Chinese dumpling. Greasy like baby oil fingers. Mastication. Saliva like glucose. Fat melting. Down the drain it goes. The animal glue decides to linger. Choke. Gagging on a Tuesday night. Without warning it sits there. A blob blocking licorice tubes. Not yet, it is too early. Premature, I am only twenty four. Tomorrow they will tip their hats off. I am a genius. But look at me, will you. Tightening lips. Fingers rolled up to a pathetic claw. Saying my farewells but unintentionally. Fare. Well. A cheap fare on a trip to that obscure, black hole. A popularly supposed paradise for the morose. A well. Falling down. No stop overs. Hedonistic banquet. Asphyxia for dessert.

--Louella Ambrose, Obituary of a Dumpling Junkie; Makati City, 16 January 2005

...But you know what? I don't think this is worthy of publication. My literary editor is always threatened by our catholic college's moral demands.

Maybe soon. Maybe never.

I am ill. I can taste rust in my mouth. It is comparable to an old bad blood after you had your molar extracted or after you had been kicked repeatedly in the jaw during shower at bootcamp.

I am annoyed at the moment. I went to this crowded bookstore reeking of this biscuity smell to purchase a scriptwriting manual for Scriptwriting class. Of course, I didn't find it. Of course, I had to search the disorganized shelves and to make it a little worse, some obnoxious man would be standing before a stack of paperbacks completely blocking 1/8 of the shelf. Of course I have to come back again some other time provided I am not pre-occupied and go through the same shit all over again.

The blood taste. It is not pretty.

I welcome 2005 with a plate of eclair. Cheers!

I have a troubled health. It goes on and off like a dysfunctional basement bulb. I binge at every chance I get (Overeating Disorder). I douse my feet with alcohol before bedtime, obsess over the corners of my paperbacks, have to read a line in a book exactly five times to ward off the day's misfortunes and claim to literally smelling fatal microbes (OCD). I have sudden bouts of baseless melancholy each day (Chronic Depression) and I would get euphoric in the morning, low at lunch (Manic Depressive).

I realized I haven't been on Zoloft for 13 days since yesterday. I refused to take my pill last night. I had to wake up before six this morning. It paid off. I acquired my first A.

Happiness.