I sort of have an addictive personality, though not in the official “psychiatrist said so” sense. It’s just a placeholder, for lack of a better word to describe this tiny little facet of my personality.

Basically, I get a little overboard sometimes.

Let’s talk about coffee. I’m not obsessed with coffee. I don’t know the eight hundred and one variants of coffee in the world. I don’t think about it that much. The only problem is that I struggle to not drink it.

I started drinking coffee when I was seven or eight, I think. Not accurate, probably, but I remember starting my coffee habit when I got to first grade. I would drink coffee for breakfast, and no one made a fuss. We all did.

Unfortunately, I ended up getting so addicted to coffee that I would drink a minimum of four cups a day, or as much as six when I’m pissed or tense. The kicker: I’m hyper acidic, which means coffee can actually knock the wind out of me and leave me in crippling pain, sometimes for days.

So I compromised, which was what all those logical experts recommended. Don’t deprive yourself, they said. It only makes things worse. So I tried. I made myself take only one cup a day. SURPRISE: it didn’t work.

Because I’m the type of person who can’t have just ONE. If I have a cup, I’ll be needing another, and another, and another. Same thing happened with Coke (the soda, not the drug). I would stop drinking the bloody thing for months, then one sip would undo me completely and have me right back on the junkie train.

But caffeine really is addictive, so that’s not saying much.

A lot weirder is my addiction to a particular junk food: barbecue flavoured kettle corn. I managed to eat one pack of this thing daily for three consecutive weeks (one time I actually had two packs in a day) before realising that I was completely bonkers for it.

It’s not even that good. I just like finding and eating kettle corn coated in crusted syrup. That’s it.

I’m pondering this problem, actually, because I’m trying to lose weight, and so far all of my efforts at negotiating with myself have failed, because I’m too difficult to work with. I’m just not cut out for tiny cutbacks. I can’t work with tiny portions. This week I tried to bargain with myself. One pack of kettle corn a week, but I ended up eating three. In two days.

[Note: yes, I bargain with myself. And it's difficult because honestly, it's like dealing with a child with zero EQ.]

So I’ve decided that the only way to this is to go cold turkey. No junk food, no soda. I can do this. I did it once. Went three months without a sip of coffee and I was fine. The first few weeks were hell; I could barely feel any emotions apart from pissed. Gradually, I got it out of my system, and I thought I’d kicked the coffee habit. One day I just decided to have a cup and ended up bingeing. Now I’m back to two cups a day, and it’s hell trying to keep myself from going back to four.

Anyway, yeah, that’s the point. I’m going to have to go full deprivation mode, which is the only way I can help myself get out of this kettle corn rut.

When I was younger, I was the kind of kid who got a kick out of new school supplies. The first day of school was always difficult, mostly because I couldn't bear to write on my new notebooks. I would end up tearing pages out before the day was through, because my handwriting looked like an unfortunate blot on my otherwise beautiful and spotless notebooks.

I've never actually gotten over this little habit of mine. New notebooks still get my heart racing. I confess to stroking fresh and pristine pages. When I finally started working, I decided that I could now afford to buy notebooks whether it was the start of classes or not, and I went on a weird notebook buying spree.

I had cheap notebooks, expensive ones, fat ones, thin ones. I had this one notebook that I was particularly fond of. I got it from Anonymous, a store that prides itself in being the brand that isn't a brand. It folded up years ago. The notebook had steel covers (not real real steel, I suppose, because it wasn't too heavy, but still steel-ish), and I remember I never actually wrote anything significant in it.

It sat inside my drawer for years, as did most of my impulse notebook buys. I just like notebooks, but I never know what to write in them.

So it's been quite a pleasant shock to me that just last year, I finally figured it out. I CAN WRITE WHATEVER I WANT. I can fill my notebooks with the most inane of drivel and it would be okay. It's my notebook, after all. With this newfound freedom I started writing and writing and writing. Things I couldn't blog about found their way into this tiny notebook I kept inside my bag and with me at all times.

