The Devil Inside

The Devil Inside?

No, this is not a movie review. I apologize for my misleading title. But then again, primarily, pessimism and devils are the standing general themes of my posts. And besides, he oftentimes referred to himself as the devil, you know, during his failed attempts to make himself appear cool.

And its funny how it was this very movie that we watched, that first time I rode his boat of evil. Why didn’t I take it as some kind of foreshadowing of his legit identity? If Eminem were Slim Shady, he was the Devil.

I. I’m sorry, who? And why the living crap did I get myself into such dementedness of a mess?

I remember he was tall. Some found him handsome, but a handful would, in a heartbeat, contest. In fondness of this creature, neutral apathy was almost non-existent, as there was no in between. He was like wasabi: an acquired taste. You either loved him or just simply abhorred every single nook and cranny of his guts. As for me, all I am sure of is that I didn’t choose the latter. Oh, and I was also pretty certain he came somewhere from hell. But I didn’t mind. Given my jar filled with wretched life experiences, I was confident with my fire-playing skills. Hell, I trusted I could do cartwheels along the nine circles of hell without burning my hands. But I guess I put too much premium on myself, I overestimated my skills…skills I didn’t even have. And now here I am, looking like some survivor from the Auschwitz gas chamber, with boils and burns all over, much further toasted and crisper than I could’ve ever imagined myself to be. This isn’t a cry for sympathy, a weep of misery or a call for attention. This is just I, with my burnt hands, typing my story of despondence and failure of judgment.

I knew what I was getting myself into. But you couldn’t blame me for enjoying every single second I spent with your possessed soul. It was fun. Never had I met a single person who gave you good word. But I stayed, for the simple, shallow and idiotic reason of you being fun. STOOPID GURL.

II. So how the hell am I?

I feel like an ashtray in a college bar; As if people just kept hurling their filthy cigarette butts on my face and fled, without care, without any regard for my poor physique.

But NO, I choose NOT to drown in self-pity. Instead I think of all your flaws as a person (when you are in your human form, you are the devil, remember. Haha).

I’m fine. I’m okay. But I can’t say I’m not aggravated. And since we are now on the note of self-aggravation, let me enlighten you on the little civil war that is at current, going on inside BiancaWorld.

III. Aggravation at its finest. Suddenly it takes more muscles to smile, as frowning has become the staple expression of my face every time thoughts of you pop-up.

I’ve lived to be invincible, or on a more feasible note, the strongest. But one can NOT call himself the strongest if one has a heart. And as it is inferable from my preceding posts, I have come to baptize myself as a heartless being. And to my providence, heartlessness seemed to have worked to my advantage. Wretchedness visited me on the regular, oftentimes in the form of these cootie-filled creatures called boys, whom in lots have tried and left. And hardly would I find myself in such a state of loss. I felt like I was robbed of my invincibility, of my longstanding strength fueled by an apathy that I have worked hard for my entire existence. I lost my precious apathy to someone as low as you. That’s what aggravates me! I’ve vetoed out much more deserving ones and involuntarily gave my care away to a creature of such stumpy value. Aw, I hug myself.

IV. If I go on and on, I would just bash him all night and look like a bitter shrew, or better yet, Taylor Swift after her frequent and horrible break ups with famous dirty old male celebrities. So okay, fine, I’ll just give my regards.

Hello there. If for some demonic reason you find your way to my blog, First and before anything else, I would like to wish you the best of luck in your conquest to make the best self-help book on douchebaggery. Nice word you coined there. Douchebaggery. That says a lot about you now. /:)

Second, don’t mind my beloved friend who takes the sickest pleasure in frightening the crap out of you with death threats and hypothetical beat-ups. You know we don’t have the cruelty to allow such an atrocity. It’s the same logic as to why straight men believe they should never throw punches on homosexuals. Never attack a subordinate as they are of lower capabilities. I know you can’t fight back. Yes, I know, you are capable of getting yourself drunk, wasted as a character from the Hangover and manage to find your way back to your dusty dorm, yes I must admit you are favorably talented in that field. But you can’t fight for shit. So don’t even stress about it. Don’t worry yourself out as we would never allow anyone to make such a dreadful mistake of throwing even a single punch on you. >:D< Remember what I said, you have ignited that inner care I have been hiding under piles and piles of apathy for years now. So I care too much to assault you.

Third, I’d like to once again, wish you some luck. Luck in finding the bigger fish you are out to fry. I admit there are much bigger fish than I am, but that is in context of your shallow standards, as I believe when it comes to sincerity of feelings and other deeper facets I am of much superior quality. With the vast extent of your self-induced tainted reputation, I really really wish you luck. You need it. May heaven bring you the best of luck in your expedition to bag the most number of slutwhores you could get to fourth base with on Date #1. You’re probably exasperated by how dissimilar I am from those girls you normally date. You always told me I looked easy. And it irritated you how you couldn’t get your nasty hands anywhere in or on me. But there are numbers of other fishes there, so go, enjoy yourself!

