I want to write!X0 GAAAAAHHH. And just when the impulse is there pulsating in every mitochondrion of my body driven with an autopilot nerve to turn the computer on and write ceaselessly til my brain depletes of twitching synapses and my fingers develop reflex muscles, I have no choice but to repress my wave of thoughts and tuck them neatly away in a dank corner of my memory. And right when I have squatted myself in front of a technological contraption armed with an internet connection that bewails my words and convoluted sensibly nonsensical ideas, the impulse is gone, the ideas gone; nay the brain cells are there--empty, transformed into idiocy through the passage of time and this memory's mounting oblivion; and my fingers once nimble and fierce and keenly attuned with my train of thought, now limp as overboiled strips of macaroni.

Oh, I have not the foresight whether I shall be able to tolerate days, weeks, nay, months, without writing (on keyboard; no pens please; welcome to my penless paperless generation.), or, I shall be able to train my right hand to write on paper again. All of these, should I not exercise, shall divest myself of improving my writing performance. (O, obsessed, that I am--whether of writing or blogging, it's the same banana, classified in different rubrics of self-expression nonetheless.) There's OpenOffice, Microsoft Word, or Notepad, of course, but unable to publish them online defeats that self-expression. ('Course, I could save it on my memory stick, but hell, the effort! GAH.X0)

But yes. I am fortunate indeed to have abstained myself of bumlife pleasures, viz., endlessly surfing the internet til I drop dead in the morning with kilobits of pixilated images malevolently swirling around my head; and earthly poisons consumed in gradual, incrementally small amounts over a stretched period of time, including: alcohol, weed, and cigarettes, all of which I haven't gotten the time to spare. And yes, I haven't had a drop of alcohol scorch down my throat in THREE weeks, nor weed to desiccate my body, nor cigarettes to annihilate my brain cells (Sidenote myth: every cigarette you take kills one brain cell; but of course, our body is made of trillions upon trillions of cells; a hundred pack of cigarettes wouldn't even amount to a flake of dandruff sloughing off your head. And yes, I have no statistical data to back that up, but you get the drift.) for I haven't got the time to stop a while and sniff a whiff of cigarette smoke trailing from suicidal pedestrians, when before I had been the Avatar of Cigarette Smoke Factories belching nimbus clouds and sputtering heaps of volcanic ash at every cigarette break and the breaks in between those cigarette breaks.

Nevertheless I have devoted myself to my books. And my reading list for the week goes as follows:

1. Ninotchka Rosca's Twice Blessed (Nearly finished. The very first novel I've read written by a Filipino author. o_o And I thought Filipino novelists were wussies. This one is reeking with hilarity in the context of 1990s Philippine politics. (Oh politics! I abhor politics!))
2. William Golding's Free Fall (Half way through.)
3. Homer's The Odyssey (Nearly finished.)
4. James Joyce's Ulysses (I'm on page 20. Demeaningly challenging. I squirm and coil myself into a worm by Joyce's every cavernous profundity--large, dark, deep, heavy, and resonating with emptiness and pointlessness, or perhaps I'm just too sophomoric to understand, but I get a sense of her wit nonetheless, but not its entirety. (I'd read one line, stop, read it again, stop, read it again, and suddenly reach a kind of epiphany.))
5. Dante Aligheri's The Divine Comedy (I'm finished with Inferno, half way through Purgatorio; the Paradiso, untouched.)
6. A. S. Byatt's Possession (Oh! Beyond eloquence! Prettyful! My eyes flutter with glee upon every page!:D)
7. H. G. Well's The Time Machine and The Invisible Man (Two novels in one book, cheapskins.:D)

I want to write all about them, but I haven't got the time. Sad. Other books I have just bought: I can't recall. BAH. Titles don't stick to my head unless I read them. My current preoccupation thus: aestivating with my books on my sweat-drenched bed right in front of an unprotected stainless steel-bladed electric fan, which I have fancied shall spin off its base and osterize me alive. OHMYGAD, hangheeeeenet lately, mygulay. I can feel the very effects of global warming turning my own bucketfuls of sweat into a scathing jacuzzi steambath. Suddenly I am reminded of chickens submerged in a basin of boiling water, whose quills of interlocking fine fiber strands could answer the country's pen and pencil shortage, but were rather vehemently plucked out wet and tousled from the slayer's hands, and then thrown away into a garbage disposal. I am that chicken, and I have my armpits to prove it!XP Chicken skin, good grievances. The mortification.XP

I have a secret that'll cease being a secret once you read the next patch of words: I've been taking anti-depressants.XP READ: I am depressed. WAAAAH. I promised myself never to take those (dragz mhen dragz) but rather undergo the natural way back to my hyperness and workaholicness and tirelessness and extrovertedness (Oo, extroversion, walang word na extrovertedness; huwag masyadong madala sa parallelism.XD At oo, hyperactivity and workaholism yung dalawa. Ngunit hindi na nga ako extrovert, yun yung point!XP (But I didn't point that out previously, anyway.)) GAAAAH. I'm still a bloody hermit.XP But I shall have to inch my way out to the wilderness, might even commune with dear mother nature, meditate in lotus position sitting on my own piss and shit thus repelling any form of social interaction with humans and animals. That's still living in reclusion nonetheless, just in a dramatically different setting. Which brings me to: What is extroversion? Well. I am an extrovert online (don't point to my narcissistic blog anyway), but offline, my current social predisposition is limited to my interactions with my classmates, professors, librarians, bookstore personnel, and secondhand book vendors, not to mention, the housemaid who delivers breakfast and dinner into my room. Besides that, I have shunned off my friends (and lovers kuno; potential, anyway.XP One of them just died by the way, was gunshot on the head.) out of practical reasons that: I love books and nothing else--not my family, not my friends, no, nada. I have become a vegetable with no heart, no emotion, no passion for humanity. BAH. Rambling. Useless rambling. Stop typing gaddemmet! BUT! I neeeeeeeed to write. Otherwise I am going to DIIIIEEEEEE.

Blogging is the basest form of self-expression. A great artist would rather weave his experiences into poetry or fiction or art, but those who cannot help themselves prattle away incoherently--that, I am. Because FINALS is apparently looming right around the corner--aye! Next week and next next week! And the semester is OVER! WOOHOO!XD

I miss my daily dose of stumbling. :c

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