8/7/12 Tue. : 1st Day of O.T.

Nice, one thing is for sure. There will be challenges up ahead, but most of them are coming from me, not from my peer 1Ls. No doubt, we are privileged in our ways and the pack is definitely of the intellectual convention, however, I see most of them unthreatening. And with modesty I will be of same nature to them as well.  Encouragments can help, but don't depend on it. Remember, it is about the mind control, "One Shot, One Kill". I can accomplish this mentality. I ought to, must, need to strive in this aspect. Well, good job. The brighter side of the shade coming up ahead.

Short Story #1

The perspiration on his forehead is a hint of weather outside. Even before opening his eyes, he felt his throat soar from last night's inebriation. Like always, he imbibed more than he could, and should. The sun was scorching outside, no clock nearby, but instinctively he knew it was a gauche to start the day so late. From the small window in his room, and whatever the space allowed for the sun, the wooden coffee table and whatever was on top of it were enameled with the light's gold. The room was stifling. He thought, 'all these gold, yet I'm trashed.' He let out a cynical smirk and regretted not having the drapes closed the night before; he could've been put out of misery longer, but to have it inevitably come back that much later. He maneuvered  to reach a glass of water left on the coffee table. Lying on his chest ever since God knows when his body was contorted, as if performing complex yoga position, to drink for his survival. The result wasn't what he had hoped for--lukewarm--yet, he managed to drink to its bottom. He grimaced as the water left a scent of staleness, or whatever you expect from a lukewarm, old glass of water. He flipped to his back with his right forearm on his head and closed his eyes. Recounting yesterday, he remembered bits and parts of the club scene. Only fragmentary after his impressive 5-shot tequila streak. He grabbed fist with his right arm trying effortlessly to erase that memory of shame. It was only to prove that he was once a party animal like any of the genuine animals at the club. He remembered swiping his credit card for unnecessary juice. It was another moment of bravado only to be ripened to shame and regret. Squandered money, assiduously earned regret. Maybe five minutes have passed, he rescinded his mind  from yesterday's oblivious agony.

He got up, took a cold, half-empty orange juice carton out of the refrigerator, and gaited limpingly toward the balcony. It was totally middle of the day, and the shade didn't permit much space for him to stand there. He would've just head back in, but he lit his Marlboro. Uncomfortable as he was, his sandle was molding to his feet, or so he imagined. He thought, 'fuck it' and went back into the house with his cigarette still lit at the corner of his mouth. He left the door wide open.

He checked his pockets for his cell phone. The same jeans from yesterday. This time he said it out loud, "Fuck". Then soon he heard his phone ring. "Moves like Jagger~". The tone he admired, but now hackneyed. He picked it up under the sofa he was sleeping on, "Wssup, Chris".
"Hey bro, finally awake?" said Chris.
"I don't know, am I?"
"Haha, are your lips bruised up from talking all that candy into her ears?" pried Chris.
"No, my throat is soar like a mother," he replied unpretentiously, trying to elicit more truth about his lost memories of yesterday.
"Damn, you were trying yesterday. Well, I'm not surprised. How was the blonde? She was pretty up there with her hotness. Yikes!" said Chris with enthusiam congruent to yesterday's.

"Wha..." and before he could finish, he heard his toilet flush. His heart skipped a beat and in that brief moment scenes of yesterday night flashed at the back of his head. Loud music, dancing, accidental bump to a group next to his, laser lights flashing from bottom of her Jimmy Choo to her face with his eyes following the guiding light. Her skinny legs to bodacious curvatures accentuating lust for the eyes of beholders, tight, blue, one-piece skirt curtained by her silky blonde hair. Her eyes green, not too big, but edgy which her smiles were as visible with her eyes as her thin lips. Quick apologies, bravery triumphant, her group adjoining to his, bathroom break to regather the composure, inviting the girls to the VIP room. Silence is guaranteed in such rooms for sealing the deal for the night; time for mad sugar into their ears and uninterrupted from loud music. However, their room managed to keep up with energy that was vibrant on the floors. Four on four and the chemistry was great. Nonetheless, it was without a doubt that the blonde with green eyes was the trophy.
"Hey, I will have to call you back" he said in his whisper.
"Yo, wait man, tell me about..." Chris was ignored before he could finish.

He took out the cigarette from his mouth and threw it into the kitchen sink and walked towards his bathroom. He leaned on the door to eavesdrop but the door swung open. The blonde was standing giving him the impression that he should be ashamed of himself in a teasing expression with her index finger moving side to side. The thing about her eyes was that it was alluring and entrapping, very charismatic, but his peripheral vision alerted him that she was naked. She swung the door shut. He quickly went back to his bed room and saw her clothes everywhere. He thought, 'Wow, fantastic baby'.

