Stages of Death- Day 1: Bargaining

Saturday was beautiful: I thought we were at the peak of our love.

Sunday was equally perfect.

Monday, I was stressing out finishing the 4 chapter long story I was writing. You seemed sad all day... I was supposed to drop it by your house next morning just to cheer you up. I worked hard for that, you know.

Dedicated to you, inspired by you. 

But that very same Monday, you broke my heart.

I even remember the disclaimer I put:

I am no good at fiction. Funny how you inspire me to do things I normally wouldn't--You have, consistently, since the very first day we met. You gave me a goal; You were the sunshine in my

This story is dedicated to you, my baby. Thank you for inspiring me to put on my combat boots, fully equipped and ready to kick life hard in the ass. Had it not been for you I would have been lost in my safe non-achieving comfort zone for all this time. 

You taught me two valuable lessons in life. I couldn't think of a way to put those epiphanies into flesh, but I think this story gives such morals due justice.

1) Life is owns a citrus field and a mass producing lemon factory: It will never EVER run out of lemons to throw at you and squirt on your sensitive human eyes. Things won't always go right. But baby, being with you has taught me that sometimes, things do go right. And when they do, the bliss is immeasurable. Life won't always go your way, but life will, somehow, go right.

2) Everyone is damaged; life has dented even the best of us. You just have to find someone who's demons and faults go perfectly well with yours, and it will all fall into place. It doesn't matter if your baggage is as heavy as a balikbayan box filled with useless non-sensible bargain purchases that have no business in Manila, you have to and will find that one person who would make sense of all those. And everything will be perfect, everything will be fine.

So much for all those. 

But there's no reason to be so bummed: I still believe this is all a bad dream. I'm gonna wake up soon.

I pinched myself. I washed my face. Over and over again. I can't seem to wake up. We always talk about our dreams, baby. We even made such a nuance about realistic dreams--those that seem so real, they leave you wondering about them for the next fifteen minutes after you wake, those dreams who drown you such genuinely amplified emotions. Perhaps this is one of those?  

The records on my phone don't seem to lie. The smudge in my nail polish looks exactly like how it did when I was awake. The emotions, to top it all, are so real, throbbing inside of me, outside of me, everywhere. My breathing is strong and heavy. Just like how you were when you had that bad dream about me, and I was lying in your arms, worried about what nightmare you might've been enduring that while I selflessly rested my head on your skin, enjoying the happiness I didn't expect I'd find.

Everything is so real. But baby, this is just one of those realistic dreams we talk about? Right?

You said I was your favorite writer. My favorite writer is Patricia Evangelista, don't we all know? And I assure you that even in my darkest of days and with the coldest of my heart, I could never do anything that cruel to Ms. Evangelista. So tell me, why did you do that to me?

I don't understand. I don't understand anything. But as a Political Science major, I am used to problems being thrown at my face and accepting the innevitability of finding absolutely no answers to those problems. It's important to know why--but sometimes it's more important to leave reasons behind and just try your best in damage control, fixing the mess is shoved in your face.

My cat is smart, though. He seems to understand. He sat on my lap all night, as if he knew that his dad was never going to come back.

My dad is smart too. He sent me a million long inspiring texts about how I shouldn't be bummed about you. I wonder how he knew. My dumb ass brother said he didn't squeal anything. All I told my dad was

"How'd you know? You haven't even seen me. You're creepy."

Tuesday

I wake up, still in the process of convincing myself that this is all one giant bad dream. I wash my face, but the dream won't seem to end.

Today I will go out. I will not stay miserable at home. I will not weep and wallow in self pity. I was smart and beautiful when I met you--I still am.

Today I will go out. I will not stay miserable at home. But I will not be miserable outside either. I will find my friends and be happy. Maybe I'll force them to wake me up.

This is still a part of one big nightmare, right?

This is all just a bad dream.

All The Times I Miss You

HELLO!!!

 

Did you know...