The pages reveal my initial notebook apprehensions. At first I had this idea that the notebook would be my daily to-do diary. This is because as much as I love digital organisers, I still find writing things down the best way to keep my brain uncluttered. The first page of my pocket notebook actually is a literal to-do list. This goes on for the next few pages, then paragraphs of me moaning about some shit or other start appearing every so often. Soon enough I've given up on the to-doing and I'm using the notebook solely as a repository of all my nonsense shit (things that are important only to me, or perhaps too personal to share).

Congratulations, I've got a journal.

I had to get a separate planner eventually, and it helps that Moleskine has some of the most wonderful notebooks ever made. I write in it daily, not just about the work I ought to do (or will put off), but about a variety of things that I try to keep in mind. At present it's got shopping lists and weight loss tips and personal reminders not be anxious about crap.

Sample entry: "annoyed = okay; anxious/worried/frightened = no". It's personal shorthand. I understand it and that's the most important thing. This also means I'm still in the habit of talking to myself, although it's less obvious and embarrassing now.

Now I've brought this habit to the workplace. I currently have a notebook that contains every bit and piece that happens at work daily, so I never lose track of anything. So far my work notebook contains my findings, things to do, items to keep track of, and wonderful glimpses into my mental state, thanks to random margin notes like "so bored".

And so even as I map a way to work and write and blog and do stupid shit on computers and smartphones and tablets, I'm rediscovering the beauty of writing things down. I think it would be one of the greatest tragedies of human civilisation for us to forget what it feels like to scratch words on paper, transferring onto wood pulp the rawest possible emotions and our very minds and souls laid bare. Not because words reveal them, but because the very manner by which we write, that very act, reveals far more than the words we scratch out. Let's see a computer try that.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPad.

The thing about life is that sometimes you have to sacrifice three-fourths of it just so you can spend the remaining one-fourth doing the things you actually like.

I suppose it’s no longer surprising that I have control issues, which is why The Sims is my favourite game. It just indulges my God Complex, I guess.

The current version, Sims 3, is way better than its previous incarnations, which is wonderful. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve wasted knocking on random neighbours’ doors. I’ve also had one of my teenage Sims steal books from the library so I don’t have to buy new ones.

But perhaps my favourite thing to do with Sims is kill them. I once slow-murdered a Sim then begged Death to spare her. Just because I wanted to see if I could create a zombie. She came back normal (Death’s kind of a pushover) so I wasted no time murdering her again.

Some remarkable ways I’ve killed my Sims:

- Starvation

- Sleep deprivation

- Boredom (by depleting the fun bar)

- Trapped (meaning I paused the game then built four walls exactly around the Sim)

- Drowning (I made the Sim get into the pool and swim, then I removed all means of getting out of the pool)

- Burning (I’ve lost a couple Sims to “accidents”)

- Heartbreak (I made my Sim discover her husband’s affair while she was pregnant)

I haven’t had time to play the game these last few months, but I think I want to add a few more notches to my body count.

Love baffles me.

To clarify: I’m not saying that to be cute or “quirky”. As the last NBSB (no boyfriend since birth) person I know, I honestly have no idea what it’s like. I won’t pretend that I do, either.

On the last day of university, a classmate wrote this as the dedication on my binder:

I hope you get a boyfriend soon so you’ll finally understand us mortals.

That was almost eight years ago. I have not gained any insight to date.

(Minor quibble: some say that fatties are the last legitimate target for bullies, but I call bullshit. Single people are always the preferred target of Society. We get weird looks and pity. If that isn’t condescending I don’t know what is. By the way, a former co-worker, upon learning that I was pursuing graduate studies, quipped: ” you’re always studying AND you have no boyfriend. Don’t you get bored with your life?” Bitch. The quibble turned out pretty major, it appears.)

I’m thinking of this now because a friend is trapped in a terrible marriage, and from my vantage point the next logical step is to get an annulment. As of this minute they’re still very much attached, and I’m very frustrated.

I like them both, really, but it’s definitely time to let go. Things won’t go back to the way they were, so many hurtful things have been done and said. So why not just get out of the relationship, right?

It takes a prick to say this, so I’m just gonna go ahead and indulge my inner prickishness: love makes fools. These are smart people, and yet they can’t see the logical decision when it’s staring them right in the face.

