platelets and then some

if i get to decide on having another blog, i will name it “platelets and then some”. see, there’s a friend whose quantity of platelets were discovered to be below the required number. so if she has a gash, blood doesn’t clot at a normal rate.(i wanted to try this and see if it’s true with the use of a timer, but i’m sure she’ll kill me) i love teasing her, calling her “platelets,” but that doesn’t dim my concern for her. anyway, she’s lucky because i can’t, for the life of me, force her to have a tattoo just to gain that experience. next time, platelets.

that blog would record comic moments and conversations. it will be like Gary Larson’s The Far Side but in words. tee-hee. i’d be like a Wednesday Addams high on laughing gas. fun, fun.

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but butt but

this might not happen at all. now that i’ve been listening to myself more, i’ve been slowly learning to write in my journal again. inversely, i’ve stopped being motivated to update my blog. i’ve also found myself thinking of how to say goodbye to this blog, but as long as i don’t have an appropriate goodbye, this blog will still stink with the air of abandonment. i simply will try to keep this blog for platelets since she will soon become a globetrotter.

what i do to be committed to my journal is i vent and then i write entries high-school style. on the venting part: i wrote an entry about a person whom i abhor so much because he made me question my esteem. the title of the entry was “To (first name) (surname)”, and i just let it out. i even mentioned there that i know that he doesn’t deserve a space in my journal, but i wanted to let out the anger. on the high-school style: when i was part of the Creative Writers’ Guild in SSC, Manila, one of our writing exercises was to humanize emotions. We had guide questions to desribe an emotion: what he does, what he wears, what he thinks, what he looks like, what he says to other people, what his quirks are, what the writer can tell him.

Take Loneliness:

Loneliness is a man trapped in a mansion.
There are no keys around to unlock doors,
windows are sealed shut.
He wears a white fedora hat, a white
suit with a white kerchief shy inside the pocket.
Yesterday, he spilled tomato paste on the suit.
He looked at the trail of light inching
from the window to the floor,
and he said, “Oh, I never knew this stains.”
He hollers at people ogling at his mansion:
“I’m no stranger!” But the locks hold
strong: no voices nor thoughts can escape
them.
If I talk to him, I will tell him:
“Let go of the hat, let go of it.”

what i do is i just write an emotion on a fresh page, and then i leave it fermenting, that one word on that one page just waiting for me.

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