puberty at 26

this entry is self indulgent. pardon the excessive egocentricity that will ensue. music:


after everything i’ve been through this 2014, health just took its toll now on the 12th month. merry christmas. last weekend i forced my body to do all these things: hang with friends, take a shot on love, write 6 briefs, do yoga, and moonlight. it was too much, i knew something will fold. and my immune system did.


i cannot write with beautiful words anymore. the writer self is now just a part of my past, buried with the memories unretrievable. now i write in such a functional, transactional manner. magic has disappeared. (ain’t that statement a bit meta. to disappear is like magic. and magic to disappear is magic about magic!) is this an obituary for the writer self? am i giving up. that is not a question.


26 is such a strange state.
i feel so old. so old.
more and more i spend time reminiscing, reading old emails and conversations. i’ve forgotten so much already – that this happened, that i felt that way, etc etc… the exercise is like observing the self from a 3rd person point of view. as if the old self had will, had a mind of its own that you cannot control. mindfuckful.

and this. this must be a relatively new feeling, born in the 21st century. people from the previous generations don’t have the luxury to read through their past conversations. letters would be the analogue version, but chats and emails are more real time thus are able to portray the unfiltered self more. and reading them is like spying on the past self detachedly, from the present.

26 is such a strange state. i’ve never been this obsessed with aging, and i know it will just get worse. i’m not yet liking this business of getting old. i guess i’m not yet that old. so it will get worse,  then hopefully it will get better.


thoughts while in-transit

August 17, 2010, 9:25pm
At the Russia Shuttle

As they say, one of the causes of sloth is ignorance. If there is no clear direction on what to do next, the instinct is to STOP. We postpone the GO because before proceeding, we need to think first (it’s a duh pre-requisite). And the lazy people like me and you do not bother to exert extra effort to think about the next step.

No matter how I think I am equipped at initiating tasks, I just can’t start this !@#$%ing media review.
I am so lazy = I am so clueless.
I am still in denial that should take the first step. Ang hirap naman kasi.
Media Gods, help me.

Sometimes while in transit, I think about death, that it’s okay for me to die now.
If I’m selfless and I don’t care about pain, there’s a good chance I will commit suicide.
Because there’s a good chance the afterlife will answer a lot of questions.

Fortunately, I am not that selfless and I’m not masochistic. Heh.

a confession

July 14, 2010, early evening.
Inside the jeep going to UP.

A documentation-worthy incident happened earlier in MRT:
After experiencing a grueling hour of MRT stress, I was finally offered an empty seat. I wasn’t dead tired nor on the verge of fainting or anything medically serious that would require me to sit by all means. But because (1) an empty seat presented itself in front of me, and (2) the population within radius knew the seat is mine… I took it, like a trip to jerusalem champ.

Then an old lady came by. She stood near me.
I did not give my seat to her.

I overthought. The moment of hesitation stretched and spanned until the train got to Quezon Avenue. I did not budge, no one did. Everyone was too comfortable in their seats and thoughts. But there’s no use rationalizing, as the population within radius knew that I should have given my seat because I was nearest to her.


It was the epitome of selfishness.
I felt disgusted with myself… I FEEL disgusted with myself.
Humanity’s selfishness is disgusting.

Only after the incident did I realize the gravity of what I did. At least I still realized…? But oh god that moment still haunts me until now that I’m encoding this for the blog post.

I refuse to cry over spilled milk.

Moving forward, I vow to do good deeds consciously with no question nor hesitation. Because I have the strength and the capability to do good, nothing more.

thoughts after losing my wallet

July 5, 2010, 9:29pm, as per the car clock
going home from work

I lost my wallet. I sulk, I sulk.

I realized my wallet was missing while I was finishing my conversation with Leon, who at that time posed another problem altogether as MFMC needed a deadline extension for the ad in Phil Star.
I tried calling Gian so he can help me negotiate the deadlines, so at least I could focus on finding my wallet. But he won’t pick-up his phone as evident by the constant ringing in the loudspeaker.

My tenses are all fucked up, aye.

Visual stressor (no wallet) + Aural stressor (constant ringing)
= It became harder for me to breathe.

My wallet just won’t show itself.
But what can I do?

I thought work has normalized. It hasn’t. But I’m still convinced that a few more nights of OT will make everything easier in the long run.

It is raining again.

