new phone hu dis

I had been so fixated on getting a new phone for the past few months that it was starting to feel less about the phone and more about just scratching the itch when it didn’t start out like that at all.

The build-up took so long that when I finally got it, it was slightly underwhelming.

While I was excited about the new phone for all the generic and shallow reasons – the excitement that comes with getting a fancy, flashy new thing – it was also because it would (somewhat) completely scrub off the ‘me’ from the last 6 years I’ve had it, and him from my physical belongings.

When we broke up, I wondered how long it would take before I removed all traces of him from my life and its idiosyncrasies. I guessed about 2 years. A little over a year later, I feel like I haven’t removed much.

To be fair though, removing traces of someone from every surface and object they’ve ever touched when you’ve been with them for almost 7 years is hard. Sometimes I think I’ve deleted everything about us from my phone, but if I scroll back far enough, there are still hints of him there. There is a photo of us that I overlooked, photos of me with my friends where I know he’s somewhere in the background, or beside me, or the one taking the photo. His fingerprint is still registered on my phone, my emergency contact is still him. All of these (and the others I have yet to see) make my phone feel like someone else’s – like the phone is stuck in a time where it’s his girlfriend’s, not mine.

While I am under no illusions of love or getting back together or anything like that, it’s hard to feel free or like I’ve genuinely moved on when almost everything I own reminds me of him. So, a new phone, a minor win. Maybe even an insignificant one. But it’s still a step closer to being my own person again, a step further from feeling like time is frozen on my side of the world. On to the next one.


2019 Reading Challenge

I almost forgot to set a reading goal! We’re already in March and I can’t believe I almost completely forgot to set a goal, atrocious.

This has been a yearly thing that I do – every year (since 2012), I participate in Goodreads’ reading challenge where you set a number of books to finish reading for that year.

Although, as impressive as that sounds, I have not once reached my goal since participating. And before anyone throws stones at me, please hear my very valid excuse: I almost always forget to note down the books I finish reading because often as soon as I am down, I jump to a next one. As in, maybe 5 to 10 minutes after. And by the time I’m done reading at a fiendish pace, it’s too late because I can’t recall what I read when and which ones were rereads, which ones were not finished, and all that. So there.

But this year, I will try to actively write down each book I finish, no matter how tedius and insufferable that sounds.

So, let’s tally, shall we?

This years goal: 50 books!
2018 goal: 46 out of 60 books
2017 goal: 34 out of 50 books
2016 goal: 48 out of 50 books
2015 goal: 37 out of 50 books
2014 goal: 48 out of 100 books
2013 goal: 77 out of 100 books
2012 goal: 8 out of 25 books

Lez do dis.

Nothing Much

This is the first real post I’ve written in almost a year. Every other blog post that’s up in between February of last year to today is everything that I’ve written that’s been stuck in the purgatory that is my drafts. Sure, most of them changed direction as I edited and proofread them and added a million stuff, but they still started out as months-old drafts.

This is how I write my posts: I write the post, edit it, I sit on it for a few days until I feel convinced that putting them out would be pointless and that the writing is so bad I ask myself why I would inflict that kind of pain on anyone. Days and months pass before I ever get the courage to finally post them, sometimes I never do.

So, what to say?

And update on me, I suppose? Nothing much has happened.

Except, these days have been foggy. And while it feels a little suffocating, I feel better than how I did 2 years ago, albeit only a little bit. I crave for cigarettes so much that sometimes it’s all I can think about. I was never a smoker, never addicted to it, but there are those days where I feel like the only I can breathe, exhale, is to smoke. Ironic, I know.

I keep dreaming way too often. Dream of things I wish I could have and all the plans I hope to make real. Sometimes, it’s all I do. If there is even a minute that frees up my brain a little bit, in between work and lunch or mouthfuls of food or in the shower or the seconds before I fall asleep, my mind wanders back to this alternate reality I wish I were in.

I am still single. On that department, really, nothing has changed. I did not date or flirt or pretty much anything throughout the year that I’ve been single. And it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s just that no one interesting enough has really come by. There is literally no one in my life right now that I want to be with that way. I think that while I wish I were in love again, I’m also too preoccupied with the problems of the fam and the plans I want to push through with.

I met new people, made new friends, but they’re exactly my people or friends. I don’t know, it’s a weird thing I can’t explain. All I know is that it feels distant somehow, disconnected. Something is missing.

Work is work, I’ve grown to hate it. I think of resigning way too often, but I know (at least I think I do) that quitting is not the answer right now. But my God is it tempting. (This is a different job from the one I was talking about last year by the way.)

Other than that I don’t think there’s anything new. See? Nothing much has happened.

