The Writer Within The Journalist

Untitled

2009-12-02T17:30:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things that I am not sure about, things that are arbitrary and confusing--but there is one thing that I am sure of right now.

I'm sick.

For some reason, I really didn't grew out of my asthma and it is mostly triggered by my allergies to dust and some irritating smells (like strong perfume). So here I am once again, breathing like a cat with its larynx undergoing surgery. It's not a pretty sight, I tell you. Whenever my asthma acts up, apart from the fact that I can't breathe very well, my back hurts a lot. I tend to hunch my shoulders whenever I walk because straightening up hurts a lot.

And God, it hurts so much more when I cry. Please make it stop.

[weeping]

2009-04-02T08:21:00.000-07:00

It takes a lot of courage to face one's fears.

Everyone has their own defense mechanism. Mine is to inwardly scream. And then overthink. And then confront the problem. But for some reason, I think I should be doing something else. Like...

I don't know.

Sometimes I need a push. From someone else? Nah. More like from myself. I need to push myself into believing that I am strong enough. I am not giving myself the push I need, though.

Oh dear.

_____________________________________________

I think I need to push... someone. Into not doing something I don't want this person to do. I don't know what to do about it. I am trying. I swear. I am trying to stop this person from doing something that I don't want this person to do. I am frightened. I don't want this to happened. Vertigo sweeps me away and then I collapse into nothingness. When I snap back to reality, I realize a numbness has overcome me and I couldn't think, nor much even speak. I wasn't given the opportunity to.

This person is such a good friend. I don't know how to stop it.

I am so sorry. I am. I am. I am. Please. Someone help...

***

Once upon a time--there was a little girl. I know some things about her, but I don't know her name. So, I apologize, dear Reader--but you won't know her name either.

She was a good little girl, I suppose. Or perhaps we can say that she tried to be a good little girl. Of course, I don't think the King and the Queen noticed. They locked her up in the highest tower, and told her that she needed to be a good little girl before they feed her or ever let her out again. She tried to be a good little girl, but--I don't think the King and Queen considered that she was being a good little girl. It wasn't good enough for them.

In fact, I suppose... that it wasn't good enough.

This little girl, she loved books. If there was one thing that can at least take her mind off the miserable things in life, it was books. The highest tower in the castle was the library, so even though this little girl was locked up and hungry, at least... at least there were some books to read.

One day, this little girl looked out the window and saw a little bird resting on the windowsill. There was nothing special about this little bird--except.

Except that it could fly. It could fly. Away. From everything.

This little girl smiled. It wasn't just the King and the Queen. It was everything around her. It was... nothing. Nothing was around her.

And then she jumped out the window, soaring. Soaring. Soaring. Soaring.

I am so sorry.

***

A Note on Eating One's Feelings

2009-01-31T22:46:00.000-08:00

Except for the barking of a puppy and the trickling of the overflowing water in the DPWH tank, it's a particularly quiet Sunday afternoon today.

It makes me think of things.

Take the notion of eating one's feelings.

According to HelpGuide.Org, binge eating disorder is characterized by compulsive overeating in which people consume huge amounts of food while feeling out of control and powerless to stop.

I, admittedly, eat my feelings most of the time. It's interesting--and largely satisfying. Usually I do it with a friend, so that I won't be just eating my feelings, but I'll be talking them out, too. My comfort foods are ice cream, pizza and chicken. Other people like eating fries. Some eat rice. Some, well, I don't know, but they eat whatever they like to and I have no problem with that.

Some people say I need professional help. Some say I just need to control myself. Some say it's okay, since I don't do it all the time. Some say that I just need another outlet. Like screaming. Maybe I'll go for a killing spree.

To be truthful, I don't want to do this anymore. But I do it. And for heaven's sake, I don't know when it'll stop.

I don't think that it's so quiet anymore.

Book Hunt

2009-01-05T01:53:00.000-08:00

As I was browsing bookstore websites in search for a new book, I came across a rather annoying conclusion: vampire books are now a main hit.

Not that I have anything against the whole theme, but it has become a fad, much to my chagrin. Vampire books here, vampire books there -- all because of Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. I have read the four books in the series and although I can pretty much say that she seems to be a rather phenomenal writer to the teens of the world, I only like books 1 and 4. The beginning and the end, thankfully. And I have no idea why this book ought to overshadow Harry Potter -- while Stephanie Meyer seems to be this phenomenal writer, I don't think they ought to compare her books to J.K Rowling's.

Really, now.

But anyway, I've seen some interesting books I would like to get my hands on.

Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella
The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces that Affect Our Decisions by Dan Ariely
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart, and --
The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K Rowling

Interesting, indeed.

Sick

2008-12-08T23:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I just have to be really, really stubborn about things.

I dropped by the clinic today--I have colds and coughs and a fever. I, unfortunately, have the flu. And I am having palpitations. And I don't drink coffee, mind you. Or coke.

And yet, here I am, in front of a computer, surfing the web.

I have to go home.

Beautiful

2008-10-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

Ordinary Miracle
by Sarah Mclachlan

It's not that unusual,
When everything is beautiful,
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

The sky knows when it's time to snow,
Don't need to teach a seed to grow,
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

Life is like a gift they say,
Wrapped up for you every day,
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own.

Isn't it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls -
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

The birds in winter have their fling,
And always make it home by spring,
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

When you wake up every day,
Please don't throw your dreams away,
Hold them close to your heart
'Cause we are all a part
of the ordinary miracle.

Ordinary miracle...

Do you want to see a miracle?

It seems so exceptional,
That things just work out after all,
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

Sun comes out and shines so bright,
And disappears again at night,
It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.

It's just another
Ordinary miracle today.
Absolutely beautiful.

I watched Charlotte's Web last night and, well, I think it made a mark in my heart. I've read the book a few years ago, but the film made more impact to me. I love it.

And yes, it's just another ordinary miracle.

Relieved Sigh

2008-10-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

This is the worst semester ever!

Of course, it still remains the best semester ever.

Seriously.

Don't bother figuring it out.

For the sake of explaining my oxymoronic life (everyone's life is [wink]), I'll just have to say that there are things that make it worst and best. But of course, it won't be over for me till... let's see... Tuesday. Or Wednesday.

There're still lots of things to do. Wish me the best.

Flying Pigs and Pseudo-Activists

2008-09-29T03:51:00.000-07:00

The problem with today’s youth is either that they are phony punks or they are emo-kids – it is just disturbing to see that these kids feel that they can translate into the future.

