Sad

I have this dull ache in my chest every time someone says he or she is sad. I don't know if I should feel annoyed, angry, or confused.

I scream on the inside because I find it so fucking hard to talk about my struggle. I find it too difficult that I mask my sadness with bright smiles and laughter.

But these people -- it's so easy for them to change their online status to "sad," to tell people about their loneliness, depression, internal struggle like it's a staple topic for small talk.

Is their sadness the same as mine? The kind that gnaws at your gut, leaving you empty? It'd be great if it stopped at that -- if I ended up living a zombie-like existence. But, no. I feel too much. I'm empty inside, but I still feel too much. Imagine how exhausting that is.

Imagine living in my sadness every goddamn day.

An Open Letter to Everyone I Ever Liked

I swear, this unhealthy infatuation routine will be the end of my sanity. You see, other people – they actually do something when they like someone. They throw meaningful glances, send text messages, smile, and – I don’t know – say hi or some shit.

Me? I do nothing. The more I like you, the more I ignore you. I can totally treat the person I’m obsessing with like they're the air. Hell, even the wind gets more visible attention from me. But I fixate. Oh, hell, do I fixate. You don’t even know it, but we’ve already had several meet-cutes inside my head. I build up serendipitous scenarios all the time that I have trouble recognizing them from actual events.

Now, this may look like I’m assuming you like me, but you should know that I’m not the jumping-into-conclusions type. It would have been better if I were assuming you like me too. If I were delusional in that manner, I would never have to feel guilty about my fantasies. Frankly, I’ve realized that nobody will ever like me even if I made the effort to flirt. I’m just not attractive like that. Throw my paranoia and awkwardness into the punch, and you have the perfect specimen for a crazy spinster.

The only time someone will know that I like them will be the time they crack my skull open, hook my brain to a supercomputer, and start an intensive research. You know, like that thing they did with that kid’s brain in John Saul’s “Shadows” or in one of Walter Bishop's outrageous experiments in “Fringe.”

But that’s beside the point. I don’t think I will ever have a healthy relationship with anybody. I know I have a problem. But so far, the only thing I have done to address it is to rant on my blog. Check it out; you will see posts of insecurity and self-deprecation. They’re lovely. I rant about my loneliness, my androphobia, and my terribly convoluted thoughts. Have I done something else? Maybe some proactive shit like talking to a shrink? Hell, no. A therapist is expensive. I can blab the same things to my friends, and they’ll probably give me the same psychobabble anyway.

My friends are smart, so I know they give excellent advice. But it’s not like I follow them. I’m terrible at follow-throughs. I guess what I’m trying to say is you will never know that I like you – ever. Sucks for me. If only I were like other people. But, no. Instead of devising ways for you to notice me, I devise more scenarios of us together. Inside my head. Now that I’ve written it down, it feels a little creepy. Ha.

You don’t even know me, but I read your blog on a regular basis. I stalk your social media accounts. I check your photos. I build our fantasy life together based on the information I’ve gathered online. See what I mean? I need a fucking shrink.

But it won’t matter anyway, right? Because you will never know I like you. Unless my girlfriends betray me and spill all my secrets or unless – for some miraculous reason – the heavens grant me with gumption, I will take your names and your faces to my grave. So I hope you think of me sometimes. And see you never.

Battling Ennui

I am the type who gets bored easily. That’s why I take advantage of what little curiosity and open-mindedness I possess. I surround myself with things, ideas, and people that will save me from unbearable ennui.

I love music, but I don’t have the natural musical abilities of the talented few who possess the gift. So, I make do. I try to play the guitar – although I’m quite terrible at it. I try to write songs. Just lyrics though because I’m bad at identifying notes, even worse at making a melody. Of the four songs I’ve written so far, three already have melodies. Thanks to friends who took pity on me and my poor lyrics. I'd like to holler a special shout out to Myra Escoro; she created the melodies for my lyrics. She's one of the most creative people I know, and these songs won't exist without her. I guess this is kind of an accomplishment for me. But it’s not enough. There’s a hunger inside me that can’t be appeased by my mediocre attempts.

So, I devour music – every genre, every artist, every song that has substance. If it triggers emotions within me, I consume it without guilt. I don’t understand why some music fanatics can be so condescending and elitist. Some do not understand the soul woven into the fabrics of rock, so they roll their eyes and call it noise. Some rock fans feel the need to be angsty and exclusive, so they bash pop – calling it trash.

Although, yes, even I will have to admit that most songs in the top 40 charts are crap. But there are hundreds more out there that deserve a few minutes more of people’s attention. Calling one genre crap because it doesn’t suit your taste is a douchy move. More importantly, it is an insult to people who dig multiple genres. I am one of those people. I devour classic rock, metal, and punk rock as much as Jpop, Kpop, and the good old American pop. As long as the music radiates soul, I will embrace it. Loyalty to your preferred genre is one thing; disrespect to other artists’ music is another story.

