Let Me Pee - The Other Beatles Song

When I drink a lot of water, mother nature calls to me
Whispers sounds of water, let me pee
And when I’m about to burst, mother nature teases me
Trickling sounds of water, let me pee

Let me pee, let me pee, let me pee, let me pee
Whispers sounds of water, let me pee

And when the hours roll by while I'm stuck in traffic,
I feel the need start to stir, let me pee
For there’s no sign of relief and I slowly start to panic
Move out of the way, let me pee

Let me pee, let me pee, let me pee, let me pee

And when the night looks grim, a toilet is nowhere in sight
Hold on till I get home, let me pee
I can’t hold it in any long, my pants are getting tight
Trickling sounds of water, let me pee

Let me pee, let me pee, let me pee, let me pee

Refrigerator Boy

I'm very happy to be outside the dating scene, it's been a while for me and I can honestly say I'm relieved to no longer have to deal with endless blind dates and the awkwardness of first dates. To all the single people out there who are still looking, my heart goes out to you all. But I must admit that a part of me misses the fun of sitting with my best friends later and laughing at the horrible, horrible men I had gone out with. Some of the dates I've been on do make brilliant stories to tell over coffee and considering that I have a, let's call it talent, for attracting the strangest people, they never cease to amaze me, for all the wrong reasons of course. It surprises me too because I assume that on the first few dates, the guys would be on their best behavior, and if this is their best behavior, then I don't even want to know what a bad day for them would be like.

So as I sat talking to an old friend today, Refrigerator Boy came up and contrary to his nickname, refrigerator boy is the opposite of cold.

It was one summer day when my good friend George calls me excitedly, "I have the perfect guy for you!" he says. I had been single for a while and looking, so naturally I got a little excited too. He said with such enthusiasm that it was hard not to. Then George started giving me all the details:
"He's a good friend of mine, mid-thirties, an engineer, brilliant career ahead of him, down-to-earth, a real nice guy."
So far, so good. George promised to set something up.

He called me a few days later and set a date, something casual-like so there won't be any pressure. Tuesday night, 8 pm. I get all dressed up, an appropriately sexy shirt and those jeans that make my ass look great. I look just right, good but not over the top, like I didn't make an effort at all.

I can't say there was anything special about the first date. It was simply average, nothing special and definitely nothing to write home about, but being forever the dating optimist, I say what the hell, let's give the guy another chance, never mind that no butterflies were fluttering around in my stomach and my interest in his conversation was only mildly stirred. He called me a few days later and asked me out again. Again, nothing special, adequate conversation, followed by a very polite thank you for the nice time.

The next day, 8:30 am. As I make my way to the office, half asleep, I hear my cell phone beep in my purse. "1 New Message" and it reads: Rise and shine :) !!!
Although flattering, the thought of getting a message from a guy I've only been out with on two dates at 8:30 in the morning kind of creeped me out, so I did the sensible thing, nothing. A few minutes later the message was forgotten as I slaved away at my desk.

Later that day, 9:00 pm, my phone rings while I'm out with a friend
- Hello?
- How could you not reply to my sms?! (He yells into the phone)
- Excuse me?
- I sent you an sms this morning and you never replied (I imagined myself sitting in dark room with a spot light shining in my eyes as he pointed his finger at me accusingly)
- It slipped my mind (I'm a little bit shocked at how this conversation is going)
- What do you mean it slipped your mind? How could it slip your mind? (His voice was getting a bit loud now and I couldn't believe he was yelling at me! Given my state of shock, I say nothing)
He continues - I want to see you today, where are you?
- I'm out with a friend
- Well where are you? I'll come pick you up. I want you to come with me while I look for a new refrigerator.

Refrigerator? Seriously? When did we get to refrigerator? How is that even a date? What? I politely decline his invitation and hang up the phone. I'm not quite sure what happened here and I am slightly angered by his attitude. I brush it off and move on.
Interestingly enough, he calls me a week later and he was furious. Apparently, he was expecting me to call him, somehow he thought he had a chance for another date. Of course him yelling at me for the second time didn't really earn him any brownie points. Needless to say I had to make it painfully clear that I was not interested.

If I was to see him again, I'd have two words for him: Anger Management.

Billy - Part 6

Billy's mother stared at her son in complete disbelief, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as she searched for words to say. She felt the world caving in as she struggled to understand what had happened to her beautiful young boy. She felt tears well up in her eyes as the sorrow overwhelmed her. Billy did not move, he still faced her with his unseeing eyes, his head inclined slightly to one side, a movement that was barely perceptible. His face was calm and he showed no signs of fear or discomfort at the sudden change in his condition. He waited patiently for his mother to collect herself, knowing how she must feel and fully comprehending her state of shock. Endless moments passed, or so it seemed to Billy's mother before she was able to speak. Her voice was shaky but she held her son's hands firmly in her own.

"You can't see me, can you?" she asked. She knew the answer but somehow felt the need to ask anyway.
"No mother, I cannot" Billy's reply was simple, his voice was calm and strong, as if his blindness was a natural progression of his young life.
"But you are alright, aren't you? You had a terrible fever last night, the worst I had ever witnessed."
"Yes, mother. I feel fine. I had a vision last night. I understand why I have become blind." Billy replied but he said nothing further. His mother waited for an explanation but when none came, she became angry.
"Well? What did you see? Why has this been done to you?" She asked exasperated.
"I cannot tell you mother, it is hard to explain, only that my blindness is a test and a necessity for what is to come." Billy's reply did little to satisfy his mother and he could feel the anger building up inside her as her grip tightened on his hands. She dug her nails in the palms of his hands and he cringed inwardly.
"What is to come Billy? What is to come that is so important that you must be destroyed in this manner?" Her voice suppressed a panic that was rising in her throat. She could feel him slipping away from her by some evil force, the same evil force that had followed him since his birth and her feelings of helplessness infuriated her.
"Mother, we must reach the town of Kasar by nightfall tonight. There is someone waiting for me there and he will be better able to answer your questions. Let us have some breakfast and take to the road." He tilted his head slightly towards the sun and then added "it'll be noon soon and we must be inside the city gates before they close."