The University of the Philippines (UP) has always been a haven for the student activists who rise to the challenge whenever a threat is posed upon the masa (the proletariat, as they are called) and the rest of society. Due to experience with various issues regarding student-activism, I am beginning to sense that student-activists largely define this threat to be the government and its allies.

I won’t be hypocritical and say that student-activism is not good – because it is. The youth of the nation is aware of their role in the society and they are working to become the future leaders of the downtrodden masa. But then, since I already am under the impression that I shouldn’t be hypocritical, I would also say that it is not completely good. I think I should go to the extremes and say that nothing is perfect – to be precise, nothing is near-perfect, even.

Although activism is defined as an “aggressive action pursuing a political or social end”, I don’t think that it is safe to assume that activism is well on its way to releasing society from all forms of “restraints”.

To be able to understand what I mean about the imperfection of student activism, it is, therefore, important that I go back to our phony punks and emo-kids who, by some chance, happen to believe that they can translate into the future of the Philippines.

By punk, we refer to a youth movement of the late 1970s, distinguished by their loud aggressive rock music, confrontational attitudes, body piercing, and unconventional fashion sense. By phony-punks, I refer to teenagers who happen to believe that they are punk, sans the music. Their most prominent trait would be that of having confrontational attitudes.

As for the emo-kids, they are those who happen to find it that life is out to get them and they had better run for it or kill themselves. Their definition of angst is bound to curl Martin Heidegger’s hair if he were alive. To the emo-kids, angst comes in the form of teenage angst which is a “profound and deep-seated spiritual condition of self-obsession and utter fatuousness” (this definition is from Uncyclopedia.org, whose sarcasm has gained my respect). They’d scream f*** it over and over again until someone stops them. The long string of obscenity and profanity that falls from their lips would be considered unfounded to one who considers obscenity and profanity forms of self-expression.

It is unfortunate to see that these teenagers have infiltrated the alliance of the student-activists, producing havoc and wrecking the name of good student-activism. While we do have student-activists who know what they are fighting for, there are those who remain blissfully ignorant of student-activism’s role in the Philippine society.

I have written an article a few years back with the title Pseudo-Activism, wherein I discussed how student-activism in the UP Baguio has turned stale because of the reason that a lot of those who are participating in it don’t understand what they are doing. A lot of them act like they understand societal issues or the logic of the fight they are in. In reality, however, they don’t understand anything.

It took quite a while for me to identify that these teenagers who act like so are the phony-punks and the emo-kids. They are those who skip class so they can go to a rally they have no idea on; those who brag about them being Iskolar ng Bayan (loose translation: Scholars of the Nation – this is a usual tag for students of the UP, for the masa pay taxes for their education) and yet let their grades slide down dramatically; those who complain a lot and scream that there must be something down about the problems in society and yet can't even solve their own problems.

To the imbeciles who scream that they are Iskolar ng Bayan: How dare you uphold yourselves as such? The masa you claim to be paying taxes for your education are being shortchanged because you don’t put it into your heads that you have to study apart from being politically and socially active!

About two years ago, Alex Magno, columnist of the Philippine Star wrote about UP student-activists throwing eggs at a visiting military officer. My eyebrows knitted in horror that time. To be a UP student, I believe, is to hold honor and dignity. That stunt, of course, reduced the UP student to a mere barbarian, uneducated, maladroit. You don’t throw eggs at anyone. Even those from the medieval ages throw rotten vegetables and rocks at those they detest – not fresh eggs. Besides eggs are a staple food, and throwing them at someone you hate is wasting good money. How decadent.

The last thing the Philippines needs is the proliferation of the student-activist who doesn’t know how to properly confront the political and social challenges of the country. Remember George Orwell’s Animal Farm? In the story, revolution against the humans (in this case, the ruling class) was futile in the end because the pigs (they would be those who are ridiculously ignorant student-activists) put their interests first.
In the end the phony-punks and emo-kids who are all in the circle of student-activism will be the downfall. Someone in the alliance ought to do some cleaning.

Of course, “dumb people are always blissfully unaware of how dumb they really are” (and yes, I quote Patrick Star from Spongebob Squarepants, who probably is of higher intelligence than the rest of the pseudo-activists in our country) and, indeed, this country is going, not to the dogs, but to the pigs. Speaking of pigs, the time when they set aside their interests is when pigs fly. Let me translate that: never.

Down

2008-09-18T01:54:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I cried at school. It was called for, but it felt... I don't know. And all the hugs intended to make me feel better did make me feel better. But now that I am not with my close friends, I am struggling to assure myself that everything will be fine even though I know that I'm about to crack.

It's not merely anger - it's disappointment. One emotion I hate having. Given the right attention, disappointment will eat you up and send you into the unforgiving throes of depression. I have to say I am putting up a good fight, controlling it and believing that I can win it; but there's a little voice at the back of my head, nagging me, telling me that in due time, I will crack and start screaming at anybody who dares test my patience.

Damnit. This is the last thing I need. Given the disappointment, I feel nauseated now. I just want to go home and throw up. And then I'll sneak off into the night and drag a freaking 3.0 G-TEC pen on my tormentor's neck.

We Know That...

2008-09-16T02:10:00.000-07:00

All it takes is a little encouragement, a little... push.

Note

2008-09-03T05:09:00.000-07:00

I may look like I am a nice person and maybe I indeed am, but please take everything into context, all right? I am not a continuously nice person.

Stop testing my patience. You are so pushing your luck.

Random Thoughts

2008-09-03T04:50:00.001-07:00

Umbrella Thoughts
It takes a lot of patience and humility... to put up with a weak umbrella.
#
You'd better bring your umbrella; chances are, it may rain and drench you and you end up looking like a sewer rat - or it may be that the sun will shine so bright and burn your skin, reducing you to dust.
#
The umbrella teaches one a few things about life. One, if you're weak, you just might be blown away. Two, it always pays to be ready. And three, you should be where you should be.
#
Singing in the rain without an umbrella is a bad idea.
#
"I will not bring my umbrella today because the sun is shining brightly," is a bad idea. Especially if you're in Baguio.

On Eavesdropping
It's an art that few people can do; it is something people say that is horrific that few people will enjoy; but to be entirely truthful, it's something that few people will admit that they do.
#
There is something special about being able to select what you want to hear in a room full of people buzzing with energetic and enthusiastic conversations. It's like tuning out the noise in a radio by continuously fiddling with the dial.
#
Eavesdropping isn't always a bad thing - sometimes you learn a lot of things: about rebellious activity in your area, political arguments and a whole lot of useful stuff. And then there's the usual where you overhear people talking about how stupid you look wearing that huge ribbon in your hair.
#
Intentionality of eavesdropping is always an issue - of course, one can always tune out conversations or not. But then, if they do not want to be overheard, they should go talk somewhere far more... remote.

