Lately, there's been a few changes in my life:
--I work-out about three times a week now. Since February, I've gained approx. 20 pounds. I now look like a normal person, and no longer like a healthy skeleton.
--My libido has exploded as a result of working out. What I mean is that I'm now more aggressive. If I see a hot girl, I'll stare at her up and down. Parts of her body are pleasurable to watch: her ass, her breasts, her hips, her lips, her legs, and if she's wearing sandals, her feet. I study her like a painting. I like to feel that squeeze in my groin. Whereas before I would have considered that inappropriate, now I find it enjoyable. I don't know if this is good or bad. Personally, I don't think a quick glance every now and then hurts anyone.
--I've started turning in homework on time. I'm still stuck in a community college, but I'm determined to get out next year--by any means. I have this fantasy of spending a quiet night in my own apartment, sipping wine, relaxing next to my imagined girlfriend, maybe reading, maybe listening to the rain outside. I just want to begin my own life already.
--I'm horny all the time. Seriously. Mornings, afternoons, nights.
--I get angry more. Bad drivers especially piss me off.
--I still don't like the taste of beer.
That's all for now.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
'All These Things That I've Done'
At the moment, I feel like a loser. Well, today I woke up feeling like a loser. Since then, things have improved--slightly. But I still feel immense shame, guilt, and helplessness.
There's a certain danger in feeling like a loser. You feel like you don't deserve anything. Any attention or praise is easily misdirected. Achievements or self-improvements are forgotten, discarded, or tossed away. You lose sleep. You worry. The thoughts that float through your mind feel like a physical burden on your body. Everything has weight, and you feel so much of it.
Don't get me started on self-esteem. There's none to speak of. It's gone. It's disappeared ("Bye, bye") as if you had none to begin with. Then you wonder if you did have any to begin with, and what a strange emotion self-esteeem is, since it is only felt when we feel threatened, and if felt at any other time we call it pride and condemn it. Yes, you lose that too. You lose so much and gain so little. But none of it is freeing because all you ever want is your old life back; you crave normalcy like a filling meal. You grow weak, all energy spent into this self-perpetuating hatred machine that chews up your self-worth and spits it on your soul.
Guilt is a dish best served boiling. Scalding guilt is at least forceful, impactful; it doesn't hide in shadows, linger on the edges of a café, groping you down with its heavy eyes. Hard to control guilt, even harder to relieve yourself. You depend on others for this one. You want forgiveness so bad it honestly hurts. It acidifies all other goals. The words of this person are all that you ever want, have ever wanted, and nothing but these simple utterences can lift you out of the mire.
Shame. Squirmy, squiggyly, yellow-faced shame. How awful, how ugly, how terrible a neighbor. Shame is dirty, like a stray dog, but clever. Shame wears a suit, and you can't help but trust him. But you already know he's untrustworthy. He's so charming and suave, what choice do I have? Shame, the terrible; shame, the lame; shame, the monster tearing your insides apart. And worse, you're the one who invited him in.
There's a certain danger in feeling like a loser. You feel like you don't deserve anything. Any attention or praise is easily misdirected. Achievements or self-improvements are forgotten, discarded, or tossed away. You lose sleep. You worry. The thoughts that float through your mind feel like a physical burden on your body. Everything has weight, and you feel so much of it.
Don't get me started on self-esteem. There's none to speak of. It's gone. It's disappeared ("Bye, bye") as if you had none to begin with. Then you wonder if you did have any to begin with, and what a strange emotion self-esteeem is, since it is only felt when we feel threatened, and if felt at any other time we call it pride and condemn it. Yes, you lose that too. You lose so much and gain so little. But none of it is freeing because all you ever want is your old life back; you crave normalcy like a filling meal. You grow weak, all energy spent into this self-perpetuating hatred machine that chews up your self-worth and spits it on your soul.
Guilt is a dish best served boiling. Scalding guilt is at least forceful, impactful; it doesn't hide in shadows, linger on the edges of a café, groping you down with its heavy eyes. Hard to control guilt, even harder to relieve yourself. You depend on others for this one. You want forgiveness so bad it honestly hurts. It acidifies all other goals. The words of this person are all that you ever want, have ever wanted, and nothing but these simple utterences can lift you out of the mire.
Shame. Squirmy, squiggyly, yellow-faced shame. How awful, how ugly, how terrible a neighbor. Shame is dirty, like a stray dog, but clever. Shame wears a suit, and you can't help but trust him. But you already know he's untrustworthy. He's so charming and suave, what choice do I have? Shame, the terrible; shame, the lame; shame, the monster tearing your insides apart. And worse, you're the one who invited him in.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Update
Up-to-date on my life:
:finals, projects, homework. Remind me to retake psychology, shakespeare, and a certain study class
:i suffered a concussion last week. i'm feeling much better now. I hit my head against the back of my car.