Billy's mother stared at him a moment longer and she felt a part of her die inside. She swallowed hard against the pain in her chest and her mouth became a thin determined line on her face. She nodded to herself, released Billy's hands and began to prepare some breakfast. They ate some bread, cheese, and some dried fruit, swallowing it down with some warm ale. They ate in uncomfortable silence and when they were finished, she went to find their mule. It was feeding on some grass where they had left it and when she returned, she found Billy standing waiting, with his packed securely tied on his back. He placed his hand on the mule's neck as they descended to the road, setting a brisk pace to Kasar. They would reach there before nightfall, Billy was sure. He lifted his face to the sun, felt its comfortable warmth on his face, and began to whistle the same merry tune he whistled when they left home. His mother stared at him curiously, shook her head in hopelessness and walked on.

The Power of Football

What is it about football that makes guys forget about everything else? Put a guy in front of a TV screen showing some football, it doesn't matter what teams are playing or even if he's ever heard of them, the guy will sit there staring at the screen completely oblivious to everything else. Correction: He'll pay attention to the drink in front of them and whatever food you put there. Guys become like programmed robots, staring at the screen and in timed unison take gulps from the drinks and cram chips in their mouths. Occasionally, they'll grunt something incomprehensible to any woman and receive a similar grunt from the other men in response.

What gets to me is the constant obsession with football. I don't understand how they can watch game, after game, after game and not get bored. I understand watching games for teams that you support, but what about those other games? Men will still watch them, why I'll never know. Isn't it just a bunch of grown men running around after a ball? Where's the sense in that?

Of course it doesn't end there and why should it? If there are no games being played anywhere in the world right now, well we'll play our own game. Let's fire up the playstation and play some football (as if watching it all day long wasn't enough). And so they sit there, for some countless hours, playing match after match, of computer football. And of course, there's also fantasy football, that's is also another concept I'll never understand.

Football has had a long history and the effort that has been put into the game is really, for lack of a better world, admirable. It took around 20 years (a little more I think) to simply establish the rules and unify all the football players in England, so that all games played by the same rules. That's a lot of effort right there, 20 years of dedicated negotiation so that the game they love so much can be played the same everywhere and every time. Like I said admirable.

What's more, is that football has this strange effect on people. Somehow, when there's an important game, everyone forgets about all their troubles, their responsibilities, and heads out to watch the game. They forget about their prejudices and their hatreds and sit side by side with people they would've shunned away to watch football. The recent world cup was true proof of that and it was definitely amazing to bring all these people together all over the world at the same time, sharing the same passion. It really shows that inside, we are all the same, we are all human and we all feel the same things, share the same emotions. Like I said, it's strange effect, unlike any other and it truly is amazing.

Which brings me to the most crucial question: If the people of this world can get together for a common cause and sharing a common passion such as football, why the hell can't they get together to find world peace? To solve just a little bit of the world's problems? Why can't they forget their prejudices and negotiate with the same passion they feel for football? Why is football more important than the lives of those who are suffering? How has football established itself so powerfully in people's minds that they it completely takes over everything else? And if we can find out how football has taken the world by storm, then perhaps we can use that to infuse the world with more constructive activities? Maybe?

Nothing...

I'm still sick and miserable.... It's hard to write this blog when I've been locked in the house for the past two days with bad TV, not to mention that for most of the time I've been feeling quite drowsy and groggy.

Bottom line: I've got nothing....

The Fate of the Dodo

I hate the flu, I just really, really hate it. I've been sitting here, trapped in my house, wrapped in blankets with box of tissues on my lap. My head feels twice the size it should be and I can barely breathe, and for some reason all the freakin medication I've been taking isn't working. I feel absolutely terrible and I don't understand how, with all the breakthroughs in modern medicine, why we don't have a final and permanent cure for the flu. Sure the virus mutates and new strains and whatever, but why can't these beings become extinct. Why can't we just go out on a mass murdering spree and kill them all? We're so good at killing everything else, I don't understand why we can't kill these beings too.

The list of extinct creatures is huge; Dodos, tigers, sea mammals, birds and amphibians; and the number of endangered species keeps getting bigger and bigger. Why do we humans kill all these amazing, beautiful animals but somehow still fail to wipe out germs and viruses?

The truth of the matter is, I believe medicine will inevitably lead to the destruction of the world. The ecosystem is a fragile thing, a really fragile thing and we humans with our technology, with our desire to improve our lives, make our lives longer is rapidly destroying the ecosystem, tipping the scales a little too much. If we continue this way, with a complete disregard to our environment, there will be nothing left. The world has changed tremendously in our generation and we have seen unbelievable improvements in technology, but we have also witnessed the hottest summer in recent history. Can you say Global Warming? The scientists that have been warning us about this for past ten or fifteen years have finally seen it come to pass. The natural disasters keep piling up. The world is screaming out in pain and there is nothing we can do to stop it. Can we rewind? Can we still save the world we love so much? Or is it too late?

Day 15

It’s been 15 days and I’m still craving the cigarettes as much as before. There is a part of me that’s happy that I’ve given it up but another part of me feels miserable. It feels like I’m taking away something that has been with me for so long, a life companion. I’m finding difficulty replacing my addiction with something else and more and more I running out of distractions. It seems like the only way for me to stop smoking is to lock myself up in the house where I know I cannot smoke. My will power is faltering and I’ve always had so little to begin with.