Did you know how much I missed you yesterday?
I missed you yesterday when I was studying. It felt weird doing it alone. Sipping coffee in solitude is great, especially with a cigarette at hand, And reading about politics and philosophy is the best therapy for an itching mind like mine. But Economics...it's hard; it entails a LOT of math and I wish I had your numerical genius to guide me. It may be beyond your freshman pool of knowledge, but your smile is enough to remind me that numbers are not the enemy.

I miss you a lot when I’m busy having fun. I try to pretend that I don’t miss you and that going all Drake-YOLO is just as great and feasible a task even without your presence--just like when I was enjoying the states and was in total denial of my budding feelings for you, but I text you anyway because I can't help it. So what if my phone bill skyrockets to the moon? My strong and in-denial pride can find a way to rationalize that menacing bill and brainwash myself to believe that I don't miss you at all. We're best friends anyway...

I also missed you today…just like when I think about my dead cat whose fraternal twin is blossoming through the most adorable form of stomach adipose in your room right now. My little Socrates is gone, but his very existence in my life is enough to make a lasting mark.

And I'm sure as hell that I'll miss you tomorrow. I’m not exactly sure how I’ll miss you on a day that has yet to come. But I know I will. For certain. It's only a premonition, but a premonition at it's purest and most forceful form. Just like how I knew in my heart and in my feminine gut that I was gonna miss you real bad that day you told me you were gonna go all John Denver on me and leave on a jet plane, without knowing when you'll be back again. I didn’t know for certain how  I was gonna miss you—but I knew it was gonna eat me alive like a loch ness monster that I don't really believe is real. I'll miss you tomorrow so bad, real bad I'm actually writing about it (again, like last time)

I miss you. All of you. I want you here beside me. Now. Later. Tomorrow. All day. Everyday. Until the day I get sick of your face—and I don't think that day will ever come at all. Well, unless you kill my cat--but then again I have enough faith in you to trust you'll treat my little rockstars with the same love and affection as their Mommy Cat does.

I miss you so much. Everyday. I itch to see you every time.
Just like a swollen rash. A rash that simply won't go away. A rash that shocked the world for it shouldn't at all belong to someone like me (I may be the clumsy one but Inigo will always be the itching allergy pantal master of the world)
You are the rash I have never been plagued with before, but nonetheless, every time I feel the itch, it makes me smile as it reminds me that I'm human as well, capable of feeling, hurting, missing and loving. And that is a very beautiful thing.
A rash that not even the most expensive brand of imported ointment can cure. I must’ve been bitten by a rare insect, probably a species that can only be found in Bob Marley’s hair—Bob Marley who was long gone, long dead.
Yes my dear, you are that rare.







And I hope you don't take offense to the fact that I compared missing you to a rash.
It's just that I miss you so much that my foolish need to indulge in metaphors has even fallen intro trap.


I'm sorry I just miss you so much
Please don't think I'm a creep.

Marcos? Really? I don't think so.

Disclaimer: Rage blogging once again. Expect no concrete thoughtflow or watchamacallit.

The online discourses on RH Bill, Cybercrime law and Chiz Escudero have dominated and left our facebook newsfeeds and now it seems as if Ferdinand Marcos is the newest highly celebrated political trend in the local internet scene. Before this hype dies down, let me take the liberty to share tidbits of my (raging) sentiments towards this tragedy that seems to strike Filipino minds nowadays.

