You're better off striking on your own. Don't regret severing those ties. Besides, they can do it so easily. That, or you continue to be pummeled by what you think is them being concerned, when they're actually just annoyed that you're hanging on to them. Face it. They no longer want you around, and there's nothing you can't do about it. It just happened, and you look like a relic, easily forgotten. There goes the road.
It may be regrettable to abandon everything that's been built in whatever time period it may be. However, sometimes you have no other choice but to do just that. We're the sentimental folks, and we need the security blanket, and it hurts seeing someone else curl up when you shiver. Or seeing it no longer fits you. Whatever it is you're thinking, it's always at odds with whatever they're thinking, and almost always, it's you on the losing end, being rejected for who you are, or what you think, or just plain, well, stupidity. Randomness. "You are the weakest link. Goodbye!"
After all these years, you'll just never meet halfway anymore. You might think you do, but as time passes by it becomes clearer that the bond has just disappeared. Who insisted that you can keep up anyway, with all that new-fangled technology that involves buzzes and emoticons? Sincerity can be easily thrown out of the window, whichever window this may be. It's a misunderstanding that's looking for something to wreck. You think their ideas are ridiculous. They think you're being irrational. You think they're pushing you against the wall, severely restricting you. While you want to be left alone, you don't want to be left alone. Another case of word play. Another case of being complicated.
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I should be writing this at the end of the day. I still have roughly six hours remaining, after all. And seven profiles, which isn't much by the standards I've learned to embrace over the past eleven months - don't take twenty minutes to finish something, unless it's big.
But I've learned to break those conventions.
And, right now, I feel nothing. Numb? Perhaps. At least I have this freedom to jump while seated on my chair, in an attempt to shake the body that's remained in a sedentary position for so long. I barely stand up for the toilet, and I barely care. I do feel sleepy. I guess when everything around you slows down you realize that you're suffering from burnout, or from a lack of space to maneuver on.
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I felt invincible. For once, I thought, I was able to do something I never really did before. I don't know. Yes, she's very nice, and yes, she's very, very nice, and it felt she'll never really mind if I told her I had a crush on her, which I did. It was a weird moment, but I didn't feel it until later. It just went out of my mouth. What happened next, I actually don't remembe,r but we just hugged, and I think I stole a kiss in the cheek. Okay. Right there I felt ridiculous.
Although, I figured, it wouldn't go anywhere. I perfectly knew that someone was courting her, or it was very close to an agreement, but that revelation served to, well, get us closer, and perhaps diffuse whatever unaddressed whatever I had for her. So I became a jolly guy, but a little too shallow, especially since she did everything and then some, or so it felt. I could've felt inadequate, but frankly, I probably never noticed that I felt like that, that I can't keep up with her, that I want to keep up with her, until I had to forget. And that's when it hurt.
For some reason, I managed to keep up with her. She was perky, perhaps too perky, but some did say I had this thing for very outgoing people. I had to be perky, too, and that's something that I can easily pull off, with my battery-powered madness. She was very witty, too, and I thought, I have to keep up with her. So, I thought, I'd play with wordplay. Never mind if she didn't see it; I just wanted to feel that I am witty too, and that means I can keep up considerably well. So what if we never talked that much?
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Yes, it's the same Niña
that guys are "conceited [and] juvenile," and the same Niña who thinks Edward Cullen is "raising standards for future boyfriends," if she ever ends up with one.
And yes, it's the same Niko who has grown cynical
over the entire thing.
So what are we doing, discussing this again?
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I don't know why, but I always wanted to do a goodbye speech. A goodbye to anything, as long as there's a goodbye speech, and simply because it sounds very important. Imagine the feeling, of you being able to address all of the people you've spent the last considerably marked time period with, recognizing their presence and their contributions, thanking them (or otherwise), making them feel some hint of regret that you'll no longer be with them - which is, you should admit, an effective way to make you look important, significant, perhaps indispensable.
Or maybe you really just want to thank people. But that happens if you've grown fond of some of them, else the goodbye speech becomes something that you do because you just love yourself more than anything else, and would do anything to portray, or fix, your reputation at this and that.
Yeah, I get that. I guess I'm still grappling with that pervasive feeling of being unappreciated, from the bottom of the ladder to the last person on the line, forgotten as everybody praises the purported next big thing. That would make this very, well, self-centered, and even if I know that will help me be euphoric, at least, for the next few hours, it's not something I really want. It's one of those ironies. You want the attention but you don't like the idea of unwarranted attention.
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I guess it finally happened to me: I am too busy to update this blog.
Actually, no. I still end up with a free hour or so at work, and that's the usual sixty idle minutes that sees me seated in front of this monitor, browsing the usual geeky stuff, with an email written out but not sent somewhere in the taskbar. Well, today was an exception, because I was tasked to upload one pretty big project that's due out within the Seattle day. I ended ten minutes before six, mostly because technology was failing me. Or time zones are.