I love art, but I’m not an artist. The closest I have to artworks of my own are humanoids roughly drawn on MS Paint. It is absolutely frustrating to try to make art and end up lacking – big time. I always feel like a fraud. The fuck are you doing, Jen? Stop embarrassing yourself. Stop trying too hard. I know my attempts at art will never amount to anything. But sometimes, when I’m feeling creative and delusional, I draw floating heads with questionable hairstyles. I write baybayin calligraphy. And I do my best to make them look half decent. And I smile, knowing I didn’t beat myself up for making shitty art – knowing that I made them for my entertainment, my satisfaction. I smile because my stupid sketches answer my deep craving. I smile because they understand.

So, because I’m a frustrated artist with depressing attempts, I look for other means to indulge my creative sensibilities. Art/artist appreciation. Art events. Tumblr – it will never let you down. I’m also fortunate to have befriended a few illustrators, but that’s it. That’s the extent of my connections. I would have been acquainted with more artsy fartsy individuals if I weren’t an insecure, intimidated, neurotic mess.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk, says the cliché. I can’t change how I am with people and I’m sure my perennial boredom won’t be a catalyst for change. I’d rather die than talk to people I’m uncomfortable with. And most artists make me feel so little and insignificant. I collaborated with an artist friend a few months back though. Jissa wanted to make a booklet compiling Philippines’s mythos and creatures of lower mythology. Since I’m a big sucker for Philippine lower mythology, I immediately said yes. I supplied the tanaga for every creature and god she’d drawn. It was a small compilation though – just three creatures of lower mythology, three gods, and a babaylan. Thankfully, her project was received with praise. We plan to add more to our measly collection and turn it into a book. Someday. Lol. I will write a separate blog for this project. I will also include Jissa’s artwork and my tanaga to show our brilliance. HAHAHAHAHA.

Aside from music and art, I also turn to books, anime, movies, writing, filmmaking, food, and whatever new interest catches my eye. I’m good at spotting interesting activities; the problem with me is follow through and commitment. Then, I have concerns every time I consider going to events or activities. Will there be people? How many of them can tolerate me? How many of them can I tolerate? Will I have a safety net – someone who will not leave me behind for another group or another set of friends? What are the chances of me ending up at the back of the room, edging out toward the exit? Sometimes, I overthink too much that I cancel my plans altogether. Rational, ei?

Just thought I should give you a peek into my intricate thought process. Now, you won’t be surprised if I won’t show up in your event when I said I would. It’s not like I’m invited to events all the time anyway, but you know. Damn, this is awkward. I don’t know how to end this shit. Perhaps I should just call out to the eternally bored like myself. Reach out to me; let’s compare notes. But do it cautiously because I dash off when startled. Haha. See ya.

A Bottle for My Sanity (Or How I'm Deeply Contemplating if I'm an Alcoholic)

I miss getting drunk, like puke-everywhere drunk -- not because I'm sad or depressed (although I think I am). But that's not the point. I want to get piss drunk again because I miss the elated confidence it brings. Is that a disorder? I don't know. Am I turning into an alcoholic? At 25? I don't know. Do I like myself better when I'm drunk? Perhaps. Because I am happier, spontaneous, and open -- with a devil-may-care attitude. I guess that, in its happy, twisted sense, is a form alcohol dependency.

The obliging Merriam-Webster website defined alcoholism as

a medical condition in which someone frequently drinks too much alcohol and becomes unable to live a normal and healthy life

Me? Unlikely. One of the major factors why I can never be an alcoholic is because I don't have the extra cash to buy alcohol (to my heart's content) at the present. But, does craving for it when facing problems count? I might be overthinking this again. Yes, I tend to do that. Maybe this reflection is just my irresponsible brain's way of procrastinating. See, I'm writing this at 2 p.m. On a Tuesday. On my office computer. 

I can almost hear its sly voice. Yea, go on. Write a damn blog post, and leave your press release drafts for tomorrow. What's wrong with being a mediocre writer anyway? Your bosses won't kill you. They might fire you, but hell, whatever, right?

Ugh.

Where was I? 

Oh, forget it.

Some Thoughts on Rurouni Kenshin: Kyoto Inferno (Movie Review)

Hajime Saito

Hajime Saito is still hot and cool at the same time. My sentiments are the same with the first movie though—Saito in the series has a more indifferent vibe. Oh well, you can’t have everything.

Makoto Shishio

I’ve said this before. I don’t like their pick for Makoto Shishio. Shishio is tall and thin; Takuya Fujiwara is neither.

Farewell scene

What was that? Thirty seconds or less? In daylight? What happened to the fireflies? What happened to the cloak of darkness adding mystery to Kenshin’s quest? What happened to Kaoru’s painfully sweet tears? Of course, the director explained why he opted to change the scene, but still . . . the feels . . . Mr. Otomo just ruined my childhood.

