Imbentori: A Tumblr Blog

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Table of Contents

Status: On-going

It may or may not have been obvious, but people my age like to express themselves on the internet.

I was active in one platform which is still out there, on Tumblr, that you can still visit:


It is/was my Tumblr blog the password of which I no longer remember.

A little while back, I even thought of parsing through the original text I have there, and publish them in some sort of a book…

I’m not throwing this idea permanently away. It’s just that I have more interesting things to tackle, in my opinion.

In the meantime, read the foreword I drafted some time ago for this would-be collection of personal essays.


The tongue that swirls with its perceived languages can only cope so much from the demands of diction. Imbentori, then, is one own’s tongue’s attempt to speak the library of tensions as they never unfold in one’s mind. It is a list of personal truths told with cryptic lingo (or with International Art English1, one could argue) to add dimension to the mundane. In some entries, there’s no room for interpretation. In any case, if you feel like the stream of thoughts challenge the way you read, hmm, then it’s purpose didn’t go off tangent.

“Which is what, exactly?” I hear you ask.

“Well,” I mutter, racking my brain for proper wording. “The intention of sharing this version of my Youth—captured between 2012 and 2018—is to offer a perspective of someone who both despises the world, yet remains hopeful of the people’s capacity to kick-start a change, although they bore me at that.” And then you plop back on your chair, still unsatisfied with my ambiguous response.

You will notice quirks. One of the most notable was how I refuse to capitalize letters that needed capitalization. It’s style; you’ll get over it.

There’s a free copy online

Most of them are lumped into what I call Unscholarly Notes, after a chapter in one of my favorite books by F. Sionil Jose.

Selected Entries

The following are the entries that I like, with slight edits.

Entry # 1

Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013

Someone called me on the phone, but I did’nt hear it immediately, because I was too absorbed on the gyrating sound waves coming out of the speakers. My music, Queen, was too loud, and the speakers are of the modern tech, so that they don’t do that magical feedback every time a call or a text comes in my phone.

You all know that, right? A few years back, speakers screech when a phone nearby would receive something. Nowadays, they don’t. They have killed the magic.

I picked up the phone. The voice at the other end was raspy but clear. It was one of the mistresses of the former landlord of the community where I live in now. She said she was coming to pick up some of her old clothes and to drop a few other things.

There are visitors who seemed wanting to stay, but I can’t allow that. I want to be at my own now, see what will happen. If she comes, and she stays, and she waits for the landlord, the two of them will lock themselves in their old room where they will make love for the rest of the day. Why can’t they just leave me in peace?

Entry # 2

Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013

Dear diary, today I watched more videos of people fucking each other. I think it’s called pornography or erotica, but it depends on the grade of steam which confutes any discrepancy between the two.

These people surprised me with their whines. I don’t get it. Am I supposed to touch my genitals just to emulate what they were experiencing? There was an order of preference that I have read somewhere, but my not remembering when and where I found such an article proves how sleazy can I be. What I know is that, I must do it with one or more persons, but with whom?

I clicked on a panel that played a video of two girls shamed by an “ex-convict” on an absurd level, and he got to ram his penis down their throats for more than four minutes. It was moving like a piston. I felt nervous for these people who have nothing but their blessed bodies. Maybe this isn’t entertainment but something inhumane that feeds off the carnal desires. If I must really think about it, I suppose it was not their choice to participate in such a graphic scenario.

Sex workers puzzle me. I know I have no right to question their deeds, but still, the nature of their work is beyond my comprehension. I feel so dumb saying that.

Dear diary, I am lonely. I want to fight off the urge. I want to spend the rest of the week cuddling in someone’s arms. I don’t need to take cold baths, because life isn’t a big porcelain bath tub, nor a playlist of fetishes.

Entry # 3

Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013

On moments that I look out of the window, I see the glorious sky. Everything is modernized. Everything looks hopeful, yet ugly, but only if you looked long enough to see the details. 

Entry # 4

Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013

I wish I could cough up wonderful lyrics and come up with good guitar chords to go with it. 

I wish to do a thousand tough push-ups for every mistake I make. That way, I would be strong enough to endure future errors.

I wish to rebuild the walls I destroyed in order to get here, but it seems that it’s all too late now. Someone out there knows why.

Entry # 5

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

People from the suburbs have vacated the other room. It is free from dirt now. They have also cleaned it. Got rid of the pests that might want to scurry about the floor. I am glad the room is all mine now.

The room lacks decorations and soft pillows. It would echo in here. It lacks inspiration, but it has me now. And now, I have it.

