On loving someone who doesn't love you back

One easy way to die is to love someone who doesn't love you back. In that case, you die in a daily basis. Every moment that passes and the feelings are not still reciprocated you lose life slowly with pain. Things seem to be sad and pointless and you just mop in your bed hoping that it's just a bad dream.

But the bad thing is that you have to wake up and fuck off your feelings. No matter how hard you push yourself down with self-pity, nothing will change. She's happy and you're not. You love her and she doesn't love you back. She will not love you back. You need to gear up every possible courage you have and accept the cruel fact that things will not go your way. They never will.

On unrequited love and perky perks

Why is it so hard? Why can't she love me back? Such nonsensical questions I already know the answers but I keep on asking anyway. Love is a selfish bitch.

posted from Bloggeroid

On solitude and being a bastard

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I'm a lonely sleep-deprived nerdy bastard. That should cheer me up, I guess.

posted from Bloggeroid

On ignorance and how to get rid of it

People are easily confused. They hate thinking. They hate using anything from their brains because they much prefer to swallow everything. They swallow God without thinking. They swallow the concept of a country without thinking. They are mass-produced walking robots. They walk a straight path towards damnation and they don't care an inch if they fall.

Worse, they drag you down. They tell you things to join the bandwagon of ignorant suicidal. Confuse them bitches. Tell them things that they don't understand. Confuse them hard. If you tell them things they don't know of, they'll think of you as a crazy bastard. Laugh at them. Tell them it's true. Tell them you're a crazy son of a bitch and confuse them. Ignorance is bliss.

On being alone and why it doesn't suck

I hate being in a large crowd. I hate people. Such phonies they are. 

On life's purpose and freelancing

Some are born to lead. Some to follow. Some are better off out of the way. Some go freelancing.

On life and madness

Life is a madhouse and I am the butcher of the nonsensical. I piss on ignorance. I laugh at academic suicide. But I keep my cool. I kill them bitches in the tranquility of non-speech. Welcome to my madhouse, you pieces of meat.

On wearing chains and love in silence

It has been a year already. Twelve months of dueling with the thoughts of moving on and caging myself behind bars of my cruel past. The chains have been broken but a burden rose anew. It came in the form of a woman. And a beautiful one at that.

Why does it have to be so hard? Fuck love.

Of the world being intact

The world's still intact. A poor kid has to carry heavy loads then get paid. A rich kid pays the gym to carry heavy loads. Yes, the world's still intact.

On finding and holding on to

If you're lucky enough to meet the right woman and she's stupid enough to fall in love with you, you hang onto her like a son of a bitch.

Of success and pregnancy

Success is like pregnancy. Everybody congratulates you at the end of labor but no one cares how many times you've been fucked before it.

On writing and madness

Write drunk. Edit sober. Write while parachuting. Edit when you land. Write crazy. Edit when sane. Write while somersaulting. Edit in plain. Write lavishly. Edit with control. Write like there's no tomorrow. Edit once and for all.

On profanity and easily-offended people

Profanity is sexy. Get over it. Armed with wit and a good sense of how fucked up things are, a sentence with profane words sounds impressive. I hate people who get easily offended with such words. Can't you be offended with rape and murder instead? Fuck your feelings. If I have to say something and it requires an artistic play of profane words, I'll say it and fuck your feelings. Be offended with real problems, people.

On giving a damn about what others think

People, phony ones, always have the grandest idea on how to live the lives of others. But fuck they can't live their own. They tell you to do shit and stuff. They don't value your opinion as long as you listen to theirs. And the secret is not giving a damn about it. Fuck them. Fuck what they have to say. Piss on their lives. Before I think about what you have to say about me I would first have to value your opinion. Sadly, I don't give a fuck. Carry on.

On past relationships and awkwardness

Seeing someone you're not supposed to see in a normal scale is damn awkward. It has been years and we both know that the feelings have faded but damn.

On government and Charles Bukowski

On death and Charles Bukowski

On TFIOS (Tears Fell in Our Snacks)

The Fault in Our Stars Facebook page for the image.

On being a writer and breaking hearts

Never break the heart of a writer. Yes, he will stay silent. He will not taunt you. But behind that silence is a 150-page narrative stating how you're a douche bag for leaving him. When he's not in the mood, it could turn out to be a book.

Of books and... more books!

These are some of the "boring" books many friends I know would definitely ignore in bookstores. But screw that crap because these babies made big shifts on me.

A little did-you-know-that:

George Orwell's 1984 is one of the most influential books of the 20th century. It is the root of all dystopian fictions we've been reading today (Divergent series, The Hunger Games series), and did you know that this book was the original basis of the reality show Big Brother? Yes, yes. Big Brother is the center idea of this book, too. Surveillance, control, dystopia.

Now, grab your copies of The Perks of Being A Wallflower. Read that little note at the left side. Yes, "... in the tradition of The Catcher in The Rye." You see, before Stephen Chbosky, we have J.D. Salinger and this book, The Catcher in The Rye. The character plays in par with Charlie.

