Daggers and Cycles and I Don’t Wanna Think of a Title

(Disclaimer: This is a bit dark, once again. But a high school literature teacher would have an orgasm with the number of ways you could interpret this sad sad metaphor)

She knocks on your door. She is respectably clad. Not exactly how you’d imagine someone who prances around with a dagger to look like, but rather, like an esteemed swindler or a medical representative who’d readily fool you into thinking they’re well off. Cunning, deceiving but with a very warm smile that would make you mindlessly throw away your hard earned cash and fall into her well-rehearsed sales talk.

To match her reputable attire, she flaunts this mesmeric attitude that will, in an instant, make you feel at home in her presence. But just as you turn around, perhaps to relieve yourself in the comfort room or to grab a bag of peanuts, she brings out this knife; it’s rusty and timeworn. It doesn’t look like it could kill. At all.

It’s not sharp anyway. What’s to fear?

And besides, there’s nothing to tremble about. It’s not like you know about that dagger that hides deep in her pockets.

Perhaps you’re not the only one clueless in this story. Perhaps she thinks of her knife as harmless as well. And as ignorance is indeed nothing more than bliss on the edge of a cliff, you invest in each other. You are spellbound. And it is beyond beautiful.

Or at least, that’s what you think.

Because with each word you utter, every phrase you exchange, every day, hour, minute and second you indulge in this Dagger-girl’s company, her knife is honed, sharpened, polished until it’s ready to kill even the strongest lion in the whole of South Africa. The closer you are to the zenith of your friendship, and the deeper you fall into this pit of dependence and necessity, the sharper her little knife gets.

Time flies and you’re still entranced, hypnotized by what you thought was a great companionship. Her little dagger has turned into this sharp deadly sword that could destroy you at any given instant.

But what can you do? You know nothing about this, remember?

Stay ignorant, stay blissful.

Until.

Somewhere down the road: you feel an aching sensation down your stomach. It’s burning. It’s bleeding. You were stabbed. Your body is leaking! But she left the knife impaled into your skin and ran away like any normal swindler would after taking away all you had and all that you treasured.

And as you try your best to heal, you find the dagger in your bloody hands. You keep it in your pocket, appalled by her stab-and-run conundrum that you vowed never to let anyone else feel the way you did: stabbed, left, betrayed.

You make a new friend. For some reason, she has helped in mending your wound.

The dagger is still well kept somewhere down the linty folds of your pocket. You vowed never to bring it out; it pained you too much to even take a glance of that little pointed stick that once has penetrated your skin, your life, your friendship.

Once again, what is now your dagger, is sharpened as constantly as your friendship cultivates.

But your bond just keeps blooming,

…so rapid and all too quickly.

Until your friend is bleeding.

And you found yourself running.

And the dagger is now in her hands.

And it’s a cycle.

The Story of My Magikarp

At such a young age, I couldn’t help but feel like Ted Mosby: exhausted, drained and exasperated by this dating world that never seemed to work on my side. In this sea filled with pea-brained fishes, I thought I was lucky enough to have caught a smart little magikarp who could, at a first guess, answer my PolSci questions without having to go through my tedious readings. Just when I was starting to believe that all the stupidity in the world was slowly concentrating around me, he came along.

(When I say pea-brained, I mean every single bit of the cruelty in it. My sails have been most unfortunate: Imagine having to go out with someone who has absolutely no idea who Hitler is! Is it just me, or do these fishes have a great shortage of brain?)

I spotted this little magikarp during my first day as a college freshman. He was quite a stunner (although I’ve often received complaints, accusing me of having the most nauseating taste.) He fell into the pattern of my usual eye candy selection: pasty, white and Asian. Beautiful. It took a little effort and a whole lot of serendipity till he swam away from the friendzone and bit on my fishing rod’s hook. I was captured. I thought I was saved.