New Black and Fashion
I'm never going to understand what people mean when they say "gray is the new black" or "green is the new black" or "pink is the new black." They may mean that those colors are the new "in" thing or that those colors can be like black - you can wear them anytime. But whatever. Black is black. And I'm pretty sure that gray, green, and especially pink, resemble none of black. Unless you're blind, of course.
#
The thing about fashion is that it always changes - sometimes with patterns, sometimes random. So in a nutshell, there is no such thing as "always in." You're probably wearing something "in" right now and in the next few seconds, it's no longer "in" anymore.
#
Darn it! The fashion clock is ticking. Go run to the nearest clothing shop. Go, go, GO!

On South Park
It shouldn't be censored. Period.
#
People should censor shows that include Piolo Pascual and other cheesy characters. They do not depict reality in any way and yet they are "living people." Not South Park. Although deaths are rather spectacular, depiction of reality is far more acceptable.
#
Cartman: Kyle? Kyle? I'm far more attractive than you Kyle!
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Cartman: You go through life being told there is justice, but you learn that the only justice you get is the justice you take. Make no mistake Kyle, before this is over, you WILL suck my balls.
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Aslan in Imaginationland to Butters: Believe in Santa, kid. Believe in Santa right now!
Butters: Arrrrghhhh!
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No way, Sir Jawo. NO WAY. South Park is good for the developing mind. (insert manic laughter)
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Stan: What's the connection between Easter and dipping eggs in colored vinegar?
#
Stan: Between Jesus dying in the cross and us dipping eggs in colored vinegar so that a giant bunny can hide them, don't you think there seems to be a huge gap of information?
#
Randy Marsh: Just dye your stupid eggs!
Stan: I don't want to! I don't get it!

Lewis Carroll and Alice: The mystery within Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

2008-08-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

We live in a time of paranoia. Maybe it has something to do with our society, or our technology, or maybe even pure suspicious human nature – motives are eternally questioned, conspiracies forever assumed. It is unfortunate for those who have passed away who are rabidly popular: everyone likes talking and making speculations about them – and they cannot do anything about it.

The man who went under the name Lewis Carroll and wrote the well-loved book, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, died on January 14, 1898 at the age of sixty-five. For around 110 years his life has been subject to much speculation and controversy, which shows no apparent sign of dying away.

Most people believe that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was a mere product of a creative mind about the hyperbolic adventures of a young, imaginative girl; however, most critics believe that Alice’s story was a form of release for Carroll’s suppressed love for the young girl whom was said he wrote the book for – Alice Liddell.

Dodgson’s Wonderland
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was born on January 27, 1832. He studied at Christ Church, Oxford and later taught mathematics there. He never married. He liked the company of female children. He loved taking pictures of female children; most of the time, he had these little girls pose for him nude.

On March 1, 1856, Lewis Carroll was born. The inimitable Alice's Adventures in Wonderland was said to be written for the three daughters of Henry Liddell, Dean of the College. The wonderful afternoons Carroll spent with the Liddell girls – Ina, Alice and Edith – were immortalized in the prose and verses of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

A lot of times, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson made ‘playful’ attempts of disowning his other half, Lewis Carroll – in the way that Daniel Handler, author of A Series of Unfortunate Events, has been doing in the present. Of course, Dodgson did admit at one occasion that Carroll and he were one and the same.

However, beyond these things about him, a lot remain unknown, conflicting and curious.
Carroll/Dodgson enthusiasts and Carroll/ Dodgson critics alike all wonder the same thing (although the Carroll/Dodgson enthusiasts would probably refuse to admit it): was his love for children some form of suppressed sexual desire? An unmarried man who delighted in the company of prepubescent girls is sure to attract frowns and disapproval from most people. In fact, it is rather unimaginable for us to consider a man with a fondness for little girls without wanting to have him castrated – or put in prison or in a psychotic ward.

Feminist critics have implied that Dodgson was a pedophile. They have declared that his fascination in taking photographs of the prepubescent female body was a perverse means of objectifying them. To them, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland became a book full of pedophilic atrocities. But was he really a pedophile? Imagine a pedophile – do we not think of a lustful, sinister man who has perverse thoughts and intentions towards young girls? According to Katie Roiphe, author of Just Good Friends? (an article that discusses Dodgson’s fascination of female children, particularly Alice Liddell), this image of the lustful, sinister man is not Lewis Carroll nor Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.

“His love [for little girls] was more delicate and tortured and elusive; his warmth, his strange, terrified passion, more intricate and complicated than anything encompassed by a single word,” Roiphe stated.

It was said that Dodgson lost interest in girls once they turned fourteen – could it be that these prepubescent girls provided him with company so innocent, so pure, that to him, they seemed to have embodied earth-angels that kept him sane? Were they better company than teenagers, who will soon become adults, who lose the ability to imagine magical worlds, as soon as the world finally envelopes them in its realities?

The Unfounded Theory
The friendships that Dodgson created with children, critics say, always seemed to have romantic inclinations, with a hint of longing, of sadness. Dodgson’s relationship with Alice Liddell was said to be like this.Dodgson and the Liddell family had close ties together. However, in the summer of 1863, both parties mysteriously detached from each other. People assumed this had something to do with the Charles Dodgson-Alice Liddell relationship.

Dodgson died in 1898 of pneumonia and although Dodgson’s diaries were later turned over to the British museum by his relatives, there were lots of missing records. It was said that Dodgson’s diaries consisted of thirteen volumes and yet, only nine were turned over. These nine volumes were “carefully and delicately pruned.” Critics have supposed that the missing pages of these diaries contained the reason of Dodgson’s sudden isolation from the Liddell family. Neither Liddell family nor Dodgson family has shed any light into the cause of the sudden break of Dodgson with the Liddell family.

Morton Cohen, a biographer of Dodgson, suggested that the missing pages may have been testimonies of Dodgson “propos[ing] marriage to his eleven-year-old inamorata [Alice Liddell], thus precipitating the displeasure of [Henry Liddell] and incurring a ban on further contact with the family.”

However, a ‘fragment’ of Dodgson’s diary, found in Guildford Muniment Room, is said to suggest otherwise.