I must admit that I do feel better without smoking. I can take deeper breaths and there is something refreshing about not being surrounded by that foul smelling smoke but god I miss it. There is something that is so comforting about having that cigarette in my hand. There was that Seinfeld episode that talked about smoking, where Jerry Seinfeld was talking about the appeal of smoking to smokers, how holding that cigarette is like controlling fire in their hands. It was a funny skit but it fails to capture the addiction to the habit, and it is the habit, more than anything else. The lack of nicotine I can handle, it’s the emptiness in my hand that I cannot.

I’m not sure why I wanted to quit now. Oh yes, to be healthy, that was it. Why can I not see it anymore? Why don’t I want it anymore? Will I last?

7 Pounds

I stayed home from work today because I seem to have caught a cold and so I decided to spend my day curled up on the couch watching TV. I watched countless shows and several movies, one of them being 7 Pounds. As sad as the movie is, it is quite inspirational. The performance of Will Smith was spectacular and quite different from all the other roles. He acted with a seriousness and sincerity that was extremely touching and had me heart rendering tears. The idea behind the movie is so noble and so self-sacrificing that it is almost impossible to believe that someone could feel this way, but I'm sure these people exist. People who live for others, the Mother Teresa's of this world.

I am amazed that there are some people out there who are against organ donations and I do not understand their logic. What difference does it make if you're dead already? Why not let someone else in need make use of it so that they can live longer, spend more time with their families? And the children? What about those poor children who have barely enough time to grow up, let alone live normal lives? What good are your organs when they are buried in the ground?

I am all for organ donation and I feel that it is necessary for all healthy and able people to give blood regularly. I can understand people not wanting to give to charity, maybe they don't have the money, maybe they think those they might have to give it to are not worthy, but donating blood is different. It literally saves lives, lives of our husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, and children, lives of people who can change the world, scientist, doctors, musicians, and artists.

There are so many people out there who need help and I think that so many of us have turned a blind eye to most of it, because we are constantly bombarded by news of suffering in this world, whether it's on TV or the homeless people in the streets. But we need to do more, we need to open our eyes and really lend a helping hand to those who are less fortunate than us before it is too late.

Waiting times...

I have a question for all those people out there who can't tell the time to save their lives: Do you ever enjoy waiting?

I hate setting appointments with people, it drives me completely insane how some people have no respect for other people's time and I would really like to see their reaction when they end up waiting for someone. Of course that rarely happens, since they're usually late enough that the other person would've arrived already. I used to date this guy who was extremely metro-sexual, it took him ages to get ready. I would be showered, dressed, make-up on and out the door in ten minutes and he would take, oh I don't know, around forty-five minutes, sometimes maybe more. Inevitably, this guy was late for every single date. It was okay in the beginning, he was late for a maximum of ten minutes, which is usually fine by me (traffic really can be a bitch), but then as the relationship became more comfortable, the waiting would extend to 20 minutes, maybe half an hour, and then of course, there was worst, a whole hour (with no good excuse, I might add). And the waiting just killed me, why I didn't dump his sorry ass right then and there is beyond me and strangely enough, he never understood why I would get so furious about him being late. So I tried being late myself. I purposefully took my time and then some, but somehow, I always still managed to get there before him. I think he's never had to wait for anyone in his life and that is why he'll never get it.

Today, I had a doctor's appointment. I arrived a little early and felt actually quite relieved to be there on time so I don't miss my turn. I waited for over half hour for my turn... and then around forty-five minutes to see the specialist, and then some more waiting until my test results came out. I was at that clinic with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs for an amazing three hours, by which time I was ready to shoot myself and everyone else sitting in the waiting room to put them all out of their misery.

I really don't understand it. How difficult can it be to keep an appointment? Or at least have the courtesy to apologize in advance for not being able to make it. Seriously, how difficult could it possibly be?
I know I've touched upon my issues with Time before and in my eternal race against time, people who keep me waiting simply give Time a chance to win one over me, to steal some of my time that I can never have back and then laugh at my face for doing it. If only people knew how Time was out to get them, they would not waste so much of it so thoughtlessly.

Billy - Part 5

It was on that fateful trip that Billy’s life changed forever. It was a two day journey to the next town and Billy and his mother had set out early in the morning. Billy was a tall boy of fifteen years and he walked at a slow relaxed pace beside his mother leading their mule behind them. It was a bright sunny day with a crisp breeze blowing and he felt more at ease here in the open space than he had ever felt at his hometown. He whistled a tune softly that was carried by the wind and his mother also seemed to relax as she looked up at the son she loved so much, smiling with pride. He was big and strong with a sharp mind and she loved to see him so happy. They stopped at midday to rest a small way off the main road and had some dried venison and fruit. As Billy munched away contentedly, he began telling his mother stories from all the books he had been reading. He told of fairy tales with magical creatures, battles fought against gruesome dragons, and of wonderful treasures in faraway lands. Billy’s mother had never seen him so happy and so open and she wondered why he was always so subdued in the town. They basked in the sun longer than they should have and the sun hung low in the sky when they started on the main road again.

They walked at their slow pace until sunset and then it was time to set up camp. They built a small fire near a big oak tree at the edge of the forest and Billy went to fetch water from the stream nearby for dinner. Neither of them could hunt so their dinner was made up of some hot stew of carrots and turnips with no meat but they were grateful all the same. A cold wind had started to blow and they huddled closer to the fire for warmth. Together, they watched the moon rise and sat in comfortable silence. As the fire burnt low, Billy threw a few dry twigs and they both set down to sleep huddled up in their cloaks, side by side. Billy’s mother lay awake for a while listening to her son’s steady breathing and wondering where she had gone wrong. Billy was such a wonderful boy and she could not find anything strange about him. She resented the people of the town for blaming Billy for the priest’s death. She knew Billy was unlike the other boys who were more of a nuisance than anything else. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got, and it became impossible for her to fall asleep. She lay there for a long time brooding and staring at the dying embers.