Everything was perfect. I was the mouth; he was the ear. I bantered; he listened. I spoke; he agreed. I was a bully; he let me have my way. He’d rain me with compliments and I pretended to be displeased. Everything made sense.

We shared a common passion for academics. He had his calculator and I had my readings. He excelled in Math. I excelled in language. Everyday we continued to mesmerize each other as we admired how the other greatly shone where we fell short.  What I loved the most was how we could go on and on about what we learned in class, or what our daily discernments were—and everything sounded gibberish, but everything sounded genius. I had great respect for anyone who knew his way around numbers, and he just continued to amaze me everyday.

But…

 Perfection and permanence will never co-exist.

The grandeur dulled out. The fondness faded. The novelty died. The admiration turned to aggravation. Soon enough the magikarp I once loved was just another regular fish: a plain old boring adherent of the sea that failed to catch my attention.

Everything he did started to tick me off.  Everything that came out of his mouth annoyed me. What bothered me the most was how he agreed to everything I said, no matter how little or absolutely no sense I made. Every conversation was one-sided, like Charlie and Mary Elizabeth. I want an argument. I need discourse. I need someone to prove me wrong when I am. I don’t want someone to tell me I sing like an Angel when I could hardly do any better than Rebecca Black. He made a constant effort to entertain me; I made a constant effort to be entertained. What once was pleasing became a chore, and treating my fish became a bore.

I want to throw this magikarp back into the ocean.

I should have known better than to take a fish that has never finished a single novel, or that proudly patronizes Nicki Minaj. Maybe I am too picky. Or maybe it was the time when he asked me “Have you watched a Nirvana Concert?” Dealbreaker.

Perhaps I’m just too difficult to get along with. I’m starting to think I am the problem. You might think I am too evil of a person to be posting these things—but he doesn’t even read. It’s not a problem.

I know it’s a cliché but…

It’s not you, it’s me.  

Awkward Song Lyrics that Made Me Spit My Coffee Out

I’m pretty sure this isn’t the first time you’ve stumbled upon an article ranting about completely brainless lyrics that make absolutely no sense. No worries! I won’t banter about Nicki Minaj you a stupid hoe or whatyagonna do with all that junk all that junk kind of songs. (The idiocies in those songs are needless to point out.)

These are awkward lyrics that are geniusly masked and hidden within songs we enjoy listening to, the kind of songs we don’t usually dedicate hate forums for—a few song lyrics that just made me stop what I was doing, spit my coffee and scream “DAFUQ DID I JUST HEAR?”

I’ve classified the awkwardness of the song intro three categories.

     A.     Failed attempt to a clever pun/rhyme.

     B.     Confuses people, big time.

     C.    CREEPY.

1)   The Man Who Can’t Be Moved- The Script

 Failed attempt to a clever pun/rhyme.

They try to hand me money they don’t understand, I’m not broke, I’m just a broken hearted man…

Exactly! There really is a fine line between having no money and getting depressed over heartbreak. That line is so damn fine, people can’t even tell the difference anymore! OF COURSE HOBOS AND BROKENHEARTED PEOPLE LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME AND IT’S JUST SO FRUSTRATING HOW YOUR FRIENDS DON’T UNDERSTAND. I feel your pain. 

SERIOUSLY WHAT KIND OF FRIENDS DO YOU HAVE?? I…can’t…even. 

2)   Fearless- Taylor Swift

        CREEPY.

“And I don’t know how it gets better than this; you take my head and drag me head first, fearless.”

Taylor Swift songs are tailored to suit your mood. (See my pun, oh my gosh I’m too funny) When you feel cheated by a lover, there’s White Horse to sing along to. Feeling like a total creep who peaks on your neighbor’s window to get your daily skin fix? You Belong With Me becomes your peeping song for the night! Are you infatuated with a totally “out-of-your-league” crush that you know you’re too ugly to ever be in a relationship with? Enchanted and Teardrops on my Guitar.