Well meaning friends have attempted to explain things by likening romantic love to familial love, but it makes no sense to me. My family is irreplaceable; lovers are not.

Some have tried likening it to an investment. The more effort you put in, the less likely you are to abandon it easily. But investors know that sometimes the only thing to do is get out of a bad investment while there’s still time.

Well of course it’s not my heart on the line, so I can be as callous as I want. But I’m not so insensitive as to make these remarks in front of my friend.

Which is why I’ve taken to avoiding her for the time being. And I am once again reminded that I’m a horrible human being.

A week or so ago, the uncle I hate most came over with his wife (my aunt, obviously) and started flapping his gums. He said quite a few things I don’t really remember now, but one thing stood out. Well see I mentioned that I do have plans to go overseas for further studies or for work (I’ve not decided yet; probably both) in the next few years. The ass responds:

I suggest you get on that soon, because you’re almost thirty and of course you’ll have to get married, right?

Fucking bastard.

Now let me be honest. I don’t want to think I’m susceptible to society’s demands, but sometimes there are things that are difficult to shake off. Part of me believes the bastard’s words. There’s a tiny voice in my brain that keeps saying, “you have to be married by thirty”.

Well tonight it hit me: WHY THE FUCK DO I HAVE TO?

The world can impose all of its dramatic timetables and demands on me, but there’s no one who can physically force me into anything. I suppose the stigma of dying a spinster can be difficult; I also have to say my parents will probably nag me till the end of time if I stay unmarried, but other than that, who’s got any means to stop me from STAYING SINGLE?

No one. No fucking one. That’s the answer.

My life DOESN’T end at thirty. Well not unless I die or something. Barring literal death, my life doesn’t have a “thirty years” cut-off date. I can go off and do everything I want. I suppose this is one of the reasons why I’m always anxious. I keep thinking I have two years left to achieve the things I want to achieve, but that’s not true. I can be a graduate student at forty, and no one can fucking stop me. Because it’s my life.

You may say this is common sense, but sometimes it takes a bit of time for the epiphany to hit. I can go ahead and relax, because I’ve got my life ahead of me. There’s no “30 years and you’re done” rule. That’s for chumps.

I’m not a chump. I think. I hope.

So yeah. I don’t want to be overly optimistic, but I’ve just unlocked a level, I think. And that makes me happy.

Thank you, Wombats, for lending me your title.

I’ve mentioned, maybe a few times before, that I’ve always had panic attacks. It’s a little difficult to explain, but the point is that when I get a panic attack, logic gets thrown out the window and no amount of mental convincing will calm me down.

My cardiologist taught me breathing exercises to help me get through an attack. The only problem is that when you’re in the middle of an attack, it’s very difficult to get your brain to cooperate. It’s like the brain is so set on the idea that I’m dying, and no amount of logic will help me work it out.

You might not understand it, but fighting your own brain is insanely difficult.

Panic attacks are really humiliating; I’ve blacked out on a train once and had to be fanned back to life by strangers. There was also the incident (on the train, again) wherein I started blubbering because I thought I was running out of oxygen.

Now all these things I’ve taken in stride, but I suppose it’s official now. I have mild anxiety disorder.

Yay.

I went in to see a neurologist because I’ve been having frequent migraines and vertigo. A few days ago I got woozy for about five minutes straight. Everything was moving around me.

But Mr. Neurologist is also a psychiatrist, and a pretty damn good one at that. Turns out all my symptoms (I didn’t even tell him about the panic attacks at first) are results of my anxiety disorder. So now I’m taking a psychotropic, which pretty much makes me even woozier. I don’t know if it’s working.

I will have to see the doctor again after a week. Maybe he’ll tell me I’m magically fine now. I just hope he doesn’t make me go to sessions. I’d rather take the woozifying meds than talk to a shrink about me.

Too much.

I used to be an angry person.

I railed and ranted and rebelled. I was angry at my parents for being too demanding (they are not; I blame teenage hormones). I was angry at politicians for being stupid, corrupt scumbags. I was angry at people, in general, because they suck.

And they still do.

