Prozac for Everyone

When our class brainstormed for our pharmacology project proposal, nothing came up but a website and a documentary. I suggested a Free Prozac for Everyone Campaign but nobody took me seriously, like they always did by the way. Well, yeah, I wasn't serious. Actually, I was thinking more of pushing through that documentary with less documentary and more indie short film kind of vibe and upload it on youtube but they shunned my opinion. again. I was serious that time- and near genius! But tarpaulin it is.
How about accepting things for a change? I asked myself. Instead of pulling a Simple Plan whine on how the world sucks, why not try to pull an Alanis and rock that hand in my Pocket optimism? Uh, no thank you. Moreover this isn't about that project. I couldn't care less about that thing. I've never been the academics kind of guy anyway.
This is more about the things I just have to accept because I couldn't do anything about it. Kind of like the effect of fascism imposed way back in this country. Take Ma'am *e**** for example. She abused me verbally. She made me feel stupid and got me all misty (secretly, of course) and I couldn't counter that unless I want to get booted off the College of Nursing. It's not like her temper or "accidentally" pricking of some students with syringes or her (citation needed) favoring of fellow Chinese girls will give her the boot. I'm just an ant against an ant bully and all I could ever do is blog about it. Words of Sarah Silverman from the 2007 movie awards, "She needs structure. She needs someone who could take some time to tell her that she's one rude little pig." should have been made for her.
Then there are my house mates. Until now, I'm still wondering if they were taught of as kids the word cleanliness because their spoiled food always remain in the fridge for months, theirs dishes left unwashed on the sink and clothes whether clean or not, scattered everywhere. I live in a pigpen in plain english. Too bad I don't do other people's dirty work. I'm proud to be squeamish. Hey, if you found out that your underwear was used by your house mate, who wouldn't be?
Last is the weather. Last weekend, I found myself walking to the other slide of the landslide and did all that only a few hours after my minor toe operation. Hey, that is no ordinary feat when you have to traverse mud, rocks, water and kilometers of queueing vehicles. I could only pray for my wound not to get infected.
How's that for an experience. So can you blame me if I think I need Prozac?

shh...shut up.

If there's one thing I realized yesterday, aside from how bad that June 3 went, is that I'm not the quiet person I always thought I was. It was like having thinking-you-were-Kurt Cobain-only-to-find-out-you're-Mo Twister moment. Scary, huh? And it ain't funny by the way. More like a horror movie to me.

It started last saturday. I was asked by someone who works in the library to shhh. I could only utter a yeah, whatever in return. I swear I wasn't noisy. I was just talking.
Yesterday, another shhh came from someone in a form of a cheap, self-righteous skank. The nerve! Go work in another corner you whore. You ain't getting caned by me I tell you. Try to study and come back when you're finally smart to me doing that Belinda Bright shh...she walks by night pose. I might avail your services. That''ll happen after a hundred years, right? I swear I wasn't noisy! I was just talking. If she had the authority, I wouldn't be fussing about it right now. But, no, she didn't. So another yeah,whatever from me.

Later that day, I finally got what I asked for. During pharmacology, the level 4 coordinator had a speech concerning male-to-female chit chats and how she hated it. She was referring to me! That was embarrassing, considering I didn't really know a thing in pharmacology. My bad. Well, at least that day taught me something new about myself.

I'm back.

And I'm back! Oh yeah. And unfortunately so is everything else.

So can you imagine the horror seeing Mischa Barton wearing the totally antibutt crack high-waisted mom jeans? Misch, I tell you, if it weren't for my slight lack off height, we could have been together producing the most mind-blowing orgasms ever known to man. But those jeans? For God's sake! You ended our purely sexual relation before it even started. Damn those inches! I hate people who make me feel short. And you don't look hot on those.

If this semester would teach me anything, it would probably how to survive school living like a zombie. We've had 2 meeting for NCM but I'm already a book behind. Now it feels like I haven't got a time for anything. So no more weekend breathers anymore. I don't even have time to breathe.

Last summer I officially quit 'em Marlboros when I gave my last pack to Katrina Lim (hehe Kat). And yesterday I've had one stick- the first one after that quit. Hey, I was tensed! Besides it was just one stick. And it's menthol. And, and... Ok. I'm so ashamed of myself. To add more to that, It has been three consecutive nights of Tanduay. My issue.