:having a concussion has stopped my workouts, making me nervous I'll become unfit again. Completely unfounded, of course.
:been torn between playing my DS and reading. I want to read; I want to so badly read.
:I've come to the conclusion that I'm a terrible coward when it comes to school. I'm afraid of failing, and so I don't try. When it comes to the fact that I fail, at least I know it was on my terms. It frightens me to think I try my best and still fail.
:I would make a terrible boyfriend. I'm selfish and impatient.
:So there's this pretty girl in my psychology class. And she's really pretty. That's all.
:I realize casual sex is not the best way to start a relationship. Right afterward (I imagine), you'll be like, "Oh, shit! I don't know anything about this person."
:To men, sex is a goal; to women, sex is a means. The most lucid time in a man's life is right after he has sex.
:I realize no one on Blogger will ever know who I am, so what's the point in hiding my thoughts?
:anonymity does something to people: it renders them ghosts, free from society's rules.
:in real life, most people don't want violence.
:anyway, back to my project. Then sleep. Then waking early tomorrow for more project work. Then school. Then coming home and eating. Then...what? I'll probably get some rest. Goodnight.
:finals, projects, homework. Remind me to retake psychology, shakespeare, and a certain study class
:i suffered a concussion last week. i'm feeling much better now. I hit my head against the back of my car.
:having a concussion has stopped my workouts, making me nervous I'll become unfit again. Completely unfounded, of course.
:been torn between playing my DS and reading. I want to read; I want to so badly read.
:I've come to the conclusion that I'm a terrible coward when it comes to school. I'm afraid of failing, and so I don't try. When it comes to the fact that I fail, at least I know it was on my terms. It frightens me to think I try my best and still fail.
:I would make a terrible boyfriend. I'm selfish and impatient.
:So there's this pretty girl in my psychology class. And she's really pretty. That's all.
:I realize casual sex is not the best way to start a relationship. Right afterward (I imagine), you'll be like, "Oh, shit! I don't know anything about this person."
:To men, sex is a goal; to women, sex is a means. The most lucid time in a man's life is right after he has sex.
:I realize no one on Blogger will ever know who I am, so what's the point in hiding my thoughts?
:anonymity does something to people: it renders them ghosts, free from society's rules.
:in real life, most people don't want violence.
:anyway, back to my project. Then sleep. Then waking early tomorrow for more project work. Then school. Then coming home and eating. Then...what? I'll probably get some rest. Goodnight.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Jacarandas
I've been wanting to write about this for a while now.
May and June are the months of the Jacaranda in Southern California.
I pass by dozens of them on my way to school everyday.They range in size from 10 feet to 60 feet or more. They can be clustered together or dispersed amongst the streets and houses. They leave underneath them bell-shaped flowers that seem to paint the asphalt purple. Sometimes you'll find a cute jacaranda in front of someone's house; another time you'll be driving down a street and spot a 90 foot giant towering over a church. They don't care where they grow; they just want to grow up and drop purple bells beneath them.
I apologize if the next part is too rambly or sentimental.
The jacarandas turn purple and drop leaves every year. In a way, it's a sad time for me. It reminds me that another year has passed, another year is deducted from my life. I never observed the jacarandas when I was younger. I was unaware of the passing of time outside my own life. For me, time was something that got in the way from me being older and having more things.
I tend to recite the first two lines of T.S. Elliot's "The Wasteland" in my head whenever I'm driving to school, observing these melancholy trees: "April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land...." The jacarandas are the lilacs, in a way. April represents spring, the rejuvenation of life (Easter is in spring for a reason). It reminds me that the world is not so rosy, that death is a very real problem, and that we continue to bring life into this corrupted and sinful world. The jacarandas are cruel in that every year they continue to bloom and drop their purple bells onto the concrete sidewalks. Another year passes, another year my disappointments and failures set me back--constant reminders of the difference between what should be and what could be. But the jacarandas bloom every year; they drift slowly and steadily with the passage of time.
In Japan, there are the cherry blossoms, which hold significant cultural importance for the people of Japan. For me, I have the jacarandas. They are not as significant. They are not part of my culture. But they are nice, and they are pretty, and when they bloom, despite the awfulness of the world, I smile. I like the jacarandas despite the reflections they return. I like them because they will never stop blooming. They are outside me, but live within the same world I do. They inhabit space I inhabit. They thrive with me. If they could observe me back, they'd see a human being one year older every spring. They represent the clock-work of plant life. There's always new life in this world, in this undiscovered universe. When it's winter in the Northern Hemisphere, it's summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Where there is radioactive land, there are radiation-resistant fungi. Life goes on. Plants thrive where and when you least expect them. That's the wonder of life. It replenishes what good there is in the world. If April didn't breed lilacs out of the dead land, then we'd really be in trouble. There would be no way to go on living. But no: the lilacs grow, the jacarandas grow, time passes, we all die, everything begins anew. Cycling forever and ever. It will never stop. Even if we blew up the entire planet, single cell organisms would fly off into outer space on chucks of earth and crash-land on some other planet, and inhabit that other planet, and so the cycle would begin again. The cycle could continue--with or without us. So much depends upon the revival of plants on earth, and yet, so much does not. In reality, it is just us that depend upon it. It is us that are out of the cycle. It is us that will eventually end, not life.
