Beginning A New “New Beginning”: Beginning Anew

This is a new year post in the middle of January. This post will look back on what the year 2014 was… at least for me. I don’t know you. 2014 was met with astonishing optimism, optimism so optimistic that you might as well call it stupidity. Optimism so strong, that 1000 Holocausts can’t even faze it. Optimism so forceful… that it was destroyed before it can even get rolling.  Love life, academics, work ethic, financial capability, these were all things what were going to trend up for sure. But by the end of the first round of twelve, one of those got hit by a haymaker, never to get up.

My heart was broken… along with my ego and my confidence. I drowned myself in Bon Iver songs and the sight of ceilings. I blazed through comedies, hoping to get a laugh to sub in for my overplayed sadness. I cried harder than I have in a long while, once in the bathroom and another after watching the movie Her (a week after my birthday). The thing that baffles me about this is how we, as an entire population, is so obsessed and hung up over  our “hearts”. The crushing of my heart practically paralyzed m. I pushed people away, I drank a lot more, I ate a lot more and now my guts (literally and figuratively) hate me for it, and I didn’t want to do anything but lie down and bask in my sadness for weeks, nay, months. Why is this “heart” so important to us? My limbs were fine, my brain works as well as it ever has (at 0%) but somehow that figurative destruction of the engine of our body calls for us to want it to stop pumping blood altogether.

I said I was going to work.. for money. You know, a “job” they like to call it. Then I chickened out. This “work” is gonna get in the way of all the nothing I do all day. How can I finish season 5 of 30 Rock when I’m busy teaching English to some Japanese people? How can I sleep at 6 am and wake up at 3 pm to eat 3 meals a day if I had to simplify what the word “festival” means? Who’s gonna jerk off my dick when my hands are too busy typing the definition of several that I copied and pasted from Google? FUCK THIS SHIT. So I didn’t. I didn’t work. The promise I told myself that I’d pay for my next semester went to shit/ I ate and slept and consumed electricity from the house that my parents are paying for. Months passed with me not getting any nearer to graduating.

I said I was going back to school. Then the universe blocked that thought and gave me the Dikembe Mutombo finga wag. It’s typical of me to blame the universe but 90% of the time when someone says the universe didn’t let them do something, it was just them being a lazy bitch I didn’t go because I couldn’t go because I was late (again) in trying to get in the university. So months went by again with me staying still. This is who I am now.

Then I was asked to play basketball. The sport I have always loved.  Not professionally mind you. Let’s just say it’s a league where bragging rights are what’s at stake and those bragging rights are forever. So I got back in shape, I got a little bit of money and I started feeling good about myself again. We started winning and now I know the taste of it again, and I wanted more of it again. Since I have money now, I got out more. I went to dinners with my friends, went to parties with new people and went to a trip with my family. I learned that maybe I can love again but more importantly, I learned to smile and enjoy life again.

The thing is, in the middle of the year, I felt like nothing. I contributed nothing to society or my family, I wasn’t particularly a hoot with my friends. I wasn’t suicidal or anything, but I thought, logically, since I just took from those around me, it would be better if I died.

But I didn’t. I didn’t die. I would wake up everyday and I would continue to breathe. Everyday. Then the basketball thing happened. Someone showed up on my door and said “Take my hand, let’s get up.”.

What’s nice is that our hearts, our bodies, our souls, our wills, our personalities, our resolve isn’t made of glass or porcelain like some tumblr blogs would lead you to believe. They are made up of cells, and tissues, and our very own DNA. Our self- fixing, adaptive, evolving DNA. Which means that whenever we are scratched, scathed, cracked, punctured, crushed, slashed, bruised or broken, we are always repaired in time, stronger and better than before.

So 2015, I’m here. Don’t kill me. Motherfucker.

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Love is a Joke.

We’ve talked about love before. Too much, some might say. All the song, all the movies, all the shows and all of the real world do nothing but grab us and make us stand in front of the emotional Kraken. We are so afraid of this beast that we are afraid to even set sail to grab the treasure. It’s horrifying and pathetic and true. It’s a joke really.

 

 

No, really.

 

Love is exactly like a joke. If Twitter and the internet has proved anything, it’s that there are two things people want to be: to be loved and to be funny. We tell jokes, if it’s funny then good. If it’s not then people rag on you about it then you move the fuck on. You tell more jokes that may or may not be funnier and shrug it off no matter the result.