We also have the badass Karl de Mesa, and his black shirt. That's non-fiction, by the way. But there are monsters and larger-than-life excerpts that will make you wear a black shirt, too.

Argh, To Kill A Mockingbird. Watched the movie of The Perks of Being A Wallflower? Yes, this was the book Mr. Anderson first introduced in his Freshman English class.

I decided to spend my time with these books, and I'm done with book series since I was left brokenhearted with the Divergent series (Roth really got me there, sh*t).

Of being a badass and not giving a fuck

Never, ever beg someone to stay. Let the bitch leave. And live your life so well after that you will make her regret. If she'll come back, run. And run fast. And run crazy. And don't let her catch you. This ain't fairy tale, so run. Just run. Don't let her screw you again. Just don't.

Of the majesty of the cosmos

You are made of stars. Every bone and muscle and nerves and blood inside you come from the cosmos. Inside you are quarks and quasars from the Big Bang. You are part of the universe - a universe so vast and infinite. That is you. Never feel small about yourself. Yes, you are made of atoms but you are also made of stars. Never be small. You are meant to be infinite. 

On the near demise of the Fantasy genre

Sarcasm aside, this is actually true. The history of Fantasy genre had been epic in a grand scale until Twilight. Place them in front of you: Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Narnia, then put Twilight beside them. How does that feel?

J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis, the beasts of the genre. Thank God, George R.R. Martin exists!

9GAG for the image.

Of politics and naked women

Politics is a naked woman. Not the seductive-looking naked woman but the shy, innocent one. And it will be a game of guess. If a man sees her as a woman hungry for sex and he ultimately fucks her, that is when abuse of power takes place. If a man sees her as a woman who needs help and respect and he ultimately put her clothes back on, that is when good politics takes place. But there is no such thing as good politics. So it kind of explains why most politicians are men.

On Valentine's and self-pity

February 14, 2014

Valentine’s Day

Love isn’t for me—that was what I realized today. And I guess I’m self-pitying, crushing my self-esteem, and self-inflicting pain. I know it sounds ridiculous and selfish but that is what I’m feeling right now. I’m too stupid to believe that someone out there would love me. I have my family, I know. I love them grand. But let’s try to focus on this side of love, the romantic side.

So I was standing in front of the guy who was proposing to a girl earlier inside the campus. I’m in the audience, but too near. I could see the guy’s shaking hands and the girl’s reddened face. I could hear shouts and jitters and endless “Awwww” everywhere. It was sweet a scene, rare and romantic. But it was too sweet for me—because it brought back memories I am not supposed to remember... yet. The next thing I knew, I was running out of school. I decided to go home and sleep it all down. But I failed to do so. So I’m writing this.

No one loves a guy who wears glasses—unless you’re good-looking. In my case, I zeroed in chances. I heard that same words from my Religion class seatmate. No one loves a guy who wears glasses, unless you’re good-looking. And before she knew that she was sitting right next to the person who could take that hit, I’m already devastated. I know for myself that fact. But it still tinges.

Now, I’m giving up. Yes, I’m now waving the white flag of utter surrender to the majestic truth of me zeroing on the chance of being in a romantic relationship. I’m done. I’m not going to be a hopeless romantic; I’m just done with it. Romantic love isn’t for dorks, I guess. Though I dreamt of exchanging pick-up lines about quarks and subatomic particles and nuclear energy to someone in a romantic way, I’m now discarding all that stupid ideas.

It is not jealousy, to disclaim. It is what I call as self-enlightenment—embracing the painful truth like its spikes aren’t that sharp enough to shatter me into pieces. I’m happy for them, lovebirds and all. They should relish and celebrate the love they’d shared for like every second. Almost everything is fleeting, even memories. But these memories last longer, if they are good ones. So they should make good memories out of their times together. And I guess I’m talking to myself, too.

So let’s go back to me ranting about why I’m disqualified from romantic relationships. Though there is a part of me that is desperate enough to do everything just to win a girl’s heart, there is also this part that controls it. And this part says, “You don’t go winning any girl’s heart, you little Shakespeare. You’re protecting them.” That’s what is keeping me to move forward. This part also tells me to shut up and don’t be involved.

I’m in the full course of doing that now, shutting up and locking myself from everyone. Surviving a year of solitude, this is a piece of cake. It almost feels like I don’t need anyone anymore. And I’m afraid of it. I need to need anyone. But every day of being alone pulls me away from that.

This day inside the school, I felt like I don’t belong. They’re all in an upbeat for flowers and chocolates and surprises. Maybe I should go home now, I thought. But I failed to do it, too. So I managed to read a book and warm my ass inside the library for hours. No one loves anyone who reads books. But I’m wiling to disqualify myself for that. Books aren’t just stacks of papers put together with ink on it. Books are my escape. Books let me borrow a bit of life in fantasy where the world has no limits. Books are my friends, and they do love me though I wear glasses. They don’t see the worst in me and not all the best, too. They embrace both. They see my imperfections fit enough for them to let me wander off in worlds with no boundaries.