The fragment was a summary of the missing pages, titled “Cut Pages in Diary”, written in the hand of Dodgson’s neice, Violet Dodgson, co-guardian of the diaries along with her sister Menella from the early 1940s to the late 1960s. It read:

‘L.C. [Lewis Carroll] learns from Mrs. Liddell that he is supposed to be using the children as a means of paying court to the governess - he is also supposed [unreadable] to be courting Ina.’

This suggests that Dodgson may have been courting the governess – Miss Pricket, employed by the Liddells to educate their daughters – and courting Ina, the eldest of the Liddell girls at the same time. It may be assumed that the Liddell parents decided to see into the rumor of Dodgson doing such, and decided that it was best for Dodgson to stay away for awhile.

Dodgson had recorded in his diaries that the rumors regarding him and Miss Pricket didn’t bother him at all – ‘groundless a rumor’, he said – so it can be said that the governess wasn’t such a big deal. Ina, however, is a different issue. At that time, Ina was fourteen years old and had been allowed far more time with Dodgson than her younger sisters. Back then, girls were legally marriageable at twelve. It can be assumed that the rumor that Dodgson was courting both the governess and Ina had caused the Liddell parents to withdraw their warm acceptance of Dodgson.

Could it be that the fact that Alice’s name has been immortalized by Dodgson’s books lured us into believing that she was the important Liddell girl when in fact he was courting Ina?
However – being that people are fascinated with conspiracy theories and paranoia – could it be that this summary that Violet Dodgson wrote be of suspicious nature? Could it be a move to throw the people off the Charles Dodgson-Alice Liddell relationship? In one of Cohen’s analyses, he said that “Dodgson's moments of greatest torment and insomnia in his diaries […] correlated to the days on which he saw Alice.” And what about the acrostic poem in Through the Looking-Glass (a facsimile of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland), wherein when read downwards, taking in every first letter of each line, spells out Alice’s full name, Alice Pleasance Liddell?

What then, remains for the rest of us to deduce? Is there, in fact, no answering the theories that surround the riddle?

Love Unimaginable
It is imaginable that we may never find out the answers to all the questions surrounding the beloved Lewis Carroll and his muse, Alice. Records have been missing, important figures have refused to talk, and the most important character has been dead for 110 years. Was Dodgson a pedophile? Why the fascination with female children? Whom did he “love”, Ina or Alice? Was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland a pure product of imagination, or of something more? These questions, unfortunately, seem to not have answers that will remain, forever, irrefutable.
If he did have repressed feelings of love for Alice and he did write the book for her, I believe that there is something moving about a man who fights one of the hardest fights in the world: his desire – that it takes the form of a book full of talking chess pieces, snotty flowers and knitting sheep, rather than focus on the matter at hand.

A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July –

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear –

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die.
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream –
Lingering in the golden gleam –
Life, what is it but a dream?

And looking at the acrostic poem, there it is – a love suppressed, a love unimaginable for other people, a love that took form in one of the most disturbing, yet best children’s stories in the history of literature.

Alice Pleasance Liddell.

Boarding House Dictatorship: Finding the Marcos within You

2008-08-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

If you are like me and you are a girl who lives in a boarding house and your housemates are constantly getting in your hair, it might be time to pull your act together and find the inner dictator in you.

And if you don’t happen to be as such, well, we can't do anything about that, now can we?
I grew up under a strict Catholic school, where patience is a virtue and getting along is golden – any form of disobedience is met with punishment in the form of social rejection. About four years ago, I used to be largely tolerant of unsettling behavior; life was a haven of peace and camaraderie. It didn’t last long though. A change of settings practically begged me to be frank and intolerant of behavior I deem to be unsolicited.

Staying in a boardinghouse means a lot of things. It can mean doing your own grocery, cooking for yourself, washing your own clothes, or taking care of yourself when you get sick. And then living on a boardinghouse can also mean dealing with different kinds of people. Sometimes these different kinds of people can mean those who are inconsiderate and messy.

Assertiveness is a trait few people have and those who barely have the ability to assert themselves tend to find themselves in very uncompromising situations. I’ve learned how to be assertive and manipulative throughout the course of my college life and it is necessary that you do too. Dictatorship, I believe has definitive potential in boarding house life. It is easier to master and work for your benefit if you try it within your own boarding house – it, of course, didn’t hurt that I am now a college senior and power tripping is quite… an interesting act that I do from time to time.

1. Understand what dictatorship is. For purposes of intellectual conversations between potential dictators, such as you and me, we will use this definition of dictatorship: a dictator’s power or authority, or the period of time during which a dictator rules. This means that dictatorship remains for so long as the individual can exert his or her authority over a certain group of people.

2. Be reasonable. As potential dictators, we will not succumb to the thought of a dictator as a bossy person. ”Orders” are to be given only and only if there is a logical reason at hand. In fact, these are not to be regarded as “orders” but as “demands.” As a potential dictator, you must recognize dictatorship as an art and not a mere instrument as to get your every whim. As an art, every stroke must be aided with careful deliberation.

3. Instill fear and demand respect instead of asking for love and friendship. Love, unlike fear, is very fleeting. People who surround you who love you more than they fear you tend to more unaware of their behavior. Instilling fear is an effective means of keeping people in line, for as long as they don’t congregate and plan to overthrow you. A little farther down in this article discusses how you can instill fear without worrying that people will overthrow you. Demand respect, instead of asking for friendship, because respect is something far easily maintained instead of friendship. Friendship demands emotional investments, and friends tend to ask favors that will exhaust your resources, or worse, weaken your hold among your subjects. Respect on the other hand is maintained by doing good and commendable acts without the emotional investment. For further information on this, read up on Niccolo Machiavelli’s The Prince.

4. Learn to be manipulative. Manipulation is an art that goes hand in hand with dictatorship. To be able to master dictatorship, one must be able to manipulate other people without them realizing that they are being manipulated.

Now that I have discussed the basics, let’s get on with the application.

1. House mates, whether we like it or not, will exist for as long as boarding houses exist and for as long as we stay in them. They can either be your friends or your enemies. I suggest that you keep your friends to those house mates who are your roommates and keep the rest, not as enemies, but as subjects.

2. There are times (and there will always be, to my revulsion) when your housemates get to your nerves, such as when they hog the bathroom when everyone else has to take a bath, dump their dirty dishes in the sink and forget about them, make a mess of the stove by cooking God-knows-what, or when their voices are so deafeningly loud when they talk (when in fact they are inches from each other). A good potential dictator doesn’t immediately demand a shorter bath-time, a cleaner sink and stove or tranquil atmosphere in the boarding house. Instead, a good dictator tests the waters and sees for himself or herself how said housemates will react to a gentle request. Keep your tone light and conversational, but be firm about making it clear that the said behavior bothers you.