It was sometime around midnight, when the moon was high in the sky that she felt Billy stir. It was a soft stirring at first but soon his breathing became labored. She sat upright and looked at her son and found that he was shivering uncontrollably. Putting her hand on his head she found his skin scorching hot with fever and he started shaking violently at her touch that she pulled her hand away quickly. His breathing came in short gasps and his eyes popped open staring straight at her. Terrified, she tried to pull his cloak closer around him but he shied away from her and from somewhere behind her she heard the mule braying nervously. His eyes stared at her blankly and she knew he could not see her. His shaking become more and more violent and he began to groan in pain. His mother began to fear the worst and she felt incapable of saving her son. Whenever she tried to touch him, he would move away and he would start to wail. His unseeing eyes terrified her, they seemed to be pleading with her to stop his pain but she could not. A sense of helplessness flooded over her and she began to sob hugging her knees tightly. The mule’s braying mingled with her son’s groaning became louder and louder, exploding in her ears. She covered them with her hands to drown out the sound and shut her eyes tightly but it would not stop. She could feel the world collapsing around her and soon her sobbing turned into wailing. The forest around them was filled with a cacophony of sounds that did not belong there and yet a deadly stillness filled the air. It was almost dawn when suddenly the sounds stopped all at once. Billy was no longer shaking and his groans had disappeared, the mule had gone silent, and Billy’s mother removed her hands from her ears and opened her eyes. She looked over at Billy and in the soft light of the waning moon she saw the silhouette of his body lying on the grass unmoving. Making the symbol of the cross on her chest, she edged closer to him and fearfully touched his face. He didn’t move and his skin was cool. Saying a silent prayer, she put her hand inside his cloak and over his chest. She could feel his heart beating strongly and could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He did not wake at her touch. Feeling relieved she lay down close to her son and closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.

She awoke in the late morning searching for Billy. He was sitting upright in the spot where he had been sleeping. She prayed silently again grateful that her son was alive and well. She sat up quickly and pulled Billy in her arms with tears streaming down her face. Billy said nothing as he held her close to his chest and stroked her soft hair. When she finally let him go, she looked up at his face smiling. In an instant, her smile turned into a look of complete horror as she looked into her son’s sightless eyes. His dark brown eyes had turned bluish-white and she knew that he could not see her. Billy had become blind.

Untitled

This blog is getting very frustrating and I'm finding it more and more difficult to come up with ideas for new posts. I spent the last three hours stuck in traffic worrying out about what to write today and there is nothing that seems interesting enough. I wonder why there are days where I cannot write, or more likely, I don't want to write, there are days where it just isn't meant to be. I blame it on the over-eating habit I've gotten into lately, where I eat so much that I cannot breathe and I feel the food get stuck in my throat.

I've always had a healthy appetite and I enjoy eating immensely, treating my taste buds to new flavors and savoring every bite, but recently, it has gone from healthy appetite to gluttony and I can't seem to stop eating. As long as there is food on the table I must keep eating. It's like a personal challenge that somehow I can never win because every time I over-eat, I feel terrible. I don't feel guilty, I just feel pain.

Tomorrow, I'll stop over-eating. If I can stop smoking (day 11), I can stop over-eating.

An afterthought

There are days like today that I wish I had a stash of posts ready for emergency purposes. It's already 2:30 am and it completely slipped my mind to blog today and just as I was about to fall asleep I remembered, so now I'm sitting up in bed, typing as fast as my fingers can work just to get this over and done with.

I'm not entirely sure what to blog about today, and no topic springs to mind, particularly since all I really want to do is fall asleep.

But since I've been having some really strange dreams lately, tomorrow's post will be dedicated to what I dream of tonight.

This is a post that serves only to say that I've posted something today...

Pablo Piscasso - Part 2

There is some kind of wisdom to Pablo Picasso and it is truly amazing how he began his artistic life at such a young age, and even more admirable is how he defied all the social constraints that sought to bind him. He was an artist because that was what he was born to do.

Artists, I believe, do not create to become famous. They do not seek fame or glory but instead art is their way of self expression, an escape from the real world in which they are utterly lost and alone, a way for them to communicate with the world around them and a way to add another perspective to the world, their perspective.

Pablo Picasso said:
The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

Art is the ultimate getaway. It is the place where anything goes. The imagination is unleashed and the impossible becomes possible. It is not limited by the physical world, the laws do not apply. It is a world that is stormed by magical shapes and colors that make up the essence of the soul, where beings can run free, uninhibited. It is a world of dreams and make believe and it is in this world that a person can let go of all their troubles and be serene and content with their creations. It is a place where your soul can soar high in the sky and grow without being held back by the constraints of the real world.

It is in this world that I want to live, far, far away from the prying eyes of society where my dreams are my own and are free to roam. The imagination is unlimited and there are no boundaries. It is where the misunderstood become understood and there is no confusion. Art is the oxygen to the soul, without it the soul would shrivel and die. It will shrink and become withered, suffocated by the cruel reality of this world. It is the curse of our species that art goes by unappreciated, tainted by ideas of practicality, imprisoned by those who cannot bear the sight of true happiness and bliss, those whose souls have died a long time ago with nothing but a rotting corpse in their core.

Pillars of the Earth

I've had this book for a long time and every time I pick it up I can't seem to get into it, then finally one day, for lack of anything else to read, I decided to finish it once and for all.

This is not my typical reading, however, after the first three chapters I started to really get into it. Having never read anything for Follet before, I found his style to be quite simple and easy to read. The descriptions were quite good giving a good visual image and overly complex and boring with details, although some of the architectural descriptions could have been reduced.

