Movement

Hello. I've moved over to proseispainful.wordpress.com. My entries here were moved to the new blog too.

Thanks!

Web of life

Today is a holiday. I am at my lab desk, completing an order from my other job and a speech for my boss. I have a second job because the salary from my primary job has been delayed since January. I am writing the speech for my boss because he gave me a "thank you" payment for helping out, and this payment shall be my lifeline for the next few more days. It will be my lifeline because the pay from my second job is not enough.

I have tried to avoid cause and effect implications in my previous statements, because I am trying to think healthy; I am not this powerless over The Circumstance. But fuck healthy, and fuck The Circumstance. I have been eating shit because of other people, taking shit for other people, and cleaning other people's shit for as long as I can remember. I am aware that I am acting like the hypothetical first stone thrower in a Mary Magdalene scenario, that when I point a finger at other people three more fingers point back at me. I am also aware that should I abandon the "I have no choice" mindset, I could actually begin to refuse.

Ah, refusing. A choice. It is a very foreign concept to me.

Fuck the holiday, and fuck my country for celebrating valor.

I look to my right, at the cobweb of a window screen and behind it, the grayness of the late morning sky. I look at the dichotomy of life in trees, the gentle dance of the whispering winds, the serenity of it all. I would have taken a photograph, but I don't think it is a moment. It is steady, unyielding. And a photograph would have ruined its own permanence.

You see, many adults make non-adults feel as if non-adult problems are insignificant. I see the appeal now.

These are dark days

November 2012

Thyroid cancer, n.

1. is a malignant neoplasm originating from follicular or parafollicular thyroid cells.
2. is a 9 pm call on a weekday, lasting 2 hours.
3. is a hypothyroidsm turned hyperthyroidism, a mass along the neck misdiagnosed as "nothing serious"
4. is a denial of medical knowledge accessibility; a claim of existence outside of the biomedical sciences
5. is a second full-time job

April 2013

Major depressive disorder, n.

1. (also known as clinical depression, major depression, unipolar depression, or unipolar disorder; or as recurrent depression in the case of repeated episodes) is a mental disorder characterized by a pervasive and persistent low mood which is accompanied by low self-esteem and by a loss of interest or pleasure in normally enjoyable activities
2. is a liter of gin
3. is the reality of a failed mental healthcare system
4. is three suicide attempts
5. is an untreated twisted existence

November 2013

Diabetes insipidus, n.

1. is a condition characterized by excessive thirst and excretion of large amounts of severely diluted urine, with reduction of fluid intake having no effect on the concentration of the urine
2. is chance
3. is the loss of water, and hence of life
4. is a lurking brain tumor
5. is a joke.

A Horror Story

We are back.

If you foolishly believed that the summer breeze swept us away, that talking and good humor killed us, that your every waking moment is no longer our territory, you are wrong.

We are a force that cannot be silenced by optimism. We are the bottled up frustrations that pop on every instance of second-guessing. We are the reality denied by your so-called friends and family, the very people that push you over the ledge.

We are the ashes of every cigarette stick, the remaining spirit in every discarded alcohol bottle, the shapeless dark entities in every chemical high.

We are the monsters hiding under the beds in your every childhood memory, the noise on the other side of the door, the embrace that  never came after a nightmare chill.

We are the stranger lurking in the dark alley, the knife longing to rape your genitals, the barbed wires racing to entangle your throat.

We are the ghosts of your murdered hopes and dreams, the poltergeists of your failures.

Don't look back, we are right behind you.

Dingleberries

It's a hot night, probably because of my menstrual cycle, or because of the gunk I have been religiously smothering my face with in the futile hopes of getting fairer skin (I don't generally spend money on female stuff such as animal fat and bottles of ethanol with fancy names, but I have learned from someone who calls herself a "beauty blogger" that women have a "regime" - clean, tone, moisturize -  hence me now having to use a minimum of four items per bath and three items after said bath, in an attempt of being a "normal" female adult. Nah, my skin just hyperpigmented after two straight weeks of being at sea, and my current hormone profile dictates that I can't be fat and dark.)

I currently like junk food, and am cheating on A Song of Ice and Fire with An Abundance of Katherines. I have read from John Green that The Royal Tenenbaums is funny and interesting, so I hope the torrent finishes after my date with Will McAvoy. I am wearing lace and my toenails are frosted and yet somehow I still feel like a cow. Probably the hormones.

Or the fact that it's a Friday goddamned night and I'm here writing a menstrual monologue instead of getting drunk or (and) getting laid.

Whoever said that 20s is the best time of anybody's life must have sniffed glue.

Ambrosia

It's been hard. Not because of the persistent first-born problems nor the misery on the job. Perhaps because of the losing a friend to bitterness and other personal garbage, perhaps because of the not knowing and the apathy towards it, and yeah, fine, perhaps because of the persistent first-born problems and the misery on the job.

It's been hard. It's his happiness versus my sanity. Ain't anythin' fair in this goddamned world, dammit.

It's been hard. Everyday since. There is a huge wall between The Before and The After. Scratch that, not a wall. A huge block of personal defeats and childhood fears and endless rejection, perhaps. Cemented by The Now, the endlessness of this vague existence punctuated by deep breaths, by holding it in.

I once heard that we should not wonder why people go crazy; that we must wonder how the hell we all are not.

My greatest achievement from two weeks ago was being able to slice four tomatoes without slashing my wrists.

It still is.

I hate that Edward Cullen is the cover of Don DeLillo's "Cosmopolis"

I haven't been sleeping much lately. I don't think it's unfortunate that some people can't sleep, but I do think that the body's needing of rest in the form of sleep in order to maintain physiological integrity is very, very, unfortunate.

I have been editing scientific journal manuscripts lately, as a second full-time job, and I hate it that our style guide prefers shorter sentences by virtue of scientific digestibility. I am a fan of the convoluted, and I don't think science is simple.

I have been disconnected with music lately. I feel the urge to sing but can't seem to find a suitable song for my sentiments, have been meaning to listen more to the hipster tracks Kenneth introduced.

I'm out of creamer. The lab is, actually, but I've been living in the lab since January because of the wide table I get to own during the wee hours of the night, and because, I think, I am developing a compulsion to clean places other than the rented house in Anonas.

I haven't been making much sense lately, but sense is creeping into the crevices and cracks of my unconsciousness, scaring my concepts of what could be.

It's 23:06. Maybe I should get back to work.