3. Observe your housemates’ behavior after that interaction and see whether they tend to your little friendly request. If they do, you must have very nice housemates who, by far, are non-existent. If they don’t, then it’s time to take the overtaking of the boarding house government a notch higher.

4. Remember that the kind of dictatorship that may exist within the boarding house is a little different than that of the government. One must be creative and be able to deconstruct its meaning, purpose and operations.

5. Overtaking of the boarding house government must be tacit and unnoticeable. The idea of control should be unspoken, yet felt. This way, they remain unsure of the fact that you control them.

6. Demands are made firmer, without the conversational attitude. Assume a no-nonsense voice and be clear about what you want and how you want it.

7. In order to instill fear, one must be able to get angry and yet be respectable. To do this, one needs good arguments that benefit all and the uncanny ability to look into another’s eyes with your chin up. Develop good arguing skills. Be a lawyer (insert manic laughter). Explain why the bathroom is a public property, why you refuse to live in a pigsty and why you want to avoid chronic hearing ailments.

8. Remember that this kind of dictatorship is tacit and needs careful watching. Demands that are made must be reasonable and beneficial for all, even though they may not realize that at the moment. Maintaining level headedness when making demands makes it more difficult for one’s subjects to find loopholes in your demands and deduce that you are just being mean and stupid; therefore, “overthrowing” you will not be a collective idea. Take for example, the scenario of a late night where you are studying and some of your housemates are causing a racket in the living room. To demand silence at a late time of the night is reasonable and beneficial for the many who may also be studying or to those who happen to be sleeping. Make sure that you are not making demands that merely benefit yourself. If, by some odd chance, said demands only benefit yourself, learn to manipulate your house mates into believing that these all benefit all of you (insert evil grin).

9. Demands must be made in utter professionalism. They will be purely business and it is expected that as soon as you demand them within your boarding house, you will still interact with your subjects as normally as possible.

10. Maintain good rapport with other influential figures within the boarding house. Any idiot would figure this out. By maintaining good rapport with the influential figures within the boarding house government, the dictator is able to gather support and encouragement from those whose opinions matter in one way or another. Then, he or she can keep his subjects in line through other means as to prevent arousing suspicions of dictatorship (insert applause).

Remember that dictatorship must not be about getting what you want (if it is, at least be smart enough to make it seem like it is not about getting what you want). Oddly enough, it requires a certain regard for the beneficial of all. Hopefully, you will be dealing with less slow-bathing housemates, dirty sinks and stoves and voices that sound like screeching banshees.

Breaks from the Rational World

2008-08-26T02:38:00.000-07:00

What I need right now is a splash of cold water - maybe I'll stop having daymares.

Daymares have frequently joined me in my daily life, like unwanted "friends" who insist on being your "friends", with the intention of breaking me into a gazillion pieces. Of course, I refuse to yeild. It would be unnatural for me to give in without a fight when it comes to my thoughts.

I need a breath of fresh air to rouse my senses. I seem to be going into realms I don't want to go to, lately. It's like having some sort of knack of predicting things - but they're unreliable, unstable. I sort of "see" things. I may not be good in projecting the future, since paranoia is a whole lot different, but in an angle, they have similarities.

I don't want to crack. Yet. I need to finish a lot of things and these things can't wait. I wonder if I can control it...

I won't crack.

I won't.

Yet.

"Riot" in the Opening of the 22nd BBEAL: Intensely Annoying

2008-08-22T22:15:00.000-07:00

There is a question I've been itching to ask about the University of the Philippines Baguio and its hosting of the 22nd Baguio-Bengeut Educational Athletic Games (BBEAL).

Why, for crying out loud, is it held in the University of the Cordilleras (UC)?

Rumors have been circulating around school and it seems that Chancellor refused to fund the whole thing. Ah, Macansantos, why? I heard that Ma'am Claur cried over that. That's just... sad. Must have been such a disappointment for her. Well, at least UC's gymnasium is large.

Anyway, I watched the coverage some time ago and wait... did I just see Macansantos yawn while UP students performed (it was either the UPB Dance Troupe or the Tayaw)? Hmmm. Maybe she had a rough night last night, or maybe she's just disinterested.

The whole coverage was intensely annoying - Sky Channel sucked, period. The camera man obviously didn't know how to hold the camera, much less take good shots. He should be shot. Dead.

The only thing that kept me interested was the performance of the Wushu Varsity Team. And the Taekwondo (they were a little off on choreography - but forgivable).

And then there was the UPB cheering squad.

I won't say anymore.

Breathe In

2008-08-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

As I stepped out into the sunlight that I had assumed will burn my skin off - I was, instead, met with a deliciously warm sunlight that mixed with the cool noon air.

I had walked to my destination with suprisingly light steps, taking in the wonderful light of the day. The sun was bright, but the wind was cool and carried a scent that reminded me of flowers in the fields.

Am I imagining things?

It's a nice day today.

Headache

2008-08-15T00:02:00.000-07:00

It's so hard to type something down when one's mind is full of random things. My thesis, feature writing, feature articles, puppies, math, books, Derrida, blogging, singing toadstools and dancing candies.

I'm stressed.

I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (With Flowers in My Hair)

2008-08-08T03:05:00.000-07:00

If anyone's looking for wonderful country music, I suggest listening to Sandi Thom. Her songs have a country feel, with a sweet combination of calming and upbeat tunes. I especially love "Castles," "Lonely Girl," "I Wish I Was A Punk Rocker (With Flowers in My Hair)," and "Sunset Borderline."

Go ahead and listen to her. She's worth it. And mind you, her songs make so much sense.

Frosty

2008-08-04T03:58:00.000-07:00

It is easy to forget about everything when one is numb from literal cold. The freezing feeling, the icy chattering of teeth - it is easy to get lost in the cold and set everything else aside.

It would be comfortable if I were in bed right now, under the covers, surrounded by pillows.

I couldn't get warm...

It's like sticking one's hand in the freezing, without the freedom to take it out once the mood strikes - it's stuck inside.

I wonder if it's possible to freeze to death here in the Philippines. It's cold outside. It's cold inside. It's cold within. I'm feeling rather under the weather. Stress is putting up a good battle and someone like me is bound to lose over stress.

There's something running on my mind right now... A line from South Park...

"Que passo? Que passo? Looking for work? Si? Trabajo?"

The Garbage of Baguio

2008-07-25T02:58:00.000-07:00

Much to my dismay, the way to school was paved with ridiculous intentions... well, littered with garbage, for that matter. It was paved with ridiculous intentions because no one wants to segragate, therefore, garbage collection is halted.

