I’m Coming Out While It’s Still Snowing

It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve come out for the snow. No, not in my tangible sphere. But here in my blog, where the crux of my heart and soul lives.

That I may not miss the things that remain beautiful to my eyes, such as the drifts that still profoundly affect my senses.

The snow is scheduled to disappear within the first few days of January. One week is left for me to enjoy a white Christmas here.

I may not have missed writing so much for the past months because I have been busy reading (newly-discovered) magnificent blogs – along with my very few old favorites.

Besides, the downside of having blog pals became palpable when it started hampering my purpose for this site — which is total expression and honesty. I’d be willing to lose all of them if it meant gaining back my former voice in all its freedom.

One or two of them had even advised me against expressing my grief here. Now please let me be clear on this: I am not on WordPress to please or impress anyone. And I certainly don’t write about my pain to earn anyone’s sympathy. How many times have I said this blog is my real home. No need for advice on the contents it should have — whether it be my dramatic lot, romantic history, atheistic leanings, or cynic views about whatever.

If you can’t condone such articulations from my core, then you have no business coming here at all.

In the meantime, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow….

This Is My Home – I’m Here For The Long Run

Even my bloglife is a series of hellos and goodbyes. A blogger who used to figure prominently in my resolve to improve my writing skill some two years ago just decided he’s retiring from his regular postings on WordPress. It took me several months to click open his blog again. Things have changed. But I felt I had to Like his final entry. That much I owed him, in spite of everything.

Recently, I’ve started reading a woman blogger who writes with metaphorical flourish. She reminded me of one or two other female bloggers who uses figure of speech in their writing. The thing is, after reading what this woman had to say, I always ended up thinking, “What a wacko.” Not to mention her belligerence seems to be up in the air all the time. Other than assessing her writing style, there’s nothing much to gain from her blog. And I’ve neither time nor interest to spar with someone like her.

Look, we blog citizens here are under no obligation to anyone. I pretty much don’t get why bloggers, especially the petty women, get up in arms when you do not comment or click Follow as a corollary to visiting their sites. Accuse us of stalking, lurking, whatever. Aren’t we all in this realm? (She previously admitted to being one herself.) There’ll be no consignment on my part, FYI. Unlike most, I’m not here for powerblogging, nor to make money, nor to seek anyone’s approval, nor to merely get attention. If she doesn’t like sharing her blog to others, without strings attached, why not simply take it down? (Just like what I do once in a while whenever privacy weighs more to my sense of well-being.)

It’s much like commitment — which I found out doesn’t work for me here. I need my freedom.

This is why I’m sticking with categorically following blogs of the opposite gender (using only Google bookmark). It’s breezier to have them around.

To commemorate my four years of reading and writing through the comfort of this site, I’ve come up with some word play as a writing exercise. My blog serves as my memoir and journal. Although there’s always considerable discomfort in exposing the contents of my heart and mind, I’m in for the long run.

Serving as my personal time warp — in a transition that never seems to end.

Stuck in a world of crude expressions, colored insights, opinions on the run.

I, however, am trapped in the rapture of words forever.

Still thoughts seeming fresh and fair,

Like the specter in the concrete

the sunshine with the rainbow.

Even when hopes proved false …

From the faint white line

promising of no wit nor eloquence

I’m returning to the land of unstructured narratives,

where messages are misread

manifesting little shame in my emotional constitution.

And a placid existence that tries to reject despair.

So I will write by the candor and strength of my discontent,

slandering traditions,

with a gush of fantasy here and there.

Sustaining what’s left through the perpetuity of words,

I’m here for the long run.


I Just Love To Read and Write


I am a confluence of the serious and the frivolous; of dark and light. Mostly, the blogosphere is the place where I hop into whenever I need to escape from the abyss of grief or try brook the snags of an isolated mind. The blogosphere is also where I can assert my privilege to simply be just me…and if I try hard enough, to fashion myself to become better in certain ways. It has served as my salvation.

In a word, I’m pathetic.

Let me go on, however, in an effort to make this post publishable.

We’ve all become aware of the unfortunate upshot of social media and blogging: Narcissism and Solipsism. In many spectral flavors. My American FB acquaintance was right on the money when he alleged how our attention-hungry selves consistently send the signal: Look at me! Look at me! No no, I said…LOOOK at MEEE!