 

And let’s say you go on to plan to perform your joke that you’ve been working months on. The joke that you’ve devoted the bulk of your time, the one where you carefully picked the right words in the right order with the right moves. You bring props and shit. You feel confident. This is your night. Then you get up on stage and not a laugh goes off. Everyone’s quiet for 5 minutes. 5 WHOLE minutes and nobody in the room is making a sound but you. You’re pretty sure that a cricket riding a tumbleweed joined you on stage for your performance. Nothing. You sucked.

 

So you go and thank the audience and leave. You go backstage and you go home feeling like shit. You think about everything that went wrong. Maybe they aren’t the right audience, maybe they just didn’t get it. Maybe you said the words wrong. Or didn’t do enough gestures. Or no eye contact. Maybe you’re just plain unfunny and can never be funny and no one in the world ever will laugh at your jokes. You sleep still thinking these, and that your “career” is over.

 

But then you wake up. You wake up and nothing really changed.  You are still you. You are alive, it’s not the end of the world.  You still have your joke that you can tweak and make better. You go on stage again and you have a different audience and now you know more about comedy to know how to adjust on the spot. That little fuck- up did nothing but make you cry one night and make you stronger.

 

Love is exactly the same thing, you try to love and if it doesn’t work then do it again. If it does work then love more (to the same person, you piece of shit). You constantly try to make yourself better because you love what you are doing. And any mistake you make just makes you better at it.

 

So go, fall in love, tell a joke.

 

Because love is a joke.

 

It’s just that sometimes… it’s not very funny.

 

Fuck.

 

 

Insomnia Huwohoah

For a man who has nothing to do and nowhere to go, there is no time schedule. There’s no need for an alarm clock or four presses of the snooze button. There’s no need for 8 hours of sleep to energize one throughout the day, but one taketh it anyway (was that classy, the “th” at the end?). The morning is 12- 6 instead of 6-12. And meals come when you’re hungry, not at set intervals.

 

I normally sleep at 5 in the morning, just when the sky changes from sleepy black to hopeful blue, like the clouds were taking a selfie for instagram and playing with the filters. I wake up my brother cause he has a life. I pull the pillow from under him and bludgeon him with it, ala wrestler in a hardcore match, do a couple of elbow drops, taunt the audience (cause I’m a heel) and then pin him for the one two three. I brush my teeth and go to bed. Lied down, Minesweeper pops up on my laptop and then I hate myself for clicking that box instead of the one right next to it while the smiley gains exes for eyes. When I finally decide that that’s enough losing for the morning, I close my eyes and see darkness. Black. Black. Black. 

 

Then you show up. I think of you and me… and trees. And hands and holding. And glances turning into looks. And then the smile I can’t get off my face turning into questions turning into awkward laughter. I think of hair and tucking and ears. I think of hugs and kisses and fears. I think of flowers and surprises and chocolates. I think sitting quietly and not saying anything but feeling everything between us. I think of the world and how they see us. I think of parties and planes and speeches and crying and smiling and time being the enemy. I think of anything and everything that could happen between you and me. I think of how wrong I could be. I think of how these are just thoughts. I think reality sucks. And then I think I should sleep again.

 

But I can’t, not until you’re next tome. I can’t fucking live without you any fucking more. I’m gonna stay fucking up till you’re next to me and dammit I don’t know what goes next.

 

I can’t sleep. rtfuyhjioedrtfuyhosdrtfgyuhoedruyho5drftuyiovbuinmokvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv 

 

Fell asleep on the keyboard.

What 2013 can do for me.

Like everyone else, I thought this was gonna be MY year. I thought, “It’s been a long time coming, I’m bound to have a good year, and THIS, this is it”. Life doesn’t work that way. Just because you have a streak of bad luck and horrible things doesn’t mean that it’s SUPPOSED to end, that it’s GUARANTEED to stop. Just because you start the year well doesn’t mean it’s gonna be sweet cruisin’ the rest of the year. They don’t give out MVP awards in January (This is an NBA reference, fuck your local league’s MVP).