The story was quite interesting and the way it all fit together made for quite an exciting novel.The character development could have been better so that as a reader I would connect more with the characters. There was a certain vile sickness to some of the characters which I felt was taken to a certain extreme and was somehow unnecessary. However the way one event led to another in such a smooth manner made the book quite a page turner.

It is unfortunate however that the biggest disappointment was the ending. After spending days depriving myself of sleep to read and find out what happens at the end, I was sorely disappointed. The end seemed to rushed as if Follet just wanted to get it over and done with. It made me feel cheated as the end unraveled and I felt that all that reading was for nothing. It was short and did not satisfy the curiosity that had kept me going for all those pages.

On a scale of 1-10, I'd give it a 6.5. Much more if the ending had been better.

Cheating.....

You know what's worse than cheating? It's getting caught cheating...

So yesterday I cheated on this blog. I came home late and I really, really didn't feel like writing anything and all I wanted to do was go to bed... So I cheated. There was a post I had written a while back and I didn't really like it so I had just left it in the drafts. I remembered it yesterday and decided to post it anyway.... I had written after all, but then today I discover that it posted it with the old date, the date it was written... and that is what I get for cheating.

I feeling a little bit guilty, and a part of me feels like I should make up for it somehow, but the fact that I'm quitting smoking is punishment enough I think.

I've been cranky and irritable all day today and I have a sneaking suspicion that the lack of nicotine is the cause.

I doubt any of my posts will be meaningful as long as I'm struggling with this addiction.

Out...

Day 5

So it's been five days since I've quit smoking and I can't say that I like it. All the reasons that I wanted to quit just flew out the window and now all I want is that damned cigarette.

But I'm still holding on strong. I keep trying to remind myself why I wanted to quit in the first place, my health, the out of breath feeling after I've smoked one too many... The usual crap.

If I can just get through a few more days, I'll be fine. Baby steps and all. So right now, the target is a month.

A guy with me at work had set himself a target. He targeted three months of no smoking and he did it fantastically, but then the crazy bastard started smoking right after the three months were up and his reasoning was, he met his target. He wanted to quit for three months and he did, so now he's rewarding himself. What a moron. If I can manage to kick the habit for three months, there'd be no way in hell I'd start smoking again. I'll reward myself by going to the spa and getting myself a nice massage or some shit, not undo all the hard work I'd done.

This seems to be the year of self discipline for me, I guess after all those years of having none, it's about time.

Billy - Part 4

No one knew why Father Joseph died and even though everyone looked solemn at his funeral, Billy secretly believed that he was not the only one happy to see him go. Billy did not think there was anything strange about Father Joseph’s death and he was completely oblivious to the wary looks that the town’s folk gave him and his mother. His mother was not so lucky. She had heard the whispers and the rumors that went around behind her back and she was not pleased. People were becoming fearful of little Billy, teachers ignored him in class, the children stopped taunting him and the neighbors completely avoided his mother. She was appalled by the things that were being said about Billy, that he was touched by the devil and that the marks on his face were the devil’s mark. She loved her son dearly but she did not understand him anymore than the town’s folk.

It wasn’t before long that Billy was asked to leave the school, no one wanted to come near him, so his mother began to educate him herself. She did not know much about schooling, having had very little of it herself, but she used what little money she had to buy books. She was determined that Billy make something of himself, and even though no craftsman would take him as an apprentice, she began to teach him the only thing she knew how to do, weaving. Billy was a fast learner. His ability to read and write quickly exceeded that of his mother and she gave up on educating him further, but since he was a curious boy, he continued to read all the books his mother bought for him until he had read them all. He also excelled in weaving, his dexterous hands weaving complex patterns unlike any that his mother had ever seen. His mother had made her living on selling her cloth, but with these patterns, it soon became impossible to sell them in town. Everyone knew that Billy had made them. When her meager savings dwindled, she packed the cloth carefully, some dried food and cooking pots loaded on their old mule and set off with Billy to the closest town.

Billy - Part 3

Billy did well at school, even though he was always a little distracted. He seemed to get through his class by mere coincidence since most of his time was spent staring out the classroom window. He spoke very little to his teachers and even less to his classmates and after five years, he had no friends.

Billy was a peculiar little boy. His peculiarities set him apart from the other children. His appearance soon changed. The freckles on his face got darker as he grew older until they became black spots that covered his cheeks and his nose and even though all the other children teased and taunted him, it all seemed to just roll off his back, as if he never heard them. While all the other boys were off playing games in the parks after school, he preferred to stay his backyard. He played with wooden swords, battling unseen fiends with such passion that his mother stared at him from the living room in astonishment and awe. His continued seclusion bothered her greatly. It was on one fine spring morning when Billy was ten that his mother decided to do something about it. She dressed him in his finest clothes and took him to the priest.

Father Joseph was not a friendly man. Billy saw Father Joseph every Sunday at church as he sat in the front row with his mother and he disliked him greatly. His loud voice seeped though him and his talk of hell fire and the monstrous demons that lived there greatly disturbed poor Billy's young mind that he regularly appeared in his nightmares. It was not hell that Billy feared, it was the Father Joseph's talk of hell, the way he eyed the crowd as he spoke of hell, looking for sinners in their midst. It seemed to Billy, that every time Father Joseph looked into the crowd, his eyes always settled on Billy and in those eyes Billy saw a fire that burned stronger than the fires of hell.