Then he woke. His throat was sore from yesterday night's drinking. He was sweating because of the scorching sun outside. Everything the sun managed to reach had gold tint in the house. He twisted his body around to drink the lukewarm water from his coffee table. 'Man, what a dream. Why not the part of action in the dream?' he thought. Then "Moves like Jagger" rang and he picked up. It was Chris saying, "Hey buddy, how are you feeling?"
No reply.
"Dude, the blonde yesterday was so hot." said Chris.
Then he heard his bathroom flush. Startled by the sound, he said, "I gotta go".
"Wait, do you have..." Chris was ignored.
With slight hope and as vivid as his fresh dream lingered in his head, he approached the bathroom.
He can still remember the blonde's sexy body, her smiles, and her staggering beautiful green eyes. He held his breath and leaned to the bathroom door...

"any toilet papers?" Chris sheepishly asked.

New Expression of Anger

Knowing that without clarification and
Flying fists don't resolve anything but
Things get coiled even stricter
I let loose of my fury's boa constrictor.

It used to be that, a fist full of gist of my anger would suffice.
With age, I know that it doesn't make me fly, but another chain restricted.

My biggest fear is that, I cannot give back what I have secretly promised.
Promise without recognition, you suppose, exists no fear.

But more than keeping them, I have failed these promises.
I promised to be good to those who were good to me...
But have I been good?

I saw a film recently, of a man desperately with fury calling out to God for the last resort.
Unresolved ending with viewer's discretion as how it ends,
My biggest fear is that God does not hear me. Preceding fear overruled.
Yeah. That is my biggest fear.

People tell me that I'm an idealist who refuses to face the reality.
My priority was based on somewhere in the vagueness beyong this world's reality.
And everytime they said so, it infuriated me.
But the truth is that, with abhorrence to admission, it extinguishes more flame then I can feed.

Funny, how the word, "Fuck!" can have so many different meanings.
Funny, how the word, "Fuck!" can have much more profundity than any other decent words.
Funny, how the word, "Fuck!" suffices me, yet it will never to you.

So I say, "Fuck You"... at least then you will be as much as offended as I am struggled to say such barbaric words, with or without concerning you in the first place.

Reality versus Women versus Men

A poor man can propose to you saying, "I have had nothing in my life, and having you next to me means everything to me. I will do anything for you."

A rich man can propose to you saying, "I have had everything in my life, but nothing can complete me without you. I will give anything for you."

Now, women, think to yourselves and categorize which proposal you want.

When it comes to an end, it will sound like:

a poor man saying, "I know I didn't deserve you. You were a dream that cannot come true to people like me. I hope you find happiness, at least the happiness I couldn't give you and at most the happiness I wanted to give you."

A rich man saying, "I will never have experienced what I've had with you, if you aren't there. I will always remember you with a hole in my heart. Life never complete."

Either way, when you (women) feel the genuineness of a man's heart you'll know what his love was for you.

I'm not a sexist, but men are slaves of reality, either way, just as much as you women are. Now, the smarter (more calculative, and precise species of the two) women, might say I want to meet someone who has climbed himeslf up the ladder to have known penury and the success he has ripped, I will tell you something. If you are someone who was hesitating between the two previous options, you are out of the question to him. If you don't have something more than he has, then also you are out of the question. One thing about men, is that we are species of competitive residue, not by our will but by your (women) and society's will. It's only a matter of sheet of paper to see women as achivement or love.

More and more, we are cornered to do better. But by whose standards are we thriving? Sports cars? Playboy mansion? Fame? What it all comes down to is nothing but a  twig into the flame of vanity fair. In the last moments, we are doing what we are doing so that we can realize that it wasn't worth shit. Some kill, some die, some go crazy, some go sad, some go mad, some go back to zero. Pesimissim spitting, no, but there's no hero for residence. Anyone can become a hero for a moment, for whatever reasons. But don't waste your life trying to become a hero for someone else. Become a hero for yourself and just hope that God will find it good in His eyes.

My personal thought, worth less than two pennies to you, is that I hate myself becoming enslaved just like our fathers and you. Call me an idealist, romanticist, or a dumbass, or a spoiled brat who never realized aspect of your life. I'm used to it. Give me that finger. I accept it within my circumference of my understanding, for I know that you who give less than two pennies worth about what I think, is less than that for me.

