Faithless

It's depressing to watch something you've cherished slowly come to an end. Though my eyes are bloodshot from crying, I cannot hide from the inevitable. If this is the way things have to be, I've come to accept it.

There's nothing left to fight over, fight about, or fight for.

There are only days left and I know the minutes will last a lifetime.

On exercise

If exercise means running back and forth in your living room, hands flailing to the sound of island music, while you clumsily try to catch up with the instructor on the DVD, then I'm two days into my resolution.

Talk about terrible hand and leg coordination. I step four strides to the right and four to the left and stretch my arm and clap to the beat. I look like I'm doing the hokey pokey to salsa music.

Lift right leg, raise left arm, lunge forward, bend knees, twist ankle, pull legs over your head and exhale. The last time I saw a pose like this was in Kama Sutra The Movie. I was thinking, "You want me to do what now?" I try it anyway and realize I'm an old lady. I lie down as flat as I can on my back, lift my legs 65 degrees and give up. My legs are so heavy I teeter over to the other side. There has got to be another way to do this.

Anyway, all the pounding on the floor wakes my brother up, who is sleeping on the couch. A little embarrassed, I tell him to continue the nap in his room. He looks at me funny and goes back to sleep. My dog stares at me in confusion and decides to follow me as I shuffle from one side of the room to the other.

I'm all for this losing weight stuff. Besides, it only takes a good 40 minutes a day. I figure, instead of complaining about how fat I am, I might as well do something about it. So, I'm back to fruits and vegetables and fiber. No more weird cravings for chocolate and popcorn. I don't know how long I can keep up with this.

Maybe I will just take it one day at a time.

Happy Birthday Ma!

Happy Birthday Mom!

Here's to my best friend and the greatest Mom in the world.

Your wisdom is my wisdom. That's why I'm so [such a] smart[ass].

My mom is great because

she tells me I'm pretty [when no one else will]

she tells me I'm fat [by taking away the extra slice of cake]

she tells me I'm smart [when I feel like a dumbshit]

May you have fifty more!

I love you!

On being a dumbshit

I've read many things, especially on Friendster profiles, about pain being a part of love. I do admit, stupidly, that I used to hold that as my soul truth. But that's really not true at all. Love doesn't have to hurt for it to be real. There's no official documentation that states loves causes pain and death and eternal mental anguish. Love is pain and pain is love is some poet's distorted way of saying "I know I'm a dumbshit for staying with this person, but I'm gonna do it anyway." I should know. I was once that dumbshit. And if you think I'm saying all of this now because I think my Francis is the most perfect man in the world, well he is- haha. Die of envy, for all I care.

Seriously, though. Of course Francis is not perfect. No man is. We have our moments when we're two inches away from strangling each other. Sometimes we argue about everything. But, see, it doesn't hurt to love him. I don't walk around with my head between my legs wondering what I got myself into. I don't put up with bullshit, either. Love, when you have it, is freedom. I know, coming from me, that's puke-worthy, but here's the truth:

You can be yourself freely with someone when you can shake your bonbon during commercials, pop gas in the middle of an intimate conversation, laugh like a moron on Valentine's day at the beach while the sun is setting, say the funniest thing in the middle of a heated argument, sing so off-key your dog starts howling, and, at the end of the day, you know that person will still be there, ready to share the next moment with you.

Love is a choice. It's a choice of all sorts. You choose what you do when you love, you choose the way you behave when you love, you choose to let the person you love treat you the way they do. If you sit there and pine and hurt and cry, that is your choice. Sometimes, it's a good choice because crying and hurting are okay. Though, when you've been sitting there in the same corner not having seen the light of day for the past couple of years, you don't have love, you have mentally insane tattooed on your forehead. If your friends buy you a straightjacket for Christmas, it's time for you to pick your ass up and move on.

I'm not a dumbshit anymore. On the contrary, I think the smartest thing I've done is listen to my instincts. My head is where it should be (no where close to a wall to bang on), my heart is whole, I smile more, I'm comfortable with who I am and confident of who I can be. I look forward to going home. I don't dread tomorrow.

