioned and too predictable. Let me just say that love, as proven by all the other drunks that have attempted to define it before me, always , always, looks more astonishing when lighted by uncorrupted honesty and unadulterated truth. In human terms, it is best expressed when one is unapologetically true to what he or she feels at any given moment. Such as when one is awfully drunk.
I am watching The Notebook right now. You know how some movies could make you believe you can marry Ryan Gosling...
I should get some sleep. Really, I should. But I do hope you had the initiative to ignore some words I might have misspelled along the way.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Dear Phantom
I should have asked for your name.
I thought about this as I made my way across the open court, crushing some dried leaves as I sluggishly walked on. My shoulders drooped and it felt as if my sling bag had suddenly weighed a million tons more. You were not there.
Part of me would like to give myself a good spanking for, would you believe, not doing anything about it when I had a chance and the other is still rolling its eyes in disappointment while asking, "Are you kidding me?"
When I decided not to get married, I realized that the root does not lie in my incapacity to love but in my inabilty to stay committed. Whenever I find myself in a long-term relationship, there would always come a point in which I would feel as if my life is about to be contained within the four walls of a box and thus the urge to wriggle out of my would-be cage would persist.
I've read once that in this world, females are born to be farmers. They plow the field, plant seeds and nurture them. They are the soil from which life is sowed and reaped. Males, on the other hand, are hunters. They must leave and brave the perils of the wild in order to provide. Such is their task.
That is the problem. In this life, I am the hunter. And what I have realized from experience is that when you assume the role of a hunter, the other person, as if by nature, automatically becomes a farmer. This shift, much to my disillusionment, becomes inevitable.
This leads me to think that, perhaps, what I need is another hunter. This sounds ideal. But then the skeptic in me would say that, knowing the person that I am, the setup might just lead to a clash of egos. I am better off alone, really.
I have been arguing with myself a lot lately. But as they say, it is not always about finding the answers, but learning to enjoy the questions.
So with this, I guess you would remain to be a question. Your name, your age, your job, everything. And I would enjoy spending the following Saturdays trying to imagine how you'd look without your square framed glasses or how that boyish grin of yours would always disarm me and how you have absolutely no idea about it. Expect me as well to replay the only conversation I had with you which lasted for about 40 seconds. Or that amusing moment when you were about to go out of the room then all of a sudden you turned around, reminded me of a paper that needs to be submitted the following week and strode off. I stood there, dumbfounded. I went down the stairs with this retarded smile on my face, I tell you.
And then yesterday, I scanned the room hoping to find you. You were not there. I sank back at my chair, disappointed. I felt like a stupid adolescent in her mid-twenties. I listened to the two-hour lecture with your absence at the back of my head. You were gone, just like that. Just like when you strode off after reminding me of that paper.
Was I in love then? No, I don't think so. If I were, you would be virtually stalked by now. I just love the idea of you being a phantom. It somehow fulfills this desire to be deprived of something I think I would like to have. My thirst for challenge. The thrill of the chase. Whatever you would like to call it.
I am thinking now that perhaps I was right not to have asked for your name. Unmasking you would have diminished this desire altogether. Remember that there are some things that are meant to be admired only from afar.
I see us aboard a train one of these days. And I am certain, you would be the man staring at me from the other side.
I thought about this as I made my way across the open court, crushing some dried leaves as I sluggishly walked on. My shoulders drooped and it felt as if my sling bag had suddenly weighed a million tons more. You were not there.
Part of me would like to give myself a good spanking for, would you believe, not doing anything about it when I had a chance and the other is still rolling its eyes in disappointment while asking, "Are you kidding me?"
When I decided not to get married, I realized that the root does not lie in my incapacity to love but in my inabilty to stay committed. Whenever I find myself in a long-term relationship, there would always come a point in which I would feel as if my life is about to be contained within the four walls of a box and thus the urge to wriggle out of my would-be cage would persist.
I've read once that in this world, females are born to be farmers. They plow the field, plant seeds and nurture them. They are the soil from which life is sowed and reaped. Males, on the other hand, are hunters. They must leave and brave the perils of the wild in order to provide. Such is their task.
That is the problem. In this life, I am the hunter. And what I have realized from experience is that when you assume the role of a hunter, the other person, as if by nature, automatically becomes a farmer. This shift, much to my disillusionment, becomes inevitable.
This leads me to think that, perhaps, what I need is another hunter. This sounds ideal. But then the skeptic in me would say that, knowing the person that I am, the setup might just lead to a clash of egos. I am better off alone, really.
I have been arguing with myself a lot lately. But as they say, it is not always about finding the answers, but learning to enjoy the questions.
So with this, I guess you would remain to be a question. Your name, your age, your job, everything. And I would enjoy spending the following Saturdays trying to imagine how you'd look without your square framed glasses or how that boyish grin of yours would always disarm me and how you have absolutely no idea about it. Expect me as well to replay the only conversation I had with you which lasted for about 40 seconds. Or that amusing moment when you were about to go out of the room then all of a sudden you turned around, reminded me of a paper that needs to be submitted the following week and strode off. I stood there, dumbfounded. I went down the stairs with this retarded smile on my face, I tell you.
And then yesterday, I scanned the room hoping to find you. You were not there. I sank back at my chair, disappointed. I felt like a stupid adolescent in her mid-twenties. I listened to the two-hour lecture with your absence at the back of my head. You were gone, just like that. Just like when you strode off after reminding me of that paper.
Was I in love then? No, I don't think so. If I were, you would be virtually stalked by now. I just love the idea of you being a phantom. It somehow fulfills this desire to be deprived of something I think I would like to have. My thirst for challenge. The thrill of the chase. Whatever you would like to call it.
I am thinking now that perhaps I was right not to have asked for your name. Unmasking you would have diminished this desire altogether. Remember that there are some things that are meant to be admired only from afar.
I see us aboard a train one of these days. And I am certain, you would be the man staring at me from the other side.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
At Random
I lack sleep. And this is making me forgetful. Or more forgetful than I already am, to be exact. I have dark circles around my eyes and my weight is ever diminishing. I am unhealthy and I know that. My friends bug me to eat more than I can take every damn time and they never fail to remind me just how malnourished I look these days. They even went as far as turning my weight issues into their personal project: the operation make chang gain weight. I am so touched, really.
Work eats up most of my time. Because of this, I consciously make time for things that would pluck me out of robot mode. I went to a bar with friends two nights ago and had the time of my life. A bartender tried to hit on me and I just had to mentally laugh. I just celebrated my first successful month as a single, unattached yet totally happy lady. Clearly, these people don't know what they're getting at.
I would like to ramble some more but sleep is luring me to its den. Good night, folks!
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