A year is 365 days and a quarter. 52 weeks. 12 months. (Those aren’t cumulative, I just stated many ways to describe a year, you don’t add them up to three years, Jesus Christ.) 525, 600 minutes. You work to make each day, each minute of that good. But I didn’t. I took my first 3 months’ 30 PPG and thought I’d average the same at the year- end by not doing anything (NBA reference again, I like the NBA, okay?!?!).

I find myself being the same person as I was a year ago, just one year older. Valentine’s a mess. Summer’s a mess. First Semester is a mess. Second Semester is a mess. Everything is a mess. I’m still fucking single. I’m still a slacker. I’m still rail thin. And I’m still not happy.

Looking back, I won’t remember 2013 for how horrible it is, but for the individual moments I loved about it, like a diamond in my skin (the rough). The times where I drunk my ass off and couldn’t remember anything the next day. The times when I woke up topless, feeling like Bradley Cooper. The times when I learned new things. The time when I GOT new things. The new friends I made. The times I sang until I can’t anymore (like literally, I just can’t asfubianfgafia). The times I danced. The times I laughed. And the times I laughed. And the times that I laughed. I laughed a lot this year. That’s good, right? Of course it is.

I won’t worry about my failed academic standing, my heartbreaks, my 30- year- early mid-life crisis, my heartbreaks (Did I say heartbreaks twice, that happends sometimes) because, I’m still alive. I’m still tall, and handsome, and smart, and I still have friends, and I still have family, and I still have time, and once again, I’m still fucking alive. It isn’t over until you are dead and even then, you can still live on. Look at Michael Jackson, he was dead in Thriller and that’s the greatest selling album of all time. Wait, I’m fucking my analogy up.

With the year 2014, I have a new start. And I know it’s dumb to have the 1st of the next year to start anew instead of starting.. I don’t know, yesterday maybe, but there’s just something refreshing about the first. It gives you the illusion that the past didn’t exist and it’s comforting to think that.

Now shut up about your grades, study harder. Shut up about your lack of money, work more. Shut up about your lack of love life, actually do something, love comes only to those brave enough to seek it. Now SHUT THE FUCK UP and let’s go fuck 2014 up the asshole, and in a good way too.

2013, you’ve been here, goodbye and go to sleep, forever. Suck my dick.

Motherfucker.

No, this is nothing.

Nothing. So many people take it for granted. Not me, I love it. I cherish in it. I wash my balls with it. That’s rioght, I said it. I wash my man- orbs with nothing. 

 

“Why Rus?” says my imaginary audience. “Yo momma!” I shout in desperation. 

 

I just love doing nothing it’s so empowering. Take note, I love DOING NOTHING, but I hate not doing anything. 

 

“What’s the difference Rus? You so sexy” says my imaginary (and now unnecessarily stereotypical asian) audience. I’m going to explain it to you now, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll agree with me. Imagine you have to do SOMETHING, like study for a test or wash your asshole. However, you don’t want to do it now, so you tell yourself that you’ll start at a certain time say, in 23 minutes (because it’s 7:37 and you JUST can’t stand not starting at a 30- minute time interval). From that time between 7:37 and 8:00, you do nothing. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. However, you are not ‘not doing anything’. You may be checking your Facebook notifs, scrolling down your Twitter feed, checking the score on the big game, trolling the message boards, looking at boobs, playing a level of Candy Crush, texting your crush, masturbating, etc. ( I write etc. because I can’t think of anything else). Whatever it is, you are doing something, that ultimately will not actually be fruitful for your endeavours. You are doing something that you WANT to do at that time, that will let you kick off your shoes and dance the Macarena (Is that still cool?). 

 

“What about the other one? Here’s a million dollars to answer our question” says my imaginary (still stereotypical asian [because asians are smart and rich and shit]) audience. Shut the fuck up and let me explain in peace.

 

When you are not doing anything, you naturally want to do something. If you are not doing anything and I call you up and I ask you to do something, you jump that shit like a meth head. But if you are preciously doing nothing, you hesitate, you think about it and you have a 50- 50 chance of dropping your nothing for my something. Any time any one hase ever told you that they don’t feel like it or that they have to get up off their ass has a severe case of DoingNothingness. They just love doing their nothing so much that you can’t get them to leave it, you can’t get them to do another nothing or another something, and that exam- studying or asshole- washing we were talking about just gets pushed and pushed further and further up your ass ( which you need to wash btdubs).

