Friday, April 29, 2011

Post-Birthday Depression of Sorts

A few days following my 21st birthday...and I feel a bit sad and alone. Why shouldn't I be? I'm on summer vacation, I opted out of the 7-day out-of-town trip I was going to have with my friends in law school (I already bought the round trip ticket months ago), and I'm working all the time. All the time!

Why do I do this to myself? I jump from one busy and boring activity to the next, never letting myself have the fun youth has to offer. Or maybe I do, every once in a while--watching the movies I find interesting, texting with my friend, going to the mall by myself....that counts as fun, right?

I was talking to him over the phone, in one of our nightly phone call sessions. It was a constant in our lives since we've been together--phone calls at night. Being away from each other all the time, nine hours away to be exact, means that we've had to make some improvisations and these phone calls are one of those. When he called me that night, I don't know what overcame me...and I shed a few tears. Of course I wasn't that dumb to let him know; we didn't have real problems to begin with. But I guess...I guess it's just hard to feel so disconnected to the one person you're betting everything on. I mean, this is a gamble. If everyone found out, I'd be dead.

It's more much more. I guess, it's a combination of the deathly sight of pimples on my face, the lack of other real problems to stress over, the burden of my own expectations weighing down on me--basically my own self paving the road to my self-destruction.

Is there such a condition as post-birthday depression or something? Because if there is...I'm definitely having one.All I really need is to get a life. Where can I buy one?POs

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

A Story

There are stories that are too brilliant not to be told, but to tell you frankly, I'm starting to doubt if mine's remotely significant. This chapter that I'd like to think I recently closed, the chapter of having finished one year in law school, was both unremarkable and exciting, personal but a bit boring.

It's like every other law school story, I think. You come in quite unprepared, and when you linger long enough your doubts and insecurities start creeping in. From nowhere, because you didn't think you even had them in the first place.

And so you start looking for blind comfort from other people, from men who don't quite understand. And you start investing in short-lived relationships, fully knowing from the start that they will not last long.

But this particular story is neither about short-lived relationships nor about insecurities. Not exclusively, at least.

It's about the pleasant and unexpected surprise of finding someone who actually stayed through. Someone who crushed the cliche of temporal relationships. It's about finding you, knowing a bit more about me, and loving each other through and through. It's a story that gets real cheesy and sappy, a story I'd love to tell, but they contain secrets far too insignificant yet dangerous to tell.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Pre-Exam Jitters

It's not difficult to understand why I hate finals week(s) the most. It's like getting forced into this vortex of nothingness for a couple of days, forcing my brain to memorize, analyze, understand literally hundreds of concepts day after day. It wears me out. I do nothing but read, study, squint my eyes with frustration.

I really have to do well this time. I deactivated my Facebook and chose to live several miles (fine, kilometers!) away from home, here at the dorm near the university I try to avoid staying in as much as I can help it.

I didn't have to work hard as much in undergrad, but I got exactly what I wanted. Getting what I want this time, and all the roadblock and difficulties I have to go through...I guess you can say they inspire me. It fuels my competitive drive. It makes me go wild with hunger.

So fine! Maybe you can say I'm grade-conscious, at which point I'd insist that I merely care about learning, getting it.

More than anything, really, what keeps me going is the fact that, in a matter of days, right after my final exam, I finally get to meet my boyfriend. By then, it will have been a full month and 9 days since our last meeting. Long distance is a bitch, but I love him no less.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Pretend Mainstream

A semi-friend, Amy, just told me I’m mainstream. I distinctly remember her high-pitched condescending bitch of a voice saying, “Ewww, you’re so mainstream!” To a tone like that you can give nothing but a vehemently strong denial, yes?

That’s exactly what I gave.  In hindsight, there’s nothing really wrong with being “mainstream”, as she puts it. So I like popular music. I like popular movies. I like what other people like. Why pretend otherwise? For all  I know she can shove her pretense of elitism and sophistication up her ass and have her listen to a full two minutes of overbearing Ke$ha music, which I actually like as a matter of fact.

What is it with people who pretend to be so different, so indie anyway? Take note of the operative word pretend. I really have nothing against people who has the natural and all too spontaneous preference for the odd and otherworldly…but really, to claim a title for yourself and move every muscle toward that goal? I would say it’s pathetic, but even that is too popular a word. So I’m going to say….I…I don’t even have the word for it. I am so fucking mainstream.

Meet My Boyfriend

I have a boyfriend (a term I am not inclined to use, but let's call him that for posterity's sake) and we live miles apart. It wasn’t as hard as I thought, but it’s definitely not easier than any of the previous relationships I had. All those were fairly easy, save for the natural inconveniences same-sex couples experience. Compare this relationship to all the others before him? It’s a fucking marathon.

I love him to pieces, I swear I do. But two things I’m quite sure about: first, that he’s shit scare; second, that he’s dead nervous…which are, really, one and the same thing.  I don’t blame him. His family is quite conservative, and he's terribly honest. Sometimes, I think he might not love me that much, but let's not get there.

I have a theory though. If I give him just enough love to keep him wanting more, will he take the extra step? If I hold myself a few meters back... will there be a grand epiphany of him loving me a bit deeper? Will there be any difference at all?

So sue me. I am needy. I want attention. I want to take care of him. I want to see him every fucking day. I want to get physical with him, wrestle with each other until we find ourselves naked and making out. 

How much longer do I settle for the inchoate and murky promise of living together in the future for a long, long time? How do I know it's not bullshit and that I'm actually moving toward something?

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Let's Start, Shall We?

I want to be funny, the engaging writer who can easily lure readers with his natural humor. The creative writer who can do things to your imagination. Or the selfless one, whose top of mind is to evade extremely personal pronouns. But to be honest? I'm tired of trying to be any of them--at trying to sound different and more interesting. I'm just....not.

I suppose I'm another cliche attempt at starting a blog for the nth time, knowing quite well that this will be another shameless pursuit. But there's nothing to waste, is there? My time typing this, my grade in Legal Philosophy...the five minutes you spent scanning this. It's all good.

One of the fringe benefits of starting an anonymous blog is that you can't ever really be truthful about who you are. It works to my advantage, I think, being the lying little fucker I am. That's right: I lie a lot of things, except for certain areas that are just beyond my conscience. Like lying to myself. Or to my boyfriend. Anyone else that matters enough and deserves to know the truth. With anonymity comes the precious power of trying to build who you are, then taking a step back, until finally reveling at the bitter picture you've painted of yourself.

That's exactly what I want to do here. Build myself, piece by piece. Play with possibilities. Lie. Tell the truth, confess. Lay my emotions out on the line, something I've never quite been able to do in real life. Fuck with them, and see where I go from there. Nothing ever really stays the same, anyway.