Just A Thought

I often wish I could just quit law school, and be a wedding photographer instead. It might actually pay better.

My aunt abbie and I could make a wedding-service company. She can do the entourage's make-up, while I take the pictures.

One of those days

My mother and I had another one of our passive-aggressive fights.

Sigh.

The way my family acts sometimes makes me despair of growing older.

As young children, we are taught that with age comes maturity and wisdom. But sometimes, I doubt this. Is it possible that once we reach a certain age (Maybe twenty-something?) we've probably reached the treshhold of emotional maturity?

My mother still has a great number of insecurities. I had always thought that with time, one becomes more at peace with oneself. But my mother still bites my head off for saying phrases that make her feel inadequate.

She still bristles at the slightest suggestion that I might prefer or prioritize my relatives to her. I don't, not really, but she still unconsciously asks me to choose.

My relatives still bicker like little children, they still fight like little children who push and shove to get the best toys.

I have relatives who are still as emotionally needy as they were in their teens.

As a child, I thought with maturity one becomes more forgiving and patient. But my grandfather and father still aren't on speaking terms, and they haven't been for years.

As a child, I thought growing up meant being able to let the little things slide. But how could it be when so many little things are keeping my relatives apart?

I'm terrified of growing older, of looking at myself 20 years from now and realizing that I haven't emotionally grown, at all.

I'm terrified of having children, of having them look at me and realizing that I'm still the immature and insecure person I was at 22. I'm terrified of being mired in the kind of behavior so prevalent in my family, and of setting that kind of bad example to my children. I wouldn't want to raise a child in the same backbiting, petty environment I grew up in.

I'm dead

I just found out that I might be having Ma'am Avena for evidence next semester.

Someone please kill me now.

The world did not stop turning

I (accidentally) erased all the songs in my iPod.

20gig worth of songs, suddenly just GONE.

Oddly enough, I don't feel so bad about it. Hmmmm.

I'm actually having a lot of fun selecting songs to fill my iPod with.

Any suggestions of songs and/or artists?

Vertigo

We were arguing again. Fighting seems to be the only thing we still do together.

Our lines are still tangled. I wonder if we ever understood each other at all, or if we ever talked without arguing. Now, we can't spend five minutes in each other's company without arguing about the most petty things.

It came to a point that we couldn't ride an escalator together without arguing.

You retorted to a comment I made. I just sighed and looked down. It was a long, long way down. The polished tile surface of the floor was so mesmerizing

I was gripped by the sudden urge to just JUMP. To jump away from all the excuses, all the anger, all the misunderstandings, all the drawn-out fighting.

I averted my gaze and looked at you. I looked at you intently, hoping that you would anchor me.
I laughed, shakily.

"Hold me, I feel like jumping."

You made an impatient gesture, ignored my silent plea.

No. I don't think we ever understood each other.

6 weird things about me. Embrace your weirdness!

I was tagged by Deng Deguzman

The Rules: Each player of this game starts with six weird things about themselves. People who get tagged need to write a blog entry of their own six weird things as well as state the rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose six people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says you are tagged in their comments and tell them to read your blog.


One. I still read romance novels. I know, I know, this is sort of thing is only supposed to be a high school habit. But I still haven't broken the habit. I don't know why, really. I think, at the end of day, it's because I would still like to believe in happy endings. And that despite all the evidence to the contrary, it is possible to find someone you can truly be happy with.


Two. I sometimes sing Barney songs out loud. And not the just the Barney theme song, I sing even the obscure Barney songs. My friends get spooked. On one occassion, my friend cheska wanted to strangle me.


Three. I'm a homebody. I could probably stay in my apartment/house for weeks without getting bored and/or going insane. Just give me a room full of books, a truckload of dvds and a ref full of food.


Four. I cry a lot, when I watch movies. If someone dies dramatically, I cry. I cried when I watched Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, King Kong, Griffin and Pheonix (despite the crappy storyline), Legends of the Fall, Monster, Bridges of Madison Country and all the Lord of the Ring movies. That's just the short list of the movies i've cried over, I can't remember all of them. I also cry during movie fight scenes. I know, I know, it's weird. But when I first watched Hero (Jet Li), the fight scenes made me cry.


Five. I have vertigo. I don't like heights. Not because I'm afraid of heights, but because I'm afraid I will jump just for the heck of it.


Six. I have weird taste in men. I like geeks. I like nerds. Nerds are hot for me.
____________________________________________________________________________

I am tagging:
- My happy friends! Motto kasi ng happy friends ay, "Happily Weird, Weirdly Happy!". So all happy friends should fill up this survey:
1) Cheska Sayson
2) Kimberly Pagdilao
3) Gladys Bagsin
4) I am also tagging my weird friend Danes Lingat.
5) I am tagging my goddess, Diane Roscacia.
6) Lastly, I am tagging my kenkoy boy, Erwin Matib.

Why Anthurium Girl?

Anthurium Girl by Ruel S. DeVera

You never knew why your mother loved them so;
having grown up in a house that always had them,
you never figured out what it was she saw
in these strange flowers, hiding in the precious shade.

If you had asked her, perhaps she would have spoken
in the way the two of you talk, of this flower's resilience,
how you take it for granted because it lasts longer
than any auxiliary anxiety or inborn immolation.

Perhaps she would tell you about how she fancies
its shape, how its flower is a heart impaled,
how the hurt you fear most comes from exactly
where, when, and from whom you least expect it.

Perhaps, just maybe, you would then take
the opportunity to tell her about that someone
you could not have, whose shape and syntax
continues to elude you even now.

Perhaps you will tell her about truths too sharp
to hold or release, breaths too heavy to reclaim,
poetry books grown too heavy with dust to open
or move, lost last chances at little redemptions.

Perhaps there are no answers for all your questions,
and perhaps she knows it. Sometimes not even
the most sacred of words can save you.
Not even your own.

Perhaps the answers lie in the same secret
places you like to frequent, that unseen
space between books on a shelf, or in
the pauses between a friend's invisible sighs.
They lie in the cool, dark corners you grow in,
the places which only you really know