I grew up a Stateside girl. I managed to experience the “American Dream” for twenty-three messy years. I had the spoiled childhood, teenage rebellion, drug addicted, sex driven youth you see in shitty movies like “American Pie.”
Then after I sobered up (a bit), I flew back to my homeland. The litter-ridden, hang dry, Rugby Boy Republic of the Philippines.
I’ve been spending the last couple of weeks going through an emotional meltdown. I’m confident it’s not over yet, however I’m a bit more stable with 500ml of bitter beer diluting my bitter heart. My close friend has been communitcating with me through messenger. He used his broken heart to guide him to Uruguay where he is pursuing his culinary dream. He’s currently miserable, but I have faith in him.
Bearing that in mind, I decided I will pursue my passion, as well. I will become an exotic dancer for the rebel army in Mindanao.
I decided to start writing again. I cheated out and started writing about myself. Not because I find myself interesting in any way. I just lack the imagination of Rowling, Martin and Tolkien. They can vomit on paper and it would mold into a world of such depth and detail, you could map it.
If I vomit on paper, it remains as vomit, equally disgusting all those who bear witness. When I try the world of fanatsy, it is as successful as a rock swimming. I can’t even write a thought provoking analogy. So for now, this is where I settle. Tapping out words, trying to drown out memories, with the support of Red Horse and yosi.