Human Condition

I wonder how long it’ll take before I look back at this blog and give myself a huge face palm. How much better would I have to be than I am now? I wonder if I’ll be big enough of a man to understand that all the “teenagery” puke that kids write down is part of growing up, or if I’ll still be so self conscious about it that I’ll end up deleting the whole thing.

Who do we set out to impress? Does it vary per person, or is the feeling mutual; does everyone strive to be the best. It just occurred to me that we often judge ourselves because we think that others will judge us, but we also judge others because we feel the need to verify our shortcomings. In essence, we cause our own grief. It’s not a difficult concept, but it’s so primal that it’s almost impossible to erase. I mean it’s just human nature to judge. Even if we separated men and women from society, they would judge everything around them. It’s a survival instinct; we need to know what’s better than us, and what’s worse, so that we know what not to mess with and what we can take. But, ironically, it can make things worse for us in society today.

Lately, I’ve been so conscious of what my teachers think of me that it’s been plaguing me throughout the weekend. One of– no, I’m pretty sure a majority of my teachers think I’m cocky. This might be difficult, but bear with me here: they think that I think that I’m, and I qouteth, “Big man on campus.” Honestly, if I know myself, that couldn’t be further from the truth. But I’m out to please, so, naturally, disapproval doesn’t bode well with me. However, if I get frustrated enough, or if the expectation is unreasonable, I end up saying things like (well, at least in this instance) “We don’t pay teachers to judge our character, we pay teachers to show us what they know and to grade us based on our performance. Unless my ‘character’ gets in the way of that, they have no right to let that affect how they teach me.” In this case, I don’t think my character does get in the way of that. What does a smirk do, anyway? But, of course, that statement disregards the whole idea that teachers are human. So, no, we don’t pay them to judge us, they do that on their own, and I understand that the statement is unreasonable, but I still believe that the judgment is counterintuitive. After all, the judgment has the potential to deflate a child’s self esteem and cause him or her to give up. Then of course, there are those who’ve been described as “doggedly determined” who just take it as initiative to change. I do my best to be the latter, but human nature affects me too often. If not for our blasted human condition, maybe we’d be better people– you know, people who don’t judge insecure freshmen? Or people who could become great in spite of the judgment? But there’s not much we can do about erasing that part of us, all we can do is try to beat it. And that, ladies and gents, is the ugly truth.



…I haven’t felt like writing. To me, writing means analysis and analysis requires reflecting. The topic of reflection is typically my life since I’m self-cenetered and all. I don’t want to reflect on my life right now. Ooh, maybe this means I’m changing. I guess I’ve been given sufficient reason to change. But, then again, sometimes I think that people never really change: differences in output are just a result of being exposed to new variables in life, but the ability to produce that output was always in us. Anyway, I don’t feel like thinking too much this time, maybe because I’m so sleepy. Isn’t it funny how our brains seem to produce the largest number of ideas when we’re about to go to sleep? It’s like the brain thinks it’ll never wake up and so it fights to be useful in it’s last few minutes of consciousness. Am I predictable? I try not to be, though I don’t know if that’s obvious. And if it is obvious, than it becomes counter-productive, doesn’t it? Well, you guys wanted a “not deep” post, so here you go, though I doubt many of you will see it. Oh well, it’s not really for you guys anyway (no offense). I mean, I’m not a fashion blog, I don’t really care about you. But fashion blogs don’t really care about audiences either, do they? They just try to get attention. Isn’t that ironic? You write about something that gets attention, but, in reality, you’re only writing in order to get attention. huh. Oh, here’s something new: I learned that it takes about 10,000 hours of work before the age of twenty one to become amazing at anything. So if I spent 10,000 hours playing basketball before I turn 21, I’ll be as good as Kobe Bryant. But anyway, that had me thinking about what I was closest to achieving the 10,000 mark at. And I think that’d be critical thinking, although I don’t know if you people at home consider that as a specific enough field. But supposing that critical thinking applied, I’d probably get into some kind of analysis-type field at the rate I’m going. At any rate, those were just some thoughts. If you want more, check out the “Not Prose” page, which is just me trying to find a clever way of saying “Poetry.” I normally post new things on that page when I can’t write prose. There’s normally something new there once a month, so have fun with that. Goodnight.