And last but not the least, 2 of my former crushes came back to my life. Had it been the other told me her feelings for me years ago while the other met up with me years before instead of, like, recently, I could have been the luckiest dork on earth right now. I shouldn't have been drinking rhum. But no, everything came back late and the feelings are just no longer there.

And I'm back. Oh yeah. Down to that spiral again.

not dead. yet.

I really thought I was going to die last Sunday. I had a feeling that that day was IT. It was then I also realized how scared I am to leave some people behind. Yes I do care! I may look like a sociopath but I do have those things you call emotions. It's not like I kill people without feeling any guilt. Heck, I even weeped when Dr. Izzie "freaking hot" Stevens went desperada just so Denny's heart transplant would push through! And in 50 first dates too... but that may be too much information.
I don't know how Kurt did it but the last time I checked, I already got pass through that angsty grunge kid phase. That is so 90's. Peter Parker and Seth Cohen are now proving that the antijock socially awkward type is the new antisocial depressive. Suicide's not for me. Look Kurty here became a rockstar, an icon, and a hero to those poor guys who suddenly woke up getting married to someone like Courtney Love. And I'm still, well, me. I think I'm going to be a nurse. I don't know.
In the middle of last last week, some emotions surged in. This was one of those few times when my numbness falters and I started to show signs of being at least remotely human. I usually go home when this happens. Then I come back numb again. That's the cycle.
And so I went home for what I call a weekend breather. I was supposed to die! My bus was supposed to crash somewhere in the jungles of Bukidnon. But death didn't come. It didn't happen. Praise God for that!

Besides, I'm not ready. Yet.

how to become a hero

Whenever I feel down all I have to do is think about Milo Ventimiglia's character in Heroes in the hopes that knowing someone famous having the profession I'm doomed to have would do any good. Yeah, actually it does. Wonders, even. For a while its inspiring to see a hospice nurse is considered a hero. Then boom. Gravity pulls you back in and next thing I know, I tell myself that Peter Petrelli's a fake,pure-fiction, self-indulgent,self-righteous ass. A little like me. Bummer.

entry available soon...

SOS

If there comes a time you will no longer see that loner guy walking all by his lonesome donning that snob, regal stride he usually does, chances are he’s on the other side of the river, getting education where it is said to be more fun. You don’t want that to happen do you? Or you’re just indifferent about losing a self-absorbed handsome guy in the campus. You have not even noticed me. But if you’re a part of a minute group in the entire Xavier population whose subconscious is in manic adoration over me, then start fretting. Honey, my boat is sinking and if I can’t find a way to save myself I might end up drowning.

Now that the midterm results are out, Its vividly clear on high-def that I’m getting a capital B for Boy Am I in Big Trouble. I’m starting to fail myself again. And I’m heading down for that self-destruction spiral. Again. Ok, maybe I’m no longer that genius kid I always thought I was. Maybe I wasn’t even one. Maybe I was just hype over substance; the kind of Hollywood flick many tasteless people dig; Something that pretended to be an art film when its really not. I’m dumb. Are you happy now? Do I hear a Hawaii-Five Oh in the backgriund? Good. Savor your triumph because for now I concede and by tomorrow, Ill be that ass I always was and the airhead you always wanted to blow up.

Hey, I’m drowning. And if the only way for me to stay afloat in the surface is to give myself false hopes and bloat my ego, I’d do it in a heartbeat. It’s my nature.

Weekend Getaway (of the not so rich and famous)

Last week I took of for some weekend breather chillaxing in the bucolic splendor of Barobo and ended up skipping a class and missing a rescheduled midterm exam. Despite the hang-ups, that weekend undeniably served its purpose: I hid away from the world, gave myself some fresh air, and got home. Now that’s a powerhouse combination.
The midterm week was so stressful that I seemed to have forgotten to enjoy all the simple pleasures in life. So when I experienced nature, It was as if I tasted it for the first time. I drank water and got big kick out of drinking something that existed way before anyone on earth. The water I drank may even be the water Ernesto Guevarra gulped, Cleopatra bathed with, or what I have just drunk the other day. Drinking never felt so good. Not only did I connect powerbonded with history, but also quenched my thirst. And boy, did it taste good.
Then I sat on the couch, whisked myself from reality, armed with a remote control and finally south R&R once again in the North of Africa, Mexico, and Japan within 2 hours. I didn’t have to spend a single cent and yet I got to play God and slouched in the most comfortable position. Babel is now officially listed on my favorites.
So when my classmates asked why I didn’t show up in a major class and missed an exam, I just smiled. There are some things money can’t buy. But for everything else, I have my mind good in imagining things.