 

And that, is why I suck. Motherfucker. 

Alive

I’ve never felt so alive than these past few moments. I’m not entirely sure that that is a good thing. 

 

I’ve spent a good year or two being miserable, moping around, ranting about my non- plurality and basking in the schadenfreude of other couples. Then one morning (or afternoon, whichever came first), I wasn’t. I just became okay with it all. When I see people hold hands, I just totally don’t want to rip their hands off anymore. I don’t want to rip my heart out when I hear a song on the radio anymore. I don’t want companionship anymore. I don’t want anymore. I don’t anymore. 

 

Happy? No. Content? Fuck that. I’m just sick of myself being sick of everything else. I don’t know the remedy but I think I found it somehow. Maybe it’s just time slowly unclogging my arteries, freeing up my heart. Maybe it’s a person, maybe not. Probably not. 

 

But.. what now?

 

I don’t want anything. I have nobody to root for. I have nowhere to go. The only reason I’m still living my life and waking up and going through the motions is because I’m breathing. I’m not happy. Not sad. Just alive.

 

And that makes me kinda sad…. Shit.

Questions for the Happy, Thoughts from the Sad

It’s hard to know if you really like someone when you’ve been single for so long. Because you’ve had nothing for so long. You’ve been hugging pillows and kissing air for so long. You’ve snuggled blankets and listened to Adele for so long. You’ve said goodbye, farewell and so long.

It’s hard to know if you actually like them for their face, for who they are or just because they are, instead of being not. It’s hard to tell if your heart is beating from genuine emotion and happiness or just mistaking somethingness as happiness just from the lack of nothingness like a pancreas and artificial sweetener.

 

It’s hard to tell if you genuinely like someone. Sometimes, you even hate them. Because they make you feel so good but you know deep in your heart you could never have them. You don’t even have a shot in the ball park. Not even the moon’s crater. Or the universe’s rectum. Even if you do, it’s never permanent, just like everything else in this goddamn world. You’re gonna be sad, it’s inevitable.

 

And when you’re down in rock bottom. When you’re swimming in misery. When you’re sad as fuck. Everyone tells you to be happy, happiness is a choice! NO IT’S NOT! If happiness is choice, I’ll just choose it all the fucking time! It’s not a choice, it comes and it goes whenever it pleases, your choice is irrelevant. “Everything will be ok!” When does that begin? When is this ok phenomenon gonna occur? How do you open happiness, coca- cola? How do you get life together when the pieces are so far apart? And no one is even there to help you, because you’re pushing them away? “There’s always next time.” What if there isn’t anymore? What happens when I run out of next times? The clock just stops ticking and the hour hand gives me the middle finger while the minute hand slaps me in the face. Huh?

 

Don’t answer that, it’s rhetorical.

 

And even if you know the answer, don’t tell me. I’ll just fuck it up.

Warning: Explicit

Life is an asshole. Full of shit. Nothing but shit comes out of it. SHIT SHIT SHIT. There will be nothing else but shit in it. Just shit. Then someday,dicks are gonna go in. If you’re gay or a woman, there’s a higher chance a dick will go in. Just dicks and shit. Then when you’re old, a doctor will check if it’s ok. He’s gonna look around it, gonna see if everything’s functioning well, then he’ll judge if it’s fine or you should get it fixed. Then, it’s just gone. 

 

No more anus, no more shit, no more dicks. Wouldn’t that be fantastic right about now?

Tonight, Not Again

Tonight, I saw one of my favorite artists perform live in my home country. 

 

Jason Mraz and his silky sweet moves and smooth as butter voice (I can’t confirm how butter ranks on the smothness scale, but it’s up there)

 

I went alone, because tickets are expensive and no one else was willing to go with me. I like to think it’s mostly the expensive part.

 

I didn’t want to wait in line so I killed time in the mall, prancing my little ass for the ladies (rawr!). Ordered a meal from Burger King, sat down alone. 

 

Then out of the blue, this person came up to me, “is this seat taken?” and asked for the privilege to dine while sitting. It was fate, the person was a man. As if I don’t already know I’m single. Because I’m a nice person, and totally not because I caved in to social protocols or my lack of ability to think of an excuse, I let him sit. So people wouldn’t think I’m gay, I scarfed my fries like a pig. There was  a disturbance in the world of fries speed eating.