Entry # 6

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

Kill me not with admiration, and tell me I am the best person to have entered your life ever. My guitar strings ache to be strummed, my boxes of mementos long to be remembered, but I don’t care about them. I care about you.

You who have brought yourself to your own knees. You whose ponytail I held in place just so you could mourn and bow down before me. I could set up a room for the two of us where we could strangle the milk of life out of each other, but you chose to be free. And to be honest, that was your only option.

You chose to be with your cats and your boy friends. I had nothing to do with them, so I, in turn, chose to set you free, even if I wanted otherwise.

Entry # 7

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

My grandfather, who looked like Quezon, once belonged to a guerrilla force. They lived in the mountain side, just like any other rebellion at the time. They boiled unripe corncobs and cow bones they stole from the farms nearby for lunch. They were outlaws. They wanted to throw the Japanese out of the country, only that they failed to do so.

Theirs were the stories of war against alien adversaries who were more powerful. They were simpletons turned militia who knew only a few things about war. If they wanted so bad to be an active threat to their opponents, they could have constructed at least one smart plot. But they preferred to be cowards hidden behind ferns and rocks.

He died at the age of 80. Everybody prayed their own versions of lamentations at his funeral. I was not there. I did not even see him during his last moments, so damn me now. 

My mother regularly reminds us of her admiration for her father. In her own words, he was the greatest man who lived. She told me how her mother wept during the funeral, so much so that they laughed at her, saying she was over-reacting.

Entry # 8

Date: Sat, 02 Nov 2013

To the brother whose downfall is inevitable,

Your woman talked to me the other night, but I was not listening carefully. Did she say that you were destroyed by an old lady? That you broke into tears inside a taxi, because none of your schemes worked out?

Old hags do tend to cause that. Sometimes, they are too old for emotions that they can’t even handle themselves. They resort to a so-called systematic deity whom they worship as much as they worship their laundry. It is all helpless now.

For you and for her, the old widow.

The sparrows will soon take her and all of her possessions away. The last air she will breathe looms nigh before her.

Entry # 9

Date: Sun, 03 Nov 2013

I can’t promise not to be so anxious about the impermeability of jagged things here in this wanton city, here in this side of the world. I can lock myself up in a room with venomous dingoes and snapping Venus flytraps, but tell me, can I really lock myself up in a room with deranged weirdos? I cannot be the spark of some other lame people’s thoughts. I, too, am suffering. I cannot be of some help to others, sorry about that.

Some other night, I was not thinking straight again. I think I was capable of horrendous crimes that time. So instead of losing it, I got myself jacked in the computer and played all of the piano concertos repetitively, until I came back to my senses, and everything seemed wonderful again.

Entry # 10

Date: Mon, 04 Nov 2013

Let it sit there in the mellow light. And let it be clear to you that it is not yours, that thing. This is not a race that you could just break into a run like you are going to make it to the finish line. If you run now, you will not make it. The finish line is only a perceived idea through which we wish to project the kind of reality we wanted, the goals we wish to get.

So hear me out on this, and just let the thing sit by itself. It is safely locked in here. The room is all so-and-so-proof— nothing goes in or out. Entirely vacuum sealed.

Now, step out of the room and close the door behind you.


Listen to me. It is the pride in us that will bleed us to death. You are not owned by your pride. And you need to rack your brains if you have to, just so you will remember that. If you have to jot these down, do it, for tomorrow and the day after that and so on, there will be difficult exams. Life is a practical test.

Entry # 11

Date: Tue, 05 Nov 2013

Regardless of the hours of rest I give myself, this quake in my chest still would not die down. My heart thrashes for no romantic reason. And during its convulsive moments, I feel this fear might consume me. Later this day, I might trace my steps back into the previous night to see what I have done to feel so gutted and spooked, although I highly doubt it would be of any help.

Entry # 12

Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013

On a night with the least expectations, someone might want to show up by the front gate. She could be a friend, her derelict vehicle behind her, engine vibrating in anticipation of a long senseless drive.

She might want to invite me in her car, and ask for advice: about how she was so doped that her mother found out; about the terrible travails that almost diminished her mind to dementia.

I might say, “Get us out of here first.” The tires would then screech.

I might tell someone to go to the nearest bridge, preferably at least a mile long, and there we might just drive back and forth. But the bridge would not respond to such foolish actions.

She might get tired of driving and just take me to her room instead.

Of course, no one will actually show up and demand my presence. None of this will ever happen.