Today I was reminded to be humble. This new friend of mine has been often mistaken for meek and timid. To a certain extent, he is, but I never questioned what lay behind the slight chuckles, the grins, the questions, the shyness, the privacy, the impatience. I never bothered to try and understand him. While the half of us have been complaining about our lives, here this boy is, under our noses the entire time, living in some form of hell.

Today, an old friend of mine went on about his issues with his father and his brother. He complained about the pressure his father put on him, he was annoyed at Mrs. MM’s impatience with him, he was whining about the amount of homework he had to get done, raging about the favoritism in his family, and was being generally unpleasant. This friend of mine is intelligent and analytical, more than anything, but lacks the ability to articulate. Personally, I think this has led to a form of inner frustration and disappointment, which he projects onto the people that surround him. He doesn’t take kindly to pressure, and he sinks more often than he floats.

Today, I snapped at an old friend, and discovered a new one. Today I reminded the boy who I’ve known for years that the pains he’s been bearing are his burden, and his alone. Today I learned from the irony of my words. Today I uncovered more about a new friend, his pains, his torments, and his confusion, impatience with, and disappointment in others’ complaints. Today I was humbled.

Today, my father sat me down. I was reminded of his experience, his knowledge. Today I was reminded of his capacity for love and compassion. Today I reflected on my beliefs, my father explained my major flaw, and his best friend gave me hope in myself. Many of my misconceptions were corrected, my perspective was shot out of orbit, and now I can’t sleep. Today, questions were answered and self-depreciation was deemed irrational. Tonight I am humble. Tonight I am glad.

Little Blue Demon

The first incident occurred in my Eighth grade year. I had a dream.


The streets were lined with bright crimson bricks. I stared at the compass in my hand and set off down the road in the direction it was pointing. I slowly walked down the pathway, looking as far out as I could, but, other than the bricked road, there was nothing but blank and eternal whiteness. It was like a canvass waiting to be drawn on.

I kept on walking. The road seemed to go on forever. So when I felt like I could walk no more, I stopped and turned around to see what was behind me. The only thing there was the same long road, stretching out further than my eyes could go. It was floating in the middle of the blank, white air, like a cookie in milk. I looked at the compass in my hand, it was still pointing in the same direction. When finally I decided to turn around and continue walking, I slammed into something cold and hard. I found a door right in front of me.

Confused, I took note of the features of the door that had not been there seconds before. It had a large golden frame and a strange circular depression in the center of its wooden face that was also made of gold. I touched my fingers to the finely carved golden circle and noticed that there was a small star shape on its base. Suddenly, the compass started to buzz in my hand, and I turned it over to see an identical golden star on its back. I pushed the compass into the depression and watched.

The compass needle stared to spin. First it was slow, and then it started to spin faster and faster. As it gained speed, a golden film grew over the compass, and quickly enveloped the entire door. Its frame started to rumble and shake, so I took a step back. My mind raced in anticipation of what might happen and I quickly turned to run.

Then everything stopped. I was left in the middle of a brick road, staring at a golden door in the middle of a giant, blank canvas.

I held my breath and reached one hand out to touch the door. As my fingers inched towards its golden surface, the door started to rumble again. I froze. The door kept on going, shaking harder and harder. I had no idea what to do, but I was terrified and I was thinking one thing: run. I bolted in the opposite direction just as the door flew open. An inky, blue shadow shot upwards into the air and bust into a dark cloud. Tendrils of smoky ink spread through the whiteness, devouring the pure, untouched canvass. As the shadowy color spread around the inconceivably massive area, I heard a piercing noise. I ran as fast as my legs would push me, flying through the red road, forcing air in and out of my lungs. I could see the blue clouds racing beside me. They were getting closer and closer, trying to choke me with smoking blue claws.

I felt something scratch my knee, soon followed by a warm gush of blood, but I kept on running. Claws dug into my back, my calves, shoulders, and thighs, but nothing would stop me from sprinting. I did not look back, I did not second think anything, I just kept on pushing.

When at last I had run so much that my vision had blurred and a red shade fell over all I saw before me, I shut my eyes tightly. Upon opening them, I saw a silver door, thrust wide open. Without hesitation, I jumped through it, hearing a loud SLAM behind me as it shut.