So much for that article I wrote a semester ago about Engineer's Hill residents finally properly segregating their garbage - the barangay chairman was wrong. Mr. Chairman, you're wrong. You. Are. Wrong. Whenever I walk down Manolo Alley, all I see are tons of garbage and there is no way that people in our Barangay have learned proper segregation. This is stupid.

Apparently, not only our place stinks. The rest of Baguio stinks. Terribly.

"Baguio had won four consecutive titles as the cleanest and greenest highly urbanized city in the 1990s, earning it the pioneer hall of fame title." (http://newsinfo.inquirer.net/breakingnews/regions/view_article.php?article_id=92544)

Huh.

Baguio isn't "clean and green" (VM said so... huh) at all. It's dirty and things are going into an "aberrant" - a word which here means, as Lemony Snicket put it, "into a very, very wrong and causing much grief" -direction.

Simplicity at its Best

2008-07-23T02:45:00.001-07:00

Only a few of the beautiful things in life come by my way, if I may say so.

I'm not complaining - I am merely stating one of the facts in my life. In fact, I am saying this because one of the beautiful things in life passed by me today. Something I needed after a rather dissapointing 30 minutes in one of my classes.

I got to touch a little bird - about one-third my fist - and feel its soft feathers.

How wonderful would it be to be able to fly and leave everything behind? Of course if it would be rather ridiculous to want to be a bird, seeing that bird's have relatively small brains. But the point is being able to soar high in the sky, feel the wind rushing in your face and get lost in the clouds.

A Series of Unfortunate Events: A Fortunately Unfortunate Find

2008-07-23T02:40:00.000-07:00

A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Hostile Hospital
Lemony Snicket
HarperCollins Publishers
Text copyright © 2001 by Lemony Snicket
Illustrations © 2001 by Brett Helquist
257 pages, illustrations before and after text included

Of the Unfortunate and the Fortunate
Although it is never a good idea for a 13-year old to just go around and pick up a book in a certain bookstore and buy it – all because the author’s letter looked intriguing – without thinking whether the book is part of a series, I am very glad I had picked up The Hostile Hospital.

When I laid my eyes on the phrase “before you throw this awful book to the ground and run as far away from it as possible” from the author’s letter, I knew right away that I had to have the book. So I did buy the book and discovered a little later that The Hostile Hospital is the eighth book among the thirteen books of A Series of Unfortunate Events. It was fairly interesting how I came to know the book when I was a mere 13-year old – while thirteen is a rather unfortunate number, I have reason to believe that having discovered A Series of Unfortunate Events when I was thirteen is very fortunate.
My discovery of the book is indeed fortunate, for I have discovered a book I would cherish for all time but while I am fortunate, I am afraid that I cannot say the same for the characters of this book.

Unfortunate is a word that no one wants to hear – unless, of course, that person is hoping for news such as, “It is unfortunate that your parents have perished in a terrible fire.”

And that line back there, with the exception of the, phrase, “it is unfortunate that,” was exactly what had started the unfortunate events following the lives of the Baudelaire siblings, Violet, Klaus and Sunny.

Unfortunate is never a wrong word to use to describe the lives of the Baudelaire siblings, given that wherever they go, unfortunate events follow them like their own shadows; in this case the phrase “unfortunate events follow them like their own shadows” means “a horrible and disgusting man named Count Olaf has decided that he wants their inheritance so he follows them wherever they go.”

Written by a man who goes by the pseudonym Lemony Snicket – A Series of Unfortunate Events consist of thirteen (which is a very unfortunate number) books telling of the misfortune and strife that the Baudelaire siblings have experienced because of the terrible fire that had engulfed their parents therefore forcing them to live with numerous guardians who have either decided to abandon them or were killed by Count Olaf.

A Half-built Hospital and ‘Cranioectomy’
Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire’s lives had been plagued with all the probable misfortune in the world. All this misfortune had led them to be accused of killing someone and now they are running for their lives.

In this book, they encounter the Volunteers Fighting Disease and they were mistaken for fellow volunteers, in spite of the fact that they are three wanted children.

Fortunately for the Baudelaires, the Volunteers Fighting Disease do not believe in reading the newspaper for they believe in the line “news is good news,” and they haven’t seen the children in the news stating that they are wanted criminals.

The children then rode a van with the said volunteers to the Heimlich Hospital, a hospital that was half-finished and contained a rather disturbing intercom system.
Upon their arrival, the Baudelaires discovered that Count Olaf had found them and was once again up to his sinister ways. Count Olaf’s evil and fashion-slave-girlfriend, Esmé Squalor (or as she likes to call herself, the city’s sixth most important financial advisor) was also in the picture.

The children decide to work in the hospital’s Library of Records and there they discovered that there was a possibility that one of their parents may have survived the terrible fire that was the beginning of all their misfortune.

Violet, the eldest Baudelaire, was captured by Esmé and unfortunately for the Violet, Count Olaf, disguised as a medical practitioner, hatched a convoluted plan involving surgery for her, which he called cranioectomy – wherein he will saw her head off. Fooling people is one of the things that Olaf did best and unfortunately, when he told the people that cranioectomy was a proper medical procedure, they all believed him.
Klaus, the middle Baudelaire, and Sunny, the youngest Baudelaire, decide to look for their sister in the wards of Heimlich Hospital and discovered that Count Olaf had kept her under the name Laura V. Bleediotee, which is an anagram of her real name.
Now if only they can save their sister before the murderous Count Olaf saws her head off and his treacherous associates torch down Heimlich Hospital and its Library of Records…

How Far Down is the Rabbit Hole?
A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Hostile Hospital is a very interesting read, as the rest of the books in the series are. It gives a vivid description of events that it is almost like one is within the story itself. The contrast between the logical and the frustratingly irrational is enough to keep the reader glued to the seat and keep reading in spite of the danger of being attacked by vicious wolves.

One interesting thing about the book is that whenever a rather difficult word, phrase or thought is introduced, the author explains it to the reader – just like what I have been doing in the past paragraphs. All words, phrases and are defined in context to the book, of course.

A Series of Unfortunate Events is a children’s book, however, I have difficulty agreeing with those who may have insisted that it is so. The book is rather intricate, not to mention frustrating. It doesn’t comply with the usual children’s book that contains the traditional formula; there are no happy endings (unfortunate endings are the theme here) and everything just seems plain confusing. In fact, it seems like the author has “taken a leaf out of Lewis Carroll’s book,” a phrase which here means, “wrote a disturbing book like Lewis Carroll’s famous children’s book, Alice in Wonderland.”
Alice in Wonderland may seem appropriate for a child to read because of its imaginative prose but its disturbing concept would make one wonder, if not haunt anyone who has about half a brain.