Remember Last Year?

Remember when Kurt Cobain was found dead with bullet holes in his head and was supposed to be hiding from Courtney Love? I don't. I didn't really know what Nirvana was in the pop cultural landscape until 3rd grade. But that hasn't stop me from taking inspiration from the rock icon. Or something to that effect.
Last year, Kurt made millions just by being himself- being dead. How cool is that? Other than to shut his eyes and rest in peace he didn't have to do anything. Too bad he will never ever experience all the money he is making. Fame has its price.

Remember when the Pepsi CEO graced the cover of Fortune trapped in a coke bottle? I don't. But eventually I knew about it. That time everyone thought of Pepsi as the losing one, trapped in a market Coke dominates in. Coca here may have defeated Pepsi in the cola wars but looking back now, everyone will agree that losing to Coke was the best thing that ever happened to Pepsi. In terms of profits, you might just want to say "Coca, what?". Why try beating something unbeatable? Now that is pure genius.
Last Year, Marissa Cooper finally died. This time its for real. Remember when she first "died"? I do. She Oded herself with Tequila and Vicodin and had to be airlifted from Tijuana back to the OC. High while dying. How cool is that? At least she had fun after discovering her boyfriend is doing her best friend.

Some things are worth to be remembered. Last year may be worth remembering. Or not. You want to be Kurt or Marissa. But don't want to die like Kurt or Marissa. Money and being high may be cool but dying is NOT. Just go do something healthy. That's what Pepsi did. How cool is that? Now that is worth remembering.

Ehem, Rhum and Prozac anyone? How about a gunshot? kidding.

I'm Worth It

Now that I have finally told my parents, or a parent rather (blame it on some circumstances) and I have been joking about it to my friends (yes, apparently I do have some), I strongly believe that it’s about time that I make it official and confirm to the world that, yes, I’m an egomaniac, narcissistic, self-centered dork. Emphasis on the dork and more emphasis on the first three words that goes hand in hand with their inevitable clientele: self-worth.

It’s not like I told my mom I wanted to do porn because I haven’t yet and it would have been hard (pun not intended) if I told her that. I’m still even questioning myself whether she took me seriously when I spilled my guts totally out. But telling her about my being almost Narcissus was the most liberating experience I’ve ever felt, aside from, of course, walking around the house naked and telling her one time that I was almost flunking in a particular subject.Surprisingly, it wasn’t really much of a surprise to her. All I got was a pat in the back (kidding!)- no, actually more like a word slap on my face followed by a “Hey, its obvious where you got your looks from and your father and I are so proud of your witty banters, kick-ass intelligence and drop-dead gorgeousness but arrogance is something you shouldn’t have gotten from our near perfect gene pool. I’m sorry, but I think you’re not my son.” Ouch. Okay, I made that whole dialogue thing up. All I got were occasional stares of disdain and a lecture on why arrogance is bad. I’m still their son.

Recently in Time magazine, Samuel L. Jackson admitted that he is a narcissist. In my world people have known me to be as such also. No, that had not to be worth something. Just a coincidence. What is wrong with being a narcissist anyway? I’m not a murderer. I did not steal. The only thing that is “wrong” in public opinion is that I put high value on myself and my self-importance. Is that a crime? At least, I’m honest.You may not admit it or may not even be aware of it but there’s a little me in you. Inside your body’s core lurks a little James Asinero waiting to roar out your worth in the world. Or who knows? It might be a Samuel L. Jacson, a Robbie Williams, a Paris Hilton or even a Princess Diana’s son in you.For the first time, a real teen and not Dr. Phil made the proclamation of one’s self-worth an issue. When did you see a dork who is proud to be one? If I were to choose between an inflated balloon and an airless wrinkled one, I would rather be slightly airy than look worse and fell bitter than a bitter gourd. I’ll learn to love myself first, before I’ll learn to love others.

Be your own hero, spread the narcissism bug.