My eyes flash open as I take in the ceiling of my bunk bed. I grab one of the wooden planks on the bed and pull myself up. I sit to the screams of my mom, telling us we have to get ready. I fucking hate Mondays.

“Elijah! Jacob! C’mon, we’ll be late again! Get uuup!”

I leap out of my bed, and peek up at the top bunk. My brother’s still napping under his covers, so I rock the bed, “Dude, get up, mom’s gonna leave us again.” He moans, and kicks off the covers. I head out the door and get dressed.

Fourteen minutes later, we’re in the car carrying our breakfasts. As my mom gets behind the wheel, I reach over to turn on the radio and see that my finger’s bleeding.

“Oh! Where’d that come from Eli?” My mom asks. I stare at it for a second, confused.

“I have no idea…” I lean back into my chair, but I twitch when a sharp pang shoots up my back. Just then, something warm crawls down my leg. I reach down to rub it off, and touch blood. I’m freaking out a little, but I hold it until we get to school.

When I reach the bathroom in the Middle school, I try to shrug off all the strange glances people had been giving me. I pull off my shirt and check my back.

Putangina!” My entire backside is bleeding, soaked in bright red fluid. I grab a hand full of tissues and start pressing them onto my wounds like crazy. When the blood stops oozing out, a wipe my entire backside with a moist clump of tissue. From what I can manage to see of my back in the mirror, it is bad. Several inch-long cuts are scattered in no particular order around my back. I remember my dream. The smoking claws… I shake off the thoughts and start walking to the clinic

“O! Ano’ng nangyari sa’yo?” The nurse asks, as she opens the cupboard to pull out the bandages.

“I dunno…Can you be fast, please? I have to get to class.”


The time flies by like crazy. I barely even remember what happened that day. Before I know it, school’s out and I’m heading to the one thing that means anything to me: Basketball. I get dressed and head for the gym. When I hear the whistle blow, I sprint, and reach my team, all huddled up, just in time.

“Okey guys, is everyone here? Mat, saan si Mat?”

“Here, coach!” Mat says.

“Very good! Sige, Mat, pray!” My good friend, Mat Rivero, walks to the center of our huddle and starts to pray for our practice.

A few minutes later, we’re on the court, practicing one of our favorite drills. As a teammate of mine passes me the ball, I start running. I pass ahead to another friend, Raj. He passes back hard and I jump up to catch it, when something happens.

A bright blue flash blinds me. I squeeze my eyes tight and shield them with my arms, but it doesn’t do anything. It’s as if the light is coming from inside my eyes. A burning sensation flashes through my retina, and I know there is no escaping the blue flames that impair my sights.

An unbelievably strong gust pushes me through the air, and I feel myself rushing to the ground at an insurmountable speed. As my foot hits the hardwood, the momentum from my hips and torso push me further down. I hear a faint pop. Extreme pain explodes in my knee.

I collapse onto the ground, grasping my leg as if letting go means death. My eyes are still shut tight, but I can hear the shouts of my team from across the court as they run over to help me up. I force my eyes open and see my coach and my team hovering around me. They ask questions that simply fade into the background. I grit my teeth. My coach performs some tests on my leg, pulling and stretching, to see if I broke anything. I get up, and everyone seems relieved. But the minute I plant two feet on the ground, I fall back down. Finally two of my friends come to pick me up.

While a few guys usher me to a bench, I sneak a peek at the court. There, in the air, is something that burns in my memory to this day. Above the very spot I had landed on, was a faint, inky cloud of blue smoke. I yell and point it out, but by the time people’s heads have turned, the wind blows it away.


Later, I find out that I had torn a ligament in my knee, as well as fracturing part of my femur and tibia. The doctors never understood how one fall could do so much damage.


The next incident occurred in fourth year high school.


The night is heavy on me. Dark clouds are crowding the sky and there is absolutely no glimpse of light available. All I have to work with is my headlight, because the storm’s blacked out the entire Manila. I’m on EDSA, which is uncharacteristically empty. It scares me how few cars and motorcycles are on the road. I keep thinking that something terrible could happen at any moment, and no one would hear about it until the storm blows over. I pull my jacket tighter around me as the wind howls. Lightning flashes a brilliant blue, and thunder soon follows suite, crackling as loudly as it can. I rev the engine of my motorbike and carefully make my way into Dasmarinas village, where my Lola lives. I’m too afraid to try to make my way home, so I take a right into the gate.