On that fine spring morning, Billy walked reluctantly next to his mother with his head hanging low, murmuring under his breath and dragging his feet. His mother held his hand firmly in hers and pulled him along. When they arrived at the church, Billy took a deep breath and entered. The church was a small one, built of stone with very few windows. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness and as he followed his mother to the altar, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. Father Joseph was kneeling before the altar in prayer, and Billy felt his chest tighten. They waited silently for Father Joseph to finish and when he did, he turned around to greet them. Billy looked into his eyes and he did not like what he saw. Fear gripped his heart as Father Joseph looked at him with those unforgiving eyes and he breathing became labored. He could hear his mother talk to Father Joseph but he did not understand what she said. Faster and faster his heart pounded in his chest, he couldn't breathe. He needed to leave the church, he needed to get away from the priest. He felt a sense of panic engulf him and just before he felt his heart was going to collapse, everything went silent. The pounding stopped and everything around him seemed to disappear. He felt as if he was floating on air, surrounded by white fluffy clouds. A strange sense of peace settled over everything and as he sighed in relief, the silence was pierced was by a muffled scream that seemed to come from far away. He tried to ignore it but its insistence made it louder and louder until he realized that it was very loud and very close. He blinked and suddenly the world around him came alive. His mother stood next to him screaming and all around him people were running towards them. It was then that he realized what had happened. Father Joseph had died.

Day 2

I'm grouchy, irritable, resentful, and just mean. I have so much hate right now... I hate smokers for being able to smoke, and I hate non-smokers for not suffering from the same addiction.

I can try to remind myself a million times why I'm doing this, but I still hate it anyway, and I feel myself being punished.

I don't want to write this blog today...

And I might not want to write it tomorrow either!

No Smoking...

Day 1:

Like all those times I’ve tried to quit, I’m filled with the horror that I am an addict. All I can think about is smoking, having that cigarette in my hand, blowing the smoke out of my lips. I’m obsessed and I continue to struggle with my desire. How did I let it come this? Where is my will power? Where has it disappeared?

I’ve been wanting to quit for a very long time and there are countless reasons why I should quit (as everyone probably knows) but every time I decided to take that step, all those reasons go flying out the window. I forget why I wanted to quit in the first place. I find excuses for myself, I tell myself I’ll just have one, what harm could it do, but deep down I know that one cigarette will undo me.

So far, I’ve had a smoke free day and I’m feeling miserable. The rebellious streak in me is flying into a tantrum inside my head. Just the fact that something has been forbidden to me drives me crazy. It spurs on my desire and I can barely contain myself. It’s like I’ve been separated in two, a raging bull that is charging against all my defenses and a meek little girl who is guarded only by a small wooden fence.

Can I make it this time? Who will win, the bull or the girl? Does she have enough will power to hold her ground and tame the beast inside?

Supergirl

There was a time, a long time ago, when I was completely depressed. I was betrayed, cheated and lonely, and I retreated deeper into my hole to lick my wounds and nurse my broken heart. It was a time when I thought nothing could take away my pain, my heart had shattered into a million pieces and there was no way for me to pick them all up again. I wallowed in my misery helplessly. Somehow I felt like it was my fault. Time and time again I blamed myself. I blamed myself for his lying, for his cheating, for cruelty. Bitterly I thought that I simply wasn't good enough. He stood on a pedestal so high and no amount of wrong could bring him down. The sorrow I felt for my loss was encompassing. I could not escape it.

For days and weeks I wallowed. I was trapped in a downward spiral that kept going deeper and deeper until there was no sign of light. There was no light at the end of tunnel. This was it. I would never be whole again. Humpty-Dumpty has fallen off the wall.

It was in my darkest moment, the depth of my hopelessness that I came upon the song supergirl and it spoke to me. There was something about the song that changed me. It touched me in ways that everything else could not. It made me pick up all the broken pieces and put them away. Perhaps I can be put back together again after all.


And then she'd say:
"It's ok, I got lost on the way but I'm a supergirl
and supergirls don't cry"
And then she'd say:
"It's alright, I got home late last night
but I'm a supergirl and supergirls just fly".

And then she'd say that nothing can go wrong
"When you're in love what can be wrong?"
And then she'd laugh the night time into day
pushing her fear further along

And then she'd shout down the line
tell me she's got no more time
cause she's a supergirl
and supergirls don't cry

And then she'd scream in my face
tell me to leave, leave this place
cause she's a supergirl
and supergirls just fly

Yeah she's a supergirl, a supergirl.
She's sowing seeds
she's burning trees
She's sowing in seeds
She's burning trees
yeah she's a supergirl
a supergirl
a supergirl
my supergirl

Office Politics

I think it's interesting to be temporarily irreplaceable. I've always been a firm believer that a person is only irreplaceable to family and friends, to the people who actually love them, but a person is never irreplaceable to a corporation, no matter what the position is, what the experience is, a person can always be replaced. That is why I dislike workaholics and I would never be one. I believe that workaholics put too much weight on their careers and too little weight on the things that really matter, like spending time with family and friends, and one day they will wake up and find out that they did not spend as much time as they would've liked with them and maybe it'll be too late.

Nevertheless, it's interesting when you're temporarily irreplaceable. I'm currently in that position. I know that my manager would rather get rid of me. I also know that my manager knows I don't want to be there, but unfortunately for my manager, there's no one to replace me and with all the people who have the department, there's no way they'd let me go. Something like this should make me feel secure, but it's not security that I want. I'm truly amused by my manager's tiptoeing when it comes to discussing my performance, when only recently I've been told off for not working hard enough. Nothing has changed since then but for once, I feel in a position of some power, even if it's power I can do nothing with. I don't plan to use this to my disadvantage. I don't plan to ask for better pay or more benefits, I'm simply content knowing that they need me, that if I were to leave now, I'd leave a big whole that would be difficult to fill, in the short term. It brings a smile to my face, and temptation to do that is huge. I think of it every morning when I wake up. The looks on their faces would be priceless.