I hope you understand why I feel like poking your eyeballs out and be using them as billiard balls right now. I know you do. But do not wear yourself out worrying as this too shall pass. I’m talented with all these moving on mumbo-jumbo. Because despite all the brutality exhibited by my words from the very first paragraph, I know I’ve said this before; When the whole world turns against you, you can always run to me, I’ll always be a friend. J

Dear Pedobear

I know myself: There is no way I can get those tiny muscles under my tongue to utter these words to you, nor can I get myself to even text this. And as you know so well of my love for writing, I hope some eerie spirit would drive you to my blog one day, and read some few sentiments of mine, things I’ve always wanted to tell you.

I don’t even know where to start.

OK.

Hello.

Thank you so much, from the bottom of my non-existent heart, for five really amazing months of Bonchon, exchanging secrets and murdering our lungs together under the sun. I had fun. We were partners in everything. You were the wings of my airplane during my voyage as nourishment and promos head. We made a good team and I couldn’t have accomplished anything with out your superman-like abilities as my deputy.

But when I told you that I was a heartless being, you should’ve believed me.

I’m sorry…

The Best of Bianca's Pessimism

My usual disclaimer: Alas, the first paragraph of my EN12 memoir.

A few days ago I received my draft back from my teacher and I was absolutely mortified upon seeing that my work has been bombarded with criticisms. Her prime issue was that I lacked sensitivity. That is a trouble I am afraid I can not fix. If the Power Puff Girls had sugar, spice and everything nice, my memoir has sarcasm, gloominess and insensitivity. I don't really mind if calling Anaheim a bigot city or alluding to dead people as if they had no souls would diminish my work. You are probably thinking, "Wow, this girl lacks maturity. How stubborn" So nevertheless, I have decided to revise my work, as this is still an academic paper. Also, I would do it out of respect for that critic who might be my favorite teacher. She is much older, much wiser and a much skilled writer. Maybe she is right. Anyhow, I just want to share this first paragraph with you to share my current outlooks on life. I am now on the verge of pulling all my hair out as I attempt to revise such a soiled and nullified memoir, and I'm pretty sure many would soil and contest to these beliefs as well:

Pain is a very abstract concept. Its meanings could lie anywhere between pricking your finger with a needle and perpetual psychological torment provoked by incest rape. Most people detest whatever kind of pain there is. There are a few, on the other hand, who take the most deviant pleasure in it. This is a story of a girl who's stuck the middle. She doesn't weep over pain and listen to Evanescence songs while slashing her wrist, nor does she jump in joy and see rainbows every time the feeling comes. For most, pain is an ubiquitous, inevitable and invincible opponent. But for those like her who have attempted battle against pain but failed, pain becomes their best friend. Why battle something that would never go away? Its like an nagging mom, or that giant mole on your face-- there's no point arguing against for they will never leave you. Better yet, befriend them, flaunt them, show them off. Stop it with the attempts to be an optimist as I am definite of your failure. There are no such things as real optimists. The truth is, optimists are like clowns who mask themselves as happy beings to put smiles on people around. But on the flip side, clowns are even more melancholic than most others. In time you're gonna have to realize that life is and will forever remain like a Nicholas Sparks book; where the story's perpetual gloom would lead you to assume that a happy ending would come and save you from the tears you have wasted, but more often you are left disappointed as the lead character either dies, runs away, or completely forgets every single sweet thing you have done for her. Nobody lives a perfect life. Yes, lesson learned. So when everything seems to be going about perfectly, panic yourself out, as the circle of life and luck will surely break your bliss eventually.

Random thoughts bursting from every hole and pore of my anatomy

Random tidbits of thoughts before I put this day to an end. Good night.

You intrigue me.

You intrigue me; Like a hundred dollar bill on the floor;; Like going to prom for the first time; Like why Kurt Cobain shot a bullet to his head ; Like the veracity behind Corona’s case; Like an illegitimate sibling I may never have; Like the existence of aliens; Like why is Yao Ming so huge; Like the plans of god that I have redirected away from; Like the controversial tabloid cover that elitists pretend to hate; Like how it feels to be a dog; Like what in this cruel world made Hayden Kho and Vicky Belo fall in love; Like the melancholic fate of Amelia Earhart; Like the other possible combinations of my parents’ DNA; Like the feasibility of Jurassic Park’s plot to turn into reality; Like how celebrities look without make-up; Like the 2012 end of the world conspiracy; Like what is this effect you have on me? You intrigue me and it just won’t go away.

You make me smile.

You make me smile; Like a basket full of puppies; Like those Sunday evenings with my family; Like going to Disney Land; Like going back to the 90's; Like sunflowers and Barbie dolls; Like the death of Kim Jong Il, Bin Laden and Gadhaffi; Like properly manipulating a yoyo for the first time; Like when I get away with my schemes without being caught; Like nerds feel about Math; Like having 10 full hours of sleep; Like going back to high school; Like having a photo taken with your favorite celebrity; Like a sim whose mood is all green;Like a scrumptious chocolate chip cookie; Like listening to Nirvana’s music; Like eating without getting fat; Like winning the lottery. You are the lottery. I won the lottery. I am happy.

I wanna stab you.

