She lives and works from her laptop on a little paradise island in the Philippines. She's a writer, graphic artist, and mountaineer. During rainy days she loves to sleep and oversleep and dream and daydream and then write. More »
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Classes are officially over but I still have one paper to submit today and I'm drunk and wasted, couldn't sleep, and I haven't written a thing.
Just one more fucking day and HORAAAAAAAAY FREEDOM!XD Two-week semestral break that'll be spent on reading SF, watching SF, nature tripping, and drinking booze til I drop dead mouth open with dried vomit caked around it.
Science fiction is all I ever read and watch any more. Them SF writers, they're the only ones who really care about the world. Politicians, priests, lawyers, the whole megastructure of professions in this planet--deep inside them, all they really give a shit about is their self. Only SF writers have the heart for everybody, for life, for the universe. They have the guts to talk about what technology and machines do to us, what society and the system do to us, what wars do to us, what simple ideas do to us. They're the only ones who really care about the future, the astronomical beauty of the universe, the inanity of human concerns, and the potential existence of highly evolved space aliens who are torn between rescuing us and destroying us. They're the only ones who really understand the world and all its problems and mistakes and catastrophes and parodies them into strange fiction that rather entertains us instead of terrify. They're the only ones who passionately wrestle with the limits of time and space, the ephemerality of the now, and the unsolved mysteries and complexities beyond us. They acknowledge the nonexistence of anything divine or supernatural in the natural world, and agonize over the fact that we are alone and that evil exists not because God doesn't care--is either impotent or malevolent or ignorant, classical Epicurus--but simply because we are human. SF writers are the real messiah. They are atheistic visionaries, the sacrificial lamb, the buffoons nailed on the cross, to save us from ourselves.
During the writers club interview, the interviewers asked me why I love SF writers. I was exploding with ideas but my tongue got lodged down my throat and all I could manage to say was, "I love them because I think they're visionaries." Err.XP I searched for some flicker of understanding in their eyes. There was none. All I could read was: ERROR! ERROR! DOES NOT COMPUTE! Please standby for shut down.
I still can't move on I failed the interview. It was a neutrino bomb that blasted my ego to smithereens.XP I SUCK!XP Kick in the fact that I was hung over and sleep-deprived and sweating like a sweaty bitch underneath my shitty formal attire not to mention too arrogant to even care about passing the interview, my braincells just weren't working.
Why do I care? I don't give a shit about the org really. It's just that Dana and I fancied ourselves saving UPWC from suicide and become vanguards of the new generation of Filipino writers.XP Booooooo. Fuck me, people, fuck me.XP
SO. Whatever. Moving on.XP
Last requirement for school to be submitted today! Huzzahness! And I still haven't a blink of sleep. Goodlordyyy.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. I need more BEER to grant me at least two hours of sleep to recharge my brains for the goddamn paper. (I swallowed Sleepasil but it didn't work.XP Fuck you placebo you fucker!) Speaking of which, there's been a shortage of Red Horse Beer supply at Sarah's and Sefali recently, the only booze places around school I whore myself to, and we were forced to glug SMB Pale Pilsen instead. There wasn't any other choice. The only choice left being, San Mig Light tasting like tap water with stale beer innit.
Pale Pilsen. The old school beer my father and forefathers killed themselves with before finally going to beerheaven with cirrhosis and a beerbelly. Pale Pislen traumatized me as a kid. My dad always came home drunk smothering me with good night kisses and hugging me too fucking tight reeking with it. It was disgusting. Having an alcoholic zombie father kiss me like that. We weren't even close, mind.
Pavlov's Classical Conditioning. I had a psychologically irrational hatred for Pale.
Anyway, moving on. My first bottle of Pale tasted weird and bitter and retchy I missed Red Horse right away. But after a week or so adapting to this new taste, I kinda sorta liked it. I guzzled Pale like an old-timer. When RH came back it was just too sweet (same thing with black coffee when sugar ran out :p) I continued tippling Pale instead.XP
Wooooooooooot Pale! I've switched brands! Well, technically both brands of beer are produced by the same monopolistic corporation, San Miguel.XP But still.XP I'm an old school beer drinker after all.
Word Up
Dana19.10.09 - 11:43
Tobey19.10.09 - 21:48
HAL20.10.09 - 09:16
tine28.10.09 - 22:31