 

I left the scene, hiding two cheeseburgers in my jacket pocket, looked at the line for the concert, left again. I bought Fall Out Boy’s latest CD (with a free poster and baller to boot! BEST DAY EVER!).

 

I was alone and waiting. Which means my mind was not confined to think of actions to complete an activity. My mind was not confined to entertain another person’s need for company (no thinking of things to talk about). I was having a conversation with myself, which means it’s rude, offensive and bitter. Have you ever just thought about breaking the clasp of two lover’s hands and then shouting “GET A ROOM!”? No? Just me? Ok then. The amount of mental “Fuck you”s I gave to all couples I passed by could fill the arena itself. That doesn’t even count the ones I gave for the heat and the rain (Yeah it was raining and I was alone) and the long line and the bitchy people and the posers and the douchebags and the political system of the Philippines.

 

I ran out of things to do, places to go, and fucks to give so with my tight pants and black hoodie (I thought it was a FOB concert) I scooted to the back of the peak of the building. To my right were two males. Did I question their sexuality? Yes. What else do I do to two men going together to a Jason Mraz concert? Then quickly, I remembered, I was wearing tight pants, and I’m alone going to a Jason Mraz concert. Touche, motherfuckers. To my left was a couple, then they moved forward, then a family consisting of a dad with a badass mustache, a teen (?) whose skin tone immediately gave me a Nancy Binay thought, two girls who are actually legit fans (I think), and two foreign dudes? What?! They were all happy, and loud, like a family should be. But they’re doing this next to the alone man so I ripped their asses to shreds (in my mind, like my lovelife).

 

I enjoyed the night, the first half of the set list disappointed me. He kept playing songs that were ok with me but I wasn’t crazy about. Then he just amazed me (aMRAZed me? No?) with half #2. His falsetto is the most divine of all, like God needed a ringtone so he created Jason’s falsetto. Metaphors suck.

 

Then he played Lucky, then he played Hidden Track (Comin’ Over, then Beautiful Mess, then The Woman I love. The ovaries exploded in the building and my vision turned to a blue screen with a high pitched feedback. I broke. 

 

I still enjoyed the songs, but it got me thinking to how much more fun I would be having if I was with my family (Left), I was with my close friends (Right) or with a woman dear to me (Everywhere else). In a room with thousands of screams, my heart could not be more silent. In a room with thousands of people, I’ve never felt so alone.

 

The last song ended, and the lights went back up. The crowd was slowly leaving, and I insisted to stay. A group of friends asked me to take their picture. I put on my fakest smile and obliged. Again, alone. Thanks a lot, motherfuckers. I stayed.I thought maybe it would be nice to be the last to leave, to be truly alone. “Not in my house”, says the security.

 

Out of the building, it was still raining. Earphones on, Hoodie up and I walked. I walked and I walked. I was lost. I knew where to go but I didn’t know how. I felt so helpless. But I pulled through. I found the way to the jeepney home. Now I’m home. 

 

Maybe someday, my heart will find the jeepney. Maybe. And I’ll say, “He fucking did it.”

 

He fucking did.

 

He did.

 

Fuck.

That Love Thing

It’s been 3 months since I have written a post. A post so bitter, Sara Bareilles told me to suck it up.

 

I like to think of love, and how having it would be so fun. I’ve been so hung up over this love thing but I’ve never really had the balls to actually do a goddamned thing about it.

 

I’m beginning to think I’m running out of time. The world is going to collapse right before I decide to make my move. Someone’s going to take her away and I would have to wait for cupid to pull his arrows out of their asses. I’m going to die alone and miserable and sad and lonely and I really need a thesaurus.

 

But shit, I’m not running out of time. I’m fucking 19. I’m handsome and tall and ladies love that shit. I have plenty of time. I’m not running out of time just because everybody’s in on this love thing. It’s just a phase, like Gangnam Style or something.

 

I’m going to take all the time in the world cause I don’t need this right now. The person I love the most at the moment is myself and having to choose between myself and someone else would be hell in this here Earth, my friends.

 

Motherfucker.

 

I think I love you. BAM!