What else could this aforementioned tragedy be but the growing affinity and esteem people seem to grant unto Ferdinand Edralin Marcos. An alarming number of Filipinos have been broadcasting their respect towards Marcos, some even granting him the privilege of being named the best president in Philippine History. (Such an insult towards all the other Filipino Presidents ouch)

Yes. This is a tragedy. Reading such nauseating commentaries make me feel like a bulimic with barf constantly flowing from my poor Filipino lips. It's disappointing to hear the youth speak of Marcos as if his graft-monarchy and excessive and relentless spree of human rights violations ceased to exist. But to each his own, right? I try to rationalize their opinions and understand how they could come up with such conclusions that seemed unforgivably feeble and ignorant to me. Perhaps the alarmingly high poverty rate or the dismal and tedious lack of infrastructural development in status quo have fogged up their thoughts thus leading them to make such hasty conclusions. Among all these emerging Marcos commentaries, what made me snap was this open letter from, take note: a grown married Filipino studying International Trade Law and Economics in South Korea. His words leave me to assume that he was not at all present in our poor country during this examined era, or that he has not at all heard of the plight of the Filipinos during this regime.

The problem with looking at things in retrospect is you tend to forget exactly how terrible the situation was at that very moment.

First of all, it pains me to see that you’re a grown married man who remains unpardonably ignorant with regard to what really went on during this regime which you claim to be knowledgeable of. I am  currently a college student taking up Political Science, thus adequately immersed to all the ongoing graft and relentless human rights violations during the Marcos era. However, it didn’t take me until college to have this upon my knowledge: since I was a toddler it was embedded in our hearts, minds and in our very beings that Ferdinand Marcos was not good news to Filipinos. Disregard my course or my youthful affinity for Politics—my very existence as a Filipino is enough of a credential to question your claims. I understand that you are taking up International Trade Law and Economics abroad but that does not grant you with any right to limit your basis or standards on what makes "The Best President in Philippine History" solely on the economic and “development” status of the country and consequently undermine the rights of the Filipinos that were almost obsolete during that era. With such a credible credentials: with your relatively seasoned age, studying political economy abroad and all that, I don’t think you realize the power of your words on the less privileged Filipino Youth who base their sentiments on the statement and opinions of those who have read through more.

Yes, he has a soul burning to propagate infrastructural developments and establishing institutions. Yes, numerous important features of the country such as the CCP, San Juanico Bridge and all those mentioned in your post came to inception during his era.

BUT AT THE EXPENSE OF WHAT? Human rights violations? Social Injustices? Worth it? Really? Best president? I don't think so. Did you forget how many workers have been buried alive during the constructions that Imelda rushed? Or perhaps did it slip your mind that Ferdinand Marcos LOANED billions of pesos from international institutions–loans that we, FILIPINOS WHO ARE BASED IN OUR CORRUPTION AND POVERTY PLAGUED ARCHIPELAGO, are still paying for with our hard earned taxes up to now at the very late age of 2013. It is understandable to make international loans in the name of social and economic development. But it's not as if those loans were all put to good use.

I wonder how Imelda funded all her jewels and shoes. Just sharing.

Are these the ingredients for the “Best Filipino President Ever?” your hasty assumptions frustrate me, and are, mind you, an insult to the previous Filipino presidents.

Moreover, I cannot fathom how it totally slipped your memory that Ferdinand Marcos was the biggest Human Rights violator and extra judicial killer in the history of the Philippines. Did you forget how many people whose life he put an end to during the Martial Law era? Did you forget about how attached he was to power and how his fear to step down from the presidency has caused him to plague the Philippines with such an imposition? Did you forget about the EDSA revolution?

I won't even elaborate any further. Do your own research or talk to Filipinos who 1) Actually live here and are experiencing the vestiges of his cruel regime and 2) Those primary witnesses and victims of his lack of soul and humanitarian concern. Rather, let me leave you with this thought: If he were the best Filipino president in history, or if he were even a good president at all, WHY WOULD MILLIONS OF FILIPINOS GATHER FOR THE EDSA REVOLUTION? Because, yes, Filipinos would TOTALLY revolt against the best president ever.

I will not even get myself started on Imelda, even though I really want to talk about her shoes.

I want you alive

I am strong—but sometimes it just gets too difficult.

It becomes such a challenge to be a pacifist when you provoke me like this.. every single time.

I don’t know. I am not sure. It could only be three things.

