Odd Things

The odd thing here is that I know I fucked up, and that I’m scared shitless about what happens next.

The odder thing is that my fuck-ups have gradually begun fixing up even without any sort of intervention on my part, and that while I’m scared shitless about what happens next, I’m actually happier than I’ve ever been.

The oddest thing is that my brain is emptier than it has ever been and wringing words out my head makes me just want to cry, and I’m scared shitless about what happens next, but I’m excited about hurting my head and breaking my long writing hiatus apart by telling myself everything that happened like I wasn’t there and like I didn’t feel a thing about it when it happened.

When I swore to stay away from ALA, I meant it. That place has a life of its own, and it thrives on its members. [that word, right there, is a parasite to my brain; how long has it been since I had a non-perverted thought in my mind when someone says “member”? I cannot recall.] I was there when it was only beginning to flourish, and a mixture of self-loathing, commitment issues, and running away from the shit I’ve caused led to what was at once that best and worst decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. (Excluding that one time, with the cow joke and the corned beef.)

I still haven’t apologised to the people I should have apologised to. I’m not really quite sure how or when I should.

I wrote a letter once, to our then-moderator. I never gave it to him.

It’s a very strange thing to watch people around you moving fast.

People say life isn’t like a movie, that no matter how close movies get to reality it will never truly bleed into what happens around you that are outside the realms of such illusory things. There is, however, that one line that reminds me how awfully false these thoughts could be: stranger than fiction. Reality is stranger. Fiction allows me to time my friends’ maturities, keep them as children that have no responsibilities further than those a school organisation requires. Fiction would let me let us stay the same. I wouldn’t have to watch them drift away because of work or other things, and I wouldn’t have to feel left out again because ‘oh look they’re doing things with their life and I’m here drinking coffee and wondering what happens next and oh look they’ve graduate with honors they like what they’re doing they’re happy where they are oooh food’. Fiction would let me stop these people from moving fast.

Or slow them down, at the very least.

The odd thing is, I’m not quite sure what happens next, and yet I’m happier than I ever was knowing where I went.


In the mornings, it is filled with a drowsy silence that seems imaginary come afternoon, when everyone arrives in trickles, gradually talking Silence into a deep sleep that ends at night, and all the way until the next morning.

It’s hard to imagine I’d be right back where I began. Two years ago I had committed myself to the laborious job of forgetting everything that has to do with writing and art. It was a phase, I suppose, that I swore I’d never get past, and I’ve never been more wrong. This place is home, and yet not home at all. It’s a black hole that swallows you up and clamps on to you if you get too close. And while I truly adore these people and love them to bits, there’s a looming destructive force that surrounds every second I’m with them that just frightens me. They’ve all changed, and grown, and I’m the rear guard and…



So lately I’ve gotten into the unhealthy habit of going on a rampage and watching two entire seasons in a day, and I can’t even say I’m sorry for it because gods damn, Suits is going to flick me in the forehead every single time I think of trying to become a lawyer. Not necessarily a good thing, you understand, but it has its merits; it warns me, for one. Somehow I keep getting the idea that if I do try to become an attorney and they unleash me into the world, I’ll only end up becoming a sub-atomic shrimp in an ocean full of sharks and that creature large enough to swallow a nine-foot great white. I assume that will have to be one hell of an adventure, though, because c’mon, a whole ocean to watch? I’d be a fool to let it pass by right?


Wrong, as evidenced by my shallow tears and the fact that I empathise with fictional people more than actual living human beings with real experiences and who I can actually touch and converse with had I given it more than a split-second’s thought. In any case, I’m a Donna, and I might not be as dashing as she is (oh, her boobies are heavenly too, may I add, and those are the words of a girl who hardly thinks breasts are anything special at all) nor as quick-witted and humorous, but I can try, at the very least, to be that awesome.

Well, this is a sad attempt at trying to revive my writing as I haven’t written anything remotely readable for the past two years or so, but given that I have been handed the task to tell a couple of kids stories about writing stuff about life and its many mundane wonders, I guess I need to start retelling myself everything that I should have told myself all those years ago.

And start relearning how to make sense of these jumbles of letters.

And maaaaybe start coming up with a better blog.