Both books have the same disorienting streak, which gives the reader an impression of falling down the rabbit hole, as in Carroll’s book; and if one insists on going down the rabbit hole, one may find oneself in a rather confusing place. The enchantment in A Series of Unfortunate Events lies in its intricately woven details and the confusion. When it comes to this book, the question “how far down is the rabbit hole?” may only be answered with “it depends on whether you want to keep going down.”

Note from the author:
A review of the last book in A Series of Unfortunate Events, which is The End, is soon to follow - along with a full blown review of the series itself.

Always Interesting

2008-07-16T21:46:00.000-07:00

Anxiety attacks are often interesting. They give you a sudden rush, faster heart rate, and a slight tendency to deviate from all sanity.

It is always interesting how it can make one a slave by their own doing. It's interesting how that during the past few minutes, I had one and acted, once again, irrationally.

It's really interesting.

Fun Stuff #1

2008-07-16T20:47:00.000-07:00

Fooling around with pictures and a photo editor (PhotoFiltre - my Photoshop kept lagging for some reason) got me this. There's nothing spectacular about my editing, but I kind of like this picture.

One, at least I did something last night. Two, this picture has Corlene, Robby, Rozzanne, Jill, Glaiza and Van on it - six good friends of mine.

And by "good friends," I mean really good friends.

Finding Walls That Speak

2008-07-11T03:21:00.000-07:00

The inability to hold my bladder for extended periods had made me a regular visitor of public restrooms. Once seated, it cannot be helped that my eyes would wander around the small cubicle, taking in every detail.

Damn.

I don’t know if walls really do have ears, but they sure can talk.

Scrawled all over the door are proclamations of love, political commentary, enough obscenity to last a lifetime, and of course, the usual profanity.

Public restrooms, though public, still offer their visitors a certain degree of privacy, which means that the individual is pretty much left to his or her business. Logically, it is where anyone can write down what they will without the risk of being seen. The sense of anonymity the restroom offers is rather tempting. No wonder people have the courage to write stuff there.

Though it seems that most graffiti can be seen in the restrooms of less refined establishments, it is not always the case. One restroom stall I happened to use in a popular mall actually showcases its own share of graffiti. A sheet of bond paper with numerous handwritings is plastered to the door. Amusingly, it seems like someone tried to remove it, but only succeeded in ripping the edges off, leaving the middle part where most of the writings are.

While most of these graffiti found in public restrooms can be considered hogwash, some can be rather entertaining, not to mention beautiful and inspirational. Also, even though the subject is disgusting, when there are replies to these messages, the reading becomes interesting. The public restroom being exactly that, public – it gives everyone the chance to air their opinion.

Theoretically, people condemn the act of writing anything on public domain, much more those that consist of crass language. On the surface, these writings look like minor cases of vandalism (although, of course, the definition of “minor” is relative). However, what if we look at them in a different light? What if these scrawls across our restroom cubicle walls mean more than what they are saying?

In 1973, Norman Mailer wrote an essay entitled “The Faith of Graffiti” wherein he referred to graffiti as folk art; “the admittedly crass expression of the collective hopes, desires, and fears of the underclass.”

I don’t know how sure he was when he wrote the word “underclass,” (the person who wrote graffiti on the restroom cubicle may be of high status and he or she happened to have an uncontrollable bladder as mine, for all you know) but I have to agree with the rest of the phrase.

Hopes, desires and fears are things people barely talk about under normal circumstances… unless under the influence of alcohol (or something else), that is. These things, however, need to be expressed lest one is courting a heart attack. Expressing oneself is vital in one’s course of life. One is not missing an audience, though. If one writes something within a restroom cubicle, one can assure an audience. In fact, one can even return to the restroom cubicle and there may be a possibility of finding that one’s communicated problems may be answered by other public restroom users who offer their support through humor, advice and even inspirational statements. And then there might also be a lot of wisecracks which are unavoidable.

(Of course, I am talking about female public restrooms. I don’t have any idea what kind of graffiti may be found within the male restrooms, although I think it is safe to say that there is graffiti in there.)

Although the idea that there are deeper reasons to why one would stain a clean wall with ink other than barbarism (it may be recalled that our ancestors wrote on walls… cave walls) seems rather questionable, shedding a little more light into one’s previous notions may be helpful in understanding human nature, which, by the way, happens to work in rather mysteriously disturbing ways.

After all, who are we to judge those who relieve their inner feelings in public restrooms as they relieve their bladder (or even their intestines)? It’s not like we have any sure idea on their motives for writing, anyway. For all we know, the person may be sitting in the restroom cubicle, with the toilet cover down, crying and pouring her heart out on the walls. On the other hand, the person can be on crack – who knows?

One thing is sure though, if you find a restroom cubicle full of graffiti and you’re not someone who is ridiculously disinterested, reading them can give you enough entertainment for the time you are sitting there, doing your business.

Tertiary Education and Randomness: An Autobiography

2008-07-11T03:17:00.000-07:00

While there may be some things that I am certain of, like my name (which is, last time I checked, Aubrey Monteroso Angeles) - I was never certain of a lot of things.

I was born November 20, 1988 and I’ll be turning twenty in a few months. At my current age, I don’t think I’m sure that I know what I want or who I am. Not that I am experiencing some sort of identity crisis – what I may be experiencing right now is a dissatisfaction on the current state of things.

So how does one even begin to write an autobiography without sounding so… boring? I don’t want to make this into a chronological account of events. I want it to be more on who I am, rather than what merely happened in my life.

One thing’s for sure: it would pretty much be writing a history of my uncertainties.

Currently, I am a BA Communication student in the University of the Philippines, Baguio. My major is Journalism – I like it, although I don’t recall it being a childhood dream. When I was a kid, I used to dream of being a nurse. It was a typical dream coming from a child whose mother is a nurse. And then I started dreaming of being an architectural engineer. My father is a graduate of mining engineering.

Logically speaking, as a child I dreamt of being what my parents are – or at least partly.

When I was in the fifth grade, most of my teachers recognized my capacity to write well – some insisted that I take up a writing course someday. I, however, had other plans.

The way my mindset changed throughout the course of my young life is rather random; thus, I believe, casting doubt on my sanity.