BUT IF YOU EVER FEEL LIKE A TOTALLY MASSOCHISTIC PAIN AFFICIONADO WHO ENJOYES BEING DRAGGED HEADFIRST… You got your song!

3)   Teardrops on My Guitar – Taylor Swift

          Confuses people, big time.

“Drew looks at me.”

“Did she say you?”

“No stupid. She said Drew.”

“But who’s Drew?  Why would she say Drew? I thought she said you. She prolly said you, she just has an accent.”

“Let me search the lyrics”

“Okay, you win.”

 Who the hell is Drew? I’m almost a hundred percent sure that anyone who has ever heard this song had that exact debate with A) Herself or B) An equally confused friend.

4)   What’s My Name- Drake ft. Rihanna

(THIS IS GENIUS)

  “The square root of 69 is 8 something, yeah I’ve been trying to    figure it out.”

I’m a Political Science major; I am mesmerized by anyone who knows his way around numbers. Believe it or not, Drake is mathematically correct. According to my calculator, the square root of 69 is 8.3066

“Rap Genius Presents: Math with Drake

69 is mutual fellatio, and “8 (ate) something” is referring to cunnilingus. It’s also a continuation of his “word of mouth” wordplay from the previous lines. Really clever line on Drake’s part”

-       Some random useless information from Rap Genius.

5)   Shakira - Whenever, Wherever

A.     Failed attempt to a clever pun/rhyme.

"Lucky that my breasts are small and humble so you don't confuse them with mountains."

Okay… First of all, may I commend you for your genius and brilliant use of metaphor? You really know your way around words and poetry! And also, thank you for that information, Shakira! No, seriously, thanks. All these eighteen years of my life I thought you were hot. But thanks for pointing it out! 

6)   Pretty Boy- M2M

            CREEPY.

“I used to write your name, and put it in a frame… And sometimes I think I hear you call right from my bathroom wall”

    I must admit, the girls of m2m are hot (even if they sound like constipated elves when they sing) but this is just down right disturbing. I don’t even feel the need to explain why.

7)  Every Breath You Take- The Police

            CREEPY.

“Every breath you take

Every move you make

Every bond you break

Every step you take

I'll be watching you”

This song is so vastly celebrated that people tend to overlook how outright creepy this song is. Police, I think you should carpool with Taylor Swift and the girls of M2M. They’re going to the Psych Ward!

8)   Firework- Katy Perry

 

         Confuses people, big time.

 “Do you ever feel like a plastic bag?”

NEVER. HAVE YOU?

“How do you feel bro?”

“I feel like a plastic bag.”

  

9)   Two is Better Than One- Boys Like Girls

         Confuses people, big time.

“…but two is better than one…”

Its as if they made a conscious effort to confuse people. Two what? Two heads are better than one? To date two girls at a time? Two WHAT??

I tried to psychoanalyze them and figure out what perhaps went on in their heads while writing the song, and these are the only scenarios I could possibly come up with:

A)   They were meaning to say: “My life is so much better with you. Your presence has made such a difference in my life and being alone sucks.” But with their poor articulation skills, they found that the best, most heartrending and appealing way to capture those thoughts and lay them down in a song is by saying “Two is better than one.”

         B)   There is a subliminal message that secretly encourages and celebrates   cheating, “players” and “two timers”

C)   They wanted to spite Taylor Swift (who is very outright with her hatred for heartbreak or any accessory of the crime) hoping she would write about them in her next song.

D)   They just really wanted to confuse us.

10)  Cheated- Mike Posner

       CREEPY.

“I should have cheated on you. You were everything I wanted and more.

I should have cheated on you. Nobody told me I was dating a whore.

I should have cheated. Cheated. Cheated.

CAROLYN STEVENS, THIS SONG IS FOR YOU.”

This line almost made me spit my coffee.

Carolyn Stevens, whoever you are, I think you need a hug. Did that bully Posner ruin your life? Lets beat him up! Oh wait, no, he’s hot and you’re a cheating hoe and the completely rational world hates you now.

