I guess I'm considering therapy writing. A critical memory just dawned unto me like gift-wrapped cowshit with a tiny parachute falling from heaven.XP

Let me tell you something about my childhood: I was a compulsive kleptomaniac. I'd take anything that would scintillate the dull sparkle in my eye. I lifted wads of cash from my parents' cash register. I pilfered my playmate's pair of red plastic barbie doll stilettos. I hid and took home my cousin's kitchen set. I shoplifted tiny toys and candies and trinkets from gift shops and toy shops, from nearby sari-sari stores and grocery stores, from the sidewalk vendors and flee markets. I pocketed--everyday--blocks of Lego from my kindergarten playroom until I had a whole set of my own. I filched things that didn't even matter to me--a keychain eyeball, a dummy mobile phone, an old battered broken radio, a magnetic piece of a board game, paper clips, men's shaving cream and razors, and other things that my memory fails retrieving at the moment. I stole my cousin's cousin's (cousin of my cousin, yes.XP) pink flowery shorts. I took my brother's favorite pair of sneakers and hid them in the most obscure inconspicuous corner of our house. I lifted valuable as well as nonsense things from my playmates' house--glass figurines, billiard balls, colored marbles, hello kitty magic cards, paper dolls, coloring books, stationaries, colognes, colored pens, hair clips, fake jewelry, and whatnot. I pocketed anything I wanted without guilt, without malice, without hesitations, without buts, without what-ifs, without doubts, without concern. I stole things for the thrill, the rush, the tension, the adrenaline, the impulse, for personal gain or monetary value, for the pleasure, the gratification, the relief after doing the deed and getting away with it, for the secrecy, for the fun of seeing other kids cry, confused, tricked, for the illusive power and increased self-worth from showing them off, and most of the time, giving them away, for the independence, the admiration, the glare of jealousy from my playmates' eyes, the fawning praises and gratification from the recipients of my stolen possessions, for the heightened sense of superficial meaning and purpose in life. My childhood is the groundbreaking foundation of Robin Hood's character profile, only that I didn't care about my magnanimity to other kids. I gave them stuff away just because I had no use for them. Then some observant philanthropist must've picked it up and confabulated a children's story along with it.

See, I'm consistently good at being bad. My parents didn't know I was a kleptomaniac until I was seven years old, when my first grade adviser talked to my mother about me pilfering my seatmate's three-hundred-peso bill. Back in the nineties, you're a millionaire when you owned a hundred peso bill. And when you have three hundred pesos in your pocket you're free to walk like a flashing three million peso worth of bank account. Hey, we're kids; everything's inflated and exaggerated. Then there was this naive stupid girl sitting next to me, trashing around her long black hair, pretending she was pretty and rich and powerful. Well, she had this pocket yanked wide open, her pink purse screaming and yelping out at me to be saved from the suffocation, the darkness, and the loneliness in her pocket's hellhole. I lifted it with my snatcherborn hand and turned it slowly into my backpack, until I caught sight of this other girl with large, dark, unblinking eyes. Hush! I pressed my forefinger onto my lips. A few hours later I was being reprimanded in the Principal's office, my mother faintly screaming at my academic adviser from the phone. Okay, my mother wasn't screaming at my thieving surprise; she was screaming that she even had a daughter. Anyway, long story short, I grew up a horribly deprived kid. All my siblings were grownups. My dad drank to torpor, squandered money in casinos, fucked a dozen women, did drugs, murdered someone, got imprisoned--the whole nine yards the sort of father you'd really want to look up to. While my mother was all sweaty-ass kicking her feet and punching her fists in our family business.

And there I was, alone with my dumb non-tagalog speaking nanny, piffling gibberish and gossiping with them similarly gibberish-speaking neighboring nannies.

I was an introverted kid. And all I ever really needed was to be loved. But I wasn't.

(Horrooooooooooooooors! Now I'm really exposing my cerebrals in this blog!XD My memories are inundating me I swear to God. Dense, repressed, forgotten memories neatly archived in the folds and creases of the darkest most impenetrable recesses of my brain. Moving on....XP Good lord, most of my memories are worth forgetting after all! Wahahahaha. Then again I embrace my human-ness, my flaws and pitfalls, whatever. I don't give a shit. I'm writing them down. Bug the fuck off.XP

But don't get me wrong, I had a happy childhood, alright!XP It's the bleak, gloomy memories that I'm attacking at the moment to hypnotize and psychoanalyze myself using the hypnotic, err, swirling qwerty keyboard while punching letters on the screen to connect it to my current post-adolescence trauma of...)

My Fear of Attachment!:o But let's not get into that just yet...

Hence, as I traversed my childhood and adolescence propped with the trauma of getting caught lifting my seatmate's purse, I fled to other means of culminating my self-worth: academics, friends, drugs, booze, arts, and music. It's all about the diversion. I was introverted, forlorn, downcast, and a pariah from my own family who neither cared nor acknowledged my existence. Fine. Life is best lived outside the house anyfuckingway.

I was internally distrustful, frightened, suspicious, cloaked in the visage of independence and compulsive self-reliance. I was on my own all throughout my life, cementing superficial friendship bonds here and there, hopping from one relationship to the next, moving from one apartment, from one environment and different people to the next. It was as if my life was chopped into different portions consisting of different settings and people and ways of living and different perspectives of my forced multiple personalities. Tell you what, I've lived in ten different apartments in four different cities in three years.

(Jesus Christ. I'm getting stifling bored narrating.XP)

Let's just fucking get to the meat and balls of the issue: so how did I have this fear of attachment?? And how does it relate to my repressed kleptomaniac childhood memories, hm?

(I'm really getting horrendously STIFF BORED typing and thinking about my current dilemma.XP Who gives a shit anyway??)

I fear love. I fear attachment. I fear boredom. I fear commitment. I fear dependency. I live in constant diversion. Books. Movies. Music. Art. Internet. Men. All these because I had a lousy childhood. Then again I don't blame my lousy childhood. I'll just prolly blame myself. But then again and again.XP My childhood is a part of myself, right?? Right??!

Jesus Fucking Christ!:o I'm thinking effing linear!XD But I still don't get myself.XP My brain is bleeding ketchup--been awake more than twenty-four hours now.

Word did you say?

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