I understand how scissors can beat paper, and I get how rock can beat scissors, but there’s no fucking way paper can beat rock. Is paper supposed to magically wrap around rock and leave it immobile? Why the hell can’t paper do this to scissors? Screw scissors, why can’t paper do this with people? Why aren’t sheets of college ruled notebook paper constantly suffocating students as they take notes in class? I’ll tell you why, because paper can’t beat anybody. When I play rock paper scissors, I always choose rock. Then when somebody claims to have beaten me with their paper I can punch them in the face with my already clenched fist and say, oh shit, I’m sorry, I thought paper would protect you, you asshole! - Anonymous.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

July 23

I think, all I do here now is count the years. Four. wow. Four years since I tried my typing skills on this notepad. I'm unable to decipher my so-called-emotions as to why I keep coming back here and mostly only to write how many lousy years have passed by... No, nobody reads me anymore. No, I don't read anybody either. That 'art' got stolen [more like thrown away] when the whole evil-dictating-my-life-corporate-scenario happened.

However, I did holiday in Dubai this year, so here's to the crappy jobs that pay for the spontaneous Holidays. Cheers!

And Happy Birthday.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Help Me Lose My Mind

I don’t remember the colour of your eyes. Were they dark brown or the average black? Truthfully, I never memorized them. I didn’t feel the need to. But, you did and I am sorry. You were perfect and it seemed to me more like someone else’s perfect. The kind of shoes that are the ones but always look better on someone else. Yeah, that kind. Maybe that was it because I like the delusional-wrong and somehow the incorrect usually works with me. The improper, unfitting tend to fix better. Again, it wasn’t your fault and I need you to stop making us work. The bitch.

You are the 8-colour box of crayons and I am the lunatic looking for the 64-colour boxes of crayons, y’know the ones with sharpeners and everything. I want turquoise, lilac, sunshine etcetera but all you have wanted was blue, pink and the likes. But I want turquoise! Let me be unrealistic. The absurd.

You go on wondering if I am okay, if you did something wrong, if you said something, if you were responsible for my unhappiness. But I am not that damned damsel distressing about – whatever damsels’ distress over – and I’m not even running away. No. I do not lament on any pitiful aspect of life. The fool.

Worst of all; you never got my sarchasm. The funny ones specially. Never deciphered the hidden quotes I’d pick from the novels. Not even the “How you doin’?” You said I never made you feel like we were together together. Now how do you suppose that would've been possible?  The pretentious prick.

I hardly remember the stories you told or the incidents narrated. Ah well, I remember it all but I pretend to not. It’s easier that way. Slowly and gradually inching away. You’d think I like to sit in the bath tub and pretend I’m in a Soffia Coppola film. Well, that’s entirely not… false. There is something appealing about being pensive in a bath tub. The quixotic.

I was also at fault for playing with your emotions just because I was unsure of mine. However, that is what I always do. Maybe, continue to do. Mixed signals and second thoughts are a part of my existence and I am surprised you never figured it out. Or maybe you did, but like everyone else, chose to ignore. The jerk.

Moreover, I am amazed being the guy you didn’t know the game. The game. It’s like this: play around, have fun, share stories and secrets and everything, cry, laugh, make promises, hold hands but don’t fall for one another. Because the first one who does, loses. 

And god, I love to win.
Well, now you’ll know what to do next time and peeps, that’s how you become a heartbreaker.


Tuesday, July 23, 2013

July 23

The living moments : past one year being stuck in a random spiral of superficial work. Unable to see. Or listen. Just a maze collapsing in another one.

So far so good. 

*gotta come around here a bit more*

Three years today.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

Reality #1

"For several years, I had been bored. Not a whining, restless child's boredom (although I was not above that) but a dense blanketing malaise. It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative (although the word derivative as a criticism is itself derivative). We were the first human beings who would never see see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building. Jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen firsthand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A commercial. You know the awful singsong of blase: Seeeen it. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality really can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared scripted. 

It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. 

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls. It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I'm not a real person and neither is anyone else.

I would have done anything to feel real again."

- Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl.

Sunday, March 17, 2013


Happened to wander a little here today. Cannot differentiate yesterday from today or last month from present. But I am here now.

Feels good. Maybe sometimes, we need to rewind a bit.

Friday, August 31, 2012

Better left alone

I want to write to you. Write about you. I can make you seem like the perfect foolish little thing and have everyone fall for you. Or I could play around and confuse the judgments into believing you to be someone else. Even better, I could write you to be a fiction. A dream catcher or somewhere along those lines. But you know, I am going to leave you as a blank canvas. That way nobody will ever know that I know you.

Monday, July 23, 2012