Death Of Me

You used to be my sun
Where everything of mine you touched
Lit up in brightness or on fire
And consumed a kind of darkness that festered deep and above my skin

You used to be my daffodil
Where all my firsts began in a bundle
Then was blown away with the softest wind
And it was so beautifully swept away, it left no regret

Now, I don’t know what you are.
I know that when you are here,
I do not feel happy

I think you could be my anchor –
which kind though, I don’t know.
The kind that holds my hand, doesn’t let me go adrift and keeps me in place?
Or the kind that wraps at my ankles, holding me down, never moving forward, never being free, just stuck in place?
The kind that’s saving me or the kind that keeps me drowning?
I can’t cut the rope that binds me to you
because I am afraid of the answer to which anchor you are

I think you could also be my drug
But the kind that’s like meth
where the high is not so much as good as it is bad
and drives me insane and shrivels my body.
I know it’s bad for me but I keep coming back for more.
Not because I am addicted to the high, or crave the ‘happiness’ that I get when I’m with you, no.
I come back because I am more frightened of what I will be on withdrawal than of what I am with the addiction

Sometimes I wish you would decide for me
Because I’m tired of the responsibility and the decisions
That feel heavy on my shoulders, in my head, on my body

Sometimes I wait for the bruises to form on my face that I wish you would make
Just so you could push me so far
Till I can’t say no to letting you go

Sometimes, I think:
Let me go
So I can let go

You are a drug, an anchor, and all the heavy things
And you are mine
And maybe this is how I die


this is an old post I wrote that somehow never got published and I still don’t know why not. Though now it seems like such as waste to keep in the drafts so out here it is. I wrote this 2 years ago – guess that means something.

Me v. Me

Socializing always gives me a sense of dread and despair that wasn’t always there. Large-scale socializing, in particular, puts me in a mood. An anxiety-ridden-heart-palpitating mood.

I can’t help but compare me from before and me now. How did I get here? How did I go from being described as an outgoing, extremely friendly, happy-go-lucky, and social friend to a person who wishes plans would cancel, freaks out when she’s in a crowd of more than 5 people. I was an extrovert. A freaking social butterfly, whatever that means, and now I dread meeting new people because I don’t know how to handle myself. It’s like I short circuit whenever socializing needs to happen and I forget how to be a normal, decent, functioning human being.

Again, how did I get here?

I am aware that I need to push through [the feeling of not wanting to socialize] or else I’ll never get out of this hole I’m in. It’s the reason why despite wanting to cancel plans until the very last minute, I go anyway. Even though I feel like I can’t breathe when I’m in a crowd of people I don’t know, or when I have to socialize with strangers and my skin crawls and I want to hide under a rock, I still go.

But even when I go, it is a goddamn struggle.

My mind checks out a number of times throughout the whole thing, sometimes even in the middle of a (group) conversation.

Painfully awkward.

I know that I won’t ever be ‘better’ if I don’t force myself through go through things like this. But honestly, over time, I feel like it has only gotten harder to be okay in social settings.

It’s getting harder to break through but I’m still trying.

Quarter Life

“I will never drink again,” a phrase we’ve said as much as we’ve been drunk but never really happens. 

To be fair, I really did intend for it to be a chill drinking thing with close friends but you know how that went. It was anything but. But with the way my whole body is feeling right now, just the thought of alcohol makes me sick (though I’ve been here before). 

Happy 25th to me, I guess? That’s it. My head hurts too much. Bye.

A year since Papa passed

The fact that a year has passed since he left us feels unreal. I still can’t talk about him without being reduced to a blob of tears and hysterics. Is it normal to feel this way when a grandfather passes? Am I overreacting?

These are questions I still ask a year later yet too scared to really find answers for because of what the answer could be. Because this can go one of two ways:

Either a.) it isn’t normal and I am overreacting which would mean there is something seriously wrong with me


b.) that it is normal and I’m not overreacting because then there is the question of how do I stop feeling this way? When does it end?

There was a countdown in my head as the days approached his 1st death anniversary and my sisters 1st birthday (no, it wasn’t a coincidence). I counted down the days without actually trying to do it and I mentally prepared myself for it. I wondered and worried how I’d be when the day finally came but you know what?

I didn’t actually cry. Or anything at all.

I didn’t think about any of it or my grandpa or just anything related to that and the significance of the day. I pretended that it was just a normal day and I did it so well it scared me. Because while I walked around completely fine, my mom and her sister were red and splotchy and eyes swollen. I felt like a freak. And guilty. It’s like I ignored him and forgot him – something I never want to do. Never that.

I miss him terribly. Thinking about my grandpa still makes me cry so I don’t. That’s all I know for sure.