Nous sommes tout seul

The Aggressively Cheap Car

2007-09-13T08:26:54Z

Who said that love could not be born out of the

backseat of a beat up yellow Volkswagen Beetle

circa 1961, as it cruises down EDSA

and swerves from lane to lane

like a slow dying turtle that sputters out gas?

These storytellers don't know the legend

of the map at the back of your hand

and the kisses I mistakenly lay on your closed eyes,

because of the rocks and the speed bumps and the yellowing gutter

that reflected stars more telling than Van Gogh could imagine.

What do they know of the whispered sighs from you

as you lifted your shoulders in a half-shrug

and shifted to let your head rest against my shoulder,

I felt I was created for one sole purpose to sit as your prop

as I whispered “I love you” in the same breath and lull

as John Lennon's “Imagine” being sung in the bar,

both of which could not permeate your (un)consciousness.

My day job: Creating a Reality Bites Episode

2007-05-16T14:36:46Z

My job robs me of anything infinite.
If infinity were words, I would have written the universe
--but words are cheap when they mean nothing.
It struck me, the way purely brilliant thoughts strike you,
careless as a ton of bricks carefully measured to balance precariously--
poised flightless like aging bronze pigeons cemented on Assisi.
My life is no longer mine. If writing were my life
I've sold all the rights to the company.

What's left then?

The Unsuccessful Mourning

2007-04-30T21:01:16Z

A hitch in the chest, just a hitch--
comprised by the tiny air bubbles you breathe.
A hitch in the chest, just a hitch--
and a cruel reminder of your deceit.

One sob held back by a swallow,
one tear held back by pride.
The letters I've writ do follow,
the embers of love that died.

A hitch in the chest, just a hitch--
and the deadening weight in this heart.
A hitch in the chest, just a hitch--
but a hitch that refuse to depart.

♥ ♥ time for a reality check ♥ ♥

2007-04-30T20:46:33Z

A little something from Emily Jane Bronte first:

COLD in the earth — and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave !
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ?

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills, have melted into spring :
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering !

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along ;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong !

No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me ;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion —
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again ?

-----------------------------------------------------

Nothing makes it better in the wee hours of morning.
...i have a job. thank god.

You weren't my type of cake after all...^^

2007-04-29T09:23:17Z

Tres Choutte
My idea of a birthday greeting was to send him a message which greeted him "Happy Birthday" in 19 different languages, sweet, ne? That's the last message I'm sending him.

He asked me some nights ago if I found his girlfriend pretty. I hesitated, and answered yes, when what I really meant to say was that: she takes the cake--she takes the whole cake and some.^^ (interpret it as you will)

During one exam, a girl I was hanging out with ended up as some sort of repository for some of the most sincere sentiments I had about love and men. She said: "You're really quite bitter, aren't you?" oooh... I am.

I'm also annoyingly optimistic. So I'll wait.

On Jobhunting
Good god, another job offer! I'd like to take it... because I want money. I need money for effective hohobagging. It's a writing job, I get to write articles, movie reviews, music reviews--that way I can slam whoever for whatever reason and get published doing so. ^^ Que fun!

TOP THREE MIYAVI PICS ^^

2007-04-18T13:54:13Z

For my hohobags, especially the koala-hohobag. :D

I'm so sorry, ang laki nung post. >< I couldn't help myself. :( and hindi lang siya top three. ><

I am going to hell @_@

2007-04-18T07:55:27Z

I have an interview tomorrow. I need good luck.

ah! there HE is! Oresama.

I find it a little upsetting that a guy can look as pretty as MIYAVI-SAMA.

oh... yes. FOCUS on the INTERVIEW.

right.

OH the IRONY. >

2007-04-16T14:49:53Z

i woke up today totally "relating" with a college flick i was watching that had the promise of being as unintelligent as van wilder had been.

and then i realized that i have been unemployed for the past month and will continue to be if i keep on oversleeping and MISSING MY INTERVIEWS. ><

So, JP Morgan Chase down.

