Category Archives: feelings

my emotions

I maded horchata

all by myself! The horchata tastes ok. I let it sit too long and get too strong. It was pretty easy to make and I got excited making one of my favorite drinks. It is not as good as the Rice Dream kind though. The horchata I made has a slight aftertaste. Despite the rice imperfection, today was prettay nice. I attended a birthday of a friend and had a free dinner that was superdelicious. It took place at her house and a small handful of her close pals were there. Good conversation, plenty of laughter. The day eased any of my concerns of family toils I’ve been having, and Oh, I forgot to write down that I got a new job right after my debacle over half year ago. Shortly after I screwed my secretary career, I scored a well-paying job.

New job title: auto broker.
New mood: nirvana.

Life is almost too good. For twice, I can say I am content, everything is working out, and nothing could be better. I am content, everything is working out, and nothing could be better.

I feel guilty. Being so happy shouldn’t be legal. I know too many people on the other end of life… and with good reason. Where has all my hell and drama gone? I know it’s right behind me.

Talk is Cost-Effective

If you multiply
the times you said something,
I will divide
the times I heard them.

Shop for the correct words while super-marketing. The cheapness of speaking is not stifled by inflation. Ready for the lips to close? You will be dismayed to hear quotation marks in their place. Roaring airs will spout from sealed mouths like a leaky valve. Sewage. Spewage. For the sake of Pete, put a leash on that clich-(eh).

Seminars on who to tell, why to tell, tell you how, tell you now, tell you what, tell you when. Rent the hotels to speak about meeting speakers who rent the hotels that meet renters who speak about hotels that speak meters of rent for speaking about hotels that meet rent for speech. Put some lipstick where your money goes. Talk is cost-effective.

Pass the Herpes, Jessica Alba

Being an expert on genital herpes, I know for a fact that experts know a lot about Herpes Simplex.

300px-jessica_alba_comiccon.JPG

Unfortunately that’s as far as it goes. Some adoring Alba fans are in mass hysteria with the alleged news of outbreak heaven known as Herpes. An insider had to fill Valtrex prescriptions for her supposedly. And even though nobody can confirm anything, they’ll place the cause on Derek Jeter. Then it snowballs with everyone who slept with everyone.

The reality is pretty scarring. Taking into consideration the entire US (not just celebrities), 1 in 4 people have an STD. So people who pass off others as sluts or whatever need to realize that about 25% are just as slutty according to your criteria. HSV2 (Herpes of the genitalia) is almost as common.

Is this a turn off to Jessica’s fanbase? L.A. Rag Mag points out that plenty of other perfect body beauties have blemishes on their intimate areas, but it doesn’t detract much of their approval rating. I’d be interested if someone did some dirty research and wrote a sociological book about the subject of STDs of famous people and how others perceive and react. Is there a higher standard for them? A lower standard? Does the perception differ from ordinary people?

when can I feel

I’d like to
have the capacity
to drive
myself
to you.

I
am just waiting
for the
when
to arrive.

Do we both
require
initiation
before reply?

When can I feel? When never comes, when becomes never, and never comes whenever. Arrows are thrown in a short upward thrusts, as to land where it was. I need to be informed. I am not information. I am looking to be looked upon. Honestly, honesty must spill itself in front of me. I have not dropped all of my belongings yet. Am I holding on to my honesty without showing it beyond my eyes. Candid spontaneity is when. I will start to tell untold information that could have been secrets.

no real life is static

I put my life on the spot. Just think of where it’s going. I’ve got to be wise and keep it on track. The facts are right here to find. I’m searching within myself for the answer. You can only feel how you really feel and reject or accept the reality. You decide its worth and outcome. My life is not false.

I couldn’t understand some parts of this article but I guess I just need to check some more resources regarding this, because it sounds interesting.

I confuse myself. I need a bachelor’s degree from the University and a 4.0 GPA. I need to be a bar hopper to get a record in high jumping.

Some people like to think there’s a cosmic connection to one another; a subtle telepathy, like when two people from across the world discover something about the same time without any direct contact with each other. I don’t really find support for this as a paranormal occurrence, because they have the same utilities of the era to make the discovery by.

But what if we could share dreams?
While sleeping we’d interact
in a networked realm
not linked with the physical
world you think of when
you wake up.