Losing my wallet feels surreal.

if you pause for a while
and be hyperconscious
the world will feel surreal

window to the soul

June 27, 2010

The past 2 weekends have been relatively unproductive. Before (i.e. pre-Bora and pre-Japan) I would have prepared a weekend to-do list first thing on a Saturday morning. Now I condone getting up at 11am. It was such a sin before.
Yesterday I finished all my Google Reader items and I’ve accomplished my Poupee daily routine and goals – finally bought the coveted Flower Accessory which cost me a whopping 1.5k ribbons.
Last week only 1 out of 5 nights did I OT. I did not go to the office yesterday as I would have liked. Today is a Sunday btw.

Zooming out to see the big picture conclusion:
Work has normalized and my weekends are not as hectic.

(This is one of the rare moments when I have temporary freedom from “faux busyness”, which I should spend on reflection)


And so

I think

There is something missing.
Something. Somewhere.
Purpose? Direction?
Maybe so.

[Concealing the long-winded too egocentric babble in my notebook,
which lead to the formulation of the mission-vision:]

I want to live a happy, meaningful life.

By maximizing resources and being emphathic to others.

Although I don’t intend to make it my mission-vision forever, since 22-year olds tend to be myopic.

Nonetheless, I am deadset to live by my official mission-vision.

thoughts while in-transit

May 17, 10:16pm

Just got in the car after a long day at work.
A chillax song is playing on the radio.
And my stomach is grumbling. I have not eaten dinner yet because I need to balance my petty cash savings deficit of P1,300.

Executing a plan feels oddly mechanical, because the thinking and feeling parts were done during the very quick planning proper phase.

For instance, on Saturday early mornings, I lay down all my to-dos. Then for the rest of the weekend, I trudge through all those tasks. Fortunately or unfortunately it’s the kind of system that gets me to work. Even resting is planned, and/or rationalized to be part of the plan. Ex: I should sleep early tonight so I could get up and work early tomorrow morning. All actions are geared toward achieving the most optimal life. Further, there is an eerie desire to calculate everything to attain the best use of time, scarcest resource of humanity.

It’s official: I have imbibed the economist’s spirit.

Then I daydream about efficient movements when I get home: wash baon in kitchen sink, eat, wash face, brush teeth.
What a fucken freaky daydream.

I am scaring myself.

thoughts while at mcdo moa

April 27, 2010, at Mcdo MOA waiting for 9:30am so I can finally walk to SM and do the song and dance

Yesterday I realized I keep getting the “busy yet bored” feeling. Deconstruction ensues:
The deluge of work I have to deal with is overwhelming that I can’t cope – source of BUSY feeling
But the work is not thrilling enough – source of BORED feeling
The wordsmiths should coin a word for this mood.

Let me fantasize… Here are some of the jobs I dream about…
1. Writer – Writing as an outlet of hypergraphia ~ or translating? Pagaya Bea. But my Filipino is crap.
2. Philosopher – While dressing up for work earlier, I briefly fantasized about being born in the “philosopher’s era”, if there is such thing, and being among them great thinkers. Beautiful profession.
3. Businessman – Most grounded of the fantasy jobs. Effort = Pay-off. No politics, no ass-kissing. But capital is a pre-requisite, which unfortunately I don’t have. Too bad.
4. Creative (Art Director or Copywriter) – I jizz at the thought. But I don’t think I’d do good because I tend to choke.

I wonder what people think of people who publicly write. Is it assumed that people who write have substance, because what else will you write about but ideas…? Well. They could be maudlin diarists who blog like what I’m doing now. Kadiri, I wouldn’t want to be labelled as such but I think I am. Maudlin diarists are at the bottom of the literary food chain because the writings are NOT DESIRABLE for public consumption due to the egocentric / too personal / too intimate nature. And for God’s* sake, it just talks about the daily misadventures of the writer.
*if a God exists, that is.

I finished my coffee already…. But I want to document the idea which purports how everything you do, even the mighty littlest things, is based on what you think are the objectives of your life. For instance, my simplified main objective in life is to live it to the fullest. Thus all actions aim optimization.

(Digression alert) I don’t care about physical chaos though, but I deeply care / I’m super OC about idea structures and systems. Physical chaos could be ignored.


Musing of the day: What if I just write continuously for one week? Will I get sick of it a la Diminising Marginal Utility? Will I be able to make a book by structuring it? If made public, can it be like a performance art? If I were filthy rich, I would like to be a hardcore artist.

Fodder for editing.