So, SPi down.

Let's see if I can manage to show up to my next interview.

Miyavi is ♥ !!!!

hot boys kissing! HOT BOYS KISSING!

2007-04-11T14:31:23Z

Lauren's "housewarming" get-together turned out to be one drawn fever caused by the sight of hot, straight, TALENTED, cross-dressing, Japanese male rockstars kissing. =)

Thank God for the distraction.

job? what job? job hunting? what the?! =s je ne comprends pas! (i hope i did that correctly)

Oh blog! You have been missed!

2007-04-10T19:29:07Z

I'm Back
I have traded this blog for a pen and paper, although I later realized that was a big mistake--writing on scraps of paper, the backs of cigarette boxes, tissue, wrapping paper, bond paper, old envelopes--although it made you feel somewhat more urgent and urgency is, after all, the momentum-giver for all writers (good writing is urgent and unplanned), despite making you feel fulfilled to have contributed to the great movement and reversal of the Industrial Revolution--also means you'd have to have quite a memory to be able to catch all the snippets of conversations that go around a summer-sun-addled brain like mine.

Point is, i can't write in my diary in an intelligent literary manner (I am forever stuck with: Today perhaps, was the most dreadful... and the irony is that tomorrow would be the most and the next week the most of the most, which render my writing completely unreadable in my opinion. Thank god i have managed to deviate from my eight-year-old-Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame-Diary-Writing of: Dear Diary, you will not believe what happened. As if my life as an 8 year old was exciting. I've also managed to skip Yoda-writing, of "long gone has the days of happiness been.").

I am not Anais Nin--and thank god for that once more.

My 10 day vacation in Laguna
I went to the mountains to be with myself, not by myself but with myself, as if my self were something completely separate from me. As if the long sleepless nights have caused inside me the creation of one-two personalities. I went to the mountains to be with myself and put together the long-separated Reason and Emotion.

I swam in a river filled with smooth round stones. The water raged against my prone body, and I lay there, the stones digging into my back. The water was completely shallow, not treacherous. Virginia Woolf would have had an easier time freezing to death than drowning. Although in all honestly, I doubt I could drown. The water has a way of making me panic, pass out and float into safety.

I didn't freeze to death, I didn't find myself and I found it perfectly fair trade. Both interested parties of Myself and Myself have left dissatisfied but also somewhat chastened. There is much to be shameful about--the past for example is too recent to bury and forget.

Suggestion to Scientists
I suggest that the scientists come up with a translator for men and women so that conversations would no longer be misunderstood, meaning and words construed.

(What is up with "I like You." What does he mean? He likes me as a friend, he likes my person, he likes my shoes, he likes me romantically, he likes the fact that I am without self or ego with him in the picture, that I am easily absorbed by the desire FOR him that I forget to BE WITH HIM. I can't be with him. I am him.)

I am the romantic byproduct wasteland, all troubled seek me out.

Tonight I will dream of coffee beans and cigarettes.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LACIEEEEEE! XD

2007-03-24T16:02:56Z

So guess who's turning 21? :) after the 1606 party, I feel like I've gotten to know you more than I thought I would anyone. >< hahahaha which is not necessarily a bad thing. ^^ In fact, it's pretty awesome. Lacey. :)

To the babylonian princess, bottled woman, band nazi, my horror-film buddy, my smocket co-composer, brilliant guitarist HAPPY 21st! I love you!!! I seriously do! XD

Lauren, ang tanda mo na! :P

More beer, more cigs, more fun parties, less drama, more laughs, some great gigs!

Book and Book.

