You walk with a smile, strut it well, skip, fly, and breathe the universe’s entirety. Your proud self implies that you’ve finally seen the masked wonder of reality and a new found belief has dawned. All of the sudden, your life has brought you to a shift of phase. You’re “thankful”.

Ego insists that you keep on moving. Pretentious? Pathetic? No. A heroine of your own kind. You walk among the stars of all stars.

Disseminate this new found belief with a joyful conveyance, enough to cast a shadow to what really is.

Let them call your bluff. Let them fold. Win the pot without the revelation. ‘It’s a royal flush’ you say. Then let the dealer burn again.

Five of clovers, three of hearts, seven of spades, nine of diamonds, Jack of hearts – against winners.

Kulang pa yan.

How dare you.

In a blink, I was suddenly placed in the center stage with the whole arena taking interest in my plan of action. It felt like it was up to me to turn this whole craft into tragedy or victory and if I would rather be the protagonist or the antagonist. Either way while with all these senses fixated on me, the show must end with a roar of appreciation.

What’s going to kill me are the uncertainties.

Care if I overwhelm you?

I just want you to know that I’m not standing here to get your attention. I didn’t put these earrings, this necklace, this lipstick, these everythings that one by one define every atom of my being, none of these are for you.

The website’s pigments weren’t meant to appeal to your taste.

These pictures weren’t posted for your sake.

These words aren’t your cries.

This whole shindig isn’t for you. It’s for me to bask upon.

I’ll have the cake, the keg, the band, and I can only let some of the confettis fall on your face.

But these are all mine and you have no say, no anything at all.

Remember that time you asked if I wanted candy and I said yes? Remember how that transformed me in less than a second? Remember when you smiled when I smiled?

I was already unwrapping my mint candy when you took it away from me. I didn’t cry. I wanted to. But I didn’t and I just stared at you and saw another person.

Remember that wasn’t the only time you did that?

These aren’t for you.

Let’s not be diplomatic here, I mean hate. The extent that provokes you to bang your fist on the dry wall. Pounding the weak foundation, accumulating chalks of paint and dust, pretending that you’ve been succesfully grinding your enemy’s feeble gray matter.

I kid.
We shouldn’t be calling it ‘gray matter’.

The idea of plunging this sweet acuminous object against this idiot’s body isn’t as blissful as it seems. I plan to start this chaos by breaking down the walls. Ruining the ego, wrecking the heart, resurrecting ignorance. And all that jazz.

Sit down Karma, I got this.

_______________________________________

Readers, forgive me for the recent dark entries. I would just like to clarify that I am not in a negative state. Neither am I close to committing something that may compromise my life’s decency. I am, with all honestly, doing better.

I have been reading a lot of Chuck Palahniuk. By which I guess now you’ve all gathered the idea – yes, pegging. Trying.

All clear?
Rad.

Sit tightly.

So if I pull this, besides the expected, how does it end?

Start?

Do I see confettis or does it get darker and darker and darker? Besides the fact that my ability to experience physical anythings has shutdown, am I bound to an eternity of numbness or am I succumbed to an eternity of agony? Do I stick around with my usual form or do I transfigure into something else?

If I pull this, it’ll end a series of disappointments. If I pull this, I’ll only be a bad memory.

I once said five years ago to a friend that whatever happens, I’m gonna leave a mark and it’s going to be good.

As much as I try to provoke myself, I always find limitless reasons to lock ‘this’ back in the vault and throw it back again in the ocean.

So everybody, shut the fuck up. I’m making my legacy.
It’s going to be, forgive me as this term is overused, epic.

And apparently your nose had just erupted a gallon of blood.

Let’s go way back, say four years ago. You’ve started out with a series of friendly sparring, had a share of street fights that made you feel god for 3 minutes, and then finally had the opportunity to train in a boxing gym.

Do forgive me as this narrative metaphor is slowly turning into a Manny Pacquiao tale. Be relieved, it’s not.

You do know that it isn’t just the black eye or the bruises that’ll feel like a bitch when you wake up the next day.

Remember those four years? Four years enriched with glorified days, only to be ruined by a millisecond miss. Those glorified days that placed you up the pedestal are now gone. The millisecond miss has turned you into a runner up. Runner ups’ names are never remembered, they’re just a bunch of faces you see standing beside the champion. The champion gets to raise the belt. The champion gets the press. The champion gets the celebration.

Being a runner up is a bitch. You do get press, but what kind of satisfaction would you get from questions that beg you to recall your failure? ‘How do you feel about losing?” “Does your eye still hurt?” “Will you fight again?”

Yes.
Why wouldn’t I fight again?
It’s life – not limited by 12 rounds and not under discretion of anonymous decisions.

Guess what? I’ve 35 seconds left on the clock.

Block the anticipated blow with left forearm.
Rib punch.
Pull away block and then slam right forearm to neck.
Stomp on foot.
End with upper cut.

And the crowd goes wild.