I'm in love and it doesn't hurt.

On fungus

Exes are like fungus. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they come back when you least expect it.

The other day, I spoke with an old friend (common to LL and I), who told me about certain confessions made on Valentine's day. It turns out, while I was enjoying myself at the beach, LL was pouring his heart out.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

It was all basically about how he regrets losing me and that he still loves me and if he ever had another chance...blah blah blah.

Obviously, it's too late.

And just for shits and giggles, I want everyone to know how triumphant I feel. This is victory, many years in the making. Though I don't want him to suffer the rest of his life, he deserves to feel that void.

I feel kind of bad that I'm gloating. So fucking what.

Bwahahahahahahahahahaha. (Me pointing a finger at him, laughing because I'm done with his sorry ass.)

Back to ME

I used to write this blog for myself, but then when I realized that people were actually reading it, I found it harder for me to write. I guess it made me a little more conscious of what I wrote, trying less to offend people or give a little too much insight on what I feel at certain points in my life. I have begun to cater to the needs of the reader (though, I'm not sure anymore that my friends still read this as often as they used to), which is not good. This blog is for me. It has served as an outlet for the feelings and ideas I have of the people and situations that constitute my life. So, from now on, I will write (again) what I please. To those who take offense, get over it! My life does not revolve around you. This is for those who understand me and know that there is no sense in taking all this personally, because there is nothing I say here that I don't say to their face.

The one that Francis likes

I can't believe this! I've forgotten my friends' blog addresses. I lost them since I changed my template. I decided, last week, that an old brown parchment-looking template didn't suit my needs any longer, and the dull gray one does. I want to find Yeng and Lala, my cousin Julie and my friend Jerwin. I need those addresses again.

I don't feel so good today. I can barely breathe (and it's not because my jeans seem a little too tight). I feel as if I'm constipated, but I know I'm not. I wish I were home right now...which reminds me, I went to the doctor last week. He told me to relax and stop stressing out. I have too many ailments for someone my age- pains in my chest, hyper-acidity, numbing legs. I've come to the point where I don't think as much about certain things, but I tend to go to the extreme. My family either thinks I make a big deal out of nothing or I'm offensively indifferent. I grew up, Mom says, with very little reaction to anything. I've always had the same facial expression- blank.

Mom is leaving for the Philippines again and I'm having panic attacks. Uck. Happens every time. I feel like a kid. Separation anxiety becomes me. I wonder if I can make it without her sound advice and her beside me. Seriously, as independent as I am, I don't know if I could take the risks that I've had if she weren't there watching. Independence can only go so far.

Francis will be here for the weekend. I'm sooooo effing excited. Finally, I have someone who fully understands how much I still loathe Valentine's Day. Although, I do admit, this Vday was the best.

I've been trying to finish this entry for the past two weeks. It's already the 21st of Feb. and I still haven't posted it. I don't know if I lack the time to write or I just can't put the words on paper anymore.

Everyone is still sad at home because Mom's not there. Even my dog still mopes around waiting for her. I did finally clean the house and hopefully we can maintain it. I mean everyone has their own rooms. This may seem mundane, but for a family as big as mine, it's hard to keep track of who's making the mess. I think this is my accomplishment for the week.

My resolution

I don't know where this thing came from. You know that funny, irky feeling, like you have a twitch in the head- the one that makes you look kind of CRAZY? Sometimes, when the days are still and all I hear are my thoughts, I want to knock myself unconscious. Sometimes, I wonder how good it would be to be dumb- you know, ignorance is bliss.

Lately, I've been paranoid (more than usual is more like it). I blame it on good memory. Good memory leads to remembering experiences. The remembering leads to what I think I learned from the past. In some sordid way, this all causes my paranoia that history will eventually repeat itself.

I have to stop this and be fair to myself and to those I care about. I should give myself more credit and less to the ones that hurt me in the past.

I will pray more-

-not to forget, but to forgive.

-to let go of my mistakes.