2007-03-04T21:22:20Z

How to be Good (Nick Hornby)

Hornby does it again!
"...Even though I am, apparently, and to my immense surprise, the kind of person who tells her husband that she doesn't want to be married to him any more, I really didn't think that I was the kind of person to say so in a car park, on a mobile phone. That particular self -assessment will now have to be revised, clearly. I can describe myself as the kind of person who doesn't forget names, for example, because I have remembered names thousands of times and forgotten them only once or twice. But for the majority of people, marriage-ending conversations happen only once, if at all. If you choose to conduct yours on a mobile phone, in a Leeds car park, then you cannot really claim that it is unrepresentative, in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn't really claim that shooting presidents wasn't like him at all. Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs."

Using the voice of a middle-aged, doctor-wife-adulteress, Hornby discusses the dilemma of "being good." Bring in the mystical hand of a man with sapphire tortoise-piercings hanging from both eyebrows, and the once-"angriest man in Holloway", and the readers are dragged into the mess of a marriage crumbling, witty bickering and a clash of worldviews so poignant the reader will find himself/herself choosing sides like children left with the pickings after the parents' divorce.

We all want to be good. True. But who has the energy and the enthusiasm to actually want to go out of one's way to make a lifelong commitment of helping the poor? What happens when enough is enough with everything, and you're reduced to "elevator-sex" with your husband because he knows the right buttons to push, but the whole thing is just as romantic as that? A ride in the lift.

What happens when you forgo all the romantic notions of "art-sex" and intellectual explorations all together, because that's life--it is as it is, and there are no movie credits and dashing leading men headed your way?

Hornby writes about all these with such bleak yet realistic outlook, and amidst all the funny lines (and the book is loaded with them) the underlying truth and life-weariness is constantly present--"there's nothing out there at all."

Recommendations: Not for the idealistic. (You have been forewarned about possible disillusionment)
Would I read it again? Absolutely.
Pros: Really clever and straightforward--humorous, moving, engaging and in true Hornby fashion, definitely thought-provoking.
Cons: None
Book Grade: A+

SHARE: Monet Refuses the Operation (Lisel Mueller)

2007-02-28T12:51:44Z

(I haven't been writing, so I'll share one of my favorite poems instead. Fell in love with it back in highschool. ^^)

Monet Refuses the Operation

Doctor, you say that there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and changes our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.

~ Lisel Mueller ~

First gig

2007-02-10T09:43:15Z

First gig and I lost my voice two days before... lol

First gig and the effects pedal failed us.

First gig and the other bands owned our smoking hot asses.

First gig and we were the prettiest band who didn't play pussy rock.

First gig and I sounded so shrill and annoying. lol

First gig and I was with some of my dearest friends. (I love you guys)

First gig... well... it was pretty darn fun.

I promise you guys, I will never lose my voice again when we need it. (thank goodness, Rica was there)

Lauren, Tish, Kimi and Rica. Hearts to you guys. Aedz, Isay, Mimye Paula, Pat, Nic, Diego, Munding, Ralph, Cams and Paolo--> thanks for the support.

Congrats to ABS and Twitch for getting first and second.

Well, here we go.

next time, i vote we play a gig where we can shout "motherfuckers." haha! :D

"no mas" na naman ako ni Morales.

2007-02-07T22:45:20Z

oi. pakibalik isang daan ko.

So... hindi niya ako mahal. Ang galing.

yun lang naman.

Stars, stars and more stars

2007-01-07T18:04:03Z

I think of stars (I should be studying for Bobby Guev orals and my polsci quiz), and I think of Neruda. I think of Neruda, and I think of Love. I think of Love and some nights I get bitter, some nights they drive me giddy. But those stars, those goddamn stars that won't stop blinking...

Sometimes I think of how many stars I've wasted. If you must know, yes, I still sometimes wish on stars, other times they're just beautifully monstrous--too far away.

Tonight I wished on one. I don't bother with the whole routine of stating that silly nursery rhyme (I pretend that by skipping that process, I come off as more mature--although there's no one to impress but myself.)

(But those stars, those goddamn stars that won't stop blinking!)

And tonight I wished for love. The logical choice for that wish would be that I do well in my exams and papers. That I get through this week without being gutted alive. But instead I wished for love.