But there’s also this paradox hovering around as to why a number of bloggers turn tail and flee in the wake of their hitting fame. Is privacy subconsciously a lot precious than stardom? What really is their problem? And, is it mere coincidence that they stop blogging the moment they got MY attention?

Well, for me, that at least one soul would be willing to flick through my stuff is enough. Because the hassle of handling a community of (flippant) readers? Pretty overwhelming. Something I’m sure I won’t be able to handle; regardless that I don’t have a life outside my daft routine and two underpaid jobs.

There’s no denying the pleasure I gain in the practice of writing. I like shaping my thoughts and true tales onto a page–even though my blog gets peppered with shameless accounts of my existence, ho-hum insights regarding whatever, contemplation about spiritual bankruptcy, and my highly pitiful attempts at romantic poetry.

Blog writers who put out excellent prose and poetry with matching snapshots amaze me. I wish I were capable of doing what they could — but I guess time and energy keep dodging me. I’ve cogitated, too, on penning articles that address some of my best-loved themes–like Astronomy, Secular Humanism, The Anatomy of Modern Literature, Animal Rights, and World-Class Techniques on Stripteasing (just kidding). Yet the fact others seem to explore them more articulately and with clear-cut competence halt me.

A horrifying realization is the actuality that my co-bloggers have gradually gotten the drift just how much of a loser I am. But hey, you’d better go easy on me because, if truth be told, we’re all kind of losers here…. (please refrain from hitting me with that thing you’re holding). And, indeed, sociopathy in various degrees lurks beneath most of us.

The downside for someone with my status who tells it all here is being misunderstood by a few narrow-minded co-bloggers–especially by the unseasoned young ones. Aren’t they aware that in my country, the lives of famous celebrities are an open book? Whereas those big-time personalities sell their stories for a fat price to magazines — mine is Free. Gratis. Pro bono. On the House. So why, why aren’t you all even thankful?


Back to a serious note, valid affirmations (which I Liked) from a recent Freshly Pressed blog post couldn’t have expressed things better about the writer in every one of us: There will always be words, sentences to alter. We write and write. We write to search ourselves, to record ourselves, to rescue ourselves. Always, writing is a reaching towards something more precise, a rearranging of words to understand something more clearly; to make something solid after having delved deeper. After all, we feel solitary–because we are essentially…alone. That’s why we relentlessly turn to face a blank page.

Image below illustrates it so well.


Reading and Writing is what I plan to be doing until my vision runs out and pure white hair starts sticking out in my armpit. So much the better if it could be done with ease and dexterity (the writing, I mean). Now you know why I need to course through your sites: You are all deft and a whole lot better than me as a blogger. You all illuminate my psyche with your experience and sophisticated perspectives. You all inspire me with everything that you are.

But most cogently, you all remind me that I simply have nothing better to do.

We All Need A Break

I don’t smoke, I don’t drink; I’ve got no vices. Nope, this isn’t a blurb about me that ought to be submitted to an online dating site. It is simply a bulletin of the boring existence I’ve been leading for almost years now. You may ponder: What then is igniting my ardour for life aside from fancying myself as some babe who has developed an ability to carry a sentence through to completion? (If you vehemently object, please be kind enough to keep your opinion to yourself – thank you very much 🙂 ) 


I do have another encompassing yearning as a human being. Nope again, it’s not what you think; not the kind that would call for a hot-looking dude and a sturdy bed. I already had enough of that not so long ago. (I’m kidding, of course)


I am actually referring to the desire of being able to travel to places I’d like to see. My parents never experienced riding an airplane – out of fear: Fear that somehow rubbed off on me, which can’t be good in pursuing a more adventurous life. My sister, nevertheless, has become a jetsetter. Don’t wonder how – she married into a rich family. In my case, years of scrimping and squirreling away had been the only way for me to be able to afford the two-week vacation tour I’ll be embarking on this June. I live quite simply; I’m not into buying stuff anymore. Travelling remains as the one unrealized aspiration on my list. Btw, my sister is coming with me. Considering our opposing lifestyles, you can already foretell the fate of my pocketbook when it’s over and done.

I had really wanted my son to join me, but he thinks it’s such a waste of money. Besides, he’s just been newly hired by a good semiconductor firm. Still, how I wish he’d be the one to enjoy this journey with me.

