Etiquetas: in a carrie mood, karma, tittle-tattle, wtf

Etiquetas: daily, karma, wtf

Etiquetas: tittle-tattle

Etiquetas: in a carrie mood

Etiquetas: daily, some guy, tittle-tattle, wtf

Encountering youtube pages of some fantastic artists (the likes of Queen, Sliimy, La Roux, among others), it was irritating that instead of giving positive/reasonably critical/appropriate disapproving/polite comments, those bollocks were instead more interested to diss the sexual orientation of the said artists, which mostly are/were gays or bis.

Please tell me why I couldn’t be mad when Queen’s live performance of ‘Another Ones Bites the Dusts’ on youtube was commented by 98759289 (random number, fyi) freaky homophobes who seemed to be so amused to mock the sexual connotation behind white hotpants and scarf Mercury wore, instead of enjoying the great vocal.

All the times, I’ve been baffled by the ludicrous reasoning behind the attribution of sexual orientation on someone’s professional work. I mean, so what if Freddie Mercury did dudes? Did it change the fact that he was a superbly great, probably the best, vocalist of all times? Does being gay make Sliimy’s music less interesting to hear?

Thanks must also be extended to those religious freaks who have made the comment pages even juicier. Dude, please. So I got it, you’re not gay and you’re going to heaven. Good for you. But please save your preachers for somewhere else. We're listening to the music here. Church time is 9am Saturday, if I'm not wrong.

As much as I believe that any preference/choice in religion/sexual orientation/style/attitude is okay as long as it doesn’t harm anything/anyone, I still see that they are probably other reasons behind the deep hatred.

I’m a compassionate person; therefore I sacrifice some time to set a little quiz below to understand these gay haters’ rationales.

PS:

I don’t drink, but just assume that I was drunk when I was writing this. I still put this up anyway. Just to piss everyone off.

Etiquetas: opinion, wtf

Being busy has turned me, a person, into this industrialist-capitalist-opportunist-like cute little mind. In between classes, laboratory sessions, finishing this and that and polishing here and there, and taking care of my future, I feel tired. I want to believe that this body is not a mere cog, but it turns out that it is. We’re back to ninety-eighty-four ride.

In some occasions lately I’ve told Jong so many times that I am probably, the victim of Stockholm syndrome, a very acute one. And even though to realize and admit such fact requires an overwhelmingly great effort, I don’t hate it, I appreciate. Though I hope the below story won’t come true.

***

If I were over a hundred years old, the scene here now would be me sitting hunchbacked, with every sign of failing botox treatments on the face, telling this story to grandchildren or whomever might care…

When I was young, I was always the kind of girl with big and plentiful of dreams. I wanted to be a journalist flying all over the place to get pieces to write. I wanted to go to New York and study fashion or history or art and never look back. I wanted to be able to sip fresh cappuccinos in Rome in daily basis. I wanted to spend lovely days in alfrescos having tapas and drinks and love and live. I wanted to sit on the lip of the Nile and enjoy youth as if I’d never grow old. And many other wants…

However someday, somehow, gravity and its cronies denied my dreams. I was pulled back to the earth and stuck to a place, let’s say a closet, for years. Dear, have I tried to escape. Many times, many ways. I didn’t succeed. In the period of denial, the spirit I had was the spirit I wish I still have now. I wanted to break free in every way possible, and I kept dreaming, and kept denying.

But these people, they treated me oh so well. How could you be not nice to those who were nice? Every spit I threw, they gave me smile. Big and wide. When I had tantrums, they pacified. You would think they loved you. Even I thought they loved me.

Then, what could you do? Your heart, it melted. You softened. You would let go. Of your dreams. You would succumb. You would smile back. You would love back. And you would stay. Did I stay.

The Stockholm syndrome. It killed. Your escape plans, your dreams. When you finally realized what happened, the moment of truth, you would have been inside the closet for too long. Your paws weakened, your teeth blunted, your vision blurred. It was already too late. Whether their smiles, their loves, their attentions were real or fake, it was already too late to care.

In the end, you realized. You didn’t have what you thought you had. You had never had what you thought you’d ever had. And one look from the corner of your eyes, two looks; you slowly launched one hand from the closet, reached the door, and slammed it closed.

Stockholm syndrome.

And you stayed inside, repeated their chants, you gave up, you loved back.

PS:

It has become harder to write. I don’t know if I’ve lost my sense and all. But there were some points of time in which I stopped and thought; maybe I should give up on this writer stuffs all together and get a proper boring life. And there were even more time in which I would have written pages and suddenly I’d stop, re-read, reflect, conclude ‘what the fuck’ and in the end, delete it all over. I hate such moments. It did feel like aborting an unborn handicapped child.

I am insane. I just want to be able to write again. Good ones.

PPS:

If you think this writing is so Palahniuk, you are right. Orwellianism works well with Palahniuk. Both men are geniuses. I’m the idiot one who can only imitate. Thus, thou shalt hast no mercy.

Etiquetas: contemplative, karma, soliloquy, wtf