Crisp insulting words + Heartless name dropping = WOAH SHIT I JUST SPAT MY COFFEE OUT.

And I have come to conclude that: Mike Posner is the male Taylor Swift.

Both are hot

Both are extremely hot

Both have eargasmic voices

Both are prone to heartbreak and believe its perfectly normal and mature to write a song about how romantically pathetic they are

Winning the world’s sympathy through music

Both have successfully brainwashed the industry to detest their ex

Both are psycho

Both namedrop (See: Carolyn Stevens, Drew, Stephen, etc)

Both are hot

The Unlucky Asian’s Guide to a Happy Social Life

 The Unlucky Asian’s Guide to a Happy Social Life

(Based on a true story, inspired by a true-to-life Asian in a foreign country, born with all undesirable Asian aspects but has succeeded to win the hearts and pants of a female plurality)

Do you scorn your genes and the disgusting attributes it has ascribed you? Are your eyes too small you have to increase the resolution of your desktop to 800x600 pixels? Do you suffer from the constant racial woes and discrimination from people who are even less-attractive than you? Is your yellow insecurity getting in the way of your playboy life?  Since you are pathetic enough to be browsing through my blog on a cold Halloween night, I’m almost a hundred percent sure you are in dire need. This recipe is tried and tested and will skyrocket you to the top of the social pyramid!

1)   Confidence and Modernization.

Scarce confidence is often rooted from insecurity. When the world rained with blessings, its as if you had your umbrellas wide and open. So what if you were born with eyes smaller than the Asian genitalia? Or genitalia smaller than Asian eyes? When destiny has allocated such depressing traits to your poor Asian soul, don’t sulk in your room while watching insipirational youtube videos on loop (perhaps the story of how Susan Boyle rose above her pathetic life, or two black men singing an Alicia Keys song, either way you’re doomed) Remember: these traits are non-negotiable, so when you’re stuck in a helpless and hapless situation, you’re left with nothing else to do but to, just like the black people say, WORK IT, BABY.

Analyze where you fall short. What makes you feel like such an minor character in the story? Are you too skinny? Do your weird langue and pale complexion shoo away the girls you like? Or is the frighteningly massive population of your race make you feel like an insignificant part of a yellow dominating group? Do not let your flaws impede you from success. Stop thinking about what you lack and start working on where you excel. 

 

Keep in mind that: Asians excel in a multiplicity of things, to a very frightening extent. Any stereotype with the affirmation of the condescending 9gag community (plus the online freaks who would pick a fight on any given time) cannot be proven false. So what if your uncooperative biceps remain in hiding after spending 23 hours a day in the gym? Stop bodybuilding and try something else. Like dancing, perhaps? Most Asians are really good dancers (proven by Glee’s very own Mike Chang). But if you are an outlier with two left feet, don’t hang yourself just yet! Try basketball. People like Yao Ming and Jeremy Lin have been rendered as global phenomena for excelling in a sport where the common Asian fails to thrive. If you think that enough practice would only earn you a life long slot on the bench (bangko) and you would still suck like a fat Asian potato, then flee that group and play in a team of a less basketball conducive race. Surround yourself with people who aren’t talented and are less dedicated. Trust me, you would stand out for sure.

If this still doesn’t work, don’t cut those skinny legs off while thinking you are a useless yellow piece of shit. There are a lot of other things to excel in, if sports do not permit. I’m pretty sure you’re better than everyone at playing chess. If this harsh world makes you believe that Chess is an underappreciated geeky talent and will never get you into the cast of Jersey Shore or Gossip Girl, then apply your logic and analysis skills in something much “cooler”. Try playing cards (poker, Pusoy Dos). Brilliance in gambling is an asset that will aid you in picking up girls.

