I wanna be such a bitch today, and I don’t want anyone to stop me. Just ten fucking minutes.

But you—are such an unenlightened bastard. *laughs really hard*

I cannot believe you’re my close friend. But then I was such an unenlightened gullible comrade, too, when you told me you don’t love him anymore. And maybe, you were right. But you had absolutely no fucking right to do that. NONE AT ALL.

(Don’t worry, folks. My day isn’t spoiled. I just can’t believe people are capable of unimaginable things)

Anyway. I want a goddamn beer. But I don’t want the calories. How the hell do I freaking do that?

Turns out Saturday may not be as exciting as originally planned. Meiday is Meiday, yes, but Rein and Yang may not be around till maybe around 12mn, since they might be attending this despedida party for a friend over at BHS. Darn. I have been trying the whole week to avoid drinking beer at all (well, it’s not that hard anyhow—I’m not always parched) and I have been saving the very slight drinking spree for Saturday, but my body is already feeling tired. It wants to be raped by a combination of sleep, rest, sleep, rest, and tambay. I don’t necessarily need liquor, but you know how it goes: it’s the opium of the tired bodies.

Speaking of rest, I have been reverting to re-reading The Time Traveler’s Wife as a break whenever I’m running out of things to do. I know, I know, the nerd in me is screaming “foul”; that I should be finishing Ayn Rand’s book first, but the Oprah Book club in me is staying and leaning towards Rachel McAdams. Wait, that’s the movie. Well, yeah, okay, I have been re-watching that, too. I just can’t get over Rachel McAdams’ tattoo. Wait. Story. Story.

I feel that I’m secretly Henry DeTamble. Like if I were born to be a guy, leave out the chrono-impairment, and boom, I’m Henry DeTamble. I wish I were half as hot as Clare right now, but I’m really a sofa-guy/girl who wishes for about 4000 books littered around in my apartment. Factoring, of course, less dust. And a really good view of the city. Mine now doesn’t. But I have a couch. And books. And ebooks. Which I read on the couch and spend more time becoming a nerd.

I think what has really stuck to me is the fact that these books are lovable because they’re all about emotions and they’re never afraid to show. Look at Marie Antoinette, the movie. They were criticized for pulling off that historically baseless (ironic, really) film only because it is, in fact, historically based, but it didn’t focus on HISTORY, it focused on FEELINGS. Because she’s such an iconic piece of history, it’s like she’s bereft to have emotions, darn it. And look at Levithan. He’s still not too well known (or at least he is for the emo-ish, softer, gayer circles, if not the prepubescents) in the literary circle, and he prolly won’t be recommended by Oprah nor Dr. Phil, but boy, can he belt out emotions like a black woman serenading you on a boat towards Venice, maybe even better.

What is so wrong about emotions that we are so afraid to trust or ride? Why are books which we feel to be too sentimental suddenly non-heroes just because they’re not based on history? You learn so much more with emotions. It softens you, it makes you much more human. It makes you people educated. Granted, it gives you mood swings like a bitch, but emotions rule.

Then again, if that were true, then why have I been dismissing it as well like a stone in front of a mirror? Yes, ladies and gents, I have been trying out this new façade called stoicism. Well, at least for some small cases. Being emotionally impatient is like premature ejaculation—it doesn’t satisfy, and worse, it gives you babies.

(Not time of the month, but it’s fun being drastically emotionally-impatient sometimes)