Entry # 13

Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013

On several facets of human frailty that I fail to tamper with logic, a deep resentment in discussing them prevails. Is it because human that I am, that in order to function normally, I have to act as if my weaknesses are repulsive topics? But isn’t that denial, enough a reason to be asking for psychiatric help?

Well, I don’t need help. I’m doing good with my dull, simple life, thank you very much.

Entry # 14

Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2013

Gentlemen can’t rack their brains. Ladies won’t do it for them. The might has been passed back and forth, so that one day, no one will be needing the other. We might all become asexual, and the only terrible thing about that is not finding enough limbs to stimulate the genitals.

Entry # 15: the response to any dream is its own ending

Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013

I ask now for the wisdom of people hearing me out about this one tiny bit (Yes, my dead grandfather, you are one of them, so please stop brushing my shoulder with your phantom hands.):

TO DREAM of someone every single night when the clock strikes nine at the fall of all the bass with the banging in unison of all buttheads to the tune of all that has collapsed and will be collapsing with an angelic choir from the ripped-open heavens apart IS normal as long as it does not leave me grasping for breath, right? My dreams are made of sad stuff. When I wake up from one, I put a pillow between my legs and hug another with my arms, because it’s all I have. A bunch of un-talkative pillows, all heat-less and disappointingly foamy. They have phased out the feathery once. Too many geese and ducklings and mallards had suffered.

I saw once a meme somewhere, asking what if the pillows recorded our dreams and all we had to do is plug them to our computers in the morning to see our them, if any, again. Are they that stupid to not know that all dreams have no substantial beginnings? Only endings. Sometimes good, but most of them just stop abruptly.

Once upon a time, I had many dreams of this particular person who stopped jamming with me all of a sudden—and that is fine. Maybe she dreamed of other persons, too, who would be genuinely interested in the good stuff of pop music she liked. My sister, upon witnessing me looking so badly wrecked, decided one day to teach me a lesson on how to deal with the feminine intricacy: Snap out of it.

Entry # 16

Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013

Science never told us that deeply ingrained within the cosmic particles the earth was made up of, are so much drudgery that when the godly forces of Universe swirled it all up into a gargantuan sphere, the amalgam was but a place abundant of disappointment. Disappointment that, if served frequently in many a cold dose, will dissolve human faith. Thus, it isolates a person in a barren phenomena, a distant sanctuary of the inner self, sometimes called madness.

Entry # 17

Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013

The roads that branch out to those distant havens are all awfully pungent like rotten onion. So here’s a useless lifehack: Be skeptical of maps with X’s on them, simply because they are stupid and do not belong in this time and age. Only ancient topography had these large red marks on them. They were created by humans for humans as imaginary goals with no evident rewards, so they could feel free to be objective, be freed from their doubts of existence, be ambitious despite the dull Sundays. What use really is there of a map? The long roads are boring and tiring; the short ones are swift and tasteless.

After thousands of years of improving technology, we still find ourselves stuck and deserted in a different dimension.

Entry # 18

Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013

Despite the miseries the kid had gone through, he managed to salvage his childhood by talking to a toy. He is his own true friend. A bond was naturally formed between him and Himself, idealistically unbreakable even at the toughest times. He was seldom seen crying simply because he was seldom seen at all. When he was locking himself up in his room, who knows what things he was doing there, the miracles enchanting him there. People were worried, but only because they don’t understand. And those who do never had enough time to pay him a visit.

The kid was bright, I must say. He learned that people do not always see the world as he sees it, and that it is his duty to understand them.

The sores still burn him throughout the years, but now he’s too tough for them. In fact, his toughness is so much for him to handle that it grows out as patches of facial hair and untrimmed nails and badly-attended hygiene. The sores itch him somewhere just above the chest, but he’s become tolerant now.

Entry # 19

Date: Thu, 14 Nov 2013

I was pushing myself, tapping at the frontal lobes, hoping to remember something they taught me almost twelve hours ago. I was the new guy, one who gives the glass around a circle of conversationalists. We all drank the glass full of poison.

Laps later, talk got better. At that time, I munched on meat served on the table when this scourge started boiling in my stomach. The potion I had been passing around betrayed me; the friend became the repulsive adversary. In a blink, I was in the bathroom, throwing up. The liquid rushing through the throat and nasal cavity made painful spasms. Vomit dripped on my lips and in my nostrils. I felt weak.

This guy on the mirror squinted his eyes at me. He looked desolated and trapped. Too, he looked cool in that Joker shirt. Next time I see him, I’d take him out into the real world.