Am I excited? By all means. Am I worried? You bet. What’s gonna happen? I’ve no idea 🙂

Another snag is my difficulty sleeping in a place that isn’t my abode. Motion sickness is something I easily suffer from as well. My previous flying experiences, both local and international, didn’t all go perfectly smooth. Take note: A 15-hour flight plus several bus rides and a few boat trips are ahead for me during those couple of weeks – Oh, I’m in real trouble.


If I fatally overdose on anti-dizzy tablets or if my plane gets gobbled up by a UFO, this is going to serve as my last entry. What are the things I would want to express? This is also supposed to be a cheerful post no tears must be shed for the moment.


When I come back here, there’s one thing you can be sure of, dear readers: I’ll be your newly certified blogger pauper. Yes, I’m gonna be so poor you might be forced to adopt me.

Have mercy…don’t abandon me.         😀 😀


Reflections Upon What Brought Me To The World Of The Classics

No matter what my place of discontent, this is how I envision myself in a few years’ time: An okay-looking gal carrying ample experiences and some writing dexterity that will enable her to write competently about life, love, her self-willed sentiments, and diverse meditations on Jane Doe’s quotidian existence.

There’s no hunger within me to turn in a best-selling novel someday or become a prolifically accomplished writer in the future; my imagination isn’t that fecund, my creativity too run-of-the-mill. An Arcadian repository of my narratives, thoughts, and sensations is everything I intend to leave behind.

Lumbering through WordPress for a little more than three years now, I’ve had interesting encounters with a small number of bloggers here because, you know, I just don’t follow blogs, I really read them. I sometimes happily convert myself into a devoted fan of the blogwriters that got me hooked, yet things don’t go heavenly smooth all the time. Let me cite an example:

The past year I’ve got a sudden hankering for perusing The Classics. Why? Now there’s a story I’m obliged to tell my readers – in which one or two lessons can be gleaned from – before it gets lost in the mists of time.

Several months ago in my blog universe, there was this blogger who quixotically alluded to unicorns that could save mountains, and to the beautiful flowers that secretly bloom in darkness. Moreover, he could easily whip up admiration with his amorous verses and incisive discourse about life’s crossroads in the abstract. He’s, for the most part, a dreamer. He made certain, however, his real identity would remain a well-guarded secret, unless you seek him out privately. Which meant that other than this Mister Romantic Poet’s splendid writings, there was nothing else you could find attractive about him: One more kind of co-blogger best kept at arms’ length.

Enter this Canadian lady who introduced herself to me during my most difficult times early last year: A new divorcee who had been feeling out of sorts by reason of her new status. She seemed to be extending her blogger hand to me in goodwill – which engendered my fondness for her because she was being nice and understanding. She always looked pretty good in her gravatar photos. And oh, she has a distinctive narrative style to boot and writes like a true pro. Amazing woman, I believe.

Most of my blogger pals have been male. During that time each of them seemed to have checked her out by clicking her comment link on my blog, as substantiated by My Stats page. Did I mind? A bit – to be perfectly honest with you. Call it a woman thing on my part.

Mister Romantic Poet started Liking her entries. Much to my astonishment, he even went back to her maiden post where an interlocution manifesting of lucid flirtation took place. Ah ok, it’s a free world in here – no ground for me to feel slighted; although to reiterate once more, it’s a (Filipino) woman thing. Bear in mind the fact Mister Romantic Poet wasn’t even my crush then. Did my favourite (another) blogger pal – the one I liked the most – check her out and officially visit her site, too? Yes, he did…to my heartbreak (Silly silly me from time to time 🙂 ); which brought about the abrupt end of my association with her. Something that, in retrospect, I kind of regret…because men are never a good reason enough for the extinction of any female connection.

Back to Mister Romantic Poet who had profusely praised my lady commenter in the course of their inceptive conversation: Honestly, my consternation upon reading the exchange between them couldn’t bring me to regard him in the same manner afterwards. As if an infection had penetrated deep into whatever sterling estimation I had consigned to his persona before. Despite that, it paved the way for his revealing question to her which would subsequently refuse to fall from my memory: “Did you happen to read a lot of classics in your past that made you write this good?”

Aha, Bingo.

