Miss Airina and her fickle fancies

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 18:41:45 GMT

This is when I write about another chinese boy who has stolen my heart, stroked it fuzzy with a plastic bottle and buried it in a 5-foot sand ditch where my static and palpitations exhale sandstorms that paint me in dust.

duuuusssttt.

Drunk man's truth is sober man's lies.

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 08:37:43 GMT

oh I hate how people blame others for their choices.
girls are ridiculously emotional and I don't think I have time to fan tits or entertain irrational (and imaginary) notions of neglect. I don't think I have to explain my schedule nor actions to 'important people', I've given them enough credit to figure that out objectively themselves.
Too much credit apparently.

They've seem to have forgotten my blue-bitten-back tongue and pleasantries for their acknowledged illusions of love, and I'm rational enough not to judge a person by lover's merit but by his own. This might be new, but I don't pick sides either. I respect their choice/decision to jump and I think I've pretty much been there for their falls. But I guess alcohol makes you forget; and even that I understand.

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 17:28:15 GMT

I'm back from my travels but am still in a coney island state of mind.
the sideshow's still closed, the boardwalks are damp,
but the azure skies are streaked with something beautiful and strange.

when the buzz is killed.

Tue, 15 May 2007 16:40:43 GMT

i can't help that i understand you, that that alone makes it logical not to hate you. but my heart is dissonant with my head, and i can't help that either. so don't make it seem like it's part of our protocol for me to 'get it', when you pay no heed nor concern for getting me. at least emotionally.
i'm guessing it's beyond you.
actually i pretty much know it is.

i will fuck you up.

when the buzz is killed.

Tue, 15 May 2007 16:39:18 GMT

i can't help that i understand you, that that alone makes it logical not to hate you. but, my heart is dissonant with my head, and i can't help that either. so don't make it seem like it's part of our protocol for me to 'get it', when you pay no heed nor concern for getting me. at least emotionally.
i'm guessing it's beyond you.
actually i pretty much know it is.
so why do i even bother?
cause my heart is a bimbo and she flicks her hair rather blase, hoping that you'd not notice the dead ends.

'the blues are still blue'

Sun, 08 Apr 2007 07:32:03 GMT

she opens the door and steps into the loneliness, readying herself with a cigarette - always one step ahead of her fears - she lights it. the music from the record store spills into the incoherent clatter of strangers, friendly against the more familiar clatter of car horns and rubber-kissing-gravel. a flock of birds bursts into the perfect sky, staining the purple with smears of watery black.
we bleed into each other unwanted.
she doesn't have anywhere to go. time halted by a too hurried purchase of CDs, a too impatient hope of his appearance in the record store; in that record store. time halted by her lack of a plan. she had stretched that hope, the probability of his choice of record store that Friday (like the previous Friday) intersecting hers.
we wait. we wait, we hope, of meeting at intersections;
of overlapping our days.
her feet feels heavy and her heart soon follows. she stops to pay heed. the traffic screams its objection and she remembers - the intersection is no place to pamper one's desire not to desire. faces mock her, each colder than the one before, freezing over in an ocean of eyes, noses, mouths agape - independant from a promise of the possibility of promises;
they break them.
this curbside no grayer than the next. we need, nothing, from the poor sad fuck next to us.

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 20:28:10 GMT

One Sunday has passed
and I have
drank too much,
said too much,
heard too much,
and missed too
much of you.

It doesn't say much of me
to love you
the way I do -
from afar,
a voyeur flirting
to get caught;
hiding, within the
bushel of thorns
where I lick
my nicks and scratches
with your
calloused lips

I watch you.

Who bit them so carelessly, who left them black and blue,
Who hurt
you?

I say it doesn't pain me,
as though
you'd be gentler
if it does.

But your brittle heart
will break no
more
than I'd let it to

(I won't let it to);

That I,
one with
am with
still with
shattered heart will
mend you.

Dear, she's talking to herself again.