But I need to have a tight grip on reality, too. Even if it’s too painful, I need to grip it tight enough. And in this reality, my world is a small box—small enough for anyone to notice it. In this world, I am no one. I’m a strand of hair useless enough that if someone cuts me, nothing will change. But this is where I belong, and I don’t belong. See? It isn’t that easy.

Girls love good-looking guys. They love the rebellious, good-looking guys. They love the phony, rebellious, good-looking guys. And I’m literally behind that phony, rebellious, good-looking guy one time a week before today. We walked the same path. And every time he passed through girls, they went wild crazy. And I’m just a shadow of that good-looking guy for them. Shadow, is an understatement if they do noticed me. So, basically, no one loves the guy who is literally behind a good-looking other guy. I should avoid walking behind them from now on, just to avoid any further damage to my fragile self-esteem.

But I’m greeting anyone who’s reading this a sweet Valentine’s Day. I’m thinking of screwing that first line of this entry. But I’m too hungry for it, so, yeah, whatever.

On pretentious bastards and writers

Such pretentious bastards people are. They pretend for money, for fame, for sex. They pretend because inside those skins are monsters, demons of their nature. They fancy you but their demons only want to fuck you. They drink wine but their demons thirst for blood. They fancy meeting people but their demons only want to kill them—fuck some of them. You see, they pretend to live. But some people succeed and break their masks and leave such pretences.  They come in the form of politicians, tyrants, murderers, whores and bitches, but mostly politicians. Furthermore, some break their masks and control their demons. These demons whisper instead of shout. And their whispers turn into letters. These people come in the form of writers. But their demons sometimes go berserk, making whispers turn into roars and that would eventually make a good book.

These people, writers, are strange creatures. They see the world in a way no one can understand. They see it naked. They see it foul. They piss on this rotting world and write something about it. They don’t sleep but dream often. They dream that their words will matter to those pretentious bastards. But most of those bastards don’t give a fuck so they don’t give a fuck anymore, too. They had too much of the naked world and this naked world fucked them long enough. But they are visitors here. Their world exists in a fascination where peace, a soothing peace welcomes them like a wife deprived of her husband from a long fought war. Writers are abused warriors.

These strange creatures also tell you stories with sad endings because that is how life is. People who think life has a happy ending waiting for them in the stretch of their years haven’t lived it long enough. They’re still in the shallow waters of love and pleasure. But these writers tell you sad stories because they have drowned themselves in the depths of life where darkness is the vast, unending sea.

These strange creatures are sad creatures, too. They piss on the rotting world alone. They laugh at people alone. They weep alone. But they choose being alone. It is in the company of no one that everything makes sense. And damn do they want for everything to make sense.

In a world where the conceited are worshipped, we need their demons. We need them to stab, and fuck, the conceited ones with words all powerful. These writers can stab them with pens but it will be a fleeting pain. Their words can outlive such suffering for they are eternal, owned by the universe and in universe they reside. They can stab the conceited with words for all eternity because that is how fucking powerful these writers’ demons are.

On grenades and unrequited love

I admit it. The Fault in Our Stars really got me. And I mean really hard (my manly precipices are shattered with pride). It also got me into deep shit thinking about love and life. You see, I’m in love with this woman but I barely know her. Sure we shared really awesome moments together. She told me things she didn’t tell to others but I don’t make a big deal out of it in my defence. Well, a little bit. Worse is that she is way out of my league. The best metaphor I could think right now is a frog and a princess. She is beautiful. But I don’t mean ‘beautiful’ like beautiful (though she really is physically beautiful). It is a rare case scenario when the entire universe seems in place and she’s there at the center and all you could think of is one word, and that’s ‘beautiful’. So that’s it. She’s beautiful and I’m me.

Enough with self-pity. I also wondered if what kind of a person she really is. I mean, if she’s a grenade with all her tantrums and manic behavior, can I handle it? No, the real question is: do I deserve the privilege of being hurt? I’ve been into all sorts of crappy relationships and every break up I feel like I don’t deserve being hurt at all. This time, I needed to be sure that I’ll be hurt and feel deserved for it. If she really is a grenade, I want to be the best shield and damage-absorbent armor she can get. I’ll gladly embrace the explosion.

But the odds of us being together are sky high apart. I may consider myself lucky enough to be in the friend zone. She has this wide circle of friends and acquaintances and all I have is a little triangle of parents, four friends, and her. However, I got this notion of the courage of loving someone without expecting something in return. The feeling twitches but it is kind of valiant at the same time. You feel happy when she’s happy. You listen to her stories (mostly about other people) and you feel connected though it is not the real case. You care for her more than you could for any other living thing in the world (except your parents and Emma Watson and Shailene Woodley) and at the same time accepting the fact that you will not receive the same amount of affection. You think about her all the time and she is busy being herself. You put her life ahead of yours, seeing her being happy and maybe someday being happy with someone else but you could not do anything about it. Maybe the best thing to do is to confess. But confessions are breakers. They break reality. They break the fact that she is better off without you but you are being selfish so you are going to confess. But sometimes they break dreams. They break the illusion that you can’t reach her, that you are an ugly frog madly in love with a princess. They break the illusion of the unrequited. And that is the sweet risk worth tasting.