Raindrops fall like pellets on my jacket. I wave to the guard and shout “Bakit nandito ka pa?” He pushes the bar up to let me through, and continues smiling. I ask him again, just as lightning strikes. The lightning turns into something from my nightmares. A blue flare burns through my eyes, and my blood races with terror. It was the same burning blue flame that blinded me years ago. I instinctively brace myself for excruciating pain, but instead, the burning blue light stops. I open my eyes to see that I am alone, no guards, no other cars, and still no lights. Nothing but rain.

I rev my motor, and try to get out of the rain as fast as I can. I ring the doorbell when I reach my Lola’s house and wait. No answer. I try one more time. No answer. Shivering, I scream at the top of my lungs, just as thunder yells across the sky. Naturally, no one hears me. I sigh and turn around.

A man stands before me and I freeze. I try talking to him, but I realize that there’s something off with him. I wave my hand in front of his face, but he does nothing. I look into his eyes and I see something bright. A spark. A bright blue spark. It was as if someone literally bottled lightning and caged it within this man’s eyes.

Just as I reach to touch him, he grabs my arm and looks me straight in the eyes. His eyes are no longer blue like lighting. They are inky and cloudy. A dark, murky blue. I stare into these dark eyes, until I feel something sharp on my forehead. Then the man fades. The rain fades. The bike fades. All that’s left is emptiness. Dark, cloudy-blue, emptiness.


I woke up weeks later. My Lola told me that a kind old man with bright blue eyes had carried me in. When I asked her where he had gone or who he was, she just told me to rest, and that it didn’t matter. I had fractured my skull in three different areas on my forehead. My parents had been freaking out. They thought it was a miracle that the man had found me. I knew better.


The third incident occurred in my mid-twenties.


I was just packing up, getting ready to go home from work. I look around my desk a couple of times, just to check that I haven’t left anything. My books are neatly stacked on the right side of my table, and I keep all notepads and notebooks on the left. My pens and pencils are in a little cup in the middle of the desk. I make sure that there are no free notes left on the table, nothing I forgot. All of my important documents are in folders and all footnotes and scribbled on sheets of paper are thrown away.

I bend down, checking to make sure that I haven’t dropped any important things. When my inspection is done, I stand up again. I grab my suitcase, ready to leave, when something catches my eye. Under my suitcase was a small sticky note. I pick up the little blue note—blue. I hate blue.


Dear friend,

You lost your faith in miracles

Your heart as cold as icicles

A life as strong as yours could not endure

The burning pain of my torture

Love is sweet

Love is blind

Eyes do not belong to the strong mind

For when the time comes, you shall see

That the plan is bigger than you thought could be


I’m confused. Scared. Angry. I can’t decide whether it’s just some creep who left his poems lying around, or if this was something else. I’m uncertain. I just shake it off, a skill I learned to develop from years of pain and injury. I take the elevator down to the ground floor, and keep on walking.

You lost your faith in miracles, your heart as cold as icicles,,, I know full-well what that means. My prayers always seem to go to waste. No answers. Injury after injury. And this thing. This blue thing. It’s haunting me. It wont leave me alone. A life as strong as yours could not endure, the burning pain of my torture. Hell yeah, that’s right. I do not deserve all the shit I’m put through. Not a single piece of it. Not. One. Piece.

Love is sweet, love is blind. Eyes do not belong to the strong mind, for when the time comes, you shall see, that the plan is bigger than you thought could be. Now this makes little sense to me. Love is sweet? Blind? I’m tired of waiting and plans! I’m sick and fucking tired of it!

I had wandered into the middle of the street, and in my thoughts, I guess I didn’t bother to look both ways before screaming, “WHY THE HELL DO YOU HATE ME? WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO WRONG?” My shouts echoed into the night, dominantly. The only thing that rivaled them was the sound of the car crashing.


I wake up in a familiar room. White floors, walls, and ceiling. A nurse takes my blood pressure and notices that I’m awake.

“Good evening, Mr. Elijah. Good to see that you’re finally awake! I’ll notify the doctor immediately.”

And she ran off. Later that day, I learned that I had cracked six ribs, and the drunk driver had not survived the crash.