But what if we could share dreams? As in experience and shape dreams together. Isn’t that life? Yet people seem fragmented with each other so the dream becomes an isolated state of paralyzed reality. I personally have a comfort in dreams and I think it justified. But I should dream within the waking world. Most dreams lack hyperbole of self-consciousness of my actions within the dream scenario. To hyperbolize self-consciousness would be to think that my contribution is the over-realized center of the situation (a geocentric sun-spin-around-the-earth viewpoint). You freeze frame yourself to look behind and ahead and feel concerned about the chunks rather than just dreaming through it so as to overemphasize a characteristic of it pertaining to the self. I’m pondering applying the anti-hyperbole to waking life. While not entirely disregarding all cares beyond myself, I’d be living a realer life if I modeled myself like an uninhibited dreamer. I’d go beyond stream-of-consciousness. I would be the stream, flowing through reality instead of spectating like first-person machinery.

“You can never step into the same river twice” -Heraclitus
“You can’t step into the same river even once” -Cratylus

The present isn’t one capturable unit, but a moving block without defined shape or limits. Instead of “the present,” we should start calling it “the presents” without literalizing the plurality.

mantra
no real life is static
static is no real life
static is real no life
life is real static no?
no static is real life
no real is static life
life is real no static
real is no static life

So I should kill someone just because in dreamworld the rules don’t apply and I’ll will just wake up?

Instead, turn life into your dream; not your dream into a life.

turn life into your dream makes past events not so relevant to you, as previous actions are not indicative of your behavior nor should they concern you in a way that it defines you permanently.

turn your dream into a life puts you in the same boat as a crazy serial killer (a kind of disregard for the dream itself; or a philosophy of dreaming your life away; an excuse for druggies).


Assembled Disagreement in Polychotomy vs. Where to Buy Side Effects?

Prescribe SSRIs to my Stereo

If you’ve been to a local venue or witnessed your music seen, chances are you have witnessed the sightly claim to independence by individuals conforming to nonconformist societies who feel they are unheard or misinterpreted or act as though there is nobody like them. Take emo for example. A subgenre of music stemming from hardcore, tapering into emotionally heavy music, morphing into cathartic over-dramatization. And where does this come from? A need to feel depressed? A longing for an avenue to express feelings? A way of creating a facade of personal deepness? In any case, emotion gets blown out of proportion, (when the EMOs get out of hand or even if they think they are acting normal) the more emotional than emotional: attention deficit, national deficit, nuclear deficit of the arms race, the infantile attitude of one upsmanship.

Any sub”genre” is hypocrisy against itself. To define by a word is to not explain it. Nothing exists as matter-of-fact if it is a classification. A social construct is all it is. A convenience at times, but equally misleading and distinct from the actual perceived entities they refer to, especially when extended as imperative to social survival imploding into essential survival.

It fuels a self-perpetuated emptiness on both ends of the stick…

The kids wanting the prescription drugs (SSRIs) to legitimize their “depression” diametrically resent the oppression or dependency the medicine may produce. Likewise, the drug companies are partly helping people but also trying to turn a profit. Shove the commercials in our face to ensure us we need medicine. It doesn’t matter if we are actually sick. We all need breast enhancement, perhaps in the future they’ll use surgically inserted benign tumors? We require pills to align ourselves to the status quo, attenuated minds tuned to the 12th root of 2 (like the ever popular equal-temperament musical scale). Go see your dentist about teeth strengthening injections. Talk to your doctor about psuedo-opium for your fear of dying. Sure there might be an ounce of concern for our well being, but the bottom line expects a profit. All in all in all is none. Leftovers of returns.

While doctors and patients feel the efficacy of treating depression through SSRIs is pretty good, treating non-existent disorders is even more powerful. Perhaps this is even more important to maintaining economic progress, as resources become exhausted, and we start closing in on the limit of the function. Most psychotherapeutic drugs act on a wide variety of receptor systems, inhibiting various receptor subtypes. For example quetiapine inhibits 5HT1a, 5HT2, D1, D2, a1, and a2. As the move from typical to atypical anti-psychotics was made, drugs are now trying to be designed to be even more specific. SSRI’s are called selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors because they selectively inhibit the re-uptake mechanism of serotonin. That is to say that the drug shows a higher affinity for blocking this mechanism and does not alter brain functioning in other ways (at least in theory). While this narrowing down of the action of the drug on the mind may teach us more about the serotonin system; and the brain, the cause of depression (if chemical) is bound to be more complex than a simple serotonin imbalance.