Tue, 26 Dec 2006 19:35:29 GMT

It's a kundera kinda relationship. It is kishmet but it doesn't have to be acted upon with societal conventions of how relationships should be, or what category it should fall under. It just is. He gets me, he really does. Sometimes more than **. but it doesn't mean that we have to be together - at the very least it's a fulfilling friendship I hope I never lose sight of. I've been objective and realistic about it throughout -
I don't expect anything. I dont feel anything I 'should' feel, I just feel. I dont get jealous, nothing. In the same sense, it's like me and **, except that me and ** have the history of being attached for those looking in to wrap their minds around and relate to.
They understand why ** is still around, 'oh its because they were together for so long'
They don't understand why I feel like that towards ~ cause they don't understand why I HAVE to. But I just do.
It's very hard to find people who get you; and when you do, you let them stay in whatever terms, however warped, knowing that the only term that matters is the one you understand. I'm a firm believer in metaphysics. Kundera's endings are always based on self-realisation. And it's almost always quite lonesome.
If I could muster up enough courage to, I'd just leave them both and start over; or fuse them into my perfect man. Now that'd be a 'happy ending'.
Sometimes if I think real hard about it, I can't find a reason why I love **.
And sometimes when I think real hard abt it, I dont think the reasons I attribute to ~ are strong enough for love. In other words, I'm just really fucked. I think I just need them out of my life.
Is love self-fulfilling or self-sacrificing?
Answers in both polarities seem fucked up to me - narcissism vs altruism?. An answer that meets both in the middle seems tiring. Come on, does it really have to be this complicated? Can-dos, to-dos, have-to-dos, want-to-dos & why-i-dids - I really don't enjoy justifying, particularly considering that validations are mainly more meant for them than you. But I guess love is in the mind. And in mine, it is disguised as insanity.
I think god made us to only love him. Over the course of our psychological evolution we've equated love to other things cause we always need new reasons to reproduce, that simply adhereing to Darwinism makes us seem unfeeling and less than human. I think that's why love, in a mortal sense, is fucked up (from the getgo). And it fucks people up. We're simply not meant to love in our current notion of love. We're just meant to survive and revere. And carry on that chain till god decides that he's tired of the adulations & revering; and start over, with some other combination for some other existence.
I've always believed that if you could define love, love doesnt really mean shit.
I mean it completely goes against my belief in subjectivity. In fact, the whole lexican system goes against that grain. If everything really means what it is defined to mean (a definition based on ONE man's experience of the world), then we wouldn't have any kind of dissonance. We'd be like programmed robots, really. So why do we still follow the conventions of the masses?

cause we're no different from cows. We just fuck for different reasons; And that somehow makes us superior.

see how fucked up love is.

beat, neck.

Thu, 16 Nov 2006 18:40:28 GMT

I am writing from feeling, and giving nothing -
my lips kiss you in ampersands and question marks
when all you pore over are dollar signs and
the necessity of punctuation.

the pages are crisp, they smell like
some life well-lived, well-read, well-used, well-liked
and they give me paper-cuts
as though i can hurt and
document it as well as
the others you've hurt
have.

what concerns me
has nothing to do with the
dog-ears of time
you've seem to unmark from memory and of heart,
what concerns me
stands in stasis
in past-participle and unmoving
and as fucking annoying
as the bad grammar you've spewed
in betrayal to the four-letter beats
trapped within the poetry
of your ribs.

and it is as alive
as the leather-bound you carry with you
and as contrived
as the thoughts it carries within
but the crowd loves you anyway;
you are as beautiful
as the words you've writ
but can never feel.

life in the fast(food) lane.

Fri, 19 May 2006 18:47:45 GMT

roy orbison makes it easier, when your kneecaps are almost kissing chin, and you can't reach for the pack lying comatose by your toes; nowhere to go. today they let me off for the prerequisite 1hr at 3.30 - sometimes i fear too many 3's in a number and someone less of accompanying me might materialize itself in some phenomena of senses. often while taking a piss, i feel a presence playing voyeur. tonight, i don't mind, i've good underwear on. i don't go to the mcdonald's across the street, the oil-mixed consumerism threatens to choke my already choking arteries.fastfood joints are always so fat with happy and compliance, and i don't trust clowns with my food. besides, there are people there. more than five. no, they don't scare me, i'm not good around others at 3.30 in the morning, too many threes and with one less of accompanying me. i spot some other graveyard night-crawlers - the guys are easily recognisable, always smoking, too-big company windbreakers, bright ugly leash-lanyards; they're too desentisized to notice me, half my gut spilling from the jeans. i follow the light, the only one bursting from the lined-up compact madness to the 7-11, if i was blind, the laughter of the homeless youth would have led me. the chinese guy from the previous night's there again. he smiles at me and offers recommendations for instant food - 'try the corndog, but it's soft and it crumbles,' he says. 'nah, had that the other night,' i reply, 'i need something hot.' what i meant was real, but how do you define real to a chinese national - the language barrier seems too cumbersome to tackle, even when you're lonely at 3.30, with too many threes and noone to accompany you. i wasn't sure what i wanted. it's hard when you don't know what real is either, and without some ally to ignorance like incoherence to justify it with. i grab an egg sandwich and a bag of chips, and sit myself amongst the bastion of filth - some kids' memory of folly in discarded beer cans and spilled noodle cups - a package-culture exploding with regurgitated life-stories. the laughing youth notices me, they call me 'kak' and ask for a light. i open my mouth in protest, but fall short in revolt, fuck, i am 21. in my hay day, i sit at curbs, with too cold a sandwich, and too salty a bag of chips.