Aoshi

I still don’t get it why they did not introduce Aoshi in the first installment. They were adding him in the storyline anyway. Why didn’t they give him a more solid character in the first place? He just went on like a broken record, asking everybody where Battosai was. The actor is handsome though, with slender muscles showing on his sexy biceps. He was still like a broken record in the series, but at least it was more poetic. His lines were sort of like, “I will take the title of “Strongest” and decorate it on the graves of my men.” I’m too lazy to give a back story to the noobs. Just look it up online.

Misao

The actress sorta looks like someone I know. Hello, Alya Mongaya. :) You have a doppelganger in the new RuroKen movie! ;)

Eiji

You have to give it to the kid. He totally stole the scene! They should give him an award: best child actor in the screaming role. His cries were perfect.

Fight scenes

The fight scenes were great! I was dissatisfied with Kenshin and Sojiro’s initial fight though. Maybe because the setting was different and one character was missing. That large dude was not a major character, so I guess it was okay to omit him in the movie. But they could have made the fight more exciting. I have a big feeling that they will compensate through Kenshin and Sojiro’s final fight.

Sano and Kenshin’s moment

It was awesome! I know it had bromance written all over it, but I couldn’t help getting the feels. Can’t see it? Well, imagine Sano with a wet look just inches away from Kenshin’s face. I shriek and giggle internally.

Kaoru as bait

Are you fucking kidding me? They made Kaoru look weak. She did nothing but fight the enemies in the series, and they just let Sojiro snatch her in the movie. This modification is a travesty!

Kenshin, Sano, and Saito’s deck scene

I love this scene in the series. I love how Saito kept calling Sano baka when in the end, Sano’s strength helped in bringing the ship down. Too bad they did not include that in the movie. Instead, they decided to kidnap Kaoru and make her look helpless. The only explanation that came up is fan service—damsel in distress with the fearless samurai at her heels.

Hiko

We were pretty sure that was Hiko in the final scene. But what the hell, man. What the hell did they do to his outfit? His coat was gone, and his clothes were all baggy and dull. Ugh. The actor who portrayed him is handsome though. ;)

Affirmations? Violent reactions? Additional thoughts? Feel free to comment below.

Zombie

What makes the soul die? For me, it is the endless rotation of the mundane. Every day, the same---with nothing much going on in between to keep you sane. Getting stuck in a hole where you can never crawl out, no matter how you struggle, no matter how hard you try to claw through the dirt and stones.

Can you blame me for quitting? When all I have for all my efforts are dirt in my fingernails and grime on my face? Would you have continued trying even when doors incessantly shut in your face? Perhaps you would have carried on. Perhaps you are the brave sort. But you have to know that I'm not. You have to know that I easily give up. All those inspirational quotes circulating online can only do so much. Pep talks from friends feel rehearsed, like they're just going through motions of comforting someone insecure and incompetent. Yes, they help boost morale for a few seconds, but they don't give me the courage I need, the confidence I crave.

Dumbledore said that words are our most inexhaustible source of magic. Unfortunately, I'm a witch who found out that she's a muggle after all---a squib, a disappointment. I'm a dreamer who has woken up to a cold, bucketful of water poured over my head. I'm a fraud. I'm a fool.

But I'll keep doing this foolishness anyway. Because I can't think of any other way to exist.

How Writing Is for the Rest of Us

How will a writer know if she's good enough? If it's measured by the books she's published or the starred reviews she's acquired, then there are thousands out there who will never, ever feel confident with their abilities. 

How can a writer go on when she receives rejection after rejection--every piece close to her heart, written with passion and pure intentions, ignored.

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Thank you for participating.

Two lines. Only two lines are enough to make a writer feel like garbage. The world only needs to say no to make her stop forming dialogues and arguments and plots inside her head. You see, fear of rejection is a writer's toxic friend. She shares a bittersweet coffee with it every day. In return, it feeds her insecurities. It blocks her path and spits on her hopes.

The world of writing is a cruel place. This is a world of masochists. We keep on going even after a deadly blow to our ego. We keep pouring our souls, baring ourselves just to fall hard--rejected, unrecognized, alone.

Yep. But we're still hooked. Like fucking junkies.

Hopeless

In the depths of my desperation, I scream for help. No one hears but this little voice inside my head. But it does nothing to help my cries. It does nothing but whisper tiny words of doubt, slowly seeping into my tarnished armor. It feeds on my frustrations. It gnaws at my depression. It devours my confidence and spits out hundreds of haunting figures—fragments of my old self turned into mosaics of pretense. That little voice feeds on the dark secrets that drown me to insanity. It grows louder than my fears—keeping me awake in the middle of the night, trapping me inside my own mind.