-to relax and give myself a break.
-to love those that I cherish.
-to show more kindness and less anger.
-to let those who cherish me love me.
-to be grateful that all I ever needed has been given to me.
-to accept that I am where I need to be at this perfect moment.

Maybe then will I stop hearing the voices in my head, the ghosts will rest and I can begin again.

On vacation

I am one of the lucky people who has a week-and-a-half off.

Lucky, I tell you, to wake up at 10 a.m. and lay in bed until 12 p.m. Lucky to be antsty that I have no work to think of. Lucky to be as lazy as I want to be and feel guilty about it at the end of the day. Lucky that I do not know what it means to relax.

I was ticked off yesterday that it rained and the boxes we stored outside of the house under the make-shift shed we have were drenched. We had to carry the boxes back on to the patio and dry the old clothes that were soaked. I tried to save what was left of some old letters my friends sent and little keepsakes I almost forgot about. After a while, I cooled down and realized that it was a blessing in disguise. The Ex-box was soaked. The letters from the ex were ruined. Okay, not all of them were wet, but I threw them all away. I realized I had no real reason to keep them, that in the next decade or so, I wasn't going to go through my stuff and read it. There were a lot of letters, suprisingly, a lot of trash, to say the least.

I told Francis about the letters and that I had to throw them all out. Thank God for his reaction. I found it a relief. He finally admitted that he's glad that they're gone, and that if they didn't get soaked, he would have made another reason for me to throw them out. He's usually nonchalant about things from my past, especially evidence (tangible things) that have been left behind. So, all this time, I thought he didn't mind. So much for reading between the lines. I find his patience intriguing, sometimes.

The other night, before I knew I was PMS-ing, I broke down in tears. It sounds funny, coming from me, becuase I don't really cry. Francis and I were discussing plans, and the moment he voiced his opposition, I totally lost it. I wanted to pull my hair out and hide in a hole somewhere. I don't want to talk about this anymore, I said. Francis was calm and explained that if I lost it everytime there was a problem, nothing could be solved. It's okay for us to argue, as long as we talk it through, he said. At that point, I would have rather been bonked on the head, but I realized that my boy friend had a good point. I'm glad that even though he knows I belong in a mental institution, he remains patient and very understanding.

PMS is not an excuse but a CAUSE for being a bitch. I know I'm not excused, but at least, I admit I'm a basket-case at this time of the month. God help me is Francis' motto, which makes me laugh and want to pull his hair out at the same time. "God help you from what, Francis? From your girl friend, the psycho?" I retort. Then I start the fanning-of-the-face-I-think-I'm-gonna-cry thing all over again. This is why Francis is a keeper- he's still on the other line trying to calm me down two hours later.

I have too much time on my hands, too much time for me to waste. I still have 12 more hours to procrastinate before bed time.

Vacations are tiring.

This little piggy went to the market and bought all the chocolate she could find

Last night, I had tuna and crackers for dinner (i.e. 10 crackers and half a can of tuna). I am officially belly-rolling-over-my-pants fat. Francis, the honest man that he is, told me that I'm plump. That, I think, is worse than fat. Plump is like saying I'm swollen and bloated. Anyhow, it didn't bug me at all because I'm sure he'll love me no matter what I look like, be it piglet or Barney. And besides, he did what I asked- he told the truth.

It's not easy to lose weight, especially when you live in a place where food is inexpensive and at arm's reach. All servings are big enough for two people and you will always find a reason for gluttony.

I can't say I've tried hard to avoid food, chocolates, in particular, especially when that's all I ask Francis to bring when he visits. Get me truffles, I say, and he goes out of his way to get his PLUMP girl friend what she wants. With the holidays soon approaching, I don't know how possible it will be to not balloon into a blimp. If only I could continue going to the cycling class at the gym, I think I'll be okay.

I remember last year, when I went home to the Philippines, my relatives asked me where I put the real me and to please ask the person who ate me to let me out. Very funny. It made me laugh so hard, I lost 10 lbs. in three weeks. That is what I call constructive criticism.

Being fat isn't too bad, but I would like to fit in my clothes again. I was warned that after 21, I would no longer grown lengthwise, but sidewise. Too bad I'm stubborn and chocolate tastes so good.

