Ruth is a full-time writer. Foodie. Happy camper. Wanders a lot. Used to have the worst taste in men. A reformed swipe-a-holic. Reviving her blog after its death.
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
I can be cheerful without any medication.
I will never be like that old lady in Requiem for a Dream. I don’t need to because I feel like I’m constantly taking upper drugs.
I can’t even give depression it’s fair share of attention. The minute it heads for my direction, I run to the opposite direction.
It’s not healthy, I know. But can I help it? I’m a clown inside, and a liar outside.
Sometimes, when I find a good book/movie that makes me cry, I try to stretch my tears to the max, ‘cause they rarely come my way.
I’m happy, give me a reason to cry.
***
One of the surreal moments of my college life was when I finally talked to Pammy’s wittle bwather.
Believe me, it’s big deal. Pam and I have been friends for like two years now. TWO YEARS!
In the span of two years, I know Powie could survive without eating for months to buy some parts of his drums. That he could be pretty gallant to his girlfriends. That he just had a tattoo. That he can SMS 100 times faster than me.
And yet, I haven’t even said “hi”.
After all the chances. Like everytime I meet him on the corridors, on the school street, on his own bed (nothing kinky, our barkada just uses his room like our headquarters or something).
So when finally good fortune presented itself, I grabbed it with my two bare hands.
It feels good when you achieve one of your goals in life.
Actually, it was a one-way conversation, I ask the questions, he nodded. But that’s okay. It’s a step right?
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