And just to make sure I'm seeing everything in a positive light:
I'm grateful for having options...

The medicine man...

The news spread like wildfire through the town, the medicine man had died. People filed out of their houses in shock. The news came as a surprise to all and as they walked slowly to the medicine man's house at the end of town near the river, a strange silence came over everything. It was like a cold misty veil was laid over the town and the temperature seemed to drop rapidly, much too fast. The townspeople shivered uncontrollably. One by one they moved in one direction and all around them the mist settled. The eerie silence became more pronounced that even the sound of the river was drowned out. The loss was too great to bear. People began crying silently, their tears flowing on their faces unchecked. All his wisdom, all his kindness, all gone. There would be no other.

The medicine man is dead.

Liar liar....

I'm unsure about how I feel about white lies. I was always taught that lying was wrong, as most children, and I got into quite a lot of trouble for lying as child. Since I was always up to no good, and at such a young age, I hadn't quite gotten the hang of covering up my tracks, I lied quite a bit when I got caught. The worst part of it was, that even if my lies were believable, because of my constant daydreaming, I inevitably forgot what my lies were and eventually told the truth by accident, which inevitably got me into more and more trouble.

As I grew older, I learned how to better cover my tracks but I was still not very good at lying. My mother would say that I was absolutely terrible at it, but the truth of the matter is, the things that she actually caught me lying about were minimal compared to what I had actually lied about, but still I was terrible. With a face that clearly said I was up to no good, no one would ever believe I was innocent and given my history, I had no right claiming innocence. As it turned out, I usually got into more trouble about lying than I did about the actual deed.

Wisdom comes with age they say, and soon enough I stopped lying, but my mischief continued. To avoid the lying, I opted for another safer approach and that was not to tell the whole truth, to leave out the bits and pieces that I knew would get me in trouble and just stick the simple facts. That worked quite well, since I never forgot the actual story and the bit and pieces I left out, I knew would get me in trouble. Sometimes I still forgot the bits I left out, but by that time it was too late, the deed was done too long ago for it to be any trouble.

That habit has stuck with me from childhood. I still keep parts of the stories to myself. I never actually lie, but I do not volunteer information. For someone as paranoid as myself, that seems the best approach.

So I know that lying is bad, but because I had gotten into so much for it as child, I no longer can differentiate between the little white lies that people say are good, the ones that spare people's feeling, and the lies that are actually bad. To me, all lying is bad, even the little ones. And now, in the grown up world, in the corporate world, I'm stuck with a very ugly dilemma. My conscience has been so tormented by lying, that I cannot do it, even if it means sparing someone's feeling, or getting ahead in life and I'm starting to think this is a problem.

But boyfriend thinks that I cannot say whatever I think, that sometimes it's best to tell a white lie. His logic is that if it's no big deal and you're doing it to make someone feel better, then it's okay. But isn't that the same as tricking them? Alternatively, does that mean I should never believe what anyone tells me because if they say something nice, they might just be trying to make me feel better?

Offline Post #4

August 7th, 2010 00:39

I don’t understand the concept of confession. I’m not a Christian and I know little about the Christian religion, but I never quite understood the concept of confession. How could I commit all sorts of sins and then confess and be forgiven? How does that work? Doesn’t God already know what I’ve done? And I know what I’ve done, so why tell someone else? What difference does it make? If I feel guilty for what I’ve done, then God may decide to forgive me. Or He may not.

I’m currently reading a book that talks a lot about clergy, monks, and priests and in this book, there are people committing atrocious crimes like rape and murder and then they confess and they are forgiven. How could that be? Could I go through life doing as I please and get away with that?

Like I said, I am not a Christian and I can’t possibly understand the religious significance of clergymen or how it works, but I could never imagine going to confession. It seems to me a lot like going to a shrink. I could imagine it must be very calming for the sinner, to let it all out, the terrible secret, and then have the guilt washed away. In a way, it is quite healing and helps give a person peace of mind, for no one is free of sin. I think that secretly, a part of me wants to go to confession, to see how it feels, to relieve myself of the guilt that I have carried for years.

And I always wonder, will I ever be forgiven? Can I ever forgive myself?

Letters in the sand....

Netbooks are brilliant. It hard to imagine that just a short time ago there was no such thing. There were no laptops, netbooks, ipad, and god know what else. I remember when I was young, my father bought our first pc. It was brilliant and I remember how amazed I was when he turned it on triumphantly. I remember the old floppy disks and all the computer had was Dos. I remember all the games I played and how my siblings and I would fight over whose turn it was. I remember my parents making me sit down for hours with a typing program so that I could learn how to touch type. For some bizarre reason my parents thought it was a important skill to have. I know they had big dreams for me and I know they didn’t expect me to do administrative work. They wanted me to become a doctor (which I didn’t do, much to their disappointment). But touch typing seemed to be a skill they thought I’d find useful. Now all my work colleagues make fun of me when they see me typing without even looking at the screen. They say I graduating from secretary school (whatever that is, do they schools for secretaries? I should check that out).

Anyway, my point is technology is amazing. If someone had told me twenty years that I would be living a life where I had two mobile phones, an ipod, a netbook and all the other gadgets I have lying around , I probably would’ve stared at them in disbelief and wondered if it was really possible.

But a part of me misses the simpler life, when I didn’t have a mobile phone that rang insistently all the time, where music was came in cd’s (because the quality on cassette tapes really sucks) and where actual books were read. There’s something peaceful about being disconnected from the world, where you can hide and not be found unless you want, where you get excited when you find that cd you’ve been looking for, where you turn the page of that exciting book and feeling the words on the paper.

There no doubt that technology has made life comfortable and simple, but there is a loss of identity in technology. There is something so special about receiving a hand written letter, one that has been written with love and care. I never receive letters anymore, only impersonal emails. I miss the letters. I miss the feel of the paper on my skin, seeing the ink and smelling its faint odor. I miss being disconnected.

