I have a feeling the past two years are going to catch up to me.

This is probably gonna be my most fucking frustrating year ever.

But I won't jinx this year by wishing for a class that won't hate me, or for me to end up with a decent STR group, or for a good elective.

Oh fuck.


Shower Curtain

Not really a story, not an essay either. Who gives a shit. You wouldn't read it anyway.

Wish it was raining now so I wouldn't feel so shitty.


It was a dark and stormy night.

And I loved it.

I’d always treasured evenings like that one. The rumbling thunder and gray night skies; the heavy but quiet “shhh” of the falling rain on our roof; the occasional rumble of thunder and flash of lightning. As long as the lights stayed on, I was at peace with the storms that swept past our house.

In my locked room, lying on my bed, the curtains of rain that fell outside my window curled around me, blocking out all the noise and screaming and nagging that came from the rest of the house. I could forget being called worthless, or that slap wouldn’t hurt so much; I was deaf to their words, blind to their piercing and accusing stares. I was in my own little world, far away from all the shit that the real world threw at me. I’d do almost anything in silent bliss. I’d read without interruption; I’d write endlessly with a free-flowing pen. I’d make my ears pound with intense rock or soothe them with mellow jazz. I’d pluck strings on my guitar and not get frustrated. I’d do my homework happily; I’d study. And more often than not, I’d pleasure myself, and my head would pound with the beating of the heavy drops on the roof.

And if I felt like it, I’d bring someone, anyone, into my world. I’d bring up whomever I felt I wanted with me at that very moment. I’d imagine someone lying there with me; talking to me, helping me, understanding me; joking with me, laughing with me, crying with me; hugging me, holding me; touching me, kissing me. I could feel the feeling of being loved that so often was buried under hurt.

But often, during the countless times that I’d feel worthless or pointless, I’d call upon the worst of what I felt and let it swell with the rain. I’d hit myself; I’d hurt myself; I’d rape myself. I’d stab myself with swords, those swords in the form of words; I’d repeat the shit others said about me and make myself believe it was all true. And then the tears would fall with the rain, water with water.

I’d curl up with my hand over my face, sometimes bundled up, other times in the nude, hoping that the rain would never stop falling. Never stop falling for me.

But of course, it never did never stop.

I'm back

Tch. Like anyone missed me.


Sarap pala magpa-defunct.

Haha. Talaga lang. I'll post soon. Probably.