I wished for love, because out of everything that seemed the most impossible at this moment. With grades, I believe we get what we deserve. But love... well... love... especially love from someone specific... well...

I blame those stars. Those goddamn stars that won't stop blinking.

Right now, I wish I could take back that wish. Not because he was undeserving of such wish, but just because expectations breed contempt and disillusionment.

Why do I pin my hopes on a goddamn star that one day would just stop blinking?

This is pointless

2006-12-29T23:56:06Z

This is pointless. And I don't mean that in the, "this is kind of pointless" sense, where I pretend-ditz and tug frantically at a lock of hair. I mean this pointless-ness in the bleak way that means "absolutely pointless." Beyond reparation, beyond comprehension... POINTLESS.

So why do we do the pointless things we do? Personally, I blame it on the movies, the tv shows and the countless books I've consumed. In those things, EVERYTHING has a point. The archrival having a haircut has a point. Everything goes SOMEWHERE. If it doesn't, then the scriptwriters are sleazy and lazy.

Last year, I entered the year with the thought: "Everything happens for a reason. Should anything happen, it must be fate." No such thing as good luck. Well there, I might be wrong.

Perhaps there is such a thing as pointless being. When you keep on doing something without an end goal in mind, well, you either learn from it or you don't. I have this amazing ability to unlearn everything the world has taught me. Which means my life is in constant replay. My decisions are questionable and not merely irritating but downright despicable for some.

I should stop cross-referencing my life's events with those in the books, in movies and tv shows. In the real world, the pointless things we do are merely that. An act can stop with that action. Remember that one law in physics? What was it?? Every action has an opposite and equal reaction? pfft. bollocks.

Tonight, should I choose to hop on one leg for a full minute in a locked room, well that wouldn't really change anything at all. In fact, it's probably going to seem completely pointless. Which brings me back to my original question: why do we do the pointless things we do?

I have no fucking clue.

Which just means that this post was pointless, useless, and un-illuminating.

That's life. deal with it.

Coming to terms with Writer's Block

2006-12-26T23:42:19Z

Just like in Alcoholics' Anonymous, the first step is admission:
I have not written anything substantial or passable as literature in the past year. Even if literary regurgitation were an option, I wouldn't be able to piece together something coherent, or God-forbid witty to save my life.

For the past eleven months, I have been avoiding my pen and paper like plague. The frustration of sitting and staring at some unknown point, some blind dot of accidental origins in an otherwise bland, formless sea of notebook paper is unappealing and as frightening as the possibility that perhaps everything that I have been working on for the past ~~twenty-one years of my life~~ (okay, that may be a stretch) eight years of my life, or my decided writing life would amount to nothing--zilch.

I can't write.

For a few years, I could put myself behind the shadows of the greats, devouring Plath page after page like some goddamn stalker, revisiting her and finding her as bitter aftertaste and that I could write about. Not great writing, but writing nonetheless, and I was satisfied for a time.

Then love came to take its form in an "unknown" gnome-like individual who inspired some of the crappiest poems ever written in history. Then it shifted, as my eyes shifted, taking form after form after form--until finally the writing was wrung out and raw and not even in an artistic sense. My inability to string something remotely creative or enjoyable (not even a limmerick!) is a frustrating one...much akin to having an annoying seatmate poking relentlessly at your hapless, defenseless arm even as you swat the hand away.

Annoying. Frustrating. Stressful.

Last semester I had the option of saying thesis has taken all the creativity out of me. That I could not write because everything was being saved up for thesis. Now I spend my mornings in front of my computer, exchanging blind and rather puke-provoking sweet lines with a stranger who just has impeccable timing. Impeccable timing? Yes, impeccable timing... who knows when to interject the terms "baby", "darling" or "babe" that the use of these otherwise objectionable (except darling) words would be excusable.