1)   You are living in an imaginary world: A world you have successfully convinced yourself of the veracity of your lies, a world where you take no conscious effort to insist that the figments of your thoughts (your illusionary paradigm wherein you are innocent and guilt free) are real and legitimate, and these imaginary premises actually govern your conscience,

2)   Or that you are a pathological and compulsive liar who has been throwing around all your imaginary stories so much that the fact that they are all imaginary and made up it doesn’t even affect you anymore. You’ve preached and asserted your illusions enough to build a veil of lies over your conscience. You lied enough for your conscience to be long extinct.

You know what you did.

I try to live by my integrity and principles. I try to keep my cool and continue to believe my life long philosophy asserting the pointlessness of revenge and retaliation, that I need not do anything to serve me justice and reciprocate the pain and permanent damage you have inflicted upon me, that the cosmos, somewhere up there, can feel my plight and will somehow, in a very discreet and in the least conspicuous way, justify everything perhaps through karma or (hopefully) through a constant distressed conscience taking the most brutal form of attack on your mind every single day.

But you keep pushing me. You keep insisting your imaginary self righteous lies you mask as facts and publicly broadcast them to the world as if it didn’t even bother a single part of your being.

And it doesn’t really help that we are stationed in such a patriarchal society; a world where woman victims are sympathized with, but not empathized. A world where it is always the fault of the vulnerable. It’s the fault of the vulnerable for being vulnerable and the fault of the weak for being weak. It’s the fault of the unlucky for being there at the wrong place at the wrong time. And its never the fault of the Alpha for that’s what they are biologically designed to do (or some other lame self righteous patriarchal rationalization that makes absolutely no sense)

I know you carry this with you. Every damn day. You carry it along as baggage—baggage just like mine. The only difference is how we treat this baggage. You have no conscience. That's why it's so easy for you.

But despite my deep hatred for you
No matter how much I'm starting to believe that you are the human embodiment and incarnation of the devil and Satan himself
I AM NOT wishing you dead. I’m not wishing you dead inside either.

Why? Because you already are. Always have and always will be.

Instead

I wish that you be alive and human as possible.

I wish your natural human senses would come to life, would tingle like they normally would in the case of every other human being.

I’d wish you to be human enough to feel my plight, to be alive enough to be bothered by the gravity of the evil you have done to me.

I want you to be as alive as possible.

I want a spur of emotions, I want your blood rush every time you hear my name:

A blood rush that is the perfect alchemy of guilt, self-loathing and regret.

But you are dead. You are as dead as a human could ever be.

You may still breathe; you may eat and excrete like a normal person would,

You may still be significant agent in the oxygen and carbon cycle and contribute to every natural process with all its biological technicalities

BUT YOU ARE AS DEAD AS A HUMAN COULD EVER BE

The existence of your soul is questionable and that of your conscience is obviously obsolete.

I WANT YOU TO LIVE.

BE HUMAN.

FEEL.

And most of all
suffer.

A cheat day away from temper management

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZP8pCw4MBY

WARNING: This post may contain explicit verbal content that may make me sound like an overly upset uneducated spoiled brat with morally questionable intentions.

Oh wait no. I won’t apologize for being upset. In fact I will take full liberty to type EXACTLY, verbatim and vernacular, what is going on in my mind right now.

I’ve seen this video floating around the net for a while now but have decided against wasting my time watching it. I knew I hated that (person is not a suitable noun) why would I waste my time for you arrogant asdfghjkl. AND BESIDES I TAKE PRIDE IN LIVING A LIFE AWAY FROM YOU.

But my mom forced me and well I was right, NOW I CANNOT KEEP MY COOL AND HAVE DECIDED TO QUIT HIDING BEHIND THIS VEIL OF CALMNESS AND BLISSFUL IGNORANCE AND JUST YELL.  Not just because I think Ethel Booba is cool and you are a totally unworthy self righteous ass for yelling at her that way.

YOU FUCKTARD.

