PPK = Pretentious Poser Kid
(February 22, 2007 1:34 PM)
I feel tired and underrepresented. I suppose I’m still harboring under the illusion that somewhere out there is a blessedly attractive soul who knows exactly what I’m going through, and who isn’t too abhorrent, whether cosmetically or physiologically, either. But as it turns out, everything just seems to work against me, like I’m on an inevitable train wreck to anxiety and loneliness and isolation and whatnot.
Okay, I just did NOT seem like the world’s biggest whiny loser ever back there. In reality it’s all good, at least on the surface, and probably that’s all that counts. I’ve just finished my one-paragraph long character analysis of Reyna Leona for Filipino this morning. I am badly in need of sleep; when I say badly, it means that my body is physically aching for it, for the blessed surcease of sleep. I cannot believe my bashful review of Sandaang Panaginip (bashful because all it does is bash the play) gained this much attention. I’m receiving comments from people I don’t even know: how scary is that. And all because I’ve eaten one too many donuts on that fateful bloody night (one is far too many, if you had intended to eat zero donuts at all in the first place). Oh well. Anything to bulk up on credibility as a writer. (On another note: it’s Palanca time again! This year is my last (and only) chance to compete against pretentious high school fuckers in the Kabataan Essay category. Theme is some shit about Filipino values.)
I’ve just found out that all I need to complete a minor in AB Lit are three more fucking subjects. Nine more units is less than the eleven I have free now because of skipping Ma18 and NatSci, and that doesn’t even include all the free electives in my regular curriculum. Turns out my Merit English 101 class can serve as the Lit elective, so I only need to worry about the literary historical lecture series. That’s all well and good, but tell me this: where the fuck does Creative Writing come in???? Am I not taking an English major in order to write better and hone my writing-reflecting-chorvaing skills? I’m confused.
Maybe I wasn’t taking that stupid History group project as seriously as I should have been. But seriously, it’s this Monday already?!?!? Oh man, I’m doomed. I haven’t even cut out my Roman legionnaire costume-o-rama yet.
Anyway back to whiny loser-ville, it’s no fun telling a passing acquaintance your innermost secrets when their reactions are so goddamn predictable. So I was asking my Math blockmate for some advice about PPK yesterday after an excruciatingly difficult lecture on Taylor series, and when I said what I had to say, in which everything became glaringly obvious - at least for him, I was left with this immense sense of emptiness, of hollow regret at ever opening my big big mouth. I mean, come on, the guy was patronizing me, assuming that what I needed was sympathy and a bear hug, and not the logical practical advice that I requested for. I could hear the strained kindness through his voice, and although I knew he meant well, I really couldn’t shake the feeling that this predictable reaction - shock, disbelief, paranoia (?) - is all there is to human interaction, and that the life that lies ahead, regardless of the circumstances, could be so annoyingly…boring. How can one find a genuine voice of concern amidst all the stock reactions, an individuated thought piercing through all the stereotypes? This isn’t helping me but rather taking me closer to the brink of disillusion, of abandoning all hope.
I was feeling pretty shitty the previous night because PPK was playing the dedma card so I borrowed rope from my roommate and filled a plastic bottle with water and smashed it senseless against the bathroom wall. Ah, catharsis. Afterwards I felt better. I recommend this therapy a hundred percent. Beats snorting coke or playing mindless PC games or spacing out. At least it’s non-contact, doesn’t involve other people or prescription drugs, and is environment-friendly. Wastes a lot of water, though.
I cannot wait for the weekend - I want to go home and get well. Damn this idiot cold to hell.
I feel tired and underrepresented. I suppose I’m still harboring under the illusion that somewhere out there is a blessedly attractive soul who knows exactly what I’m going through, and who isn’t too abhorrent, whether cosmetically or physiologically, either. But as it turns out, everything just seems to work against me, like I’m on an inevitable train wreck to anxiety and loneliness and isolation and whatnot.
Okay, I just did NOT seem like the world’s biggest whiny loser ever back there. In reality it’s all good, at least on the surface, and probably that’s all that counts. I’ve just finished my one-paragraph long character analysis of Reyna Leona for Filipino this morning. I am badly in need of sleep; when I say badly, it means that my body is physically aching for it, for the blessed surcease of sleep. I cannot believe my bashful review of Sandaang Panaginip (bashful because all it does is bash the play) gained this much attention. I’m receiving comments from people I don’t even know: how scary is that. And all because I’ve eaten one too many donuts on that fateful bloody night (one is far too many, if you had intended to eat zero donuts at all in the first place). Oh well. Anything to bulk up on credibility as a writer. (On another note: it’s Palanca time again! This year is my last (and only) chance to compete against pretentious high school fuckers in the Kabataan Essay category. Theme is some shit about Filipino values.)
I’ve just found out that all I need to complete a minor in AB Lit are three more fucking subjects. Nine more units is less than the eleven I have free now because of skipping Ma18 and NatSci, and that doesn’t even include all the free electives in my regular curriculum. Turns out my Merit English 101 class can serve as the Lit elective, so I only need to worry about the literary historical lecture series. That’s all well and good, but tell me this: where the fuck does Creative Writing come in???? Am I not taking an English major in order to write better and hone my writing-reflecting-chorvaing skills? I’m confused.
Maybe I wasn’t taking that stupid History group project as seriously as I should have been. But seriously, it’s this Monday already?!?!? Oh man, I’m doomed. I haven’t even cut out my Roman legionnaire costume-o-rama yet.
Anyway back to whiny loser-ville, it’s no fun telling a passing acquaintance your innermost secrets when their reactions are so goddamn predictable. So I was asking my Math blockmate for some advice about PPK yesterday after an excruciatingly difficult lecture on Taylor series, and when I said what I had to say, in which everything became glaringly obvious - at least for him, I was left with this immense sense of emptiness, of hollow regret at ever opening my big big mouth. I mean, come on, the guy was patronizing me, assuming that what I needed was sympathy and a bear hug, and not the logical practical advice that I requested for. I could hear the strained kindness through his voice, and although I knew he meant well, I really couldn’t shake the feeling that this predictable reaction - shock, disbelief, paranoia (?) - is all there is to human interaction, and that the life that lies ahead, regardless of the circumstances, could be so annoyingly…boring. How can one find a genuine voice of concern amidst all the stock reactions, an individuated thought piercing through all the stereotypes? This isn’t helping me but rather taking me closer to the brink of disillusion, of abandoning all hope.
I was feeling pretty shitty the previous night because PPK was playing the dedma card so I borrowed rope from my roommate and filled a plastic bottle with water and smashed it senseless against the bathroom wall. Ah, catharsis. Afterwards I felt better. I recommend this therapy a hundred percent. Beats snorting coke or playing mindless PC games or spacing out. At least it’s non-contact, doesn’t involve other people or prescription drugs, and is environment-friendly. Wastes a lot of water, though.
I cannot wait for the weekend - I want to go home and get well. Damn this idiot cold to hell.