I still hate politicians, and stupid people, and global warming, and EDSA, and the world at large. Except I seem to have run out of steam.

You know I used to be able to rant and froth at the mouth on command? I’m not a debater for nothing. I was so passionate, and for some reason I think that anger was a necessary part of who I am. Because anger kept me emotionally attached, and somehow I thought being angry meant I was still idealistic, still fighting.

Now I’ve been swallowed whole by this thing called “adulthood”, and I barely give a fuck about anything these days.

The most I can muster now is “miffed”.

It’s a very nice word, really. Sort of onomatopoeic, I guess. It’s like the sound my face would make every time I sneered. Miffed. I like it.

The thing about this present calm (or pseudo-catatonia, if you will) is that it’s sort of disturbing. I have this niggling feeling that I should be a little more emotional, because that’s what normal is, right?

Enter Mr. Shady.

I wasn’t a fan of Eminem; he became famous right around my senior year in high school. Back then I bought into the hip-hop versus rock thing; you were either a punk or rapper, and I had discovered Nirvana too early to even consider switching sides. So I ignored the rappers, and I thought that was that. Besides, rappers were constantly talking about all the bitches they’ve done, the people they’ve shot, and the massive amount of drugs they shoot up their asses daily. I wanted none of that.

So consider me surprised when I realized, a few weeks ago, that I like Eminem.

And I won’t even consider rebutting his critics, who claim that his misogyny is so palpable you could murder his mother with it. I’m not even going to touch his penchant for controversy with a ten-foot pole.

I will argue that Eminem is a poet and motherfucking genius; see “Stan” for proof.

But it’s sort of surprising why I like him. See, one of his songs that I actually liked (secretly, in college) was Without Me, so I thought maybe I’d download that album. So I was listening to The Eminem Show, and I was liking it, but then this song Superman comes on and I’m just flat out sold.

Superman is Eminem haranguing bitches who just want to sleep with him because he’s money now. He may or may not have threatened to kill women again in this song. But that’s not the point.

The point is that this song is raw, unadulterated, and undisguised hatred. The guy is so fucking angry it cuts through time and space.

And for a second there, I realized one thing. I listen to music because I need songs to feel for me. What I can’t feel on my own, I can get songs to do for me. This is why I’ve listened to The Smiths for years. Because they articulate that empty, bullshit feeling inside that I can’t seem to explain as well as they can on my behalf.

Because Eminem is angry, and I am angry, but I seem to have forgotten how to actually feel and radiate this anger. We’re not even angry about the same thing, but this pure anger that floods out of my earphones is more than enough to make me feel human and alive again.

He’s angry enough for the both of us, and that’s good enough for me.

I might be wrong, but it seems like the older I get the more I think this “life with purpose” bit is complete and utter bullshit. It’s probably existential, you know, like people want to believe that there’s a point to all this random crap we have to deal with. That they are here not because of some stupid chemical/astronomic accident, but because there’s a “reason”, or a “higher purpose”.

We were put here on earth for a reason.

They want to believe that hey, we’re here because we’re necessary. We’re needed. Someone’s life is better because I exist.

Bull fucking shit.

It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally realized that I’ve been entirely interpreting my life in a scholastic manner, like I’m only attempting to do my best because there’s a next level to aspire to. A video game life, if you will, wherein only by defeating this level’s challenge can I get to fight The Big Bad and rescue the princess. It means I’m living my life conquering one mountain after another, and I don’t even like nature that much.

I thought life had a masterplan. That I only had to get from one milestone to the next and I would find myself whole. Complete.

But I’m done with that.

Because I’m done chasing someone else’s version of success.

Up until now I’ve spent a lot of time defining my goals by other people’s standards. Most of it was subconscious. Ever since I was a kid I knew that I needed to graduate with honors so I could land a good job; I needed to get a good job so I could make enough money; I needed money so I could buy a car, and a house, and whatever else money gets to buy these days.

Because to live otherwise is to live without “purpose”. Without establishing myself, without gaining any kind of validation from society, my life is “meaningless”.

That is, of course, if I continue buying into other people’s visions of what I ought to aspire for.

