I don't get it, world

1. This website.
2. Virtual window shopping led me to a first-world website with a book which costs first-world dollars, plus shipping fees. The website is dominated mostly by excerpts of short stories. The writers include the first two paragraphs, then after sustaining much of your interest you stumble upon the words "to read the rest of this piece, purchase this issue". The tactics. I clenched my third-world teeth.
3. The fuss about the royal wedding. I'd rather do my laundry.
4. This kind of music, which is basically made by overlapping the sound of a cunt fucked over and over again (reminiscent of porn, honestly speaking) and that of a Zerg Overlord.
5. Of course, this is too esoteric.

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Ah, when you think of other people who's been encircling grammatical errors in The New York Times; or who's been studying computer codes for ten years to master hacking--whatever your definition of hacking is; or who's been gathering too much junk from yesterday, or from the other day, that excessive effort to just write down each and every day; or who's been saving each and every peso for something really expensive, a trip to somewhere temperate; or who's been fastidious in taking care of orchids, or flowers in general, every morning, drinking a cup of tea: it would really be a shame to admit I think they are fools, but fools, the good ones, the ones who have been clasping their fists too long, the ones who would tell you to just don't think about it, do your French homework instead, or something as wild as can you actually fry an egg  on a sidewalk (and who would even describe to you how sidewalks are in Manila, how they don't really hiss, but they boil the passersby).

Now Hiring

Honestly I'd like to get myself a job in a magazine.

Numbers

A resumé is one of the modern inventions to reduce a man and his capabilities into a single leaf of information. We are subjected to scanners and all we have to do is present this shit of a bar code, and that's it, graduating is worth what, a 4PM-1AM shift, an endless hysteria, a ticket away and for boredom, and if you hang them on the clothesline, all these lives, you'll hear the working class barely breathing. For what is a job than a preoccupation, in its drabbest sense? To think of my course as something marginalized in the entire country, who cares, you write and then? Even Dad knows this. I wouldn't like to plan everything ahead but with all the things happening, I think I will. I'd get a scholarship but that depends on their grade requirement, yes, that's another thing, why do they always have to look at grades, it has never proved anything but to approximate, and sometimes the opposite, and all these numbers superimposed on each other should be torn apart by a bullet, because it can never hold for much credibility, a High School friend confessed she made the same paper for a classmate and their grades differ so much she supposed it was because of the name, and what's with her name? All this you think for about a while and then, well, somebody e-mailed? Or you think you have to get some snack, yes, of course everyone needs a snack.

High Fidelity

In the morning I drink the vodka I bought yesterday because it's cold, and it seeps to the bones. Just down two shots to keep myself warm. Then I think of the possibilities I can do in a day, and how I resort to stay in the bed and do the ceiling check, the floor check, these checks which didn't even make sense but which we resort to do everyday because it didn't hurt. I think of a paper and an exam this afternoon; it's 9:46, and I have four more hours to disillusion myself into saying the world isn't pointless.

Ha, the confusion

I have no words to say with this fickle-mindedness, but someone helped me out with the hosting. So I'm back to my old blog, and though she emphasized that she wouldn't want to be thanked, a million thanks to you, and to my readers...

Junk

Blogger is still the same junk it was, six years ago. This makes me relive the dial-up Internet life I had in High School. Slow and boring.

I should read something relevant like How To Fight Depression or Life on Prozac. Not that I'm on Prozac, but I probably need one. In all honesty the only thing I can do lately is to clean the entire apartment. Every fucking day. I'm trying to read Robert Bly's What Have I Ever Lost By Dying? in between single-page reads of Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil. Above all, nothing's really moving lately.

I find myself watching movies. This is a private symptom of extreme boredom (and escapism, too) because I can't stand movies that much. Yesterday was G.I. Joe and David Lynch's Inland Empire. I have to cure myself by e-mailing my sister about stuff. Or, I don't know. I should drug myself to death.

That's too much for a first post, but it's so timely for my host to announce that my old blog, Menthol-Guy, will be terminated by next week. I should blog often; I've been forgetting my blogging therapy.