Ever since I was in kindergarten I had been doodling. By doodle, I mean wasting valuable sheets of paper, drawing big-headed people (literally, of course – think Bratz). As I progressed through elementary years, I was able to produce rather beautiful sketches. I also won a clay sculpture contest (with the help of a fellow “artist”) and a few other art contests. When I entered first year high school, I was starting to think of a life with the arts.

And then the school principal (nosy old nun) decided to put me in the school paper.

Funny, how the school paper changed my life course.

By the time I got the job of associate editor of the literary page, I started thinking of becoming a writer in the future. It wasn’t like it was some sort of epiphany, but it’s something. I forgot all about the arts, eventually (see, most of my editorial cartoons went down the bin, given that my superiors thought I was rather too feminine with my work).

So anyway, all the seminars and press conferences I went to during my secondary years got to me. At my fourth year I became editor-in-chief of the school paper (which by the way, has the lousy name of The Williamite Gazette, courtesy of the school administration – I don’t know if it still has the same name, or if it still exists). I wasn’t so happy with the position as much as other people would have been; given the kind of responsibilities it hauled me into and the kind of people I had to deal with (like the school principal). However, it greatly influenced my way of thinking.

The applications I sent to the University of the Philippines and the University of Sto. Tomas for a tertiary education contained proof of what I believed I wanted to be. A journalism student.

So I guess I wanted to be a journalist. It felt like I was so sure of what I wanted to be. I was one of those people who thought that by the time I entered university life, I would have a map of where I wanted to be.

How clichéd.

It was the second semester of my first year in college that my certainty in my course started diminishing. I took up Philosophical Analysis (Philosophy I) under Professor Leticia Tolentino. I swear, she changed everything. The subject created an undeniable feeling within me – a feeling I prefer calling dissatisfaction.

(The reason why I prefer using the term dissatisfaction will later be revealed.)

One semester later, I took up a course on Social, Political and Economic Philosophy (Social Science II) and Contemporary Philosophy (Philosophy 113), both of which introduced me to abstract thinking. One challenged my interpretation not only of social, political and economic theories but also of human nature, while the other challenged my interpretation of reality itself.

Personal favorites are Machiavelli and Derrida.

Niccolò Machiavelli is an Italian political philosopher whose influential writing (although rather amoral) turned his name into a synonym of deception. He wrote The Prince which made a lasting impression on my mind – given that I adored the fact that Machiavelli implied that to instill fear among one’s subjects is better than instilling love.

As for Jacques Derrida…

Well let’s just put it this way: he pretty much influenced who I am now, how I think, and how I interact with people.

Derrida is a French philosopher who originated deconstruction. A lot of people like to think that they know what deconstruction means, but let me tell you what I think – I don’t think so.

To be able to interpret deconstruction, one has to repeatedly read Derrida and spend days and nights thinking in rather irrational but rational ways.

Deconstruction is a method of analyzing texts based on the theory that language is inherently unstable and shifting. The reader, rather than the author, is central in determining meaning.

This means that I am not giving you anything at all. What you get from this that I have written is your interpretation of what I have written. Since meaning is arbitrary and to “understand” is to take something as meant, I have enough guts to tell you that you are merely interpreting what I have written – not “understanding.” The original meaning of what I have written is lost upon another’s interpretation.

Only I know what I mean, after all. The rest of you are just… speculating.

So now I come to the part on why I keep calling this that I am feeling, dissatisfaction. A lot of people may say that it’s probably guilt or regret – however, let me remind you that I think in different ways. The way you see things is definitely not the way I see things. For example, you say impression management, I say deception.

But enough of that.

If anyone’s having trouble interpreting the way I am thinking, they can look up those two guys I mentioned back there.

I then took up Modern Philosophy the following semester, which pretty much sealed the insanity in. Honestly, I am not having any trouble seeing the borderlines of insanity, since I may cross it any day now. Mind you, I think I know how to get back.

Combine me and all the philosophy courses I’ve taken up and what do you get? A Journalism student who wants to embark on a life with philosophy. Yes, that definitely destroys everything.

For almost three years, I have been dealing with the fact that I want to shift to another course, but not being able to do so. It’s not that I hate Journalism, I just want something else.

However, I can't just shift to another course; while lots of people shift courses whenever they feel that the course they are in is not right, my case is rather different.

One, my parents, Ricardo and Asuncion, didn’t force me into Journalism. Although they had preferred that I be in the medicine profession, when they learnt that I “wanted” to become a journalist, they set aside what they wanted and let me be what I wanted to be.

After some time, my parents got over the fact that I wasn’t going to be in the medicine profession. Before long, they were starting to become excited over me becoming a journalist. My father used to tell me that as long as it makes me happy, they’ll be there to support me.

And then, I realized that I wanted to be in another profession. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I’m not trying to be a martyr. I’m merely trying to be fair. My parents let me have my way once and became happy for me, so I guess I can do the same for them. Of course, I’m not happy in the sense of the dictionary meaning of the word, more like, happy in a rather convoluted way.

Happy in a convoluted way. Yeah, let’s stick with that.

Two, it’s my mother’s brother who’s paying for my tuition. While shifting to another course in the form of Philosophy is tempting, I don’t want hard-earned money to go to waste. I’m trying to be rational; it doesn’t rain money, after all.

Three, if I graduate with a degree in Philosophy, teaching is a number one option. I tend to over-analyze things, therefore, I think I will make my students’ lives complicated. Besides, I don’t think that a teaching career will help me achieve any of my long-term goals. Taking a Philosophy course in the Philippines is not ideal.

On the other hand, if I do shift to a course in Philosophy, I think that this feeling of dissatisfaction will ebb away. Besides, Philosophy welcomes me and my insanity. It entertains my randomness in ways Journalism doesn’t, won’t, can't.

Over-analysis of things is a hobby of mine; call it an illness if you will. It brings forth paranoia, that which I am rather familiar of. Paranoia is something that Journalism forces out of me but follows me in the deepest recesses of my mind.

I’ve become rather paranoid over the years since I began my tertiary education. I do not know whether it has something to do with my course or anything else that I have in my life right now – but I am quite sure that it makes my blood rush into various parts of my body whenever my heart beats faster than normal, thus, keeping my blood from clotting wherever, which in turn, keeps me alive.

Anyway, there’s not a single chance that I will shift to a course in Philosophy now. I am now in my senior year. Hopefully, I’ll be able to graduate at April 2009. For the time being, I just have to set aside what I want for what there is.

Oftentimes, I like to think that Journalism and its nature of rationality is supposed to drive me into normalcy. So far, the only thing it’s driven me into is far more peculiarity.

June 2008