I’ve already forgotten my lady pal’s answer. But that particular query has stayed prominent on my mind for ages. Yeah yeah, it’s too late for me to catch up on the classics for the refinement of my writing skill. It won’t change the fact my literature in my younger years had been limited to Mills&Boons, idiotic women’s magazines and sundry articles on Hollywood gossip. Still, whenever I go to a bookstore these days, I can’t prevent myself from dropping by the Classics Section to browse. The books occasionally go on sale. My growing collection has aggregated to ten now and I have finished reading most of them. It’s worth engrossing oneself in a world where the likes of Thomas Hardy, Victor Hugo, George Eliot, Hermann Hesse and the Bronte sisters are in preponderance. How I wish I had started much earlier.

Perhaps I ought to thank Mr. Romantic Poet for all this. Unfortunately, he has long closed down his lovely blog.

One of my ideal libraries. Charming…


This Lady Isn’t Convinced Blogger Guy Is That Bad

I am not convinced he is that bad a man. The Clown: Eric the Magnifik, that is.

So the guy is conceited. That’s what WordPress superstardom can do to a blogger here, lest you haven’t fathomed. So he wanted to build an empire: If he’s got the means and ability, why not? He’s a predator to boot, a female blogger accused. I don’t think so. That’s not the exact term to describe him or his actions. Let’s see, how about branding him a typical male. Yes. Hypocrisy aside, would any man have behaved differently taking into account The Clown’s circumstances? I doubt it. To all those women who have been swift to condemn him: How sure are you that the man you’re with doesn’t conduct himself in a similar manner?

The Clown didn’t pretend to be so much more than he already is around WordPress. He, in lieu, provided a platform to bloggers who wished that their voices be heard by more readers; for the benefit of the ones, like him, who are upfront enough to share about their imperfections, misfortunes, or brokenness. He was also generous to co-bloggers who had earned his good graces. He pulled several bloggers with him on his way up, in fact. And I didn’t see him try to benefit out of it materially, did he?

As a person, he would err from time to time naturally. He’s, after all, not Jesus Christ. So he has a thing for women taking selfies with a cigarette between their lips. I don’t understand such proclivity, but can that already be considered a crime? Raise hell if he had requested the women to send him photos with some sausage near their mouths.

I have no idea as to the woman’s age but I’ve a hunch she’s years younger than me; years younger than The Clown. She might not have carefully thought about the repercussions of her move to “expose” him. Her post was a bit confusing, too. She admitted flirting back with him. Of course guys would always mistake it for a green light. He thought it was ok to drop a sexual joke or remark during their private conversations. He did cross the line, admittedly. He proceeded to apologize profusely and offered amends; begged her repeatedly for the acceptance of his expression of regret. What baffled me was her resolution to remain hard-hearted; it’s like she got quite ignited by the idea of “outing” The Clown and trumpeting his real name to the world. Or, could there be something more personal to her decision than her agenda in warning others of his (predatory?) ways. I don’t know how long the girl has been blogging anyway. If she stays around longer, she’ll surely get to know of other less pleasant characters inhabiting this blogworld.

I still remember how an elderly male – who blogs about empathy and compassion on his site – once badgered me to send (revealing) photos of myself. [Unbidden, he’d send laughable “stuff” and nonsense of him in addition] Can anyone top that hoary dude, hmm? (My response to his request then, btw, was something like: har har har…you must be kidding, a#%hole)

The blogging universe is indeed populated by narcissists, opportunists, racists, fucking boring scribblers, and intellectual cuckoos; each carrying airs of arrogance in various modes. Still, there are wonderful peeps whose minds and sites, in spite of their individual flaws, that are worth visiting – to my delight.

On the subject of flirting in the blogosphere: it’s assuaging to have learned a majority of adult bloggers indulge in it sporadically. Who can argue with the reality that flirting, with words merely as your tool in this realm, is as potent as water which quickly vaporizes into thin air? Women here are no different from bored male construction workers, doctors and lab technicians at work all day. As long as it’s done with mildness, superficiality, precaution, and remoteness, who’s to sue us?

I’m appalled by those so-called friends (of The Clown) who immediately jumped on the bandwagon in slamming him. It looks as though they’re secretly rejoicing the fact the most popular male blogger on WP is gone. Frankly, it’s obvious their comments manifest of their jealousy with regards to The Clown’s fame, or of their own personal issues against him. Yet if The Clown comes back tomorrow, they’ll most likely be darting to his side again. For sure.

I’ve never had any kind of dealings with the famous blogger. I was merely another low-key reader – who had stumbled upon the man’s exceptional blog not long ago while hunting for a good read. I commented twice or thrice in his posts; that’s all. Someone like him doesn’t need an additional blogging buddy to his already long long list so I didn’t squeeze my way through. I figured, too, he’s the kind better appreciated at a distance: Me watching his antics from afar, while smiling softly, both in amusement and admiration.

