Stories to Tell

I think that will be my next installment on this blog. A little less rant and more humorous reflections on things that have passed...

Part 1:

A Quintessential Parisian Revelry

This is the actual photo of the room (courtesy of Ms. Elaine).


To be continued...

Leper Deontological Crisis

Many have said (in the most patronizing tone) "Life if what you make of it!"

Wise existential advice indeed, yet too optimistic and sugar coated in everything sweet and nice for my palette. It is an incredibly vague statement that falls short of the truth of our present circumstances. Instead, I would bitterly declare "Life is what it makes of you."

What is the difference, you may ask? An immense one, that divides so wide, that Indiana Jones could not possibly manage to maintain his balance on a "leap of faith". Most memorable as a narrow extension(Temple of Doom) taking the form of a frightful (for those that suffer from vertigo, or managed to watch the Hitchcock film an obsessive amount of time) bridge to the other side of the cavern. Whoa what a long analogy. Obviously, I am partial to them.

"You" on the end of the second mantra is a strategic placement of emphasis of the sentence itself. For those who have suffered the pitfalls of everyday existence, you all know that the ways of the world are out of our control. Thus, life is the antagonist, and we are the mere receivers of its whim. I do not believe the first mantra is very practical to say the least, it indicates that you are in charge of your happenings, almost stroking your inner fantasy for a fulfillment of a god complex. Something, I am very much addicted to. However, as paradoxical as it may be, acknowledging that you must take the blunt of the storm of "life" ( I know I sound like a New York Bestseller Christian Self-Help book, by the number of times I say LIFE ), only strengthens the foundation of the tree (ah! I said Tree, also a biblical symbol).

I have had my share of responses these supposed forces of nature. Nevertheless, I know I must maintain, be allusive, yet purport for what I want, for the satisfaction gained by reaching goals are my only means of survival and happiness.

I should not have had that beer an hour ago. I tend to write in a sentimental manner when I do so. At the beginning, I wanted to rant about the unfair situations I have encountered, not only for me, but for others I know.

I walked away from the living room in my matching blue monogrammed pajamas, and beige turban headband, clutching my MACBOOK. The white stick from the cherry dum dum pop protruded from between my lips, like an anorexic mock cigarette. Strange sight for those new to the household, but all too common for those who reside with me. I cannot recall why, but I walked with a particular stride up the stairs in this outfit, confident, but irritated by the fact that nothing will ever work with me again. What I mean is that, I always encounter things working against me- a new concept for someone who perpetually did that best to attain the best, becoming disappointed by the turn in my wheel of fortune. My ideal is never reached and those who offer nothing, but more the same often ascend, breeding homogeneity, manifesting the mundane lifestyle many so often forfeit for death.




Deficient in skills valuable to capitalistic society, I can honestly say that I will never be a candidate for the Ivies or any professional bureaucratic occupations. Strange, because this was always the longing of my nurtured heart, yet old news for my "nature".

Prospects are down, and the future is bleak for those that mutations of our proverbial gene pool. Only if the wheel of fortune would turn on the other side, then I would get a little satisfaction.

However, I am a firm believer that the misunderstood will always be the outcasts of society- that is a universal form of instinctive repulsion that luck cannot change.

For Once...Advice Needed

Writing in quasi-depressed states are not my cup of tea. One, they often result in dreadfully annoying your adult readers, to the point that you sound like your 14 year old self, on those pages of your hello kitty journal. I never actually had one of these, but I had something equally cutesy and novelty-ish. Two, these feelings of subjective melancholy and wrenching despair when confronted with the cruel world, often pass, and you look back and say " What a whiny twit! All while smiling at every small toy sized animal that crosses your path (this also applies to other petite things- such as children".

Though I provided my reasons for dismissing what I am about to write , I will do it anyway, as any good rebellious young lady would do so.

Here it goes, as it is scrambled in my head, run on sentences (nothing new to me) and all:

Mind you, I am giving it to you all as unfiltered as it stirs in my channels of anxiety...

