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.