From hate, it seems, stems all exciting things.

I feel full of myself today, so this post will be about me. I mean, like, even more about me than usual. Or I don’t know, me and the beauty of my failures. What. I’m not used to feeling full of myself so in the manner of myself, I will use that as an excuse to not make sense. (Woo, hyperness, I see you.)

In the hot mess of the past few days, I’ve turned back to writing. Haha, yeah, let’s not put too much on that. I have a history of being the prodigal writer. That’s okay. I feel like the spurts of writing are longer and more passionate than the last, like I’m inching towards this final stretch of energy that will last from now until I die. My determination has to be spread out, I guess. I’m just not the kind of person who can keep going endlessly.

Or this could just be PMS. Either way, we’re back together. Sort of. As much as we can be.

Speaking of relationships, the disgusting, wrist-slashing FOREVER ALONE feeling has abruptly disappeared. I doubt it’s gone forever, but for now, I’m fine on my own. I think it’s because I’ve had two bonding sessions with the two most important women in my life in the past 72 hours, which has never happened before, so I’m pretty stable. (Also, appropriately, there’s a special on single women playing on TV right now.) Strange how I can love and hate two people with equal amounts of intensity.

Anyway, writing. I think this started when we went to mass yesterday. We went to a different parish than the one we usually go to because I was going to my friend’s 18th and that church was closer. That in itself was probably a good thing. I seriously needed a change of scenery and I’ve been falling asleep in mass for the past couple of weeks. (And I wonder why my life has been derpressing. Derpression. It’s a thing.)

Anyway, the sound system was awful and the choir was all of one person and the organ player, but the gospel had this line from a White Stripes album so I stayed awake for this one. (I’m not so much of a hipster that I’m a big White Stripes fan. I wiki-ed them the night before. Go figure.) It was the one taking up your cross and following Jesus. The priest said that people have a natural aversion to suffering but only through suffering can we truly be Christians, like if we weren’t ready to carry our crosses, then we weren’t real Christians. So I was thinking that all my suffering so far has been self-inflicted and it wasn’t even literal physical suffering. Most of it was psychological over-thinking emo shit. I mean, does that sort of thing even qualify? So okay, mini-revelation there.

For some reason, thinking things over in mass or even just realizing things makes me feel better, like I’ve uncovered some part of the world that I didn’t know was there. Somehow, I reached the conclusion that it was time for me to do some real working-hard-for-what-I-believe-in-like-I-said-I-would suffering instead of dragging other people into my sadness.

Conveniently, I came upon this this morning in the form of a free Sunday Star from ChowKing. (My mom and I were commuting to my go-kart PE thing in the rain, after I made her stay late last night to wait for me after my friend’s debut. If this happened about a week ago, I probably would’ve just slept on the bus and spoken to her in versions of the word ‘mmph.’ It happened this morning, and I still feel guilty. It’s slightly disturbing how I consider this guilt to be an indication of my return to life. Very Confessions-ish of me. In any case, I’m content to feel guilty, so I don’t know if this falls under ‘suffering.’) I remembered my self-imposed challenge of getting published before turning legal. So here it is.

If this is what it has to come to, then here goes. If it has to come to nights and days of trying to determine the correct language for blogging, of avoiding Tumblr in all its forms in favor of the pursuit of synonyms, of fierce self-editting and making everyone I know beta me like crazy, then here goes. Here I go. Here we go, writing. Here we are.

I was writing the first part of this post in my parents’ room and I feel the need to apologize if I was too distracted by Vice Ganda kicking over chairs to properly articulate my need for this to happen. It’s like the Horcrux Hunt all over again, only this time I feel like I’m better prepared for failure. In any case, I’m going for it.

I feel proud of myself for doing all these things this year. I feel braver than I was in high school, braver than last year even. This is all I ever really wanted: to be brave and strong. Not Gryffindor!brave, hellz no. Just brave enough. Enough to get to New York, enough to follow through, enough.

I’ve been stalking my competition perusing the Star’s Sunday Lifestyle archives. We’ve always been Philippine Daily Inquirer people, but this not a time to be a purist. So far I’ve gotten a few of Jessica Zafra’s articles bookmarked, two articles each on Harry Potter and the Hunger Games, and one really good article on Catcher in the Rye that actually made me want to read the book. The next paragraphs are enclosed in ‘full of myself parentheses.’

(I’d link to the other articles but they were unmemorable. See how full of myself I am when it comes to these things. I can only laugh. I’m sorry but I can honestly say I can write a much better essay on Harry Potter than the other two. Okay, I realize I’m talking the talk like a boss without actually having written one, because when I tried to, the wounds were still fresh and I cried. Maybe I’ll write one now, but that’s not likely, because I picked another book to write about, and yes, okay, it’s still painful. More on that later. I’m never this confident so let’s move on to more snark and criticism.

Almost every fricking one wants to be a doctor or has achieved something or been somewhere. One of them is even a Palanca awardee. Also, literally 99% of them are girls. Really, guys? Really? Also, about 75% of them love science and/or math. This whole ‘I’m a geek because I like science and math and that makes me cool, right?’ thing is on the rise. I’m not saying that all the people who like science-y shiz are doing this to be cool nor am I saying that they don’t genuinely like the topics, but really, why only now?

Hey, make that two Palanca awardees.

I’m also not saying I’m not like them. I probably am, I just don’t realize. I have a feeling that I’m not, but like Dumbledore, that’s all it is: a really good feeling that’s usually right. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a fiercely strong desire to be different, to just stop being invisible, that makes me separate myself from everyone else even if I shouldn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know. I never do.

I’ve scrolled back to March 13, 2011. Weirdly, as I go further back, the older and more professional the writers get, so I can’t really judge them as they’re not on my level. Oh well, guess that ends the snark series. In a few weeks when I’ve submitted my article, this ‘I’m going to Edgar Allen Poe-wn you all’ mode will probably turn into either apathy or fear as most of my emotions seem to be either of the two at the core. We dive back into technicalities now.

I am a judgmental bitch. Put me in Slytherin, non-existent Pottermore email.)

I’ve decided to write about Going Bovine by Libba Bray, because

  1. I’ve already written like three essays on The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It’s essay limit has been reached.
  2. I’ve written an essay on Going Bovine for my Sociology class last year, so yay reference material. Sort of.
  3. Going Bovine is arguably one of my most vandalized books, competing for the top spot with Will Grayson, Will Grayson. I don’t know why, but I only write comments on the YA novels. Anyway, yay more reference material.
  4. Nobody’s written about Going Bovine. I’m different. Yay.
  5. Libba Bray and I have the same birthday. Yay.

And the world, being its epically fatefully coincidental self, has just caused a tweet from Libba Bray to appear on my feed.

@libbabray: Just wrote a line I thought was nice. Then realized it was dangerously close to a Journey lyric.

I love her.

Well, that’s about it. That was unsurprisingly exhausting to write. (I should really work on my ending skillz and stop referencing the whole writing process. Big no for essay-writing.) So yeah. This is my longest post yet, so I’m just hoping after all that ranting I actually get through this. Title is from a line in the epic Catcher in the Rye essay, and how appropriate it has become for this post, I can’t even.

Also, I just downloaded Game of Thrones. Woot, let the vicious fun begin.

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About shaniquasparkles
Fangirl writes. Has never written fanfiction. Pretends to write six-word stories.

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