YOU DON’T YELL AT PEOPLE LIKE THAT, ESPECIALLY ON TELEVISION

MY WHOLE CHILDHOOD I’VE BEEN WONDERING WHAT WHY AND HOW IN THIS CRUEL EARTH DO YOU STILL GET TO KEEP YOUR JOB?? But then I grew up and educated myself and realized (and mourned at the thought of how) you are such a fucking commodity in this godforsaken capitalistic media television world.

HOW COULD SUCH A DEMON BE SO BANKABLE??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS INDUSTRY? (And by industry I am including Fans and not just media companies)

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK YOU FOR ACTING LIKE SUCH AN ASSHOLE AND NO I AM NOT SARCASTIC:

Since the inception of your (unreasonable) fame you have been constantly doing the most asshole things. From ruining my childhood by making manyak the Calendar Girl contestants when you were a host of that something noon time show in the 90’s, you’ve been on a spree of constant perverted-ness and rudeness.

BECAUSE WITH EVERY ACT YOU DO, YOU ARE OPENING MINDS OF MORE AND MORE FILIPINOS ABOUT THE EVIL THAT HUMANS (wait no I take this back. THAT WAS SUCH AN INSULT TO THE HUMAN RACE) ARE CAPABLE OF.

I sound stupid but I am in rage mode.

I still don’t understand. You know, after your stampede in Ultra I thought the ludicrousness of your fame would finally dawn on people and your ratings would, I don’t know, hopefully go down down down UNTIL YOUR SHOW GETS CUT OFF.

BUT NO. That’s not what happened. You continued to thrive on your money making vulgar spree. You and your narcissistic desire to control ABSCBN with your totalitarian ways have already gotten you kicked out of the channel, and now, for some demonic reason you ended up in a different network with an equal opportunity to lord it all over them again.

You are a phenomenon. A tragic phenomenon. People should stop accusing Koreans of being rude and attempting to take over the country. There is some other tragic phenomenon that is struggling to lord his rudeness over the archipelago.

I am so mad at you right now I am this close (makes a gesture of a tiny tiny tiny distance) to accusing you of being an illuminati

And now I am proofreading to make sure I don't accidentally mention your name cause you might sue me for libel for staining your super clean and super innocent rep which is super loved by the super filipinos.

DIGNITY on a boring night

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I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY PEOPLE SHARE SUCH A DISTORTED DEFINITION OF DIGNITY. 

It’s as if 99% of the time, we confuse dignity as one's ability to conform to social norms. (And here I am assuming part of the 1% who actually understands) My sentiments aren't rooted from any specific (or current) devastating experience, nor am I posting this to rationalize any questionable act of mine, of a skanky friend or maybe even Kim Kardashian. It's simply, one of those nights when your friends are enjoying Sinulog and you find yourself pathetic, grounded and alone with your laptop, contemplating about the little things that make up this doomed world we are forced to co-exist in. And besides, the concept of dignity just really fascinates me. Isn’t that what blogs are for in the first place?

Now before I drive into a further detour, let’s get back to topic:

Dignity? I used to think that this was our inherent worth, or perhaps the right to be respected? But it seems  that the concept is NOW way too tarnished by society, a society so condemning by nature that it has viciously and successfully appropriated "conformity to social norms and fear of stepping outside one's comfort zone" (or something like that) as a new meaning to the word

(which consequently reduces the definition of dignity as something that is extremely relative to context. Wasn’t dignity originally a universal concept? But the new relativity of dignity is an entirely different point that deserves an entire page to itself)

It just frustrates me, how people so easily throw around the word "dignity" as if they themselves have full grasp, mastery and embodiment of the concept. But nowadays, dignity seems to be worth just as much as a bottle of coke: tangible, alienable and so easily lost and consumed. (What a pathetic metaphor. Sorry but I'm enjoying some cocacola right now)

The moment you break the rules of society, it seems as if you have instantly reduced your worth to zero, losing your dignity before you even get the chance to realize what was "wrong" about what you did.

