Apologies to Aristotle
Just woke up and felt like whipping out a quick post to congratulate self for managing to fall asleep, after such a long, long time. But then I guess the last few hours I just clocked in will pretty much amount to nothing since it fuels me to stay up tonight until whatever time I wish — or until I pass out just as the household comes alive, which lately, seems to be what passes off as a ‘sleeping habit’. Hah.
Anyway since I’m ever the optimist, let’s just say being able to rest to take my mind off things is what I’m grateful for. Insomnia, a.k.a. the absurd desire you never knew you had to lace up and run three miles/hike up a mountain/build houses for the poor/solve quadratic equations/talk to a long-distance boyfriend/learn how to cook Tinola (always Tinola, the recipe every young trying-to-be-adult about to move out should coerce out from her mother) just so you having all this energy at five in the morning would be deemed normal, steals the soul out of you. Your bed might as well be nothing but a giant, metal slope you are tied up to, excuse bizaare mental image, oblivious to time. You are stuck in a wormhole of angst and anxiety and regret for the stupidest things — say, suddenly remembering that thing you said to someone, and then a witty, sassy woman-of-the-world reply you should have blurted out instead. Argh, the now-insignificant shame!
Anyway I guess instead of reliving the horror of the week or so, pretty much the nightly summoning of self-restraint not to ask mother a quotation for Valim just so I could finally turn off the world, I should just capitalize on finally breaking the curse. Who knew it would only take a very inappropriate huge meal at Pizza Hut (dragged my bestfriend around Gateway this afternoon until I could decide what I wanted to eat. The hypocrite who ended up ordering the same thing burst out laughing as I was giving the waitress my order: a 199-peso lunch set meant for two people — my brilliant idea of how a woman should eat — which translates to a plate of Carbonara, a Bacon Cheeseburger mini-pizza, two bowls of soup and four slices of garlic bread) to calm my nerves. Yes, I lure people into liking (read:not murdering) me with my amazing personality, thank you very much, for my physique is omm nom nom bacon yes no it’s mine alll mine, especially since I haven’t gotten back to running as I intended to. Maybe tomorro– hey, Cadbury, yay!
Aside from the (over-) eating disorder and the I Stay Up With The Stars Because This Is How The Cool Kids Do It condition of the last few weeks, life has been pretty great. Had this epiphany yesterday and I suddenly have this key appreciation for a concept called being nice. I am not snapping at other people as much as I
would like to have, as if possessed by Blair Waldorf. Moreover, I’m being nice to myself, despite and aside from the extremities, by granting myself most of the time hour after hour of reading and writing. I realized that mulling over the next-year post-graduation version of myself should only be done on that responsible, healthy level of planning the future like any other functional member of society, not the existential crisis level I seem to have sunk into. I’m out of the woods, though. The problem with me is – was – not being confused over what I want, it’s wanting such a big move literally and figuratively-speaking, for my age, and my dire lack of a savings account. I’m only eighteen, after all, everyone’s saying I could just do these things when I’ve had a few years (of pay) under my name, but with the career I want, wasting time doesn’t seem logical, since youth is it’s golden age (no, not show business). I think I’ve reached a compromise — baby steps, but concrete ones.
Not bad for the first sixteen days of the year.
Just remember, once you’re over the hill, you begin to pick up speed.
— Arthur Schopenhauer