Writer's Block

OK....

I cannot think of a single thing to write about. I've been staring at this screen for what seems to be an eternity and still nothing....

Could Picasso have been wrong?

Well, in the spirit of an optimist, here's my grateful thought for the day:

I'm grateful that I can sit and unwind at the end of a long day and think about absolutely nothing...

Now that is seeing the cup half full!

The Cup Half-Empty? Or Half Full

I'm a big believer in self-improvement and I don't mean any of that self-help book mumbo-jumbo, I mean some hard core thinking about what it is about you that you don't like and then finding a way to improve it, a way that works for you.

I used to be a very negative person. I was pessimistic to the core and it was something that I realized brought me down more than anything, and brought down other people along with me. It took me quite sometime to realize this little fact and I decided that it was time to make a change.

So I thought long and hard about it, and I realized that I always looked at the dark side of things, the cup half empty and isn't that what being a pessimist is all about? Well I didn't want to be one anymore. I didn't want to be one of those overly optimistic, obnoxious, happy people either, but I needed to get my pessimism in check. And I found a solution that worked. I decided to think of one thing every day that I was grateful, just one thing. And each day it had to be something different. And it has worked wonders.

The thought came to me through a very unfortunate event though, and as sad as it was, I feel I must give it credit. A guy at work was out one night and got into a terrible accident. He got run over by a truck and even though it was fortunate that the accident didn't kill him, it crushed his leg, making it irreparable. The poor lad had to get it amputated. The news hit me really hard and I was at a point in my life where I felt like nothing was going my way and I was completely dissatisfied with everything, but it really put things into perspective. I realized that life is fleeting and nothing can be taken for granted. Nothing.

And ever since that day, I've been grateful for something. I have learned that not all is bad, and that every misfortune (or seeming misfortune) has a positive side and that seeing that positive side is the key to being a happier and healthier person in general.

So my grateful thought for the day is: I'm grateful for being about to see the bright side of life.

Pablo Picasso

"Inspiration exists, but it has to find us working." That's what he said. Well I'm working now and it doesn't seem to exist.

It amazes me how talented people have that in them, the ability to always create. I've always wanted to be an artist, any kind of artist, a painter, a singer, a musician, but unfortunately, I've never had the talent. My love for art is never-ending, it is the reason I am.

I have said before that I'm a writer. I say it to myself everyday, knowing, believing that one day, I will be a writer who is read. That my writing is not simple a way out of the harsh reality we live, that it is not an escape, a hideaway.

Everywhere I look I see a story, I see something that's not really there. I remember the first time I realized my imagination. I was six or seven and in the school playground, there used to be a tree. Now this tree was unlike any other tree in school. It was different because out of the same root, grew three trees, making the shape of a cone with the pointed side facing downwards. I loved that tree. That tree was my spaceship. All through recess I would play in the tree, imagining that I was an astronaut in outer space, battling with aliens and narrowly missing collisions with asteroids and discovering new lands. It was my favorite time of the day.
And then one morning, as I walked into school, I noticed there was something different, somehow it just didn't seem right and then I saw it. The poor little stump that was once my spaceship. They chopped it down and took it away from me. I remember how I felt that I day. I remember the sadness, like losing a good friend.

I said goodbye to that tree, but everyday, I would sit on the stump and have my lunch.

I still miss that tree and I still miss being six years old again.

The Beacon of Light

We've all heard about the beacon of light, the light at the end of the tunnel, the bright light at the end. They're expressions that we use and feelings that we feel. It's that feeling when everything has gone wrong and just when it seems like there is no way out, there is that shimmer of hope in the horizon that everything will somehow work out. It's like the white man who got lost in the desert and as he walks dragging his legs, parched and dry of thirst, he see the oasis just atop the sand dune and suddenly he's filled with energy as he runs to quench his thirst.

That's the feeling I had today. As I drove home from downtown, I got onto the bridge and then suddenly realized I was running on the reserve tank. My heart sank. Getting on the bridge is like a game of Russian Roulette, you either get to where you're going in 20 minutes, or you've signed your death sentence and could be stuck there from anywhere between an hour or three. With not enough exits, once you're on it, you have to keep on going. As the cars surrounded me, I felt claustrophobic. I kept staring at that blinking light in the dashboard and trying to calculate how much time I had left. The cars in front of me didn't move.

Slowly I inched my way towards the closest exit. With the a.c. off to conserve on gas, I was sweating in the sweltering heat. I knew there was a gas station right off the first exit. If only I could make there.

I got off the bridge and let out a sigh of relief. The streets down below were just as crowded and as I drove slowly, I could see it. The light at the end of tunnel, the oasis just over the sand dune. There it was, and it was beautiful. The bright neon lights of a gas station. I could feel the tension building up inside me as I drew closer and closer, terrified that at any moment, my luck would run out and so would the gas. And when I finally got there, I relaxed in my seat and let out the breath that I'd been holding for so long.

Billy - Part 2

It was when Billy was around three that strange things started happening around him. His mother first noticed when one night she heard a soft whimpering coming from downstairs. She went downstairs quickly when she couldn't find Billy in his room, and there he was in the living room. He stood staring out the window, crying and trembling in fear. He kept pointing at something outside the window that his mother couldn't see. Comforting him, she took him back up to bed. She was surprised to find the birds dead in their cage in the morning and Billy's face riddled with freckles that were never there.

Billy was a silent child, or rather, he was silent when around people. His mother always heard him speak to himself when he was alone and he seemed to have conversations with imaginary people. It worried her a little, but she was convinced that Billy simply had a healthy imagination.

Soon young Billy started school.