Anyway, happy holidays, people. May you eat plenty and be happy. I know I will.

Little demons and everything else I am afraid of

I am physically and emotionally drained. Something out of "nothing" has become the biggest issue we've had to face, so far.

How big is a lie no matter how insignificant it was about? How often should we apply "past EXperiences?"

Now, it goes without saying that there are certain things that I am more cautious about after being lied to a hundred thousand times. There are certain things I can and cannot take, and maybe it's because I took a whole lot of it from someone else. It may sound unfair to apply past EXperiences with the Keeper (a.k.a. Francis), but it's like a test. I let it happen last time, but I won't let it happen this time, I tell myself. So, I painstakingly spend the rest of the night trying to make my point, trying to keep him in the tiny molehill until he understands why I'm pissed. When I realize that I can't explain myself any further, I walk into my cave and sulk.

There isn't much to this, because he always says, "Don't sweat the small stuff." Though I think my fellow ladies will agree that we're all afraid that if you let the small stuff go, it'll roll up into a boulder and eventually run us over. Neurosis and paranoia at it's finest.

I'm a little too afraid, I know, of the things I can't see; fearful of what can be, should be, and might not be. I'm afraid of the dark and of feelings I'm not familiar with. I'm afraid that if I hope too much, it will change me and break me into a thousand pieces. I'm afraid that if I hold on too tight, I will get carpel tunnel syndrome. That if I laugh too much, I'll release gas at the most inopportune times. And I'm afraid if I screw this one up, I may lose my mind and huge chunks of my heart.

So, I've decided to close the itty-bitty baggage I carry with me, the one with the EXperiences in it. I remember that this is different, that history does not always repeat itself. A man with a good heart does exist and is better than those farirytale Brad Pitt look-alikes [that I wanted to jump, at one point in time].

The ex-box

We recently moved into the new house. Well, not really new, just newly painted and carpeted. Anyway, my sister and I were putting away some of our things last Saturday. Of course, this is the time where you figure out what to throw away and what to keep. Out of the mountain of shoes and unused clothing, there was one box that stood out. This box was filled with two bears (one with its nose bitten off by my doggy woggy), a mug, a dog, and some other stuff I couldn't see. Little sis picked up some of the things, examined almost all the items as if she were trying to remember something, then placed them gently in the box, which she sealed and marked: Ex-Box. I laughed, but wondered why these things, no matter how far in the past we have to look back, still have a place in our lives, be it in boxes hidden in damp closets.

Five minutes later, I found an old bag, which I thought contained several drawings Gabie made for a project I had in college.

The bag was half-empty, except for a few old letters.

I had found my Ex-Box.

Most of the stuff from my Ex I burned years ago. I remember spending a humid afternoon with my best friend, Cedrick, bitter, numb and exhausted, throwing hundreds of letters in Mom's huge pot (used to make a big vat of soup). Those letters burned ashy black; Evidence of a past I thought I would stop living. I thought, that day, that my feelings along with mental pictures would perish in the flames too. Obviously, I was wrong. The flame didn't die for another three years.

So, I stood there reading that letter, the first after the ones that were burned and the first of the few to come in the next year and a half. It was the good-bye letter written to me before I moved back to California. I read those words and wondered why I allowed myself the right to be stupid. I was aware of the empty promises that letter held, like a void contract waiting to expire. I knew it then, I know it more now. And it's not like I lacked foresight. I knew how things would end up, that I was chasing my own tail, that he was a traitor-in-the-making.

As I read the last few paragraphs, I laughed at the words he used, at his feeble explanations. I had no longing nor pain in the middle of my chest. I didn't feel the need for closure. There is nothing left to analyze, feel or agonize about. But, see, that's what I wondered: after ten years of all of that, was there really nothing to show for it?

Surprisingly, I am not broken, no battlewounds on the chest or abnormal palpitations. I am not half the person I used to be, nor am I bitter and angry. I have no excess luggage or issues worthy of expensive couch-time. I left those things where they belong- pinpoints in time that make up my history. What I have are tiny insights that I draw upon every now and then, little reminders of how bad it was and how great it is now.