i spend the rest of the hour chain-smoking, stifling outbursts of laughter from the kids' attempts at slapstick and grapples with teenage love. an old man weaves his way around us, picking up the cans for some petty cash later. the homeless youth break into song. the price of their life-stories - disposable, emptied mortality - 10 cents a piece. a bug scrambles before me. i cut its scatter short with my foot.

when i clock out at 8, maybe i'll get a Big Breakfast.

And the virtual stalking continues. So does the rambling, lah

Fri, 24 Mar 2006 17:13:37 GMT

that David Schier is back,
with more pretty words to stroke and inflate my ego with -

-Airina, my Lolita

When you can say this to a lover, or to Fate
and get a positive response
you will know that however fleeting that moment was,
life belonged to you, and was worth living.

David

i like being called Lolita. this post is completely useless and unnecessary, but i just changed layouts and in need of a test-print. and i don't like one-liners, its a waste of space and the very fact that you have something as fancy as an online blog to your name constitutes more use out of it.
apart from placebo, mtv's fashionably loud was a big disappointment. on a fashion standpoint, the selections were limited and contrived, cheesy pop-culture bullshit overchewed and overspat. the choreography was fucken annoying, and don't even get me started on the make-up. it seemed like they tried to include every conceivable wow-factor from each of the previous few seasons, and merge them into this faux-pas-demon spawn of the most obscene of kinds. then again, it IS MTV. besides the free champagne, i was there cause of PLACEBO and the cheapskate fact that my publishing firm gave me free vip passes anyway. not that i needed any justifying eh. haha. fuck and nobody moshed nor danced nor sang to placebo, show them some respect, momfuckers. fucken majority were under 17, i reckon, with an average music vocabulary that ranged from Green Day (not that they're any bad, just overplayed/hyped) to Backstreet Boys; and ALL of them were either on myspace, had accents, or both.
of course there were the few others like liyana, who were only there for the the sake of it, other than having the oppoturnity to say things like 'haha you down there! i have a VIP pass ah!'. and she wonders why i don't talk to her anymore.
point is, some kids, well scores of them actually, were left locked out of the 'tent', their darling invites failing to play immunity from menacing security and bolt-shut doors. mtv had apparently given out hundreds and hundreds of invites, i'd imagine instilling in each receiver a fasle sense of exclusivity, knowing fully well that the damn tent could only accomodate a hundred or more less. quite a cibai thing to do, but fuck, you need to do what you gotta do to generate hype - especially if youre as kental lodeh as mtv.
hafyz called me this morning. to gloat that he got to hang out with the band. fuck i should have said hi to him. :(

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 17:22:01 GMT

I've been sick twice since I got back from Bangkok. This time with stomach flu, which started with a fever and concluded with me hurling phlegm and ribena. Let's hope this gets me like suddenly-skinny! haha right.
What a birthday present that would be.

My cousin, though, thinks I'm pregnant; in fact, so does my mom. But she thinks the worst of any situation I'm in anyway.

I'm not ready for that big of a birthday present.

-_-

God, this isn't the right time for sadism and wicked humour.
I love you, thanks.

Of course in comedic relief, it would make a great episode of American Dad - mongoloid-alien baby, political satire and all.
Only I wouldnt be able to escape the tv, switch it off and go to sleep.

sonic go meow meow.

Tue, 28 Feb 2006 17:35:04 GMT

I'm still trying to get used to this thing.
no more tweaking of CSS codes, everything's LJ-generated.
which makes me think, this LJ is like some self-satiating cult of blogs or something. what do they even need us for?
to use it, apparently.
after this short and idiotic rant, they'll ask me what i'm listening to and what mood i'm in. should i lie? would they know? would you judge me?
the green don't compliment each other - i'm getting them all wrong.
but the colour palette's too vast and varied, i get greedy and fickle with my greens.

later, maybe.
LJ, Myspace, Blogger.
i'm a cheating, cheating confider of thoughts.