May and June are the months of the Jacaranda in Southern California.
 | |
| Wikipedia. |
I apologize if the next part is too rambly or sentimental.
The jacarandas turn purple and drop leaves every year. In a way, it's a sad time for me. It reminds me that another year has passed, another year is deducted from my life. I never observed the jacarandas when I was younger. I was unaware of the passing of time outside my own life. For me, time was something that got in the way from me being older and having more things.
I tend to recite the first two lines of T.S. Elliot's "The Wasteland" in my head whenever I'm driving to school, observing these melancholy trees: "April is the cruellest month, breeding/Lilacs out of the dead land...." The jacarandas are the lilacs, in a way. April represents spring, the rejuvenation of life (Easter is in spring for a reason). It reminds me that the world is not so rosy, that death is a very real problem, and that we continue to bring life into this corrupted and sinful world. The jacarandas are cruel in that every year they continue to bloom and drop their purple bells onto the concrete sidewalks. Another year passes, another year my disappointments and failures set me back--constant reminders of the difference between what should be and what could be. But the jacarandas bloom every year; they drift slowly and steadily with the passage of time.
In Japan, there are the cherry blossoms, which hold significant cultural importance for the people of Japan. For me, I have the jacarandas. They are not as significant. They are not part of my culture. But they are nice, and they are pretty, and when they bloom, despite the awfulness of the world, I smile. I like the jacarandas despite the reflections they return. I like them because they will never stop blooming. They are outside me, but live within the same world I do. They inhabit space I inhabit. They thrive with me. If they could observe me back, they'd see a human being one year older every spring. They represent the clock-work of plant life. There's always new life in this world, in this undiscovered universe. When it's winter in the Northern Hemisphere, it's summer in the Southern Hemisphere. Where there is radioactive land, there are radiation-resistant fungi. Life goes on. Plants thrive where and when you least expect them. That's the wonder of life. It replenishes what good there is in the world. If April didn't breed lilacs out of the dead land, then we'd really be in trouble. There would be no way to go on living. But no: the lilacs grow, the jacarandas grow, time passes, we all die, everything begins anew. Cycling forever and ever. It will never stop. Even if we blew up the entire planet, single cell organisms would fly off into outer space on chucks of earth and crash-land on some other planet, and inhabit that other planet, and so the cycle would begin again. The cycle could continue--with or without us. So much depends upon the revival of plants on earth, and yet, so much does not. In reality, it is just us that depend upon it. It is us that are out of the cycle. It is us that will eventually end, not life.
Monday, May 21, 2012
My Personality and My Saturday
There are two sides to me. The predominate side is my quiet, private side. I'm a very guarded person. When someone enters my room, it drives me crazy. Even if I'm in the room with them. There's something about breaking that barrier of door that irritates and discomforts me. My other side, which is about 10% of who I am, is my energetic, "social" side. It's the personality that comes out when I give presentations or when I'm hanging out with a group of friends or go to events with other people. It's the fun, charismatic side of me. It's my let-loose side. The reason I'm not like that all the time is because it is exhausting. I can only be energetic and charismatic for a brief period, and then I'm the quiet, private persona again. I need time alone to gather my thoughts and settle myself into a peaceful state of mind. Being around people puts me out of my mind; my brain is rushing to gather new information every second, and eventually I wear out.
On Saturday night I went by myself to a small theater in Los Angeles to see a play. They were performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was nice. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't know where to really stand or go. There were other people around, but I'm not one to approach strangers for casual conversation. I hate, hate small talk. Anyway, the play was all right. It felt a little long at some parts, and I got lost in the language a few times (even though I've read the play one-and-a-half times, and even wrote a paper on it). It was a small theater, so most of the 80 or so seats were empty, and most of the people there were either friends or family of someone in the play, which was kind of funny. I was neither. Like I said, it felt a little long in some places, especially toward the end. I spotted a lot of fidgeting in seats. But it was good. There's really something about seeing a person act in front of you versus seeing a picture on a screen that alters the way you watch. I guess it's more self-conscious. You're aware that at any time, the actor could turn and say their lines to you. In a way, you feel included in the action. Anyway, I didn't cry or anything, and sometimes the humor was kind of dumb, but overall, I had a good time. I'd like to see more plays soon.