I threw the letter back in the bag and chucked it in the storage room. It will remain there forgotten, the testimony of what could have been and what is:

That my boy friend's shoes are sitting on my shoe rack. That he'll be back no matter what happens, that he need not put himself in writing because he shows himself everyday. Unguarded, unscathed, all laughter and honesty. And he's mine, all mine. And I will love him like I have never loved before- selfless and secure, because after 10 years of all of that, Francis is what I have to show for it.

Half-whole

I'd rather be sad alone. When you miss someone, you're by yourself. No one else will get it, even if they say they empathize. I don't discount the care that people have given me in regards to this terrible feeling. However, people can't see nor feel the part of you that's lost.

Francis went home on Tuesday (after a five-day vacation here). He helped us move out, he helped me with the chores, with cleaning and moving furniture and waiting for the service people to come out and do work on the house. We were together almost every minute. We bugged the hell out of each other and argued about the dumbest things. We laughed all the time and I tested his patience and talked on and on and on about nothing. We didn't go anywhere special or do anything amazing. We just enjoyed the time being together through pissy moods and fatigue.

So on Tuesday afternoon, as I turned onto my street, I realized I didn't have anything to do. He wouldn't be asleep on the couch waiting for me. He wasn't there for me to hold and laugh at and tease and whine to.

And I felt empty, as if there was a pit in my tummy. It's like I lost something and I know where it is, but I can't reach it.

That night, during the silent intervals on the phone, I hopelessly tried composing myself after crying, because the voice I could feel on my skin everyday is now 3000 miles away.

It's gotten harder for me. A lot harder. No one knows or even asks me seriously how I'm doing. And I don't care to tell the truth that the hardest pain to get over is longing for someone. Because they won't get it.

But I do.

And I'd rather be myself right now. There's nothing worse than being sad and alone.

5

I am the saddest person in the world right now.

It's the easiest emotion to show, but the hardest to get rid of.

ARGH

Out of utter lack of better judgement, I chose to wear my turquoise l/s shirt today. Though there is nothing weird about my attire, the color is just too damn bright. I have been walking around work and it seems that everytime I see a mirror, my reflection cringes in disgust. We are in the process of moving and I have not been able to weedle out my cute winter clothes. In all honesty, I haven't even started packing yet, and we're moving this Saturday. I am also in the fat phase where I refuse to wear my nice slacks and cute tops for fear of finding out they fit again. I dropped two sizes this year. I want to continue to think that I am still a size 4 instead of the normal 6. There is no logic in that, I know. I just want to think that I am skinny. I want to drop the weight before I find out that I actually gained it.

We painted the interior of the house last weekend. It was a sight to see- me actually getting off my ass to do something worthwhile. I enjoyed myself, knobby-wobbly knees and all. The whole thing left me exhausted, but more fulfilled. I want to replace the kitchen faucet and the lights. These will be my little projects. There is something about owning a house that makes me enjoy this type of responsibility. I can do whatever I want with it. My dog can piss anywhere he wants in the backyard and he can poo on the grass and I don't have to pick it up. Ok, maybe I will still pick it up, but the point here is I can do whatever I want with the place, even if I do have to repair my own sink and toilet (when needed) and all the other icky stuff I have been able to avoid. I used to be manly and burly. I think I can be that way again. I think.

I ordered 4 books from B&N today. I know I shouldn't have since I still have 3 books left to read, but, I thought, what's a little added pressure? If I'm going to give myself a heart attack, I might as well just pile it on for one whole shot. I don't know if I'll even find the time to read all these books, let alone go to the gym. I keep calculating in my mind how much this house thing is with the carpet and the painting and the replacing and the cleaning. I honestly hate credit cards and I hate owing money to establishments. I know that there are reasons why I had to put a lot of stuff on credit, i.e. no credit = ugly, dingy, old carpet. However, the thought of bills makes me suffocate. Seriously.

