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i hate expectations. i hate them because they change the way you look towards your future. i hate it because you learn to actually think that everything will go the way you want it to. because you expect it to.
expectations also change the way you look and react to the output. expect too much, and you get as disappointed as hell. nothing wrong with hoping, and wishing. but expecting? damn! i've ruined all expectations of my family members from me. if they didn't expect in the first place, there would've been nothing ruined. DON'T EXPECT. accept whatever turns out.
i'm being watched by the public. having a grandfather who has a phd and who used to be the vice-chancellor doesn't help. being the daughter of the author of your textbook obviously still doesn't help. being a close family friend of the current chancellor and the current dean. being connected to almost everyone who's ANYBODY in this town in some way is NOT a big help at all! my every move is watched. every little thing i do is reported to my grandparents.
having a boyfriend who has an even higher profile than mine? HAHA. paparazzi please. life's MY bitch.
i like being treated as one of the guys. they like me for who i am, they can be themselves around me and not have to act gentlemanly. i like the feeling that no one can harm me when i'm with them.
being one of the guys has downsides too. i get to see all their disgusting habits because they don't try to hide anything from me. and i can't understand why other girls are going gaga over them.
sometimes though, it won't hurt to be treated like the girl i really am. and one guy does it just right. :)
Once again got left behind by the jeepney. Jet scowled and he kidded, "It's all right for you to get left behind because I'm always here to take you home, huh?"
I answered back defensively, "You don't have to take me home! I can go home by myself!"
As we crossed the street, the cold wind blew, giving some sort of aura. I stopped walking and said in a soft voice, "seriously, you don't have to."
He glanced at me.
"BUT I WANT TO."
I couldn't wipe off the stupid grin on my face as I walked faster to catch up with him. I pushed him and we started laughing.
They look at her and follow her every move with their eyes all because she has straight hair, very fair skin, tall, curvacious, wearing a tank top and a very very short miniskirt. Then when she disappears from sight, they all forget about her until the next chick passes by.
They pull our hair, they curse at us, they give us high fives and cigarette sticks. They talk to us even when we're just in shirts and jeans. According to them, we're not "chicks". Or at least, not
chicks because they see us as pals.
Funny? Funny and weird.
i'm now watching her undergo the same angst, hate, love, confusion and frustration i used to feel because of him. the feeling that you just want to scream, hit someone let out all the anger bottled up inside. and then you decide that you hate him--you hate him so much for making you feel hurt, feel angry, feel worthless and feel so much pain all at the same fucking time. then you realize you hate yourself more--because of how much you love him and how much it hurts because you know that no matter what,
you always will
someday i'll find the guts to tell you
you'll know you made me stop drinking for a year. someday, i'll be able to tell you how your every move, every word made me act the way i acted. i'll talk to you about the confusion, pain and frustration you made me undergo. someday you'll know that you're the only reason behind my smiles and tears then. and someday, i'll tell you how much i hated you for making me fall that hard. i'll also tell you how much you're making my bestfriend suffer the same fate as i did.
you can scream, you can cry, you can throw stuff. you can hit someone or hurt yourself. you can punch the wall, punch a mirror, punch anything. you can drink, drink, and continue drinking until you fall into a deep sleep. you can smoke a billion packs until you can no longer breathe. you can eat a hundred ice cream cones.
but really, it helps to talk. talk over beer, talk over a wound. talk over shattered glass. talk over an ashtray. a friend will let you hit her and will hug you sooo tight that you'll calm down soon.
i only cry when something really BIG is up. but i also cried over the smallest of things EVER:
pizza, shoes and moccha frappe
? because i couldn't eat it with my hands and bite it. i had just had my braces. seeing everyone bite their teeths into that cheesy mess was just too tear-jerking. i cried over
a pair of shoes
because i was so in love with them, i could afford them, that was the last pair and they didnt fit me. *sigh*
the moccha frappe? that was major after all and i'm not writing it here.
i am currently buried under tons of papers, reports, speeches, and projects. summer is coming up in just about two weeks. but before freedom, i must first fight this truckload of work. i lack sleep and time. i'm always in a hurry, always cramming.
and you know what's weird? i'm loving every second of it even though i complain. it excites me--the pressure. the more things i have to do, the more i realize that this is really what i was made for. this is what i want to do when i graduate. the media is waiting for me.
to the empty seat beside me in DEVC11 Lecture Class, Lectura Room 1 2nd floor of the Development Communication Building, UPLB,
you used to be the chair for one of our classmates. i didn't get to know her because i seldom attended this class at the beginning. but i remember she was dark, she was quiet, she looked lonely and a bit chubby. that's all i can remember. i wonder when i'll be seeing her again. not anytime soon, i'm sure because our prof had just announced that she has dropped the subject. i wonder why. do you know why?