And actually, I still end up thinking of stuff to write about. The concession is, it doesn't happen as often as before. Being seated where I am means you're basically disconnected from everything, and that mean you have nothing much to observe, and nothing much to write about. The online conversations can only get you so far. There's also me being engrossed with work lately - which is, ironically, a good thing - especially since some of my bigger plans came to swing as the television season wrapped up over the past two weeks. I've officially called myself a CSI
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Yes, that claim does seem a little outrageous, but you too can be posh in just thirty days. And yes, I can help you attain just that. I'd like to think I have the right credentials to help you elevate in status and become as posh as the people around you. I spend my idle time walking around in malls and observing people that seem to have it all. And then there's my fatal insecurity about myself, which only motivates me to figure out these methods. And, like every other outrageous claim, I am sharing my tips to you.
My first tip is quite simple, really. You've been to the stands, checking out all those magazines just to learn more about those products that could make you look beautiful, or those moves that could make you look intelligent? Ditch them. All of them. They tell you about what to do, all right, but first of all, they're extremely commercialized - often, the best products are the ones you can't even buy, because they presume you can. Or, they're hard to find and hard to understand, which literally makes your efforts harder than the result. It'll only make you more miserable - and I've yet to mention the sexy ladies and gentlemen that adorn those magazines. It simply tells you that, even if you buy that aftershave and use it the right way, you'll never get close to Megan Fox in her underwear.
If you observe the posh people closely, they're who they are not because of what they think, or say, or know, nor because of who they are with. In fact, it's all because of something more superficial: their outward appearances. Whatever or whoever they know, they picked up in pursuit of that look. You don't really have to read up on things and be passionate about them: you just have to follow the trail and you can bluff your way to being posh. Everything else should fall into place.
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It's never strange for me to receive a lot of text messages whenever it's raining hard outside. It'd be a frenzy. Someone would ask me a question, and I'd answer back, saying that I don't know the answer. Someone else would ask me the same question, and I'd give the same answer. It'd go that way for hours, a literal frenzy of questions and answers, and the only thing that happens is a larger profit for the mobile phone networks. At the same time, I'd be tuned in to the news, probably by force or by my own choosing, a little worried for myself.
And then I'd get a text message from someone in the Student Council, basically answering the questions I can't answer: there are no classes.
I don't know why exactly people ask me that question. And, all the time. I know people know I watch the news all the time. I know people call me the "block Inquirer
" - well, at least Huey did - because I always updated this blog every day with whatever's happening in my little excuse for a microcosm of society. And I know I posted all those reminder bulletins during our frosh year, about links to homework and deadlines for stuff. I must be trustworthy. Perhaps I still am - I still got those questions during my first months at work, and I could only tell them that I've graduated already.
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Nine in the morning. I was listening again to Chris and Nicole, wondering if the rain really had something to do with my 45-minute "cruise" along the SLEX. They were talking about private investigators, cousin rivalry and, well, the stuff they usually talk about. So, okay, I made it through the traffic - or the lack of it - and got off the shuttle thirty minutes before. It wasn't raining anymore, but the skies still felt like four hours ago was frozen. And I started to feel very, very anxious, which is a bad thing, because I shouldn't, or at least I told myself I shouldn't. And I wasn't thinking of anything else. Work, in this case, is the best form of distraction.
Ten in the morning. I'm liking what I'm hearing
. Honestly, though, I listen to stuff that would drown out whatever's happening around me, not that it matters. What matters right now are the things I'm ought to do - technology has, again, gotten in the way, and the stuff I was supposed to do are, well, impossible to do at this point. I hate this feeling, of doing nothing at all, when in fact you're doing something... well, except for this one.
Eleven in the morning. "There's euphoria, and then there's bliss," I told Rae
. She thinks I'm blissful, but I think I never was. Depressed? Perhaps, but that swings, so I can't tell much, really. But at least I'm doing something today. It actually feels good when things fall into place. In between talking to Ariane
about Miakka's appearance on Unang Hirit
, and Jayvee about whoever's dying on CSI: NY
, well, this is getting a little comfortable. Weird Rae asked me about my YM
profile photo - still the one with Piyar
. Again, she's not my girlfriend!
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I won't be surprised if I lose you in the next paragraphs because of another exhibition of my useless knowledge over some subject. That partly means you, Ning
In the mid-1960s, the BBC
's radio stations were seen at stodgy, outdated and uncool. The youth of the time, on the other hand, were tuning in to the pirate radio stations, with transmitters hoisted from boats in the middle of the sea broadcasting pop music every hour of the day. Parliament eventually passed a law banning these boats from transmitting, and the BBC was tasked to overhaul their radio networks. After months of planning, a new pop station was born: Radio 1
The station was set up to essentially fill the gap the closure of the pirates made. Part of the effort was the hiring of some of the outlawed stations' DJs themselves. One of them was John Peel, who broadcast from Radio London in the early part of the 60s after short stints in the United States. He, and his show The Perfumed Garden
, became one of the proponents of the underground scene of the time, and listeners were sending him letters - and poems, and records - by the bucketloads. His stint on Radio 1 was pretty much the same, although there are the institutional regulations that meant some of the things he did before had to be checked now.
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