There are certain promises I cannot keep, no matter how hard I try.
First, I will save money. Bzzzt. Broken.
Second, I will eat less than usual. Bzzzt. Broken. All the time.
Third, I will not buy books for a couple of months because I have practically close to a thousand, no bull, waiting to be read. Bzzzt bzzzt bzzzzt.
I should be shot. really.
Corollary to the third is I will not buy hardbound books. When I see THE RETURN of 99-peso hardbound books, those obviously from U.S. libraries, my defenses are weakened and that’s the end of it.
In addition, I seldom listen to the I will keep this to myself thought. So, and partly because the Judie-reader-regardless-of-the-distance-between-us has figured it out, I have to say that there was a point last month when I was tempted to say this Dr. Cameron line to someone. Good thing I took a bath and I shook it off me.
I thought you were too screwed up to love anyone. I was wrong.
You just couldn’t love me. It’s okay. I’m happy for you.
There. Although love is too strong a word. I would substitute it with like.
I’ve been fine, I’ve been crazed. I’ve been entertained, I’ve been stressed. I obsess over anything Russia. Sometimes, I wish there’s a device that will automatically type down your thoughts as you think of them, which in my case usually comes at the most inopportune time, like while on my ride home. That way, you don’t sit in front of your computer excitedly, wishing to share some crazy thought or two, but feeling the same enthusiasm fizzle as fast as it rushed through you.
Typing in the computer for 8 to 10 hours for 5 days straight will take it off you, I suppose. It’s like having your mind willing, but your fingers, weak.
Oh, I downloaded Hanson‘s Mmm Bop a while ago. That, and If You Go by Jon Secada— two songs I would’ve been caught dead listening to from Sophie but nah, screw it. They’re danceable and I love them. And my mother likes them. Unlike her reaction to my hardwork a.k.a. all songs in Regina Spektor‘s Soviet Kitsch album downloaded despite my incredibly sh*tty internet connection.
“Bakit ang hilig mo sa kantang pang-addict?”
Oh, momma. I could only scratch my head in disbelief. And I thought she made that distinction when I was going through a phase and appreciated grunge music. I guess it’s a sign of the times.