Digital Childhood

As I hold grande-sized Americano between two palms, it gives off more than what I've paid for through its warmth between my fingers and the steam escaping through the plastic hole to my frozen skin, and of course, also to my heart with its fluid. Across the table, I gaze at another party of three women and a child. Not too old, but not too young seems to the women's age, but what I find interest in is the perfect side view of a child about six years. A smart phone leaning against his juice tin is placed right in front of his face--his body slouched with his arms crossed to pillow his small head--and his expression remains emotionless, or just the same other way around, like the textbook illustration of any bored student in a class. Many of us believe that a smartphone will keep a child occupied and on leash in public places while the adults carry on with their businesses. But this imagery casts doubt upon me on who is keeping what occupied.

As the concrete rises taller, it seems the childhood once we have enjoyed--all the symbolisms of childhood in running the green field, capturing insects and frogs, and building empires of sand--are diminishing. I do not wish to stimulate another polemical argument of whether it is wrong to have a child raised as they are in modern times, but rather, I wonder as vivid as my childhood memories are to me I see how such lived past can be of distant history and almost legendary-like to the kid across the table. If told, would that child be filled with awe and jealousy, or with nonchalance and contempt? Times are definitely changing, I can tell by such simple observation. When that child grows up to be my age, what kind of reflection will he have of his childhood through another posterity of his age now? Will he have an Americano or what else?

BR: "The Five People You Meet In Heaven"

This book was just a reconfirmation of my personal belief in after-life. Although, different in structure, it was like the counter-version of Dante's Inferno. I always thought after-life was palpable reason to make sense of this life. The audacity, intelligence, capabilities, potentials, and emotions of human being does not make sense to have its bottle corked by the time allotted in this world. More so, the clear superficiality of people's lives throughout mankind seem so futile to have just indulge in pleasures, and to expand.

Truly it is just a theory, but I cannot feel more attached to the quote, "But all endings are also beginnings. We just don't know at the time." The protagonist learns to acquire five lessons: all things in life are meaningful without mistakes and there are consequences which interconnect all of the people, sacrifice can veer the courses of life, forgiveness cures the poison of anger, love outlasts life and death in a different form called memory, and finally, freedom from guilt is the freedom from within which requires acknowledgement of the guilt. Of course, these themes may differ from the author's intention and I am no scholar to have had this book under scrutiny. These are just my personal enlightenments. But I found it ironic how the lessons we can achieve throughout this life time can be passed onto the next--sort of like unfinished homework. My answer to this irony can only come from conjecture that, as the book had mentioned, we are to make sense of our lives before fully being admitted to heaven. Hence, I can insinuate that what we experience in this world plays a vital role in continuing what was just paused, what we call death.

BR: "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by George Orwell

They say that reluctance to cooperate with materialistic society or the acceptance of hierarchy and necessary pre-requisitory measures of success in this money-god world can be deemed as freedom, with condescending tone. For they also equivocate such freedom with free-fall--longer the freedom, harder the impact of reality. Once a victim, they will probably convene around you to offer their consolation, blithely, and concern only as adversely reflected in proportion of their sheer reconfirmation on their beliefs; that the money is their god and all innately subordinate. But if they are right, the victims will differ in their ability to become resilient after the fall--from dumbfounded to some found dead.

So I guess there's no such thing as freedom in this world, at least in this sense, for Gordon is fighting or falling in the battle against the money society. The only alternative is to keep fighting or falling in the battle against the society without knowing the depth of it. But the fear of continuous anticipation of the fall and being aware of it, he had lost since the initiation. His approach was not to sell his soul to earn money up to his capacity. The consequences of it was harsh, from squalor he is consistently reminded of his wretched and limited circumstances between romance, friendship, family, self-dignity, and even basic necessities. On the other approach, he would lose again by freeing himself from dire circumstances and succumbing to the system, for he had declared himself a war.

Either way, it seems to enlighten me in such way that this system we live in, there's no escape, hence no true freedom. Whether we are enslaved to make them, or to curse about the loosened leash, money is money. The degree of commitment may vary, but it is necessary part of our lives, more so now than ever it seems. The obvious truth is stipulated by Mr. Orwell with details enlivened by Gordon and the objective of this book was probably to remind ourselves of the world we live in, the capitalism. Most likely, we will recur about the lives we live once more in this perspective upon the end page of this book. Some might be bolstered about their current views, some will be even more discouraged, and some will scent their youth in nostalgia when we were once all oblivious. As for me, I had come to accept the shame of part-taking of this game, but with precaution as to avoid full visibility of brand of slavery.