 

Music is also a good way to grab attention, especially when it comes to girls. If you are a couch potato who spends an average of 7 hours a day in front of the television, you would know that Asians are the staple endorsers of baby milk brands that claim to produce child prodigies. This makes it safe to assert that you, my poor Asian friend, are musically talented, someway, somehow. If you think you are good in a boring underrated musical instrument such as the Piano (I’m sorry but the days of Beethoven have long been dead and the slowly deteriorating human populace have switched to brain slushing dubstep and Nicki Minaj), make an effort to embellish and modernize your mechanisms. Buy yourself a keyboard-organ and apply your music skills there. Keyboards are cool, they add that techno sound to your classic old Asian songs. (I honestly have no clue with what I am saying)

2)   Do NOT ever argue with your inner Asian voice.

After eighteen years of co-existing with your kind, I have concluded that:

Asians have a penchant for colored hair.

 

Most Asians I know have this yearning deep in their hearts, a constant calling that recurs almost every 20 minutes, a voice in their head that just won’t seem to shut up until they to rush to the nearest salon and get their hair colored. If you want to do it, just do it. Stop having personal debates between your proud Asian heritage and your longing to conform. But this isn’t always the case, sometimes the voices in your head demand you to do other unorthodox things such as to constantly spit on every lot you step on to mark your territory or to watch videos about people whose lives are sadder than yours to simply uplift your self-confidence. (Again, see: Susan Boyle and Two Black Men singing) Whatever your inner Asian voice asks you to do, just give in, agree and indulge in your Asian customs. Most Asians who argue with their little yellow calling end up living a life with a massive void in their little yellow hearts.

3)   Reject and be a douchebag. Girls love douchebags.

It sounds plain, mainstream and shallow to a vast extent. My immature header has probably earned me your disrespect and has perhaps appalled a bunch of feminists, but continue reading and you will see the clear sense I am about to make.

Do not let your Asian Frustrasian (frustration) impede you from living the playboy dream. Do what Hugh Hefner does. Sleep around! Not only will it heighten your masculinity, sleeping around has also been proved to hasten sexual reproduction (in other words, impregnate people to multiply the number of poor Asians in the country. Stain their genes with some Asian blood to make them feel bad about themselves. Finally when your population is large enough, you slowly take over and invade the racist country you are in) Reject girls and

 (Also, date at least three girls who share your nationality. Apart from heightening the exclusivity, fellows Asians seek solace in each other. You can sing songs and speak in languages that only you two would understand. Anyong!)

Discussion on how and why girls are very attracted to douchebags deserves an entirely different article to its name. What’s essential to note here is that being a douche won’t only upgrade your value in the dating market, it will also promote the ranks of your yellow race and will earn you vast respect.

 When the whole world finds pleasure in your poor yellow demise, when racial jokes are rampant (and is the most enjoyable genre of entertainment), turn things around and form a clique. Keep things exclusive. Turn them into outcasts before they even have the chance to discriminate you. How? By only interacting with fellow Asians. This creates a certain hierarchy that puts you on a pedestal, notches above those regular people. Join exclusive and cliquish Korean groups to help cultivate your yellow legacy. Disregard all other factions and reject invitations from fraternities filled with “non-asian commoners” no matter how tough or powerful they might be.

Just like girls—the more you reject, the more they yearn.

The 6 stages of writing a (PolSci) paper

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Disclaimer: This has been the most traumatizing (and memorable) sem for me. Just when I started to believe in my invincibility, thinking I could apply the "DUE TOMORROW DO TOMORROW" mantra to all my school work, the lethal majors of the sophomore year has proved me wrong and ignorant on so many levels. These six stages may not be exclusive to pos papers, and at the same time may not be true for everyone (or anyone) else. Nevertheless, I've been moved, powerful enough to blog about the recurring cycle of my imprudence.

The SIX stages of writing a (pos) paper:

I.      Post-trauma procrastination: Fresh from the last paper's submission. The challenge begins when your ever so kind professor hands you a huge stack of readings in advance.