The man has got charisma, aside from talent and skill. Interesting persona, we already got that. I doubt very much he had written all those honest, intense blog posts about his past primarily to deceive people or lure women to his side. And let’s face it: A man’s mind is, most of the time, focused on two things mainly – money and sex. Only when a blogger turns those two things tangible here in our blogworld does it become uncomfortable and scary. I doubt very much The Clown’s intentions include actually banging at female bloggers’ doors persuading them to have intercourse with him – except in an arrangement of mutual consent.

Rather than get enmeshed in the hullabaloo when the woman blogger “outed” him last January, he surprisingly deleted his blog and stayed silent. He might have done the right thing; I don’t know. But by george, I hope he gets back to blogging again. Because the guy can really write.

Besides, I ain’t convinced he’s that bad a person.


No Read No Like (Plus Stuff I Don’t Get)

The day the Malaysian jetliner mysteriously disappeared, my sister – who keeps up a jetsetting lifestyle – posted her concern for the fate of its 239 passengers and crew on her FB wall. When she called me up that night, I asked her for an update. Her speculation in all seriousness: “I guess it had gone down to the sea, or it had been swallowed up by a UFO.”

Her second guesstimate caught me by surprise I couldn’t help echoing, “Yu Ef Oh?!” Wait, this is my elder sibling who’s probably way way smarter than me as she had spent 20 years working as a newscaster and had hobnobbed with politicians and the who’s who from motley of societies throughout her career. I mean, UFO? Seriously.

“Sister, we’re at this stage of our lives (reaching middle-age), and you’re gonna tell me now a plane had been gobbled up by some loopy alien spaceship?”

She laughed softly then replied, “Who knows?”

If there had been a TV camera around, I’d have loved to turn my head and face it to show my indistinguishable expression; akin to what you see in a TV pun skit.

Another scene: In the academy where I work for, a long line forms every breaktime – during peak season – inside the ladies room. One time I informed my colleague we could go down and use the restroom on the third floor. Her resolute response (in Tagalog): “Me moo-moo dun!” [Translation: a ghost lingers there]

I went, “Huh?” I’m talking here about a co-teacher around my age who graduated from a university that can only take in the most astute minds of our country. “You believe in ghosts?”

She looked at me quizzically and answered, “Why, don’t you?”

I’m telling you, I could have made real use of that TV camera at that very moment.


Last week this bumper sticker question popped up on my FB News Feed:


I gave it a shot and responded: Don’t settle. I got several Likes for that. All from women. Go figure.


An on-off blogpal casually remarked on his observation that the number of Likes in my recent posts seems to have increased a bit (a teenee-eenee bit, I must stress). I told him he absolutely got it wrong because I’m positive I’ve been talking to myself most of the time here in my site. What makes me deduce that? Beside the fact it’s easy to tell from the kind of responses I get, my stats hardly moves at all regardless of those tiny boxed gravatars I’ve earned at the bottom of my post.

It perplexes me, nevertheless, how those bloggers could take for granted both the Like and Follow buttons – clicking them with utter flippancy. You’ve no idea the number of times I’ve considered changing my blog title to “No Read, No Like.” Really.

But allow me to let the cat out of the bag for the meantime: I am still haunted by the fact my grav photo can be found in the Like gallery of some blog posts that, in full candor, did not make an impact on me. I did it, for the most part, out of reciprocity to stranger blogs that Liked me and, also out of my perceived commitment to a few of my (former) blog buddies. Yes. I’d been weak I gave in occasionally to blog politics. Hu hu… Condemn my blogsoul to eternal damnation henceforth.

My face exactly at work when I didn’t get a good night’s sleep.

Anyway, as I keep on restating to my readers (if I’ve got any), you can accept me for the kind of feline scribbler that I am or, you are more than free to stay away. The Likes and Comments are useless and are not appreciated, in my contention, if they’re done in outright thoughtlessness or out of a sense of liability. Don’t worry about me: I can get used to having no one paying attention to me here once again (Hold it. Did I just say that? Uh, well…ok).

So please… NO READ NO LIKE!



My face exactly at work when I didn’t get a good night’s sleep and am feeling hungry and am plain cranky.