I can't seem to stop smoking, though the urge to smoke has waned. I find a reason everyday. The cravings have never existed. Ok, they exist when people pile "things you need to accomplish in life" on my bad back, and I can't talk back or say "no" because I'm supposed to live up to this image that people have created since my birth. So, I just smoke one. I hate it when people think there is something wrong with me when they don't stop to fucking ask if there is something wrong with themselves. Sometimes, I just want to tell them that they don't know the shit I go through. And if I'm a bitch, then there's a reason for it. If I'm supposed to be certain things to certain people, give me the courtesy to handle it in my own terms. I refuse to clean the bathroom floor and fucking smile at the same time.

Sometimes, I wonder, what the point of all of this is.

Ironically, there is no other place I would rather be.

The morning

It's the 5 minutes that fail me. This is the nth time I've woken up late, yesterdayat 630am and today at 7am. Five minutes! That's all I ask. And what do I get? A whopping hour-and-a-half. I don't know why I can't just pick my ass up as soon as the alarm clock goes off. I have to be at work at 6am when I start the new position.

We finally bought the painting supplies last night. What a job this whole thing entails. I've already scheduled the replacement of the carpet for the 29th of October, so this is the only weekend we can paint the interior of the house. We haven't started packing, yet, and, like I've said so many times, we're just gonna put all our shit in boxes. It's the big furniture that's a pain in the butt, especially for me because I can't carry for shit. Twenty-three years old with a bad back. I've also been feeling chest pains, which only occur when I'm under much stress. I think I should lay off the coffee and the cigarettes and see if that will prolong my existence. Go fucking figure.

I asked Francis about going to the gym and he suggested that I start going at least twice a week and spend a good hour there instead of the original plan of going everyday for a mere 30 minutes. Point taken. Now, all I have to do is drag my sorry butt over there.

I am especially frustrated with the fact that I haven't been able to finish Friendship with God, which has been on my reading list for the past year. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's really bugging me that I can't sit down and read anymore, or even actually find the time to.

I'm so glad tomorrow is Friday, which reminds me, I have to take my drug test for the new job.

Wish me luck.

I don't do drugs, obviously. I'm just naturally insane.

Mom's vacation

Mom went on vacation for Dad's birthday. None of us have talked about it, but I know that we all miss her. Suprisingly, we've maintained the cleanliness of the house. I have to admit, when Mom is here, we automatically turn into children again, knowing that someone will pick up after us and feed us and hug us when we're sad and be our sounding board. It's a great feeling to know that someone is always there for you. I've resisted the inclination to be dependent. It's a hard process for me to follow. I like doing things on my own, asking for minimal help, learning as I go. Short-cuts are good, like learning from other people's experiences, but nothing sticks as well as going through it yourself.

Anyway, even our dog is depressed. All he does is lay around and pine. He'll walk from one room to another, pause as if he's pondering something, then plop on the floor or the couch with his head gently placed between his paws. He has this sad-dog look on his face and it seems no one is able to cheer him up. He doesn't really run around the house the way he used to and when we carry him, he slumps in our arms as if his bones have softened. The night before Mom left, he had this confused look when he saw the boxes stuffed with things and he kept tapping Mom like he was asking her what was going on. (I know it sounds funny that I interpret my dog's actions this way, but we all talk to him like he's human.) My poor doggie-woggie. I think everyone feels the same way he does.

We know that Mom likes it better where Dad is and even though my parents are only 50, it seems like their really old. They still act like teen-agers in love, but we feel that they should start enjoying life by traveling and being together. They deserve it.

So, we're glad Mom went on vacation. We're glad that they got to spend time together, because they're not very used to being apart.

The view

This is the view from the porch of our tiny house.