I cleaned up my mess. Peed after that. Went out and found my cousin waiting by the restroom door, asking if I were still doing good. I nodded and smiled and went to bed.

I try to recall what they told me, but all of those went with the gastric pulp down the reservoir of rejected principles (called toilet).

Entry # 20

Date: Sat, 16 Nov 2013

It has been a long time since I was last aware of my being atop a floor of some church. Maybe, in recalling it right now, it was the last time I would ever be in a church, or any holy establishment for that matter.

At first, I was bashful coming out as a cross-breed of agnostic and atheist, but the more I learned, the more certain I became, that relying on faith alone would not be smart a strategy if one, such as I, were to continue living in cussedness.

I dislike the overall ambiguity of it, mainly because of extremists and militants who distort and/or obscure the truth; although I like the religious holidays and how they are so good at briefly converting us into ethical and kind beings, in whatever ways we know how, genuine or not, before we return to our same old selves. During this period, we are allowed to vocalize our hopes for humanity with minimal judgmental feedback. Everybody suddenly can forgiving. And here and there, lights would appear as adornments of the house, a welcome banner to accommodate any spirit who would decide to lounge in and share some thoughts.

Some people give too much color to it, though, to a point that my eyes have had enough of this abject misery. Here we are still with our dumbness in tact, trying to make something out of nothing. Conjurers we are not.

Entry # 21

Date: Tue, 19 Nov 2013

Didn’t go to the morning class. Arrived late on the afternoon class, but it was fine. The professor decided to not show up, and make us wait in vain instead. Waited until the last class.

It was the hardest part, waiting. It always has been. Waited until my buttocks became sore in sitting. Waited until my legs deserted my being for standing too long.

Stuck my head out for some colleagues who were playing crossword puzzle on a tablet. They thanked me every time I got a word right. Waited for the last class. The raging current of boredom was made to take me away from the university, but it didn’t.

And I waited still. Until the last class. I was hanging around gay people giving lecture to straight dudes about homosexuality, and I lingered long enough to hear everything they all had to say.

I waited until finally, the wait was over. When I stepped in the last class, a 30-page surprise exam was waiting for me in my desk. “It’s a joke,” I thought, almost too loud. It wasn’t a joke. And the last professor for the day did not seem to be in the mood for bad jokes. In 45 minutes I was done with the whole thing. Whether I took the exam seriously was out of the question. It’s a funny world we live in. We wait for the wrong things to happen.

Entry # 22

Date: Wed, 20 Nov 2013

When I think of how dashing I am, I picture myself lost with the commuters waiting in the train station, all well-dressed and well-mannered.

When I’m drunk, I dance while I pee. I draw murals on bathroom tiles with urine, and on the morning it would smell of ammonia.

I fan an old book on my nose and start sniffing its wasted years of abandonment, the smell of aging vanilla diffusing profusely from its pages to the air, renovating my deconstructed thoughts. I try to record what I’m doing as drafts (not videos) on my phone.

I think I’m hot stuff, sometimes. I think I’m all glam from head to toe, but it is all feigned. No need now for brashness; I am fully aware of what I really am, and it’s really not that difficult to see. I think of mysterious sounds droning somewhere to console me, but all that echoes back is a monotonous buzz. It’s all cheap cologne and thrift store clothes and perforated undergarments; and the train station is really just a dark alley of bad crimes, and the commuters are really just rats. The joints are creaky when they shouldn’t be.

I may feel pretty sometimes, but rainbows aren’t going to last the whole day. I’m just like everyone else, trying to be cool.

Entry # 23

Date: Sat, 23 Nov 2013

Last Wednesday, I was already 30 minutes late for one of my classes, but I lingered around the corridor, eyeing occasionally the glass door behind which I should be, waiting for the professor to go out. You see, almost always does he excuse himself to go out to fetch something. I saw this as my opportunity to sneak in his class.

Go out he did, only when I least expected it. I fumbled for my phone and acted to be waiting for something else, and I can only hope that he did not recognize me as one of his students. I decided to chicken out. I made up excuses and debated with myself, but in the end, I chickened out. I was so close. Ridiculously so to have not carried on with this stupid plan. Being late already means demerits, and not appearing at all in this important subject only made me sink deeper into my own grave. The lesson, I hope I know now, is to never back out, not now, not later or ever.