All Feelings and Nothing Else

In person I’m not a major talker. I never was and I guess I never will be. I’ve no problem being viewed as taciturn anymore. In my younger years, some relatives and acquaintances had even ridiculed me for my innate reticence. Painfully shy since childhood, I concede to being one of those people who have come to live inside their heads with ease.

As the main avenue I can now turn to for consummate expression, the world of blogging has become a saving grace for me; in hopes it’ll constantly be the crucial place where I can strip my soul and be completely ingenuous in narrating the yarns of my existence.

But I don’t want to feel like I need to apologize for things that get uncovered in these pages. Or that I’ve got to prove anything about myself. We live in a world where each one of us is defined either by the material things we possess or by the relationship we should preserve with our fellow beings. I confess to not giving much of a darn to either. And that could mean I will continually have to pay the price for my unconventional perspectives and uncensored prose.

Yet the decision to face up to the consequences is a done deal.

My son is the driving force behind the set up of this blog. Perhaps in his future he’d want to know what his mother was all about, warts and all. He may want to read the things I wrote here someday (or not). If ever that time comes, my hope is that this site will still be around – even after I’m long gone.

You may ask: Why don’t I journalize in the privacy of my notebook instead? Exposing my writing, in contrast to keeping a confidential diary, prompts an effort on my part to check on my syntax and punctuation – a peripheral activity I find pleasurable in the process. It’s not a total win-win all the time, though. The impulse to convey my admiration or add my two cents in recognition of some co-blogger’s outstanding post makes me forget the invariable upshot of drawing attention to my own site – which shamelessly houses the contents of my mind and heart. Never was my intention to invite anyone to become a follower. Being misunderstood plus the misconception of my warmth are among the inevitable ramifications, too. These days it makes me wonder if it would have been wiser had I stayed an undisclosed fan or reader to them all.

My writing boldness is propped up by the fact I am thousands of miles away from all of you. I basically feel safe. A morsel of discomfort pinches me, however, whenever I see the country Philippines on my Stats. Except for one very young female co-blogger, I anticipate of no other reader from this side of my hemisphere.

Conversations with people around me in my physical world are mundane and unfulfilling. Colleagues and family members would seek my attention and companionship just so they could babble to their hearts’ content. They knew I would be listening. Not a tangible spirit in my actual realm has been aware that deep inside, there exists a long-standing discontent for not having enough people close by who are on the same wavelength with me.

In moments when I get tired of my own reflections, the need to dip myself in other people’s words come to me. Trapped by my circumstances, the blogging world arrives to the rescue. It’s a comfort allowing my own thoughts and concerns be buried under the voices and contemplation of others from time to time. Which brings me to mention more than a couple of fellow bloggers I’m fortunate to have known for their enviable psyche and superb skills of expression:

One of them has just written a beautiful piece about his parents who are on the brink of slipping away (his folks are probably the most beautiful elderly couple I’ve seen online). I wish I had the right words to say to him. But all I can reckon with certainty is – compared to me – he’ll be much stronger in dealing with it all when the zero hour comes, and that he’ll be able to carry on in a finer demeanor than I do.

And there’s this other long-time blog buddy whose father has just been confined in the hospital. Thankfully, it was nothing serious. Me and this bro pal of mine: we’ve always been like children in our online conversations; although I haven’t been an awesome friend or elder sis to him lately and most probably had sounded like a jaded twerp during our recent chats. Yet he surprisingly put up with me and has been quite patient. You haven’t lost me, dear brother. That’s all I can assure for now.

There’s also this phenomenal woman from a lovely island in Canada – who currently works in a rehab center – I’ve been itching to send a fan message and at the same time extend my apology to; for the reason I had misjudged her posts, at first impression, on the subject of men and love. In truth, she has been a true source of inspiration to me for her splendid works which are – on the whole – funny, intelligent, enlightening, touching. I still have to figure out how to get through to her without feeling like a bonehead.

My writings have been deemed melodramatic, cynical, and emotional; by individuals who, I realized in the end, hold nary an interest to get to know who I essentially am. The embarrassment I had felt then from their conjectures led to my attempts to alter the manner of my articulation here, until it seems I’ve begun writing like a man. But I’m a woman… which means that, yes, sometimes I am all feelings and nothing else.

This words I penned for my gravatar profile many moons ago:

Allow me this freedom; that I may find closure to my quest for endless new beginnings.”  It had been true then… It still holds true to this very day.