Long Beach

There is something about Long Beach in the beginning of Autumn where the fog sets in and the chill of December rises from the sea. I have taken the extra effort to pass through 2nd St. instead of 7th St. because the view is much nicer and is not as depressing as the latter. Here, I find the commercial tourist district, where everything is over-priced but pleasant to the senses. It's all but intimate as I stop for my morning coffee and my two-dollar bagel. My only thoughts are of how time flies and that I will be late for the fourth time this week. I am a little irate by the fact that breakfast cost me $6.00. It's spare change, to be honest, but I find it daunting that this is how far I've come in life. I'm a city person always on the go, no time to sleep, credit cards in tow. My success is measured by the kind of coffee I can afford ($3.50 for a small vanilla latte and $2.00 for a bagel and cream cheese), by the job that I hold, the property I own, the value of my retirement nest. There is no comfort in this knowledge because I've set aside the things I value most. The harder I try to bridge this gap, the more difficult it is for me to slow down.

There is no motivation and I find that the faster I go, the limits are endless. I used to be content with spending time with my closest friends, having dinner over lost conversation. Now, we all watch the time, conscious of the traffic, tired from the mundane day.

I have much to look forward to, in truth. I am quite blessed. I keep reminding myself this.

If I don't, I will end up on a couch talking to a psychiatrist and 10 bottles of medication to keep me from jumping off a bridge.

Therapy

I found out that Francis can't come tomorrow or Friday or this whole weekend.

So, I went shopping.

But I'm still depressed.

Conversations with God

I've had this book for almost a year. It has traveled the world with me; yet, I have finished reading three books, while this has 30 pages left to turn.

What would love do? That is the essential question, God says. From this, all good is brought forth and conflict will not exist. This is what I've learned.

I am in a rut. My family relations are strained. Of course, there is no one left to blame but myself. There is a responsibility in this that is heavy on the heart. I have ceased to voice my opinions and feelings, especially those I know will cause further misunderstanding. There really is nothing left to say.

Honestly, I would rather be run over 3 times than be in this position. Ok, maybe 5, just to be sure.

On my way to work this morning, I saw a sign that read: Choose Love. I stared at it, while waiting for the light to turn green. It wasn't until I read it that I realized God is reminding me that only your family will truly love you. There is no doubt in this. They are with you everywhere you go, hoping for the best for you, praying for your safety.

How do you replace regret with love? How do you forget? How will I reconcile all of this? How will I accept the sad fact that I will never really truly be understood?

I will choose Love. Everyday. Even when it's the hardest thing to do. I don't know how that will work, but the problem has been solved for me.

Now, if only I could lose my mind. Sometimes, I find, when I think less, I stay out of trouble.

Another world

I don't really mean another world or space or poignant plane in time. I moving to another department. I was indirectly reminded by CryoGuy why it is good for me to leave. He just left The Boss' office. He is beginning to get on my nerves.

For the most part, the people in my department are great- easy to work with, polite, courteous, like family.

But I am tired of my job because I have mastered it. It has become a routine. So, it is time for me to move on. Finally, this part of my life is going somewhere.

Change is always good.

September

September is the longest month of this year. Or, at least, that's what it feels like. It's dragging on and on and on. It's almost as bad as my Chemistry class in high school where my teacher's voice was a drone in my ear. I remember trying to stab myself with a pencil a couple of times to end my misery.

I just can't wait till October. Francis and I see each other one weekend every month, which isn't so bad taking into consideration he lives in Montreal and I live on the opposite end, south of the continent. During the summer, the weeks in between visits went by pretty quick. But this month has taken its toll. My patience is thinning and I'm short of going nuts.

I knew, from the start, that I would eventually be feeling this way, but I find no regret in diving into the relationship as if I had nothing to lose. He's worth it. He keeps me grounded. He balances out every part of me.

So this is me, a big bag of mush, ready to make my friends puke.

And even though September is almost over, it's as if every minute lasts an hour. I've never really been popular because of my waiting skills. On the other hand, I'm notorious for making people wait.

Being late

Last night, Francis told me he would teach me the tricks to waking up early and being on time.

Yeah, uh-huh.

That is an incredible feat.

Something my parents couldn't force me to do.

I suppressed a snicker.

I will give him a chance.

I already warned him that the first couple of months will be rough. He will eventually meet the Ultimate Warrior Bitch. He seemed unfettered.

I give him credit for his courage. He is brave. Everyone knows that I am the Medusa-incarnate at 6 o'clock in the morning.