On Saturday night I went by myself to a small theater in Los Angeles to see a play. They were performing A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was nice. The first thing that bothered me was that I didn't know where to really stand or go. There were other people around, but I'm not one to approach strangers for casual conversation. I hate, hate small talk. Anyway, the play was all right. It felt a little long at some parts, and I got lost in the language a few times (even though I've read the play one-and-a-half times, and even wrote a paper on it). It was a small theater, so most of the 80 or so seats were empty, and most of the people there were either friends or family of someone in the play, which was kind of funny. I was neither. Like I said, it felt a little long in some places, especially toward the end. I spotted a lot of fidgeting in seats. But it was good. There's really something about seeing a person act in front of you versus seeing a picture on a screen that alters the way you watch. I guess it's more self-conscious. You're aware that at any time, the actor could turn and say their lines to you. In a way, you feel included in the action. Anyway, I didn't cry or anything, and sometimes the humor was kind of dumb, but overall, I had a good time. I'd like to see more plays soon.
Monday, May 14, 2012
My dad in my dreams (Muddy Companion)
I had a really vivid dream about my dad last night.
I was working at some hardware place--Home Depot or Lowe's or wherever. My job was to handle and stack the sod. (Sod is pre-grown pieces of grass, in case you don't know.) And I was sitting in this large, empty warehouse-type room, crying because I couldn't stack the pieces of sod. Everything was falling and breaking apart, and there were pieces all over the place. I didn't know what to do. Then I see my dad, and he starts helping me. He's cutting slices of queso fresco (Spanish cheese) and sticking them to the broken pieces of sod. And as I'm watching him, I begin to calm down. I start doing the same, and pretty soon I have a small pile of sod that's not broken apart. Then more sod comes in, but these pieces aren't broken. They're nice and thick. I start stacking the new pieces. My dad is next to me, watching me as I work. I'm so busy working that I don't immediately notice when my dad leaves. I start to panic, thinking I won't be able to do anything without him. Then some lady approaches me, and hands me something. (This is how you know I play a lot of Dungeon & Dragons.) Even without reading the note she hands me or whatever it was, I know what it is: it's a magical item--like a staff or something--and it's called the Muddy Companion. What is does is whenever I feel overwhelmed or about to break apart, I can use it to summon my dad for help--no matter what. It's like a magical spell. It was like always having my dad nearby. I don't know how I knew all that, because as soon as she handed me the magic item, my mind immediately popped to the surface of my conscious mind and I woke up crying. Tears were dripping off my face onto my pillow. However, I was smiling because I felt so loved and happy and proud of my dad, and kept thanking him, over and over again for helping me. It was all so real, mixing dream with reality. I was awake, but not in control of my thoughts. I know it was only a dream, but I realized that that's how I actually feel about my dad: proud, happy, and grateful. After I finished crying, I fell asleep a few minutes later still smiling.
Anyway, that was last nights dream.
I was working at some hardware place--Home Depot or Lowe's or wherever. My job was to handle and stack the sod. (Sod is pre-grown pieces of grass, in case you don't know.) And I was sitting in this large, empty warehouse-type room, crying because I couldn't stack the pieces of sod. Everything was falling and breaking apart, and there were pieces all over the place. I didn't know what to do. Then I see my dad, and he starts helping me. He's cutting slices of queso fresco (Spanish cheese) and sticking them to the broken pieces of sod. And as I'm watching him, I begin to calm down. I start doing the same, and pretty soon I have a small pile of sod that's not broken apart. Then more sod comes in, but these pieces aren't broken. They're nice and thick. I start stacking the new pieces. My dad is next to me, watching me as I work. I'm so busy working that I don't immediately notice when my dad leaves. I start to panic, thinking I won't be able to do anything without him. Then some lady approaches me, and hands me something. (This is how you know I play a lot of Dungeon & Dragons.) Even without reading the note she hands me or whatever it was, I know what it is: it's a magical item--like a staff or something--and it's called the Muddy Companion. What is does is whenever I feel overwhelmed or about to break apart, I can use it to summon my dad for help--no matter what. It's like a magical spell. It was like always having my dad nearby. I don't know how I knew all that, because as soon as she handed me the magic item, my mind immediately popped to the surface of my conscious mind and I woke up crying. Tears were dripping off my face onto my pillow. However, I was smiling because I felt so loved and happy and proud of my dad, and kept thanking him, over and over again for helping me. It was all so real, mixing dream with reality. I was awake, but not in control of my thoughts. I know it was only a dream, but I realized that that's how I actually feel about my dad: proud, happy, and grateful. After I finished crying, I fell asleep a few minutes later still smiling.
Anyway, that was last nights dream.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
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