Mama Mia Que Horror

Busy me. But peak season is about to wrap up in our academy soon which will supposedly provide me more allowance to read and write. In a dash though, the weekend has given me time to respond to somebody’s weird words in her blog.

Sometimes, misplaced hubris can reach across from the huge (Asian) land of bodies emitting air of unexplainable pungent funk. For instance: this overrated female blogger who has a penchant for calling her fellow blogger names (e.g., additionally soliciting backup from her community after naming directly her nemesis, that is – another female blogger, who had thought her writing skill was amateurish) this time poked her nose on something that had absolutely nothing to do with her. She did it probably because she felt so strongly about this male blogger who happened to be the subject of a previous post of mine. She had, in fact, written blog posts in her site about an undeclared love and bond she secretly shares with him.

In this age of single-click links, what you put out in the ether is subject for perusal and interpretation. If mrs. siddharta thought her passion could be hidden behind codes and vagueness that readers surely won’t get it, she should have done some considerable thinking first. Furthermore, instead of mr. “european” blogger getting upset (for the reason a few people could read between the lines), it would be better to just take those entries down. Again, just take them down. Very simple. Because for a married woman to pine for a married man, it’s a double gobbling Que Horror.

Anyway, Asian female blogger must be patting herself on the back these days for branding herself a “sweet” angel and me the opposite. Not to mention making fun of my 5’1 frame.

Frankly, I don’t know what her real husband was thinking when he carelessly released their most recent photos on the internet. Because as soon as I saw them, I went “Mama Mia!” Why get caught without upper chest support when gravity and time have already started pulling some major tissues down? And surely if she had time to call me names for being forthright on my own site, she could also allot some to jump on a treadmill to slough off all those massive pounds. Hey Prissy gurl, go a little easy as well on your favorite whopper McSandwiches, ok?

I’m removing her from my bookmark anyway. Mr. blogger jestingly called her a genius. Hunting for a good read, I kind of believed him and occasionally opened her blog in search of a single incandescent piece. So far all I’ve seen are dead serious, pedestrian entries – not to mention corny poems. Let me give you an example:

Holes! Holes!

Holes left and right

Now where’s my froggy

Who hops on them quickly

There you are!

Oh Jumpy, Jumpy!

Do come to mommy

So I can give you salami.

Now call me shallow if I botched up in my interpretation of her poems although I swear they basically look that way.

Poetry can be technical, too, according to her. I guess we’d better shape it into a diamond. After all, the value of the art is priceless. Which made me come up with a short one – dedicated to her. The title: “If Big-bodied Hubby Finds Out.”



And blue

Plus a big bruise too

Are what will show through

When your heart




Look, my past blog posts are just that – past. Except for my writings about the important people in my life, I want to put the insignificant ones behind me. But if you wish to drag them still, be my guest. Just make sure to air what you have to say right here – if you want to get my attention – since I choose to be more discriminating in click opening blogs. You know I don’t aim for likability or to belong to any blogging community; it’s more essential for me to maintain an outlet for my real thoughts and feelings. This is my blog. You can likewise do whatever you want with yours.

Besides, nobody in this blogland could be pure enough to carry a license preaching others about kindness. Your previous blog posts disclose you’re not that sweet Miss P you claim to be.

No, You Watch Out Instead, Mr. Networker: How A Freshly-Pressed God Could Get It Wrong

We can be pulled into the vortex of the online universe, even by the non-concrete sphere of this blogging world. More than a few people, however, will be cunning enough to render this hemisphere tangible; the cleverest of whom will carry the stealthy purpose of making a buck out of you, if not now, hopefully in some near future.

What happens when a Freshly-Pressed God gets wind of your misgivings about him? Panic ensues. After all, Mr. Nice Guy image must be preserved; even though his demeanour in private correspondence compared to his online persona has the difference between night and day. So bullying follows – with it a threat.

I don’t like being bullied nor threatened.

Now it makes me wonder, how does Mr. Freshly-Pressed God plan to pulverize me?

