The Last Mon Standing

i really dont know why i am still keeping this whole blogging thing…

sigh…

i am so not meself lately… first… i… then… i… and then… tapos… atsaka… ARGH!

i want to write about so many things but i cannot bring meself to word them…

1. weeks ago,  i would have written about a funny incident where i ripped my pants apart… it was so embarassing but i really want to tell how i managed to go to a fastfood’s restroom and stapled back the stitches into places… but i was unable to write about it since… i m too… er… uhm… i dunno…
2. i also want to write about the fiasco inside the hospital where we almost got am incidental report after we sang the pokemon theme song in the middle of the night, virtually waking up all the babies in the nursery amd the ob ward…
3. and about my classmate in high school who kept on insisting that my middle initial , which is Q, means QUICKIE… i searched incessantly for that person’s middle name and i found out that it really stinks… stinkier than surnames like Garote, Matibag. Entuna, BiglangAwa… but only landed second to this surname… (read it with feelings) … SEXMOAN… ahuh… it is actually pronounced as /seks/-/mo/-/wan/…
4. and i also want to write about my sister who got gozzillions of friendster accounts only to give it to Borg… who is using them since february to pretend that she’s my sister… i really dunno what it was with them that they actually enjoy making fun and stalking people around… actually they have a lot in common… both were … and… and… and…
5. and of course about my classmate that i really miss so much…

I found the perfect post for my feeling…

this entry was written by slim whale:

My greatest nightmare is to face a blank computer screen, my brain desiring so much to write something, but not finding the right words to articulate my thoughts. That’s exactly what has been happening to me lately. Like a bodybuilder whose muscles have bred ennui because of the same boring routine, I sit here, deliriously mad with ideas, not knowing how to etch them on my computer. Sure, I’ve had times when i simply rambled on aimlessly. But this time, it’s different. The mind yearns for intercourse, for rhythmic undulations of quivering bodies, for cautious explorations of crevices marinated in sweat, saliva, and other body fluids, and finally, for an ecstatic release, to squirt its creamy load in liberation, feeling the sudden mad rush of guilt, passion, love, pain, and ambivalence all shooting rapidly up the temples, into the dendrites, around the cranium, through a labyrinth of neurons, and then bursting out of the ears like dislodged ear wax. How can one contain something like this? How does one manage to live while harboring a raging monster inside, shackled, as it were, by the chains of inarticulateness? Would that my mind be as prolific as my butt which does not need any provocation to fart out its sentiments for the whole world to get a whiff of.

Time can be as tricky as a philandering lover. One moment, it makes you feel that you own your faculties, the next moment, it slams you with the realization that you are nothing but a pulpy blob, shaking stupidly like a slice of jello. Or it might fool you into believing that you have something to say, when in fact you are merely brewing mush, some ill-conceived, half-baked, better-left-unsaid ideas that you thought once glimmered with ingenuity. What is ingenuity, after all, but a rehashed idea of another repackaged to look more enticing to modern sensibilities? What can be said that has never been said before? Ideas are only exhumed from the bowels of putrefaction. With the mass of intellectual protons already swimming about in the air, it is too presumptuous to think that I can still contribute anything, that my unarticulated thoughts would push humanity onwards, heal our society, and guarantee world peace, I thank you. Those idiotic beauty queens wishing for world peace may have something more valuable to say. At least, they don’t mask their thoughts with pretentious language. That’s just that. No frills. No confusing rhetoric. No winding locutions. No blogs to eat up precious bandwidth. No ideas, just borrowed spiels from those who wore the crown before them. No shackled monsters. No thoughts. No gods. No empty computer screens to fill with nonsense. Just a tabula rasa.

Blank.

Empty.

Like this nightmare.