It's been too long since I wrote a decently pointless journal entry.
Lately, I've been surfing the net, trying to look for a good read. It's never actually that I have no material to read- in fact, i've got tons of articles I kinda need to read to pass my fucking subjects. But they're just about as appetizing as a dead dormouse. (Have you ever seen a dormouse before? Yeah, imagine that.)
My recent trips to Powerbooks turned out futile since I couldn't seem to find a cover that didn't scream out Vampires or bloody sex. Confused and just a little angry, I wander around the bookstore like a lost kid, wondering if I needed to change my glasses sometime soon. Because I finally see the huge sign taped on the wall that read: SALE. 50% OFF!
Oh. So THAT'S why. All confusion and doubts disappeared from my mind which was replaced by a dejected sense of understanding. Like I had discovered why Aphrodite had no arms. Why it had to be that way.
I had been too rudely shaken awake by Media theories and the evil called Commercialism, that I have lost all taste and patience for the word: SALE. That is a lie, that word. It shouldn't be legal to be called that. It's a violation to the English jargon. I think the appropriate word is: Cheat. Trickery. STALE. Whatever it is they are trying to dupe you into buying, you can be sure there's something wrong with it, or it's ten hours off from the expiration date. Pessimist? Me? Perish the thought.
So I stalk out the bookstore, sulking. Despite the glittery red letters of the looming, dreaded word, I knew that the real reason why there weren't any good books around, was that they were packed away, conveniently not ready yet for display. I must wait till the sign comes off before I go in again. The problem now is, what to do during that time?
We go back to my surfing online for good stories. The problem with online stories is that the reason they remain online- is because they suck. Well, there are good ones- the ones you have to pay for to read. E-books, they're called now. But that' a lie, too- that word. E-books aren't really books. They aren't electronic either. Poor English Jargon. It's being brutally misused like God's name. But unlike God, who has the Pope to remind us that we are evil people who need to clean our mouth with extra strong bleach... Who defends English, when the English (people) themselves violate it with words like e-book? Or worse, pedestrian lanes. Come now, let's not be foolish with PEDESTRIAN LANES. What right does that strip of cement with yellow tattoos have, to call itself a pedestrian lane? Technically, any strip of solid mass can be called a pedestrian lane as long as people stomp over it. Right? Tsk, tsk. My God, really.
But AGAIN, back to on-line literature. I've spent hours poring over onslaught of words, dutifully ignoring the incest rape stories and picking acidly through trashy romance novelettes. Once in a while, I return to my "A History of Television" but one can only stomach dead dormouse to a certain extent. My paper on "Wowowee" still remains static at 2000 words, the last word ending with: Dolphy.
Somehow, my will to write more about the Comedy King disappears and instead, I am writing about my crappy musings somewhere my professors can never reach. All they ever need to know about my writing is the semi-intelligent garble I got from my grade four teacher, Mrs. Antoni, who taught me all I needed to know by explaining the Invertebrae chart. Through the trauma of having to learn about backbone-less worms and termites, I have perfected the art of indirectly addressing something that would normally gross out people. Writing papers, if you must know, ranks as one of the grossest thin man-kind had ever invented.
So my online search for decent literature has failed. Either the world wide web just isn't meant for higher culture, or I just sucked hunting for goods. I've only trusted google. Anything more complicated than search engines, I burst into tears. I have never, ever considered buying one of those self-help for dummies book, but now I am beginning to think now's a good chance to try something new. My pathetic life now taken over by a Trunchbull (aka school) has forced me into this state of primitivism, that "trying something new" would be restricted into the confines of my own skin.
I now miss the days when "trying something new" would constitute to my flicking stones over the principal's window, wanting to prove so much that she was an alien because of the yellow topaz she wore on her throat. In my young mind, I believed that if I threw the stones hard enough, they would break the yellow "thingy" around her neck and I would be hailed a hero who had just saved the world from the invasion of aliens. That was during the "Mars Attack!" days. Today, I have a topaz choker of my own, delicately hanging by my jewelry stand, always admired but never worn. I was a kid, once upon a time. Today, at 18 years of existence, there were still kids around who flick stones. I'd rather not risk being mistaken for an alien.
After about a thousand words, I have finally come to understand the sudden emergence of the me whom I haven't seen for at least a year now. I used to write silly nothings like these and post them up without a flying fuck because I like hearing my voice jump out at me through words. Some people have an obsession with looking at themselves in a mirror. Well, apparently, I obsess over my the voice in my head (Jimmy Cricket, is that you?) and try to make sense of it through quantifiable words. Words that can be read. Words that are proof that I'm not insane yet because hey- I'm still laughing. I remember Joker cackling: "And I thought my jokes were bad!". I want to squeeze him and laugh, assuring him: No. You're jokes aren't bad. The audience just suck.
Being a coffee addict is fun. Taxing, but fun. You get to be all java and artistic and you've got an excuse for the temporary high. It's legal, caffeine. No one says you're a junkie even though its true anyway. But take it away, and it's all doom and gloom. Depression hits you like the 20th century. So I decided to stop. Rainbows and butterflies become dark and morbid once you take away the colors, yanno? So for about a few years, I was clean. All-nighters were a bitch to go through with a bowl of peanuts and an apple that barely pinches at all.
Once in a while, I'd succumb and get myself a good ol' espresso at Starbucks. But as I became more devoted to my health-nut phase, I stuck to green-tea like a green leech. Go, greenies! Say no to pigs and cows, let's go tofu! But hey, I genuinely love tofu. And green tea. And yes, Yoghurt is the new ice cream. Instead of crying at night over buckets of green-tea ice cream, I now prefer a bucket of Nestle strawberry yoghurt.
But tonight, on a whim, I drowned myself in the sinfully good substance. My giant Wall-E tumbler is now drained empty, but the warm aroma of coffee still lingers in the air and in my breath. My papers have artful coffee stains which I delightfully trace with a bandaged finger. I missed this, I really have. The Script blairs on re-run on my iTunes and I have the words: The Man who can't be Moved, stuck on my lips like a mantra. I don't feel particularly artistic right now- I'm pretty sure I will never feel artistic ever again. But I feel it- the familiarity. Like finding an old pair of jeans and realizing with delight that it still fit, even after all these years.
And words flow out from me like it did before. Before, when I was not afraid to write. When I was not afraid of the world.
I love this feeling- writing so freely without any worry of cohesiveness or conciseness or whatever it is they taught during English 101. Introduction, Body and Conclusions really tire me- like having to pace endlessly inside a restricted cage. You poke a little at the boundaries, and a pen sharply scraps at you reprimanding-ly. You have no choice but to resentfully withdraw your now bloodied finger, watching as the redness stains the big fat 2.5 glaring from your paper. Bah.
It's been too long since I wrote a decently pointless journal entry.