Well this isn’t going to sound polite, but I don’t owe people shit.

I’m done running after a future I don’t even care for.

Meaningful, they say, is to have done something worthwhile with your time here on earth. Meaningful means you didn’t waste your time fucking around. Meaningful means you’ve made something of yourself, become a person that society can admire.

By society’s standards I’m living a completely meaningless life: cubicle job, with just enough money to pay the bills and a little extra; 28 and not in a relationship; two financially worthless degrees and plans to get a third one; hobbies include reading, writing, and staring at the bloody ceiling.

Society disapproves.

But a meaningful life to me is one lived to the fullest, without qualm or care for the pathetic, judgmental assholes who spend their time trying to measure you against an invisible standard of success.

A meaningful life to me is a life filled with books, and laughter, and learning, and writing, and coffee, and music, and dreams, and love, and my family, and screw anyone who tries to convince me otherwise.

Because I’m done breaking my neck trying to achieve someone else’s interpretation of success.

Because it might be meaningless to you, but it’s definitely meaningful to me.

Because screw reason or a grander purpose; I’m just happy to be alive.

Human memory is something that fascinates me greatly. How much of what we remember is true, and how much of it is influenced by emotions, other people’s versions of events, and how much is lost over time?

Today I tried to remember some of my most treasured memories, and it’s a bit of a surprise that I can remember only three. I don’t exactly know why I value these memories the most, but here they are. I searched my mental index for valuable scenes in my life, and these are what I came up with.

*****

1.

I think it was around seven in the evening then, and I had just finished one of my classes in UP. As per usual, I had to walk a short distance from the Asian Center to the jeepney bay for Katipunan. I say short, but at seven in the evening, with no one else around, it has the tendency to feel like the longest walk of my life.

That night the street was empty save for me, backpack slung over my shoulder, feet not daring to stop lest someone jump out and grab me. There were very few cars passing by, and the street lamps were pathetic to say the least.

And then I got to the corner of the Sunken Garden, and I saw one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Trees, lit up by thousands of fireflies, the orange glow burning the darkness into oblivion. Metro Manila is so polluted that fireflies aren’t even supposed to be here, but there they were.

*****

2.

I was in the driver’s seat, as always, strapping myself in with the seatbelt that occasionally threatens to choke me. My dad was seated beside me. We’d just been to the hospital; doctor’s appointment for a quick checkup. It was nearing lunch, but we were expected back home and couldn’t stop to grab a bite. On the way to the parking lot, I stopped to buy two asado rolls.

When I handed the rolls to him and told him to eat so he wouldn’t get hungry as we inched our way through Manila’s traffic jam, the silence in the car got so eery that I had to actually stop and look at him to ask what was wrong.

And then, in a very quiet voice, he said: “you really care about me”.

And I laughed, and tried to say, “of course”, but his face was such a mixture of surprise and gratitude that the words got lost somewhere in my trachea and never made it out.

*****

3.

Quezon Avenue, on our way to Tomas Morato for a bite to eat and something to drink. Four of us. Me driving, with three of my friends and our usual banter. Then Jason turns the radio on, and I’m slightly irritated, because I hate DJs and their stupid small talk, but what should come on but Stevie Wonder’s “Part Time Lover”.

We started singing, and not one of us could actually sing it properly, but by the time we got to the chorus we were all so pumped that it didn’t matter.

Then the song ended, and it was like nothing happened.

I turned the radio off.

I don’t care for most people.

Mostly I tolerate them, since it’s obviously necessary, but I loathe touching and I loathe interaction and I hate hate hate small talk.

There is a handful of people I like, some of them I even care about, but most of the time I fake concern, even with my own relatives.

It’s possible there’s something wrong with me, but I’ve always been like this. Sometimes truth seeps through the cracks, and former friends can attest that I suck as a human being, especially in fulfilling the requisite friendship clause.

But when I like someone, I like someone.

I have people whose lives I actually care about, plus there’s my family who pretty much mean the world to me.

It bothers me.

Feelings bother me.

Because it would be so much easier to not care.

Then I wouldn’t have this dull ache in my chest, waiting.