-At this point, you’re probably mentally exhausted but still overwhelmed by how you managed to survive that last paper you just crammed, You’re too dumbfounded to realize that the challenge begins NOW; you think you deserve a YOLO week break or however you’d like to call it--but this is where you’re mistaken, my dear friend.

-I used the words ever-so-kind and in advance to eradicate all misconceptions that may connote “our prof is evil” or “he just wants to torture us” or any similar thoughts for that matter.  Note that he gives you adequate time to read every single page without having to cram. Yup. You are your greatest enemy.

II.    Back to normal. We resume the regular class regimen: Read. Discuss. Recitation/Interrogation/Grilling/Torture.

 -You try to read. This effort will last about two to four sessions. And before you know it, your pea-sized attention span will bail on you. From reading all that’s due for the day, your study habits will deteriorate and you’ll eventually find yourself reading half. And then one fourth. And then two pages. And then just one. Soon enough, you wouldn’t even bother to read. And when worse comes to worst, you will enter class with absolutely no readings at hand.

-Also take note that your lethargy isn’t your only enemy. Put your guards up for the sneaky little secret assassin: the efficacy of the professor in creating an engaging discussion. The fruitfulness of the class discourse is inversely proportional to the reading efforts essential. Why read when you can acquire better built cases and arguments in class?

III.           Fear

-       Benevolent professor (benevolent, he isn’t the enemy) reminds you about the paper. You freak out, but just a little. You still have enough confidence to fool yourself into thinking you can survive the paper minus the reading part.

IV.            Passion

-       You credit yourself for attempting to read during the first half of the time given. You’re proud and delighted by your initial effort (you know, the few readings you endured before you fell into the pit of indolence and found comfort in going to class without readings) and you think these few pages of highlighted words will get you through a paper. You brainstorm and eventually come up with an argument. You are proud of your argument and you feel so strongly about it.

-       You begin to write. Everything is going great. Your arguments are well articulated and you feel good about your paper.

V.              Death

-       You think you’re done with your paper. You start fixing the format. You know, a little Garamond here, a little font 11 there, a little single spacing, and maybe a little slimmer on the margins. You think it won’t do much harm. It won't matter. You're still done with your paper. And before you know it, POOF—Your paper just shrunk and you’ve  lost half of your required number of pages..

-        When you’ve hit this point, need not you worry for this is the lowest you can ever get. I mean,what could be more drastic that the drop from the “I’m done with my paper” mindset to suddenly realizing you’ve only filled half of the required number of pages (minimum required pages, on worst cases) for your precious little paper. 

-     You’ve exhausted every flowery word and professional sounding term you could possibly use to stretch your elaboration. But it’s still inadequate. You’ve drained every thought, argument and explanation in your head. Now all you want to do is cry.

VI.            Resurrection

-     You've finally surrendered.

-     I am not sure what spirit, omnipotent being or drive of desperation will enlighten you, but someway, somehow, you will end up sitting on a good chair, with a nice table, some yellow light and a little bit of cinnamon scent in the air (Hihi allusion is an inside joke) actually reading all those damn readings.

-You take in every ounce of cobra and espresso you could get your hands on. You don’t sleep. You realize that the readings are beautiful and how efficient you could have been, had you read much earlier.

-You battle against your eyelids as you struggle to pull an all nighter off. You succeed. You might even be desperate enough as to cut a class.  You go to school in the worst mood. Everything else is undermined by your irritable grouchy disposition for the day. But it doesn’t matter, because you finished your paper on time.

This is me being nice.

Seeing how all my thoughts are either rude or subversive, I think I'm left with absolutely NO purpose to blog, now that I'm impeded by law to post anything I have in mind.

Now that I have absolutely nothing to talk about...
Now that we're not allowed to cyberbully (if that's how they'd like to term a healthy online political discourse) ....
Now that we're all legally compelled to be nice to you...
Here you go.

Tito Sotto, ang gwapo mo talaga. :)
 

No, seriously. Gwapings ni Tito Sen.