The narrowing down of the drugs action straight to a broadly encompassing depression is just as much of a stretch as the narrowing down of genres to isolate one’s identity. A similar selectivity happens in the emo sub”genre” as songs are often categorized crudely as happy, sad, or angry. Without taking the other emotions into consideration or allowing for paradoxical emotions such as melancholy euphoria. Beware of ordained prophylactics for hyper-diagnosed neuroticism and beware of taxonomy that divides a continuum which itself cannot be equated with its segregated parts. It fails on both ends, or non-ends; as fallacies of Division and Composition.

rusted armor

I was out with some friends the other night to meet some people at a cafe (that is people of the opposite sex). Though I myself was disinterested in the prospect before we even arrived, the experience was rather amusing. We met these 3 vacant sex fiends; and the philosophical differences made for a rather awkward situation.. I couldn’t help but think with our idealism versus their pedestrian visceral logic that we were like 4 Don Quixotes…

smoke inhaled by naked lungs
cigarette ashtray hourglass
measured in incoherent intervals

four Don Quixotes fighting
windmills, those
fatalistic flowers
flowing helplessly in the wind

after tacking into which
they’ll come to a flat doldrum
and rest peacefully in the mirage

as sunlight reflects into the mind
things lose their distinction
and must be maintained,
by the absurdity of habit

Aggravation (a Kore*us)

There are times when I sink to the bottom, times I am torn to pieces, more broken than shards of glass. Infuriating disgust and rage overcoming, the sudden urges must be held back. Let time heal my emotive fallacies. Allow it. I am not so petty, so thin. I won’t let me back in there. I mentally bash my mind–attack the source.

But of course my aggravation only calms me down. Because life is a lyric.

a living gave without contradiction
things nonfiction blurr
hearts are nails
only one today
the Exist blurr
life can
worlds are of words

PS. This brings a new rewinder to beatniks

Rhinoderma

By my interests and work in so many other directions–in literature, journalism, education, philanthropy, and religion–which had been testified to by so many notable people on this occasion, I hoped to prove that I was not a mere faddist, who could be led away by a chimerical fantasy. I wanted the world to understand that I was a clear-brained, commonsense woman of the world, whose views were as worthy of credence as her work in other directions had been worthy of acceptance. Today brought so much joy to me that there was little wonder I was able to conclude my birthday poem “Rhinoderma” with the lines:

I’m a tadpole inside of a pouch.
My body is getting tired so I lie on the couch.
My brother trips on a white rock and says “ouch”
But I pay no attn because he’s a grouch.

It suddenly comes to me- where I’m at
In my father’s mouth is where we sat.
He protected me in my habitat
From the camel, the duck, + the bat.

It’s been 3 wks + I feel like a frog.
My dad spits me out + I land on a log.
Hooray I’m no longer a poliwog.
Oh No! I’ve been eaten by a groundhog.

I see myself in little pieces
But it’s alright cuz I count the breezes.
Through it all my blood, it freezes.
Trouble and pain turn into eases.

mom, convicted felon. me, conflicted fugue.

Not many people know, but my mom is a convicted felon charged with voluntary manslaughter against “Pop.” My father (he sure ain’t a dad) was verbally abusive toward my mother for years. He would get hammered from a refrigerator of Miller brews. Not a night would go by without me waking up hearing him yell about nothing. I got as comfortable as I could get going to elementary school the next day. It was one evening that my father pushed her in a rage. It was not a violent or painful shove, but enough to demand a response. She cracked. She hospitalized my father that night. That night I became a temporary orphan. My mom would be at the local jail that night, and my father recovering from burns on his face from a hot pan and a broken jaw. The episode lasted no longer than a minute, but I remember it clearer than anything I’ve witnessed and it stays with me. It has affected my life forever.

I hear that most women are in jail due to problems with a relationship that led to crime like being abused and fighting back. This is what happened in my family. I live with my dad, unhappily… He shares some of the blame and I can tell he feels ashamed. Instead of a remedy, he has sunk further to drinking. Since the divorce, my dad has come out of the closet and I’ve seen the strangest guys in and out of my house for the past year. I am ready to leave but don’t have enough to live out on my own. I’m a little dysfunctional myself and wouldn’t want to burden my friends who are struggling themselves.