Reasons and excuses 2

Because we are only friends, that’s why I needed an excuse.

I’m Fucked

No, I lost control again. I admit. I’m sorry I didn’t manage to say it with conviction like I did last night, my dear friend S. I feel fucked myself, quite fucked up really. I’m screwing up, I know it, I can feel it. I thought I was, then I wasn’t, then I was, and now I am lost in between of being something, and not something at the same time. My days were colored, then bleak, then it wasn’t color or bleak, then I don’t know what was day nor night. I breathed air, then smoke, then haze, or was it haze, or was it smoke?

Yeah, I lost control again. I went fuck in my head over and over again. I can’t believe history repeated itself. I need to tell someone, yet I can’t. There isn’t anyone. Is there? I thought I had control, I won’t post shit like this. But I went fuck even more, and I went fuck this shit, it’s my fucking blog. I blasted my music, I read my book, but all that really went on was about how the fuck I lost my mind while walking home. I wasn’t cool anymore, no, most definitely not. I was a kid again, a kid that I used to look and laugh at, at how stupid that kid was.

Even writing this now is so fucked up. It’s just a replay. It’s one of my movies where it wasn’t a comedy. It was a psycho thriller. I’m scared shitless. I’m never afraid of anything, but this one fucks the mind. I laugh at horror movies, but this fucks the mind. It’s so surreal, yet so real. And I’m still not writing about it. Because I’m scared. Yes. Me, to those who know me, I am scared.

I walked that path home I walked everyday. But it was empty. What was? I don’t know. I was avoiding people, kids and dogs. But it was weird. Wait. It wasn’t so empty anymore. I think it was. It is. I don’t know. Fuck. I felt like a crack addict getting home with a fucking withdrawal. No wait. I’m not on drugs. It felt like a fucking drug though. I think I was on drugs. I see a cop but I’m not scared, though I was on drugs. Am I? I don’t fucking know. All I know is, I got fucked over again. Don’t you just love how the word fuck just solves all the thinking in writing? Damn it, I can’t think now, all I can think is, I’m fucked.

Now here’s the fun part. I don’t even know if this is another of my stories.

I Riiiike!

Yes. This is the Irish Terrier. When I chanced upon this picture, I knew this is the dog I want. Fucking charmingly handsome.

Wish

I wish that day never happened.

Hope and Control.

After some discussion last night, I guess my friend is right. The word “hope” has negative connotations to it. You hope for something when you are not exactly at the position where you would like to be, and you hoped you had been there. But hope does not translate to doing. So I think, after some thought, that yes, perhaps hope is just wilful talk.

Then we talked about control, and I was asked if I had ever lost control. And my friend quoted my ex-relationship, that it was beyond my control. Then, I couldn’t think of a way to respond to that, I guess I could only agree, that it was beyond my control. But I thought about it today and I realised that all along, all that was important was self-control. No one can ever control everything around them, but you can control yourself. And so now, I maintain I still have control. As I grow, my control mechanisms are slowly building up. I admit I’m still temperamental, emotional and impatient among many other things, but I am slowly putting in place control mechanisms to help me along. I wouldn’t say I have become less violent, but I have controls to keep it in check. This I must thank the martial arts training which I had taken up before which helped shape it. Not too long ago, I lost control again, and it took me about a week to get it back, and now I’m pretty fine. Still teetering, but slowly controlling it. I guess that’s what I meant by control. You can’t really apply control to interpersonal relationships, because relationships are irrational. Chaos theory you know?  Non-deterministic? So, you can’t really formulate anything for it. All that matters is self-control.

Patience, patience, patience……

Not really my blog

I realised one thing about my blog. More like about myself. I am not really writing about myself anymore in this blog. Actually I do, but I doll it up into a magical story. And sometimes it’s not even about myself. It’s really becoming like a story book, even I don’t recognise it. I wonder, one day, would I remember why I wrote what I wrote? I thought about it, spent quite a bit of time, seriously thinking, and then, I isolated the reason: I don’t know who is reading my blog. I could write about what happened today, but I think that would be so boring. I mean, imagine:

I woke up at 7:30, a little later than usual and scrambled out to bed. I brushed my teeth but didn’t have any breakfast as I was running late…..

OMG. I rather have anyone reading my blog, even if I don’t know who they are, than no one at all.

But the problem with not knowing who is reading your blog, makes it dangerous as well. I guess. I mean, it’s a huge conflict in me, to, on one hand always believing in being truthful and saying what I feel without fear, yet at the same time, I know there are people who can’t take honesty or blatant truth. Or sometimes the things I say might be misinterpreted, and then there’s a big hoo ha about it.

This issue came to light especially when I looked at my growing list of drafts. 6 unposted drafts. I wrote them, and decided that I shouldn’t post them. Like military secrets, like sensitive documents. Secrets, that I wish I could tell someone. But I just have to keep mum about it. And so I spin tons of stories, but they never really seem to alleviate what I really want to say. It’s like a temporary relief. But it sure provides alot of ideas for stories.

So my msn nick for today was:

Just ask if you wanna know the truth, only if you dare to hear it 

I don’t know what else to say ROFL

“That’s about it.”

“Just like that?”

“I guess so. What else is there?”

“Abrupt isn’t it?”

“Yeah well, I don’t see any other way to it. Suggestions?”

“Maybe you can meddle around some more?”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t know really either, it’s your work.”

“Thanks alot. That’s one huge help you gave.”

“At least I said it didn’t look right.”

“I could see that myself. Don’t tell me something I already know.”

“Bro, you are stupid.”

“Fuck you.”

Mice Pride

The mouse was proud of herself. So fucking proud. Just the other day, she found out how a quick swish of the tail would swipe the cheese off the mousetrap and not have that huge snapper slam down and break her back. Like it did to granduncle.

Sneaky Humans.

She was big headed the day she noticed something wrong about that piece of tuna hanging in midair down a dark, no, black corridor. She remembered warning Nancy that something fishy (pun intended) was going on; the corridor looked pretty much like a dead end. But hell, that bimbotic Nancy could only think of the piece of fish. Sure enough, a door slammed shut when Nancy tried to grab the fish.

Most definitely fishy.

So Gin was way proud over her head as she watched relatives and friends go, especially after refusing to listen to her intuition. She went around telling her stories, “… and that bitch June wouldn’t listen to me that the silence was because the cat was waiting…” or “… Baxter suddenly lit up and smelled awful when I told him that the silver strip felt electrifyingly scary…” or “… I swear those pinkish red fishes were tearing Elsie up though I couldn’t really be sure through all the trashing…”.

Gin was simply confident that there was simply no way that those dumb humans could trick her little mousy intuition. She proudly strolled out that night, feeling quite infallible, always able to spot any danger and booby traps.

Sniff, sniff. A wrinkle of her nose. A good scan round the room. She spotted an odd piece at the corner of the room. Scuttling over, she prowled around it.

Like the cat, she thought, hee hee.

Sniffing again, she didn’t feel her intuition tell her anything, and she felt proud. Again. Fucking proud. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was though, it smelled cheesy, and anyway, humans had all kinds of weird cheeses. This should be another one of them. Dragging it back to the nest, she happily and most fucken-definitely proudly, called the nest out for dinner.

That night, everyone smiled in their dreams, especially little miss-fucking-proud Gin, as they dreamt the sweetest dream of eating a cheese which the humans called “Arsenic-Laced”.