Look for me in the white forest

To random people. Just think about what you're in for, then read the appropriate parts. If I hurt anyone, lemme just say it's 3 AM and I am not feeling particularly bad about it. Tss. But I am telling the truth, so there's that.


*


1
(as YM-ed:) i have so many things to rant and whine about. i wish i was there, so we could drink dutch mill and beer, while you smoked (careful, like you always are, to not let the smoke billow my way), and then you'd say something only 30% related to my problem and i'd steer the conversation to your problem, which is easier for me to handle because, after all, it ain't my problem, and then the hours would tick by and soon we're both silent, and you'll be thinking about sol reyes, and i'll be wondering if i should start smoking again, and before we know it, the silence is over, and we'd be ranting and whining again. yun.




2
Hello, dickhead. I doubt you're Litiot eyes would ever get to read this in cyberspace, as a) you think the internet is a base system which has the devil as its CEO; and b) you won't read anything that isn't recommended by the NY Times Book Review, your as-snooty mother, and your "writer-reader friends." And yet I write, still. Because not only does this give me the intense satisfaction at having to malign your Ivy School-ed name, I am still ever so hopeful that you would step down from that pedestal you've hauled yourself up to (not without your share of stepping on some fingers, of course) and actually get to read this.

Anyway, I just wanted to inform you of my wish to the higher powers that you could be able to read more books, that you could waltz into a bookstore and just look around, with no purpose at all, no book in mind that was recommended, or something you saw in a four-star critique. Don't box yourself in. Marunong ka namang magbasa eh, so magbasa ka na talaga.





3
Just because I am not writing about the war in Kamalakhi-wooha, or trying to fictionalize my way into finding the cure for cancer, it does not mean that what I am doing is not worthwhile. So what I write doesn't solve the hunger crisis, it doesn't weed out the dirty politicians, it doesn't urge celebutantes to adopt orphans from Bacolod. That doesn't make me less of a person.

And by the way, I know a fucking metaphor when I see one, dearie, and that's just too bad for you, innit?





4
I really wish you'd leave me alone. How many times do I have to send out the Not Interested signals? I don't want to make it any clearer because that would mean I would have to throttle you and stamp NOT INTERESTED all over your body, which I am so not interested in. Clear?





5
I don't think cancer is a laughing matter. And for the record, I did not laugh at all, in any way. So my voice was light and breezy. Don't give me the prologue for a sermon. You have no idea how exhausting the relief is, after the weeks of worry, in which I couldn't tell anyone, except in highly cryptic messages. You have no idea how this affects my family, how this affects me. And don't even think of throwing what you've been through at my face, to prove me wrong, to say, "Well, Sasha, I actually do know."

She doesn't have it. And that means there's a bigger chance that I don't have it either.

And if I said it in such a light, breezy voice, with such light, breezy words, like, "She doesn't have cancer," a smile here, the beginnings of mindless laughter there -- then I am sorry if that moves you enough to say, "You shouldn't laugh at things like that."

And before you do (or not do) anything, I'd like to tell you that I understand you and that infuriates me more because I can't even be properly angry -- anger, being another thing you're depriving me off. Ugh.





6
I am so damned happy the two of you finally got jiggy with the workings of the universe and got together! Yey!





7
One of the most idiotic and pitiful things you could do is hang on to something not worth hanging on to. I've told you this so many times I am quite sure it's become a mantra in your head, along with all the others spewed by the little Sasha in your psyche. I understand you, love, I really do. And a couple of months ago, I found myself testing myself, if I could actually stick to my principles, when faced with something I thought could actually make it despite all the bullshit I and my umfriend were injecting it with.

For a couple of days, I felt a bit horrified that I was actually contemplating trampling all over my so-called principles. But I realize now that it's part of the process, this doubt. It's all about gauging whether it's actually worth it or you're just fooling yourself and hurting yourself (and others too, as collateral damage) along the way.

So you have to decide. And after that, think about it. Really think. Is it worth it? Is she?

(If you're wondering, the umfriend and I are no more. But things don't always end up this way. Some things go on, some things you have to fight for, some things you have to let go. There are happy endings too, you know. Trust me on this one.)

Oh, and remember: lighten up.





8
I am NOT letting you ruin one of the best things that has ever happened in my life.

You are like a mango fiber that has doggedly burrowed itself in the space between my two front teeth, and I just can't get rid of you, even if I use a gnarled toothpick or the bruised tip of my tongue.

Your presence is a pox on my existence, and so I am taking the appropriate measures to make sure that there is as little of your presence as possible. You can't take over my life by being a turd, a tinga -- I won't let you.





9
My mother wants to invite you for dinner. No way am I even mentioning it to you.

Last night, I e-mailed her a detailed explanation of why no one of my clan should ever invite you in the course of your lifetime and three lifetimes after that.

This morning, she replied with, "You could have stopped with 'I don't like ___.'" So the invitation-that-never-was has now been taken back. And my life is starting to look a little brighter.





10
"I wanted the Third Person Experience."
Rest assured, this writer gave him a funny look.
But here's the edited version of last night's ramble.

Pen hovering, she realizes that he has never told her what he felt about love letters. She's certain he'll say that she never asked, and he'll say it with that smile of his, with his eyes cast down, then peeking up again, then laughing the entire thing -- smile, convoluted wordplay, questions -- off. She doesn't know why they still do it, the letters thing. Outdated, yes. Waste of paper, ha! But he's never complained. Once or twice, she remembers fondly, he bested her with a reply longer by a page or two.

Her brain whizzes from one psyche-station to another, as it has been these days, ever since she divorced herself from her laptop.

The other day, she started a conversation, their day, when she laughed at her emo-ness, her tendency to romanticize, her illogical affinity with "dreamy" things, her complete corniness (which she is quite sure is on full display right now). She never got to thank him for not laughing with her.

And by the way, (and she writes this down) she doesn't think he'll fit in her suitcase. And no, no, she couldn't smuggle him in. And no, she wouldn't send him pictures of her in the beach. And yes, she might call when she'd be sufficiently drunk enough that he'll only feel amusement at whatever spews out of her mouth (aside from projectile vomit.) And yes, she'll try telling Mr. Poet that he thinks he "misplaced" a metaphor in the last one.

They're both mental, he, she, it, they.