You Know It's All I Think About

Last week I came across a sunburst standard Squier Stratocaster on sale, which was great because some time ago I decided it was time to own one of those things after years of Gibson fandom. But I sat on the decision/had too many meetings and when I finally came around to buying it this week it was gone.

Story of my life? Not quite. The story of my life would be trying to purchase it and being told it wasn't on sale.

...

Anyway I especially wanted one because I needed massive cheering up, where very few have succeeded. I'm not sure now whether that would have worked though.

I do not want: anything in black or red or double fat strats or strat-copies (technically a Squier is still a Fender) or super-strats or stratacoustics or strats in black matte. Just give me my sunburst and the complete Gin Blossoms discography.

Yes I'm stubborn that way or haven't you noticed. Nothing will ever do.

...

We've formed another band and while the set list is far from perfect, it does get me to play some of my favorite songs, which I won't share just yet. Suffice to say no freaking MYMP.

..

Still coughing and still wired out and still hanging by a thread. And going into software BAT. Something tells me I'm not through taking a beating.

Somewhere Along In The Bitterness

I feel that I will literally just drop dead...

...from exhaustion. I'm in meetings all day and my day starts at 10 and ends at 12 or worse and there are a billion things I need to do and I have no idea how to do them correctly so sometimes I need to do them thrice over just to make sure it's right and even then it won't be perfect and that just fucking kills me.

...from coughing. I've been sick for about three weeks now and I'm pretty sure people have gone past pity and into annoyance and sometimes I find it hard to just fucking breathe properly and I have this theory that it's really just crying without the waterworks and that one really bad cough will be my last.

...from loneliness. See above and it kills me to see you mad or unhappy and sometimes I really just wish my heart would just fucking stop beating.

...from depression. I have come to the conclusion that just by definition, I will never be good at the things I need to be good at so fucking badly.

No title this time.

I fell in love for the first time when I was sixteen. It started out the way it always starts: not at first sight, because usually "first sight" will involve unflattering flourescent lighting. There's this period of silent admiration, when every single day is just a contest of how good being with her can make you feel. This takes about the same time to deliver a package, around six to eight weeks. Then there's the very very short period where people start to notice and you yourself get a little vocal about it. Maybe throw in a back massage now and then. Okay, once, but you get the point. This short stretch will culminate in a singular night of celebration, in this case over beer and smokes.

What happens immediately after that is a mystery period. For example, if celebratory event happens/happened on a Friday, the mystery period will span that weekend. In these couple of days I am hung over with something else aside from alcohol, and I cannot wait to get back to class.

And then the bomb hits. On Monday, the girl is incredibly distant. Aloof (hate that word). Desperation creeps in. The type of desperation where you try to look around for anything that will start a conversation but it's all in vain. This goes on for about a week before she ends up holding someone else's hand, and I end up somehow on the depressing end of a stopped ferris wheel.

Now maybe I've read too much Hornby, but I know I came up with this theory long before I read the book or saw the movie (I think she's witness to that): that every uh, "relationship" since then has had more or less the same fucked up storyline. The time periods may stretch or contract a bit but relative to each other they remain the same. And it all ends up the same as well, except usually it's without the ferris wheel. But always it's a fucking circus. Bouncing off the walls and whatnot, being destructive inward and outward and generally just screwing your life until there's nothing left. And one day there will really be nothing left and you will have to find something else to read.

What the hell makes me think that each one is different? Or that one day it will all change? And what the FUCK happens over the mystery period? Not that it matters, probably. I cannot stop it.

And why does it hurt like it was new every time?

Happy birthday to me, by the way. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

Taken Hostage

I guess it's time to shake the dust off this quote from the Sandman books:

"Have you even been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...

You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love."

in Sandman: The Kindly Ones by Neil Gaiman

This is shaping up to be the saddest, suckiest birthday ever.

There's No Way To Go But Down

Outside Looking In (from the Gin Blossoms) is probably the best-named best-of ever.

...

There's NO way to GO but down.

Yes, it's another delay and another black mark on my record and another two weeks of slaving to the grind. It's all very new to me, why? Because usually I don't stick around to find out how delayed a project is. Haha. So funny coz it's true. Somewhere out there there are a couple of former project managers who are not laughing.

It got so bad I actually drove around the block a couple of times hoping I'd run into someone I know so I could go out for a drink.

Des says it builds character. I'm fucking dying of character.

And yet when people ask me how work is I always say it's great. Either I'm too proud to admit that things are going wrong (work-wise, the other stuff that's going wrong I'll get to in a bit), or I'm in denial. Or both.

But things are great. Honestly.

...

Ran into a couple of friends, independently. One was the harbinger of way delayed news; the other was the harbinger of delayed enlightenment. No, I shant elaborate.

Except that I realize again I have a weird way of coping.

...

I spent Saturday at work (because clearly that was the weekend's hottest ticket), fighting software design issues, sleep deprivation, that lump in my throat, and talkative officemates. It always has to be something, isn't it?

...

I was looking around and I realize I've been tagged! Very timely, too (okay, so it's dated last year). I need the cheering up:

Instructions: Name ten of life’s simple pleasures that you like the most, then pick ten people to do the same. Try to be original and creative and not to use things that someone else has already used.

In no particular order, and trying not to be too specific:

1. Well-blended vanilla shakes.
2. Celebrity impressions.
3. An email that I can reply to without double thinking what to say.
4. The guitar outro to "Alive".
5. Seeing you break into a smile or a laugh.
6. Breakfast.
7. Perfectly worded sentences.
8. Sunday afternoon Ateneo campus.
9. Meetingless evenings.
10. Good endings.
    

I won't ask ten people to do the same because I don't have that many readers.

Edit: For some reason that list made me feel worse. Ahhh to hell with it.

You know what the source of all pain is? Caring.

And All Of My Lonely Secrets To You I Tell

Now look what you've done.

A friend once told me that listening to Everything But The Girl was never a good sign. I'm inclined to think that he's right.

I can't take this!

If I listen to any more of this I'm liable to break down.

Speaking of EBTG, that's one band name I wish I had thought up. The other one would be Dashboard Confessional. There's some linkage there somewhere. Find it.

Speaking of linkage, and just because it's all over the blogosphere, I link. You're killing me, Steve Jobs.

Sometimes In Life You Get A Second Look

The first post of the year comes to you from my fevered brain in bed on a Saturday night. And it's surprisingly upbeat.

So 2006 was far from perfect. In fact, there were times when it just plain sucked. And times when things were just blah. So what's with the outlook?

It could be that I've finally learned to take the good with the bad, instead of just highlighting the crappy stuff like quitting your steady job and delayed project deadlines.

Or it could be that this was the year I found myself at a/with company that was cool enough to work for, and decided to take the step out of just being a developer.

Or it could be that I've turned well-adjusted. Or sold out, depending on who you talk to.

Or I just ended the year perfectly.

Yeah, that's it.

(I think I just dared reality to wipe the smile off my face. You know what? Bring it on.)

...

Yeah that was a crappy retrospective. But I'm sick, and I need to sleep/watch House, unless he operates on a baby again. Maybe tomorrow.