Entry # 24

Date: Tue, 26 Nov 2013

none of us could think straight, maybe it’s because of the libido setting in, or the lack of sense of responsibility, or the vague feeling of abandonment. i don’t know. i tried suppressing mine by drinking lots of chilling fluids from the freezer, but my brain almost got frozen. so i stopped searching for the things that might cure me of my disease.

a not-so-close friend admitted she was a bit worried i might get old faster than her, but i assured her that my gears are not rusty yet. just three days ago, when i woke up, i did some push-ups. my gears are not rusty yet. i did two sets of push-ups, five reps each, and i felt good. but later that day, my shoulder blades started aching. my pillows are all wet. how is that? my blankets, my bed sheets, my notebooks, my bag, all wet, each one of them. drenched with gooey substance. the smell is not evident, but with careful observation, one can easily deduce that such could only come from the windows of one abominable soul.

i know what you are thinking. but it isn’t true. they say words are powerful, but when they come from a tainted memory, words can be deceiving. do not be fooled. learn how to read beyond the lines. when i say my pillows are wet, i could mean my pillows were doused in nightmarish sweat. think about it.

Entry # 25: 50 years past bedtime

Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2013

I will be your only medication when you reach the end of your career. I will be the palpable, inexplicable aftertaste with which you will want to harm yourself at the back of your tongue. I will not be toxic, though. Therefore, there will be no harm. Simply, I will be needed, just as one needs pills when one is feverish and unhealthy.

Preservation—for it is the old and golden that needs preserving; instincts and memories flashed pseudo-permanently on films or photographic papers. Sometimes we think of ourselves as a selfish bunch, but there is more to that. Thoughts in sarcophagus, mummified, waiting to be unearthed by future archaeologists.

Hopefully, after I bury these distractions, these murky musings—you, of course, along with all of it—our descendants would take the time to dig them up, to debunk the surrounding myths, to suffer from our recklessness, and to procure among the ruins that glistening wisdom I assumed to have possessed but never actually had.

Entry #26

Date: Sun, 01 Dec 2013

I have not yet involved myself in a physically intimate act, sometimes crudely referred to as having sex, with another person. Fuck me, right?

Entry # 27: Kb

Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013

Should drunk people go to church? They seem to be passionate about begging for forgiveness.

I tried to lift myself up from the wooden floor but it’s no use. It’s rather a good thing, exceptional even, that near me is a pen and a notebook. This is written first before I typed it heavily into my hard drive.

I ask too much forgiveness; I should be a pope or live a celibate life or someone immune to the temptations of foreign flesh. I will use my hand. Good thing that is not the case. I guess you were not born for the likes of me.

When in the morning I wake up, you will still be in my mind. It works only if you were just as partial to me as am I to you.

I tried writing, but nothing came out of my pen except drools and spoiled sardines. What does that even mean? I hope you like those who struggle to formulate proper thoughts from defiled beings, because if not—too bad.

Instead of a lovely letter, it came out like this. You should’ve seen my notebook, how aggressively I scribbled down the lines, not all too hyperbolic for your taste, but given time, I think they will mean something to someone someday.

The dog’s been chirping the whole night, but how come? Dogs are not created for this sort of thing. I have wondered enough to think where you might be in this darkest hour, but I am not myself at this minute. The likes of me cannot make advances because the likes of me drop by to say hello a bit too late.

Entry # 28

Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013

Outside lies an interesting field. Acres of solitary people forming point circles of commotion. Wanting to be heard or seen or sometimes left out. Institutions for the misguided, for the zealots, and the in-betweens. But I prefer Here, breathing comfortably around denizens unwilling to choke me with their ideals. Here is a good place. Here you aren’t, you weren’t, you won’t be. Oh the joy of cumulative absence, whatever it means to you!

Entry # 29

Date: Wed, 11 Dec 2013

I ask myself if the idea of my mind being attuned to a sweet raspberry voice I have never heard were reliable, that is, if paying heed to such would be worth my while. Disconnect a lonely guy from the tranquil comforts of his zone, and believe me, he will soon be hearing a voice so lovely he won’t believe it is from his own illusory incantations.

Entry # 30

Date: Thu, 12 Dec 2013 10:26:32

My monochrome phone rang, and I picked it up. “Hey,” said the woman on the other line. “Are you free right now?” It took me a while to recognize the voice. It was, of course, Marian. Psych grad at 25. Practitioner of an unhealthy lifestyle. Preacher of poorly executed quips. That Marian.

“Yeah,” I said.