Montreal Part 2

I was in Montreal 3 weeks ago. I didn't get to eat at G's as she was busy and everything was done in a rush. I miss her curry (Yes, Babe, I like curry, but you like Linkin Park, so we're even.) I met the infamous Joey, who likes me "so, I shouldn't fuck it up." Most, if not all, of my time was spent with Francis. Of course. Four days of funny looks, holding hands, after-hour talks, and love after love after love.

I met his family and then some. I was roasted like I've never been roasted before. I sat in the middle of that living room, that room I will never forget, while his family joked about marriage. Ha-ha. I turned red and almost shit in my pants. Ha-ha. I kept looking up at Francis to save me, but he turned red and almost shit in his pants. I sat there and laughed with the rest of them because it amused me. That, ha-ha, it's gonna happen before they know it. I wonder what they would have done if either me or Francis made "the announcement." (At this point, Francis, as you read this, I bet you are keeling over.)

Not much sight-seeing, but tons of family gatherings.

I miss it all. I miss him. I have been bitten on the ass by the lovebug.

To those who think I'm cheesy: Ha-ha. You're just jealous!

For those of you who think you're smart

See how many differences you can see in one minute. I found all 10. Ha-ha.

Weirdness

So, I almost lost it yesterday. "It" being the speckle of sanity I have left from 23 years of being...something a.k.a. sister, daughter, friend, enemy, bitch, antagonist, fire-starter, macho, blah blah blah. Thanks to Francis and CBF, I am back to normal, well, as normal as I can be (which doesn't count for much).

The house issue, I am no longer worried about. I have enough gray hairs as it is.

I now wish to go back to photography, but I am in that stage of "If only...I had a better camera, a wandering eye, a tripod, artistic inclination, etc. etc."

In my mundane yet organized life, I found that I miss peanut butter M&M's carefully propped on my bellybutton. No special tricks here, just yummy peanut butter and chocolate and a bellybutton that has seen better days.

I haven't gone to the gym in a week. I am fat and bloated. There goes $37/month.

I am broke but I'm happy (which makes me sound like a fatter but cuter version of A. Morissette.) Ok, maybe not so broke. Just shopping-deprived.

It's gotten colder in the mornings and our main light in the bathroom is dead. This means that I have to turn on the vanity lights that are hooked up to the vent, which makes it cold as hell and harder to jump out of the bath. Also, it leads to "cutting glass," if you know what I mean.

Summer has officially ended. Shit. Good-bye tank tops. Hello dysfuntional sweaters. Francis knows I am no good in cold weather. And this does not help with the fact that we may be spending Christmas in Montreal. Another scenario of "cutting glass."

I actually came in to work on time. Seven a.m. on the dot, sucker.

I love coffee. I've been jumpy lately. I drink an average of 3 cups a day. I have it with everything, even pizza. Maybe I should get off it. I'm not addicted. I don't see things in the corner of my room. I'm not an insomniac. I have ten fingers. My leg shakes when it's at rest. Maybe I should stop drinking coffee. Maybe I have a twin somewhere. Why do I see people in the corner of my eye?

Does health insurance include annual examinations for mental stability? I have PPO. That shit is expensive. It should, at least, cover brain cell counting. Seriously, now.

Transitions

I'm a bit melancholy for reasons I have yet to figure out. I hung out with a couple friends from work to say farewell two of our co-workers have moved to different programs. I wanted to go home to Francis. I miss him all the time and these are the moments when the reality of being apart is depressing. I wanted to go home to the comfort of my Mom's arms and funny stories, but she was asleep when I arrived.

I'm a little scared, to be honest, of the many decisions I have made. I don't know where to start. I'm a little overwhelmed. The house. The job.

We finally made an offer on a house, which sits on top of a hill. The view is spectacular. The lot is huge. The house that sits on it is a different story. There are no closets. It is small. The layout is confusing. It will cost thousands of dollars to make it nicer. But I own it. My brother owns it. My family will live there. And we'll make the best of it.

I am blessed and I am grateful. Thank God He is always with me.