"Time to wash your filthy sneakers!"
NO WAY. My black Chuck Taylors have never ever been washed in the three years I've had them. i don't intend for them to be washed. They may be filthy, torn and look like 100 centuries old but I don't give a damn. These shoes have been on my feet for only so long and have carried great memories. Fights and falling in love. The times I got drunk. When I ran away. They've witnessed my happiest, saddest, angriest moments. Though a bit ruined and hell dirty, they still stand strong. Just like me.
along the sidewalk are vendors, stretchildren, and homeless oldies. there's a new addition. she sells necklaces with weird pendants and amulets and there's a sign beside her about fengshui, tarot card reading, divination...
why do people want to know about their future? so they can have assurance? so they know what to do to change their future in case they don't like what's predicted? i've lived 16 years of my life not knowing what's going to happen next and if i live the rest of my life like that, that's not a problem for me. not all surprises are bad. :)
"He loves me. I'm sure of it. I can feel it, that's why I know. He doesn't have to tell me. I can see it in the way he acts. He's really sweet. He always says hi to me whenever we see each other. But he's not my crush. I like someone else. Oh, and he's an older man--he's in 5th grade. He likes Naruto, he's very sweet too. But he hurts me too, you know. But I'd rather not talk about it because it pains me."
--the simplicity of love by a six-year old girl holding a Barbie doll.
I want to know what it feels like to be dead. But they say that when you're dead, you feel nothing. We don't realize it? Because we're not supposed to realize, feel or know anything? Will we remember how we died? NO? Because we're not supposed to remember anything? What will heaven or hell be like? Will we know because we're not allowed to know anything? It's a big frustration! Wanting to know what no one can know, itching to feel what mustn't be felt. Death, must be a really big adventure. When we die, what's next? Is it really the end?
I'd like to think I'm the color purple, color of royalty. It's cheerful and solemn, depending on the shade. I can be lavender--quiet at rare times and I can be dark purple--very intense. I can also be turquoise--unique, a lively color--a very "smiley" one if you know what I mean. Orange? Because I'm generally optimistic. Pink? Most definitely not--I'm not girly. I also think I have a bit of gray in me--I have a lot of secrets that you wouldn't know at once when you first lay your eyes on me.
don't try hiding anything. you're not used to talking about yourself but you just have to accept that you can hide nothing from me. i know when your mood swings are and when something's up. don't ask me how i know--i just do. and though i always say that if you ever do that to yourself again i'll be angry, i really won't. i'll always be here telling you to stop though i know you won't. always available to treat you ice cream and if it comes to the point that you want to kill him, i'm still here.
"I dreamed about this girl. In my dream, I knew her. My first time to see her but I felt as if I already knew her. I HAVE to meet her in real life."
Rovel said this days before the start of the second semester. I laughed and though it would be simply awesome if he DID get to meet her. so imagine my surprise when..
on the first day of the semester, Rovel said, "I saw her. She's my classmate in one of my subjects!"
How amazing that would be, I thought--to find the person of your dreams.
just finished reading a 100words entry about someone going on and on about how great a first kiss is. which led me to think about MY first kiss.
there were certain circumstances that dictated that it wasn't allowed. i cared a lot for him but i never knew what he felt for me. it wasn't allowed for us to feel anything more for each other. he was a rebel--always angry at everyone but he always treated me with care. i always felt safe with him but there was also an element of danger because we knew we could never be.
It will be one year already since the addictive computer game, DoTA (Defense of the Ancients) brought us together. It was a field not many girls dared to enter--gaming was a guy's forte. But we gathered enough courage to try, our egos suffered a bit because of always being laughed at. But we learned. Yes, we did learn. About DoTA heroes, item builds, skills, teamwork, leadership, following. We learned to be there for each other, never to leave one in a battle. We learned to support each other all the way and we found real friends in each other.
