This is why I love watching Modern Family. It has its funny moments, but when it tries to touch the audiences feelings, it never fails. This show never fails to reach my sensitive spot which is buried deep inside my heart.

I just lost it when I saw how the parents, Claire and Phil, were holding their tears while saying goodbye to their daughter who went to college. Their daughter who was always a menace; the one who never seems to please her parents because she fails at everything and yet— they were devastated when she left.

I love it when parents act like their kids are the most important people in their life—so important that they’d be willing to get hurt just for the sake of their kids. That’s parenting. I’ve never had something like that and certainly never felt like I was someone’s kid.

I know it’s only a show, but it felt really genuine to me. This is why watch movies and shows—because it’s the only time where I can feel like I’m a person; one who gets lonely, sentimental and happy at the same time. 

I had a dream that the world was in chaos, when everything was falling apart. Nations fighting; people hurting; lovers separating and memories were fading. People were too busy to notice what was happening around them that they didn’t see that everything was just too much. I cried a little bit. I realized I was awake the whole time. 

Afternoon with Lourd’s words. This is, after all, a crazy planet.

Afternoon with Lourd’s words. This is, after all, a crazy planet.

I really miss the times when it wasn’t difficult to find friends. You just ask the brunette kid with the inviting smile by the swing if he would like to play with you on the seesaw. Just like that. You don’t get conscious that your laugh might weird him out, or that you don’t like his favorite things or that you’re basically two opposite person because for pete’s sake, you’re kids and all you can think about is playing and running around. It was that easy.

Looking for friends when you’re already an adult is a completely different thing, though. You don’t ask people you work with or your next door neighbors or the people you know from family if they want to hang out with you just like that. There’s a process.

You don’t usually talk to people because you just want to be friends with them. It’s actually the other way around. You might talk to them because they’re your thesis partner, or your office is besides theirs, or because you always get the same coffee at the same cafe at the same time. Then, later you realize that you’re already friends with them. But it’s not always like that.

It doesn’t always end up with you being friends with them.

You might find out that the person is rude, or a bit of an asshole or that they talk too much or that they’re too needy. They might find the same things about you, too.

And even if you end up being friends with them, you’re still not sure if they’re the kind of friend who look after you; the type of friend who text you at 2am in the morning and tell you that their neighbor is too loud or that they just read a really good book and want you to read it, too. You’re not quite sure if they’re the type of friend who always ask back if you’re okay and not just talk about themselves all day like you’re their shrink or something. You’re still not sure if they’re the type who doesn’t just text when they’re in a rut or when they’re bored and they need to talk to someone and you’re the last choice.

At least when I was a kid, my friend always share the chocolate his mom gave him, or let me play his new helicopter. Where can I find something like that now?

Hi. I’ve been busy, as you’ve noticed (or not), today’s my rest day so I’m fucking relieved. It’s also the 7th day of having metals on my teeth. I’m a bit miserable because I haven’t eat anything but spaghetti—that’s all I can eat—for the past days. Sure, you think it’s kind of cool because it’s spaghetti but if you’re eating it for 7 straight days you begin to have nightmares of a bunch of pasta and meatballs chasing you.  I just got a tooth extracted so I got a big hole in my gums right now. It’s scary but hey, pain is beauty.

The class was supposed to be at 10 am but I arrived at 10:16 am. When I opened the door no one even bothered to glance or look back at me, as usual. I was soaking wet that day, that fucking rain. My jacket was dripping and my hair was all messy so the first thing I did was to put my bag down on my desk and went to the restroom. Funny, it was called as ‘restroom’ when the only thing you can do there is just shit or pee or look at your pathetic self at the mirror and see the pure ugliness that is all in there.

why am i not like the others?
why do i look like this?
why don’t they talk to me?

So many questions even though I already knew the answer to all of it: it’s because this is who I am, and to the losers who told people to be themselves because that’s what matters, that’s a load of bull. That only applies for the cool kids—who never bothered to look at the mirror for hours worrying that they won’t look okay—who has a natural charm who just simply can strike a conversation with anybody. Yeah, be yourself if you’re cool; if you’re like me, it’s best if you pretend to be somebody else or just simply not exist.

So after I dried myself up—thanks to the Jurassic hand blow dryer in there—I went back to the room and pretended like nothing happened. I actually don’t have to try hard because no one seems to care, or notice. As soon as the class started, I began to feel a li’l dizzy and felt like my vision was spinning. I dozed off.

I made up my mind. I’m gonna do this.

While he was in the middle of discussing the different forms of verbs—simple, perfect, progressive and perfect progressive—which to be honest I didn’t give a horseshit, I grabbed the gun from my knapsack. It was still wet from the rain.

They were all busy, not listening to Mr. Harding but minding their own businesses. That’s when I did it. I put the gun inside my mouth and fired it.
They all looked back, looking all horrified. I don’t know if it was because of the sound, or the fact that my brains were scattered all over the wall or that because they haven’t noticed me until that time.

Well at least now they noticed, finally.

You’ve written everything to me like I was some sort of your diary and just like everyone else and their diaries—you didn’t have the courage to keep me. 

hide in the
of darkness
while others
shine with
their light

keep everything
about you
and never ever
show them
that you

never let
tell you
who you
or what
to be

around in
a huge
of discreet
and don’t
let anyone

show them
or how
you feel

more preferably,

—How to be invisible, R

It’s amazing how you poison people with your words or how you stain them with your lies or enchant them with your act. You, my friend, are an incredible work of art. You tell people how damaged you have been or how afraid you are of giving too much fearing that you might lose too much too. Well, let me tell you one thing about losing. In this world we live in, you will always lose—whether it’s  little or too much. It’s what’s left that is important.