FUCK! This world is full of cruelties which can be rendered as the one the most unfair injustices to those who do not deserve it. But who is to say that I do not deserve it? ARGH! The one thing that angers me most is the fact that I cannot fit the conventions of a world that rewards and takes pride in such things. Inherent in my nature is the art of unabashed pioneering. I find it too easy to follow directions. Common animals can follow directions! I do not intend to insult them, but as a creature endowed with rationality and creativity- I should be given the right to use it without bounds. Oh yes, they say "We admire you for your adversity; however, this isn't how what we want!" That statement usually uttered by "THE MAN", is a metaphor for the patronizing that your equals wish to reply when the square does not fit in the circle. I believe, in fact, I strongly believe that I am NOT in the right state of mind for this world. My character wins the etiquette award, but also takes first in the rebel without a cause competition. I am angered that my writing is NOT academic enough for them. Maybe I am subscribing to endeavors I an destined to fail at. Everyone else seems to display the natural aptitude...why can't I? They praise them for making replicas of work beforehand. How trite! I can't fight it though. If you are too clever, they are insulted. If you underperform, they demote you. I am exhausted because I need their approval, yet, I will never get it. What I have cannot and will not be admired by anyone...except myself. A forlorn thought, but an accurate acknowledgment of the endless performance.

We are laughed and shouted at on stage, till the curtain falls and the lights dim. We finally feel at peace, but cannot help but yearn for the strange coupling of exhilaration and humiliation when the curtain rises again. This will always be the case...we dance for them, as they watch. They will always be the audience, and us- the entertainers.

Why do I ALWAYS FEEL THIS WAY!

I will resume to my regular writing when my humor returns. Pardon the grievances written in streamline sentences!
I actually exhausted all my good thoughts today, while ruminating on the cause of my anger.

This blog is not for therapy, but maybe I can spare the embarrassment of this post by calling it a fancy category
"Iconoclast Rants- Another Fight is a Day's Work".

I know this sounds unnatural of me, but I wish I was normal and cookie-cutter intelligent.

The plebians get too much credit.

The Bohemian Manifesto Pt. I

Pardon the title, for I fear that the topic you may deduce from the header fails to match the narrative to come.

The invention- blogging- is a testament to those who call themselves prolific writers, prone to the spontaneous outpours of verbose prose (these are often the ones that characterize my case, as seen by my writing) on random parchments. However, this only makes sense if I am prone to the habit of transferring the jargon of my tattered pieces of my imaginative intellect onto the technological data saver and medium to mass populace of strangers. I am not privy to the exposure outlined above. Sadly, my thoughts are simply distilled by the immediate call of the moment that follows after a keen observation or a humorous realization of the most mundane hours. I am tempted to convey how I came to be such a half-hearted storyteller, going point by point of what I have used and failed to use, but I do not want to run the risk of being seen as pedantic. Cut to the chase I say! (I actually never say that...)

The pull of the soul is a confusing phenomenon. I seem to encounter this when I find my will in extreme opposition to the order of the day or society itself. Complete chaos and impracticality merge into my most apparent vice- indulgence. This does not necessary lend to the regular associations with the sin. One may infer that debauchery is a subcategory; however, conversely the guilt of my gluttony lies in my action in merely taking party in what I want. It is a simple problem. The word indulgence conjures up numerous visuals, often those that involve Dionysious, copious amounts of wine gulped down in the most sumptuous areas of leisure, endowed in the finest regalia. Though this would be an event that I would like to experience one day ( I believe all you have to do is wear a hefty amount of jewelry equal to the gaudy grandeur of an Italian mafia don chalice in hand, and book a flight down to Napa- Walla), Grecian imagery is not what I choose to base my faults on.

I will have to continue this later. I should be studying for my LSATs, but I am not. My laxity of self-control is astonishingly extensive in many ways.

I will get to the message of this as soon as I fulfill some obligations that defy my inherent autonomy.