I'm newly twenty-one, and I'm running out.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the good side of things:

I did manage to spend the past few days in Subic, a few houses down from a crime scene where a murder-suicide happened just a few days before my family arrived. Apparently the husband found his cheating wife in bed with another man, and killed her before killing himself. I think that's rather interesting. A rather sad note everytime we'd have to pass by the house and look at the yellow tape and the guard sitting beside the abandoned cars.

I also managed to make myself several shades darker after finding, trying and enjoying karting too much. I am not a good kart driver. All my cousins (all younger and all female) did manage to get ahead of me, which has brought me to the realization that perhaps I should go back to my original dream of MARRYING a formula one driver instead of actually becoming one.

Now I forsake beauty for the speed. Solution? makeup. makeup. makeup.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hmm. Oh yes. Happy Holidays my darling friends!

and belated happy birthday to the beautiful, talented, sexy and extremely leggy Ms. Isay ~~Roque...~~ ooops, ikaw nga pala yung babaeng walang last name! ;)

hmm... true?

2006-12-14T23:24:07Z

no romantic investments = no expectations. no expectations = no delusion. no delusion= no disillusionment. no disillusionment = no pain. no pain = no growth. no growth = nonexistence (if we define existence by man's ability to continue being)

*warning, disillusionment is oftentimes caused by delusion.

tsk tsk tsk. wag na kasing umasa kung wala.

~isa akong ilusyonada.

Si Adrianne Kasi eh

2006-12-12T19:48:13Z

Hindi ko tuloy matanggal sa ulo ko:

GONE FOR GOOD (The Shins)
Untie me, I've said no vows
The train is getting way too loud
I gotta leave here my girl
Get on with my lonely life

Just leave the ring on the rail
For the wheels to nullify

Until this turn in my head
I let you stay and you paid no rent
I spent twelve long months on the lam

That's enough sitting on the fence
For the fear of breaking dams

I find a fatal flaw
In the logic of love
And go out of my head

You love a sinking stone
That'll never elope
So get used to the lonesome
Girl, you must atone some
Don't leave me no phone number there

It took me all of a year
To put the poison pill to your ear
But now I stand on honest ground, on honest ground

You want to fight for this love
But honey you cannot wrestle a dove
So baby it's clear

You want to jump and dance
But you sat on your hands
And lost your only chance

Go back to your hometown
Get your feet on the ground
And stop floating around

I find a fatal flaw
In the logic of love
And go out of my head

You love a sinking stone
That'll never elope
So get used to used to the lonesome
Girl, you must atone some
Don't leave me no phone number there

posh_drainpipes @ 2006-12-11T13:02:00

2006-12-11T13:02:04Z

Don't fuck with me. Seriously, don't fuck with me. I've had it up to here with you and your stupidity.

And it goes boom boom!

2006-12-11T11:02:00Z

No to Con-Ass. Ass. Ass. Pangalan pa lang, dubious na. :P
But what I'm really saying:

i gave you my heart
you gave me bullets and blanks.
And now the russian roulette begins.
Would it make me less of a woman
if I blinked first? Would I be
more of a man if I did?
Would you be brave enough to pull the trigger,
or would you urge me to do so myself? (You know
what you say sticks to me,
I feel I am plagued by doubt.)
And the hopeful heart remains restless,
in this cage that remains without:
assurance, no luck, no faith.
Would you be so kind as to tell me
or would you hint with those lovers lips?
Would you break me this disillusion,
or will you remain pregnant with jest?
Lover tell me now, tonight.
Lover let no weeping occur.
Lover, do show me if I'm right,
to run for the hills tonight, tonight.

The day I stopped believing in signs from God.

2006-12-09T09:10:47Z

When I was younger, I loved to dance under the sun. The sun spoke to me in loud volumes, and the warmth permeated the core of me...the cadence was its rays that clung lovingly against me, and the smell of sweat and baby powder was the reminder of good days to come.

Everytime it would rain, I would argue with God. Taunt the winds to go louder, fist high and tone indignant. There were no songs that came with the rain. There was no happiness in the weeping of the heavens.