But I guess, you don’t care about what’s left. What you care for are the things you lose, about the things you’ll never get again. And those are the endless things you tell people for them to feel sorry for you. Quit telling them your sad stories to pull them in only just to push them away in the end. I really don’t get that logic. You put them at a safe distance first, and just when they’re ready to come close you run away from them. I get it. You have a big issue with trust, but you’ll never find someone worth keeping if you’re not going to try.

Make up your mind, too. You’re just as fickle as the weather. Make a decision. You just can’t always say Que Sera, Sera because sometimes, it’s not. You design your own path. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to leave, then go.

If you’re still not ready on looking for the things you’ve lost, at least take care of what’s left because if you don’t, then I don’t know what will be left of you in the end.

Things I’ve been telling myself all this time, 71414

July 12, 2014


I hope you know that I already gave up on you. I accepted the fact that I can never ever please you. Just so you know, I’m not mad at you. I’m not mad that you weren’t there for me even for once. Do you remember the times I went up to the stage back in high school to get my award? Yes, mom wasn’t there, too. My classmate’s grandma went up to gave the medal to me— for four times. I’m not mad that you always put sis first, or that I felt that she’s your only child. I asked mom if I was adopted, she said I wasn’t. That’s good to know, at least.

I hope you know that I tried my best. I studied hard. I stayed in school. I didn’t do any drugs. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t play with people’s feelings. I never forget your birthday despite the fact that you never thanked me whenever I greet you or even acknowledge it. I always gave time to talk to you, but every time I do, I feel like I’m just talking to a stranger. Do you know that feeling when you can’t even say I love you to your own father? It’s painful. Remember the time when I finally told you I love you? You answered okay.

I’m not mad at you. I’m sad, maybe. Sad that unlike others, I have a father, but it felt like that I really didn’t have any. Maybe that’s why I always seek for a father figure. I’ve always wanted a guidance from a dad. Someone who will teach me to play basketball or someone who will do ‘the talk’ with me or someone that could be there when I need advice. I never had any of those growing up. Maybe that’s why I’m such a wimp.

I watched something yesterday, dad, and someone from that show said that ninety percent of being a dad… is just showing up. I just hoped you did.

I’m still okay without you. Thanks, still.


It was eating him inside.

That’s what he remembered. He was a fucking mess—literally and figuratively—back then, going gaga over a girl. Hair all messed up like he was fucking electrecuted; eyes all baggy and heavy from staying up late until 3am just staring at her photos inside his room on her facebook page; face full of acne and a smell like he lives in Satan’s armpit. He was appaling that even his mom got tired of telling him what to do.

But he didn’t know that then. All he knew was Jessica Lange was the girl who’s going to bear their two sons, Vincent and Kevin, who will grow up to be the best lawyers in town. Jessica Lange was not really everyone’s dream girl. She wasn’t popular like Megan Lime or the cheering squad captain, Lila Holmes. She wasn’t the smartest in school either. She was no Rachel Young who’s body is to die for. She was just a simple girl with an auburn hair and eyes that are brown that can drown you when you look at it. Her lips looked so soft she might as well hold a sign that says, “Come and kiss me.”

Jessica’s beauty was subtle; simple. If you look around the room, she’s not the first one you’ll notice and yet, there’s something about her that he really, really liked. He just didn’t know it yet.

He remembered asking her to dance at prom. It was majestic. He could not forget how beautiful Jessica was in her white, silk dress or how deep her eyes was that he’s continuously falling looking at it or how beautiful she was when she smiled. It was fucking majestic, until he heard her talking about him with the other guys.

"He looks like a fucking psychopath and he smells funny."

He remembered that. It was eating him inside.

That’s why when she went to the ladies room, he knew it was his chance. He followed her there and when he got the chance he quickly grabbed her head by surprise and bashed it to the hard ceramic toilet bowl. He bashed her subtle beauty to the toilet 25 times. Why no one came while he was doing it, he’d no idea.

Her white dress, now spoiled with her blood still looked beautiful. Her eyes, opened and still as deep as they were before, looked lifelessly at nothing.

He stared at her.

That look used to be him. Lifeless. But what happened that night was a wake-up call. He spent his life obsessing, fantasizing, and hoping for one thing— one thing he knew will never happen. He should be thanking Jessica Langes for everything. He smiled and quickly got rid of the body, how he did it, again, no one knows.

"Hey, Artie. Still with me?," a man in his late twenties is snapping his fingers at him.

"Huh?," he replied.

"I said, do you remember Jessica Langes?, she went to your high school, I think you were in the same year."

"Huh. I don’t think I remember." Oh, but he does.

"Her body was actually found. The news said that she has been missing for a couple of years and that the case was closed. Isn’t it weird? Like a crime scene happened in your school?"

"It is. It really is."

Writers are broken.

It’s true. Those who write carelessly and express things through beautiful words are emotionally incomplete. Pieces by pieces, they try to look for the missing parts that they need to be fulfilled.

They write stories, they write poems— those are their emotional outbreak. They’re wounded, they bleed metaphors and ironies. They cry adjectives, nouns and verbs. So basically, those things they write.. those are their pains. Those are their rages, their grudges, their feelings— them.