Of course, there now exists a certain set of rules that we must abide by in order to “keep your dignity.” And I’m sure you know exactly of these rules I’m referring to: Those norms that are meant to keep a certain social order; to maintain status quo, to keep those at the bottom right there, down where they belong and same goes for those above; political roles, social roles, gender roles, sexual roles, OR ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING THAT makes the game just as difficult for everyone else.

Contrary to what society dictates, you don't lose your dignity when you do something unorthodox, no matter how strange your act may be.

You don't lose your dignity when you go out of your way to send a text message to the guy you like.
You don't lose your dignity when you chase your ex who obviously couldn’t give any fuck, even if he prayed to the lord or some shamman king to help him give a little more fuck about you.
You don't lose your dignity when a nude photo of yours circulates around the Internet.
You don't lose your dignity if you got caught cheating in presidential elections (don’t get me wrong, I don’t like GMA either)

Yes, you may have successfully shattered your reputation into tiny little pieces of regret. Yes, you have broken the rules (whether legal, spoken or abstract rules) and yes may or may not deserve to go to jail.

You have lost the respect of people, but you haven't lost your dignity, you don't lose your dignity, ever, at all, no matter how crazily hard you try. 

The very moment you start losing respect for yourself will probably be the closest you can ever get to completely ridding yourself of dignity: The moment you stop respecting yourself, you are in no position to demand respect from others.
But you still have every right to be respected, don’t get me wrong.

Let's take the most generic example of what society dictates as a person with no dignity: Whores, porn stars and the sexually liberated.
She doesn't have to be a prostitute, but someone who takes pleasure in sexual activity with utter disregard for societal judgment. (Hey I actually did research to justify this claim! This really IS the primary thought that pops people’s minds when the absence of dignity is brought up) 
She chooses to sleep around. Is she guilty of harming anyone in the process of her tasks? (In fact, it seems as if the only harm she imposes upon herself is the danger of judgment coupled with the possible threats of STD’s, which is so totally NONE OF your business.)

If she is still able to live her life with a much greater sense of fulfillment than any of us, we have no right to impose the absence of her dignity. Call her a whore and warn your sons against her for all I care, just don’t go around telling the world that she has no dignity.

In fact, I have more respect for the whores and public enemies who are alleged of having lost their dignity, as compared those judgmental conformist abiders of social norms.


Say all you want, because Sasha Grey may actually be a happier person on a bad day, than you have ever been on the climax of the best day of your life. 

Reevaluate the reason behind your judgments. If you judge because you genuinely think it defies your personal integrity and principles, go and take the liberty to criticize. But if those integrity and principles of yours are based solely on the norms that are dictated by society and not anything that would personally disgust you had you not been nurtured by such a condescending society, I don't think that makes you a very happy person.

For as long as nothing (apart from society's approval) is taken away from you and insofar as you can still enjoy sweet slumber without guilt and self-disgust haunting you every night, you still have your dignity, in a shatterproof and life-lock case made with pure joy, esteem and respect.

G.W.F. Hegel and the disturbingly absurd serenity of our friendship

Using Hegel's dialectics, I tried to make a synthesis explaining why our friendship is frighteningly peaceful and maybe, to an extent, can even be considered amazing (especially taking into account our awfully complicated set-up)

Thesis: I'd like to believe I'm a very understanding and tolerant person. Maybe cause I can't afford to get into a fight; Can't seem to imagine going back to my old life without having you to cling on every damn minute.

Antithesis: How am I even able to assume that, when you (surprisingly) haven't done anything to aggravate my temperamental egocentric self?

Synthesis: I am just assuming (the antithesis) based on the pressumption that:  If the time comes that you have sufficiently pissed me off, I shall act upon (the first part of thesis) because of (the second part of thesis)

I am trying to make as much sense as I can, without fully dismissing the cryptic-ness in my words
TRYING. HAHAHA

Now I must study again

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