Once, she was a cast in my midnight dream, but that was before the wedding earlier this year. Had I been more receptive, I would have known her discreet “suggestions” and would have gladly reciprocated her hints. But marriage does bring out the woman in every girl; Marian knows better than to gun every young man in the room with her pheromones. She is now more dedicated to her husband, as she should be.

M and I talked for a while about this party she was inviting me in. I did not like going to parties, but this was a choice not mine to make.

I dislike family gatherings, as they always end up in political discussions that I am tired of hearing. Aunts and uncles throw back and forth the same opinions that I have memorized, but I won’t bother you with the details. We are a mess, you must know that.

Bonifacio died not because he was a part of the revolution, not because the enemies' rifles peppered him with bullets. He died because it was an order of the former leader. Do I think it was a betrayal of sorts? Here I was, wondering about patriotism on a birthday party.

We are a mess, my kin and I, you must know that. We think deeply in the dark moments of solitude, but in the wee hours of the morning, we weep brat-like because we tend to soil our sheets with the crap coming out of our boring mouths.

After drinking the equivalent of three bottles of beer, I wanted to sleep off the rest of the night, that I might shut the people out of my head finally.

Introductions again on the morrow, but not now. I need some snoozing.

Entry # 31

Date: Fri, 13 Dec 2013

It would be nice for me to find you elsewhere, perhaps in a more okay place than this one. A wretched world where seven billion weirdlings live never is a good rendezvous for two people, one of whom aspires to be the ideal fling of the other. Outer Space wouldn’t do as well.

The infinite quirks of our daily lives bore the heck of me. Get me out of such languorous affairs, and let me see you already prepped up for this simple occasion I am trying to pull you in.

Entry # 32

Date: Sat, 14 Dec 2013

The looks and the sounds and the feels of the people I have been browsing emotionally tortures me. The rumor is true: People are more beautiful on the internet. About their smarts, though—they vary from person to person. What is the etiquette, then, when it comes to dealing with these kinds of humans? Whatever it is, I just have to make sure that I am not to be so spooky to them. Ah—

Do not force it, they say. Do not. Do not, and all shall naturally, smoothly follow.

Entry # 33

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

An old hag I know is into fits of cough lately. Her dear weak lungs now finally giving up on her. I would advise her to take her vitamins soon.

An old hag is the wisest crook I know, and if she died in her sleep, it would be a shame.

And the old hag needs some back rub, but it’s the middle of the night, and she hates the mere sight of me. It is not me whom she needs, but her god.

And her god would talk to her in her dreams, asking her to stop smoking. “Do it for them,” he would say. But she is such a stubborn woman that even a divine deity as influential and popular as her god could not convince her.

Entry # 34

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

It is astonishing to find something so repulsive to be so breathtakingly beautiful. An amateur disease gone viral. Hers was a daring shot to the skies of blaring cyber-fame. The magic in her soul is hers to handle, and for the world to leash.

Entry # 35

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

Love is real. An invincible arc passing between at least two contacts. An idea agreed upon. A painful abstraction of an empty stomach. An ignorance that could not be vanquished. A gimmick pulling back the strands of hair to a neat style. A cheap perfume. A cheap mint. Strings of used floss. Polished fingernails. An affection for the outdated minds. Love is real, but lovers are not.


Tweet-like witticisms back in the day.

  1. Spontaneous conflagration is the result of the heat of the moment.
  2. a face that launched thousands of fake social media accounts
  3. Home is where you hang your enemy’s head.
  4. I will find a neck and bury my face in it until the pheromones wave me down to sleep.
  5. tales arriving and departing the mind of a metaphysical new-wave enthusiast that might or might not lead to existentialism
  6. is ending better than fending
  7. succeeding in turning people off with my boorish swoons since ‘93
  8. The graffiti on the streets and bridges offer better philosophy and romance than I can.
  9. I am a boring individual who persists living in a world where people are becoming less and less attentive.
  10. I can’t commit a heavenly error without receiving a flaming feedback.
  11. Not to Miggy you out or anything, but I think that nicknames are good substitutes for ugly verbs.
  12. We defend the things we think we can.
  13. Losing times are mostly dedicated to brain teasers or the answers to the most philosophically drunk questions, so please try to forgive me when I talk about them.
  14. Something about belief mattered greatly.

  1. Reminds me of a paper called “Bullshit Makes The Art Grow Profounder” (Turpin et. al., 2019). Some 20(20) years ago when I last visited an art museum (or was it just gallery?), I couldn’t help but roll my eyes on a lot of pieces' description cards that seemingly always include how the artist “explores” this or that. ↩︎

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