Diary / Love

All About Me & This Blog

“I’m thankful to those who defend me, and I’m not surprised by those who hate me, but either way you are missing the point. I don’t blame you for wanting to attack or defend me; that’s how we’re trained to think about complicated issues. But I don’t matter. It’s debatable whether my ideas matter, but for sure they matter much more than I do.” – TLP

I.

The reason why I don’t use my real name on this blog is because I don’t want the majority of my readers to know me as a person, because then this becomes a personality blog – “Sorry I haven’t written in a while guys, been in bed with a nasty case of hives” etc. etc. – but it’s obviously impossible to completely prevent my real life bleeding into my online persona.

I wouldn’t want that, either, because I express strong opinions online – opinions not entirely based on fact. If they are not entirely based on fact, then they must be qualified by the fact that they are coming from, well, me.

II.

If you, dear reader, have been patient enough to rummage through my oldest entries, you’ll know that this started as a kind of poetry blog. I currently hate most poetry, and I hate most poets. I think they (and I, formerly) are all whiny shits who haven’t truly suffered in life, so they (and I, formerly) make up fake sufferings so that they will feel special.

“Grief is selfish. For whom are the tears?”Jeannette Winterson

“I used to believe with sentimental assurance that I would be able to preserve his essence in my writing, even after his death. But his actual dying was so painful it ruined my plot. So much for my immortalizing my beloved…

What I can’t express is how grateful I felt for my students’ everyday lives. My lover died enraged, a form of narcissism. There is nothing as selfish and luxurious as pain, because it’s all about you. His death was terrible and special. Watching it, I felt terribly special too.

Afterward, though, I was tired of being important. I didn’t want the glamour and egotism of pain anymore. My students taught me to get over myself. I was moved by their stating the plain facts of their ordinary day. I wanted them to know mine.” John Weir, What I Did Wrong (abridged) 

As I may have said before, this blog has evolved into something I didn’t quite intend from the beginning. I don’t really know how I come off to most people. For most of my life I had no idea how to talk to people, how to approach people. Now that I know how, I can’t stand to be around most people.

For this reason I don’t have many friends.

I’ve suspected for a while now (and you may have come across this theory elsewhere as well) that it’s impossible for a person to know herself by herself. It’s as if we need someone to hold up a mirror for us, tell us who we are.

Since I rarely ever interact with people (including my family) I cannot say with complete certainty who I am. I’m a student, but I hate my school. I used to be someone’s girlfriend, but not anymore. I’m someone’s sister, and someone’s daughter, but just barely.

I’ve been told I have talent for writing, and I can say without ego that I believe it, but I’ve never been published anywhere.

I’m beautiful right now, but who knows when I might get fat again.

I’m bipolar – that’s for sure. That’s something I’ve known about myself since I was a very young child (I was six during my first depressive episode); though I didn’t know the name for it.

I’m a Filipino, but I despise the way this country is run. More than I love its people, which I do, a lot. But then I love all living things.

I love all living things. Even when I don’t like them. I don’t discriminate between a stray kitten crawling around in the dirt and a P30,000 long-haired Persian cat; I can love both. Not equally; I’ll love the kitten more – I have loved a certain kitten more – because it needs my love more.

(Central to my personal philosophy is that resources should go to creatures most in need.)

I’m a lesbian – another thing I’m quite sure will never change, unless I meet the missionary from Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. That’s the only kind of man I’d ever consider dating.

So that’s me.

When I am completely sure who I am, then maybe someday I can write with my face, and explicitly filter all my ideas through my persona.

For now –

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