I grew to love the rain as I got older. The rain meant that there was sympathy for the people's melancholy. God could hear the whispers of hearts threatening to drown themselves in misery. When it would rain I was no longer alone. Lonely but never alone.

As time passed, technology became another sign. Plate numbers to be exact. The hundred yellow cars and the first person in violet would be your soulmate. After finding out that an old woman was my destined soulmate, I dropped the habit of counting cars.

Plate numbers became the new obsession. Admittedly, my heart still skips with plate numbers with 111 on them. The formula was simple. Your birthday, the day itself (i.e. mine being 10: 1+0=1)Plate numbers with 111s meant the person you loved felt the same. 11(some other number) meant that the object of my affection was thinking of me fondly. (other number)11 meant that the object of my affectation thought of me with a hint of disdain. It was a fun pasttime while it lasted.

Lately, I've been bombarded with plate numbers with 111s. My hope reached new heights, perhaps *he* felt the same after all.

Three nights ago, while taking a bath, I looked out to see the full moon, surrounded by a ring of light. In Wicca, this symbolized great change and good luck for the witch. I immediately did my pentagram salute, and wished fervently for returned feelings from *him.

I've never wished or prayed for anything for myself. My whole life, I offered up to Fate. What is willed of me shall occur: if it's meant to be, it shall be.

But for once I wanted to be selfish. I wanted something completely mine. I wanted *him to love me, to think of me.

The very next day, in a fit of frustration, I told him I liked him. I really did. My heart told me so, and my heart has never lied before. No pride left for me. Nothing left of me but truth.

He told me, ever so politely, he didn't feel the same way.

And now the signs mean nothing. And now the Lord does not hear me. And now, once again, I am alone. The rain no longer consoles me. My optimism has left me defeated.

Now there's nothing more to say.Tomorrow will be just another day. 111s will be just another plate number. No signs from God, no great change from the Great Mother.

There is nothing now. Absolutely nothing.

Kailangan kasi ikaw pa diba?

2006-12-07T12:05:01Z

Seriosong usapan nga: ganun ba ako kahirap mahalin?

Hindi ito tula. Kung tulain ko man ito hindi mo rin naman maiintindihan diba?

Alam ko namang hindi ako ka-gandahan. Hindi rin ako ganun katalino. Pero punyeta, mabait naman ako ah! Eh ano ngayon, kung hindi ako sexy? Lahat naman tayo papangit diba?

Kung sa ayaw lang, ayaw rin kita. Punyetang pusong umaasa.

Ayoko sa katulad mo. Palibhasa kasi madali kang mahalin, kaya kung sino-sinong minamahal mo.

Pati siguro pusa ng kapitbahay ko mahal ka na rin.

Sabi ng mga kaibigan ko, huwag ko daw hanapin, kasi dun darating.

Hindi naman ako naghahanap ah! Nagkataon lang minalas akong mapadpad sa kinatatayuan mo.

I'd rather you were honest rather than polite. It would've saved us a lot of trouble.

Kilala mo na kung sino ka... L.

Enough is enough is enough!

2006-12-03T13:46:27Z

The good thing about being enamored is that disillusionment is just a few paces behind.

The bad thing about being enamored is that disillusionment is just a few paces behind.

(I realize it's repetitive, but it works when you have the memory of a goldfish.)

I am disillusioned, and dear god, that is the best cold shower my heart has had in a while.

Realization may be a cold bitch, but she sure packs a swift, hard kick. (Right where it hurts)

The optimist inside me, and the rationalist, reasons that life is one simple mathematical equation. If life in general requires an equilibrium between all the positive and negative elements (life=positive elements=negative elements), therefore, to have an upset of this equation, i.e. the accumulation of negative elements in my life, would mean a surplus of positive elements right after this funk.

So once I finish digging myself out of this hole I managed to sink (all by myself) into, well, happiness can't be far off.

It's logic. (Or the delusional workings of a mind incapable of processing math.)

Suddenly it just doesn't hurt that much anymore...