Let me ponder on the possible ways:

  • Maybe he’s planning to bring out his bazooka from the basement of his charming house in Canada and aim it at me all the way here. I bet he watched the movie “Wanted” where a bullet could bend and zigzag like crazy before reaching its target miles away.
  • Or maybe toughboy aims to knock me out by swinging his arms ala Manny Pacquiao. Ok, c’mon granpa, hit me with your best shot. Surely your 58-year-old fists still pack a wallop. Hoosh  huk  huk. Oouch….that hurts. Happy now, señor?
  • Or Maybe he’d ask the WPress office to send hail on my site instead of snowfall right this very minute – to annihilate and bury down all my posts. There goes my blog then. Kaput.
  • Or maybe he’s planning to broadcast what a schnook of a writer I am who releases the soggiest, schmaltziest romantic essays. But everybody already knows that, including my cats Coby and Bodie.
  • Probably, too, he works for the CIA and would pass on to all the embassies in the world I used to be a visiting showgirl for OBin Laden during his exile in Pakistan. OMG, so I am a suspected terrorist now?! That will surely be a problem as I plan to tour Zimbabwe soon.
  • Or, it’s more likely he’d be sending his flying band of die-hard followers who’d each bonk me on the head because I made the “mistake” of questioning their Freshly-Pressed god’s sincerity and real objective. All 13,000 of them! Just imagine.

I guess I’m doomed….

Seriously now, I am simply tired of blogging politics, not to mention how most WPress writers handle the false sense of superiority and superstardom blogging fame accords them. It’s appalling when EGOs that have ballooned as big as CHICAGO cause Freshly Pressed Senior Citizens, I mean Freshly Pressed Gods to turn cockier and grumpier.

I started abstaining from email exchanges with any blogger pals several months ago, after the consecutive demise of my email “friendships” with two highly excellent writers in their late 50s (well, I figured then there’s a lot of wisdom to cull from these older folks – Boy, was I dead wrong). I just lost interest. Three years ago when I kick-started this blog, I was a schlemiel who hardly knew anything about relating with residents of the blogosphere. My lack of writing skills, in addition, resulted to my generation of lame and third-rate posts with the substantial understanding nobody would bother to read them anyway. Unknowingly, zero readership and my inferior blogging facility rendered me an easy target. Male bloggers of a certain age know who to mark on by going over one’s past entries and assessing how malleable, unstable, or vulnerable they are. The first blogger – who instigated an email friendship with me – wrote long, beautiful letters that entertained me for three months. The cyberworld, however, does not inform its inhabitants enough about each other so…. But he has already apologized – and my heart isn’t made of stone.

Mr. Freshly Pressed god, who initiated my 2nd e-mail camaraderie, is a lot cleverer and, in my opinion, more pernicious. At first I was impressed he didn’t badger me that I send him photos wearing my birthday suit. Little did I know he was gunning for something else. The motive would stay carefully hidden; his execution smooth and subtle. The Mr. Clean projection has already been laid out in his blog. Now it’s clearer to me why he usually fixes on old pliable women who make up the majority of his so-called “friends.” He’d insist he sincerely wanted a pure, real blog and email friendship with you; fake a modicum of concern for your welfare; pretend he does read your entries – despite dropping forced, obligatory, lacklustre comments on your blog. You’ll stay on his special networking  list – as long as you don’t make it obvious you are nurturing an ascetic soul and are completely useless to him. He eventually found that out about me and extricated himself swiftly barely five weeks after a personal loss hit me a year ago. Not a single friendly note whatsoever from him for months on end. Then came his surprising missive of “concern” last November – one week before launching his new product of greeting cards. Unbelievable.

I am actually relieved the bogus association with Mr. Freshly Pressed God has finally ended. I want to put that unpleasant episode of my bloglife behind me. There’s really nothing wrong with cultivating a livelihood through blogging means. It’s just that I don’t want to have anything to do mixing this art with money. More emphatically, I’ve no plan to dole out my little hard-earned dough to anyone out here. My November post of 2012 had tried to impart that. https://justmarj.wordpress.com/2012/11/30/november-babe-musings-random-ruminations-about-blogging-and-a-nondescript-existence.  I thought he understood its essence at the time.

My life story has been shamelessly spread out through the pages of this blog. It may seem I’ve lost my halo and wings and have fallen from the sky, but I was never an angel to begin with. I never pretended I was. Still, I don’t think I deserved Mr. Freshly Pressed god’s conduct towards me for the promotion of his own ends.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this sorry ending if he had been upfront about his true intentions in the beginning. He could have forgotten a few bloggers aren’t so dumb as not to know networking is on no account synonymous with the fostering of genuine friendships.

And I guess I just don’t take well to threats and bullying, too. Unless not a whit did I come to care – ever. What a fool I’ve been.