Looking through my past blogs. Reminiscing. Laughing about the past because things are so much different now. Last year, around this time, I was going on and on about how high school is about to end and what college must be like. I declared that in a span of four years, I changed into a completely different person. Well now that my first year in college is almost over, what can I say? I know I've changed. I also know that some of the changes that happened to me may be worth more than all the changes that happened then.
Why do you envy me? You have no reason to. You have no reason to want to be me. Don't ask. Please just don't. You may think I'm confident, but the truth is I'm just as insecure as most people. More often than not, I look down on myself. I like to joke around, and make people laugh. All of it are cover-ups. I try to avoid self-pity. I know I've a lot of things to be thankful for. But it's unavoidable. I guess you'll only understand when you're in my place. And don't ever wish for that to happen.
One of the things I hate most about myself is that I'm a pleaser. That's why I suck at decision making--I know whatever decision I make, someone gets hurt. But I just really hate disappointing people. I hate the disappointed look on their faces. Most of all, I hate disappointing myself.
I am myself's worst pleaser
--I just cannot be satisfied with myself. I can't count the few times I've stared in a mirror and realize that I am not happy with who I am--with every single thing that I am. And i start to hate myself for it.
I am so fucking angry I don't know what to write about. But I know I want to write. And I will write. And noone will stop me.
AAAAAARRRRRGGGHHH! I've never felt frustration like this--the kind that clings to your back and clings even more when you try to leave it behind. It catches up with you faster each time until you stop running. You completely stop running and you feel it coming even closer and closer, suffocating you until it consumes you. You scream, but your mind and heart know that it's no use to fight back anymore.
The Sandman is my friend. He never asks anything from me, and he always seems to know what will make me happy. Once he has sprinkled my eyes with dream dust, I am carried off into the world that has everything I want--to the world that I control, the world that follows my every whim. Every morning, as the sun's rays melt the dust off my eyes, I find it harder and harder to leave the loyal Sandman behind.
But something must have happened for today the Sandman is my enemy. In my deepest dreams, everything simply went wrong.
I suddenly miss the taste of beer, gin or any alcoholic drink. I miss the taste of danger, the lovely taste of risk and warning. I miss the fuzzy feeling in my brain. I miss walking in zigzags, saying stupid and funny things all because I've drunk too much. The feeling that I can do anything I want and the others can't do anything about it--because I'm drunk. It's a valid excuse. I miss vomiting and sleeping with a light head after that. I miss waking up with the taste of blurriness still on my lips. I really miss drinking.
I love writing, no question about that. I love writing about my thoughts, about people's lives and I want my works to affect people. Imagine my glee when I made someone cry because of one of my stories.
However, I hate writing when it's required. And right now, I am in the middle of writing six--I repeat, SIX--articles for my Development Communication Class. I hate having to pass my articles and having to revise and pass again. I hate it that I have to edit my own work because I feel as if I'm destroying its very soul.
Whenever i write stories, I already have a plan of what I want to write about. I know what I want to create and I know what I want the ending to be. Then I have a hard time starting. I stare at the paper or screen blankly. I write sentences, and erase them. I can't begin with the right words. When I'm finally satisfied I slowly go to the body. And then somehow, somewhere along the way, I lose control of the story. The story unfolds by itself. It creates itself, and the author cannot control her characters anymore.
As I walk towards the Math Building to look at my grades, I muttered some words over and over again. "Please don't let me be a finalist. Please. If I take the final exams, I'll probably fail it and then I'll have to retake Math 11 for the third time. No Math 11 take 3 please. Please."
I see the piece of paper pinned to the board. I walk closer, slower, still muttering to myself. I could feel tension. I could feel stress. I looked at the paper and felt as if I was being swallowed up by the ground.
To my Development Communication 11 Lab teacher, Mr. Roberto Pedro Isabelo Sandoval, the short guy with shark hair, and always dresses up in pink and who just won't admit he's gay,
I HATE YOU. You made this second sem a living hell. Always acting like you're the best at everything you do, always demanding too much from your students. I hate way you talk to us and the way you make us feel inferior. I hate it that I do my best and still I end up with low grades. I seriously hope you get fired, bitch.
It is March 31 and here I am in front of the computer, writing for 100words.com. I still have three papers to go and a PowerPoint presentation to do. And I finally know what the problem is with me. I lack focus. I get distracted easily and I float easily towards what I want and away from what I need to do. But anyway, summer is coming and I just have to finish all my requirements. It is April 1 in a few hours. Countdown to summer. What a very angry, frustrating and still somewhat random month March has been.
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