On the loss (or evolution) of primitive characters

Sometimes I'd like to look at it as being given a clean slate. But most days I just become preposterously frustrated that I can no longer perform the way I did during my "glory days".

Today, there's always a not-so-discreet tug towards mediocrity and the initial "I don't care" until the eventual "oh come on, you're better than this" floats unannounced like a perpetual poltergeist.

I have no idea as to the selection pressure that deleted my previously productive characters, and now I am in the middle of a natural selection episode, barely breathing and staying afloat. I look around and those other species which used to be intermediary are now persisting, proliferating, dominating.

Maybe that's the problem. I became too extreme, too fixated, too developed that I could no longer adapt.

Here comes another wave. God, I wish I have gills.

On coffee and untimely rain

I was sipping my coffee. It was overly sweet with extra richness, the type that would leave you with all sorts of aches after the futile fragile sugar rush.

I was staring at the vast nothingness.

The rain fell.

The toxicity of a city

There has been a parade of very interesting people lately. The parade was so colorful and elegant that I feel an almost borderline insecurity for not being as shiny. They use logic for a living while I sniff their morsels off of the floor. I'm still working on my transition to coffee from gin.

Maybe my labmate is right, I need to do yoga. I need some calm. And sweating out my fat won't be bad too.

When everything is ill-fitting, and all I could do is have them stretched some more, tearing is inevitable. My less than a year-old pants will agree. The pressurized heat is also currently catalyzing melanin mass production and sweat-loving bacterial mitosis.

I must insist on more field works. The raging waves are more relaxing than the steady hum of air-conditioning.

Hello swine fat

I wish to occlude my pathetic, insignificant, but nonetheless interestingly new and forcefully cataclysmic thoughts  with equally pathetic, insignificant, but nonetheless cataclysmic ideas, but the thought of having to think about compound ideas gift-wrapped in complex sentences makes my stomach grumble even harder. Plus the use of the same words to make something appear significant while being under a cloak of mystery is kind of getting old. How I wish I have had the same chicken lauriat meal my hilariously insane labmates had earlier tonight.

The waters are carrying me in too deep. Maybe too deep. I am not a fan of sea grass beds, as I am dead scared to get trapped in something too shallow. When I am wearing snorkels, standing up is a blasphemy, even if the water is only knee deep. I guess I should be scared about the open waters, the forceful waves, and the great probability of being eaten alive by the ocean. But staring becomes so nice when something helps you breathe on an environment that is supposed to kill you. A deadly environment with beautiful colors and weird locomotion. There, occlusion. Success.

Cue Suede's Beautiful Ones and I can welcome the 14th of this month in three, two,...