I wanna stab you; Like a rapist deserves to die; Like people hate the Nazis; Like you murdered a bunch of nuns; Like what Kurt Cobain did to himself; Like you slaughtered me inside; Like the devil lives in you; Like you don’t deserve to live; Like hipsters despise the Biebs; Like pulling your teeth off; Like dropping you down the abyss of the grand canyon; Like what the Japanese did to San Lorenzo Ruiz; Like you’re the reason behind poverty; Like the cure for cancer is attainable through your death; Like your death is the world’s salvation; Like you drove me crazy; Like you deserve to be on an electric chair; Like you are liable for all the World Wars; Like you instructed Eve to take that first apple from the tree; Like you are devil. Because you are the devil and you deserve something worse than death, you deserve perpetual suffering.

How do you kill a devil?

Background: This note may expose crazy and wild ideas, one that may normally come from a crazy person. But I would like to assert that I am not disturbed, nor am I a nut job. This is not me talking, rather, it is me writing. Among all I can say this is not yet my darkest and grimmest work of all. Suddenly I was struck with such an inspiration; An inspiration I find no words adequate to describe. All I know is I feel like the apostles during that one Pentecost Sunday when the spirit gave them that crazy ability to speak in different tongues, as I am writing in a different persona. A disturbed persona is not tantamount to a disturbed writer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Disclaimer: Just a short figment of my ideas and imagination, nothing special, nothing I’d invite anyone to read, nothing based on personal truth, nothing your scant minds could use against me. Just pure deviant perverted ideas we all have, except I have the drive to actually write them.

She lives by the codename of Isabella. And no, contrary to your judgmental belief, this girl is not me. No pathetic relevance at all to my second name. Everyone is named Isabella. The deprived pale girl from Twilight was Isabella. Lizzie McGuire’s crazy twin was Isabella. The exorcised girl from The Devil Inside was named Isabella. Every fictional Russian and or Italian character lives by the default name of Isabella. So who cares, really? Isabella is as default and helpless as I could get. Let’s name her Isabella.

She lived an average life. Or not so average. Close to perfection, actually. The only problem she ever lived to face was that her hair always curled, and people often mistook that lack of sulfur in her hair as her laziness to exert ample effort to comb or brush it. Apart from that though, no one ever described her aesthetics to her face, horribly or on any negative note whatsoever. She was quite a doll. She had good education, taking home grades of a nerd’s standards. But shit happened. Oh, wait. I mean, shit happens. No past tense allowed, because shit is perpetual. No one has it perfectly. And no, this shit isn’t anything horrid as an Earthquake, nothing like a fire, and a far cry from a car accident.

But she did wish it were an Earthquake, so she would have no world left to wake up to every morning. Or perhaps a fire, so all that agony would’ve just burned down with her.

I will not say what happened to Isabella as it is too aberrant for me to share in public without being judged by your scandalous issue-fabricating minds, my dear readers, if there are any. All I know is there was blood. There was vengeance---vengeance rooted from an angry vindictive heart. There were cigarettes. Plenty cigarettes. Lots and lots of cigarettes. And a gun. And a corpse of a guy--kind of fat, teeth crooked as a hillbilly who was foreign to the concept of braces, but had braces nevertheless. The corpse of a poor soul not much blessed with height, probably the spawn of the devil. Wait, the spawn is an understatement. He is, in fact, the devil himself. A devil hungry for virgins, to enlighten you much more. He’d slaughter their consciousness with his venom which came in a bucket. A bucket that had six bottles inside. An enticing venom, masked as social acceptance for the much blinded people of generation X onwards. He had aids. Or at least Isabella wished he had aids, you know, to let nature take his life, effortlessly. But at least now, he’s just a corpse.

How do you kill a devil?

Whose was the blood? Was it Isabella’s?

You know what, it doesn’t really matter, for she was dead inside. And the most abhorring part is how that crooked-tooth devil manages to go through life without a single drop of guilt. Oh wait, why is she shocked? He’s the devil, devils don’t have guilt. Devils are heartless demons. How much more redundant could I get?

And as Isabella’s disturbing story must be put on hiatus for now, do expect more. And do expect that people lie. People lie in blog disclaimers. Perhaps this story is real. Perhaps they just want it to be real. Perhaps it’s a foreshadowing of your life. Perhaps it represents a phase in everyone’s life. Everyone has been deceived at some point in their bittersweet lives. I shall gamble my soul to you, in a bet that with all encrypted honesty, if you actually think deep enough you’d find yourself in Isabella. We’ve all seen the devil at some point of our lives. Isabella, on the other hand, is certain of his character. She lives everyday knowing who he is. She knows who the devil is. She is left with no option but to see him everyday.

And much as I would want to leave this post hanging in the most mysterious and enigmatic way as your bothered minds could handle, I can’t, as most people who actually read this are judgmental. You’d do your best to connect the dots, connect the imaginary dots, thinking you know everything, thinking you know more about me than I’d choose to share. But if you insist to keep that mindset, thinking that this clandestine story of a bothered Isabella pertains to something deeper, I commend you for your wild imagination. J