“Were there any other instances that you’d like to talk about?” The psychiatrists says.


“Very well, take some of these,” he says, handing me a prescription for some drugs that I know are false. “Their for—“

“Yeah I know what they’re for, doc. Thanks.” I marched out of the office. There was no one who was going to help me, was there? I head out of the quack’s office, and into the street. I’ll just walk my way home, since I could use some time.

I’m deep in thought, theorizing about why or how this dark blue cloud—this demon is going to kill me. I reach to my back and feel my scars. The scars from a dream that will never fade. Just then I hear a yell. I look around and my eyes find a construction site, only a few feet away. A large man at the top of the foundation is screaming and waving his hands. I search frantically for the source of the man’s distress, and I see, far above on the scaffolding, a large metal rod. It’s tipping over the ledge, about to fall. Slowly, it creaks and rocks back and forth. Creak, creak, creak, creak, on the fifth and final creak, the rod slides with a horrible grinding noise and falls. I scream when I realize what’s under it: a family.

“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” I yell, and they all look at me, baffled. They don’t speak English. They’re Russian. I make a motion of pushing with my arms, which just seems to confuse them even more. I curse and run. Luckily, the rod gets snagged in the scaffolding, but already it’s starting to pull it down. It creaks a few more times and drops again. It’s fifty feet from the Russian family when I jump in and push them away, mother, father, and child. The last thing I remember is of the Woman screaming in horror and the father covering his family’s eyes as the rod finds its true target.


Darkness swirls all around me. I can hardly breathe. I hear a sound pulling me. More than interest or curiosity, I feel a literal tug as the sound plays. So I follow. As I get closer to the source, I see a light, a blue light. The same blue essence that’s been following me all my life, but this time, I’m not afraid. I’m happy. It’s as if we’re friends who’ve not met for years, and have been reunited. I am at home.


“Mr. Elijah, you are an extremely lucky man. According to what it says in your records, you fractured your right leg’s tibia and femur at the age of thirteen, Fractured the front of your skull at the age of seventeen, and broke six ribs on your right side at the age of twenty-seven. Now here’s the good news, that rod that nearly flattened you? Well, evidently, it only struck you at the front of your skull, the right side of your ribcage, and your right leg. Now as you should know, when bones are fractured, they heal stronger then the originals, this means that it’ll take a lot more to hurt those bones than others. So in the end, when most people would’ve been dead, you’ve got a fractured skull, ribcage, and knee. But you’ll live.” The doctor left. Thank God, I hate European accents. I turn to look out the window and catch a familiar sight. It was blue fog floating in the air. I watch it as its tendrils transform into soft, angelic wings. Slowly, and ever so faintly, I can see the fog morph into a child’s face. Gentle, sweet, and loving. It smiles at me and gives me a soft laugh. Then it gets blown away by the wind.







What am I doing up? I got hooked in train of thought that eventually led to an entire self-debate concerning existentialism:

I had a question a few minutes ago for future me: when are you going to do something about yourself? I have a list to burn, but not before I get everything on the list done. While thinking about the list, I needed some inspiration, something that would lift me out of my slump of inactivity, so I asked for inspiration. Then, all of a sudden, I wondered who I was asking. Maybe I asked God for inspiration, maybe I asked myself, maybe I asked no one. I came to the conclusion that I really just don’t know. That moment, and other moments like that one, remind me of how little I know about myself. It got me thinking about how little I may know of others. After all, I only know as much about others as they let on, but if I hardly even know myself, how can I really expect others to know themselves? Following that logic, I don’t see how I can expect anyone to really know anyone else. This moment was a little bit like fumbling from first place to last place in a race; one moment I’m speeding along my track, fully content with what knowledge is at hand at the moment, and then, I remembered how little I really know. It brought me to a full stop. Now the question really is, “is the knowledge worth it?” Then again, when has the knowledge ever really been worth it? Any and all instances of gaining knowledge have only resulted in further fueling man’s ultimate (and endless) search, but has never, and possibly never will, result in satisfaction. Why? Because, as I once said in the fourth grade, asking questions and finding answers will open doors, which will undoubtedly lead to more questions, but always fewer, and fewer answers. As the time passes, the dissatisfaction of realizing how many questions remain (and will forever remain) unanswered grows painfully large. It is so great that any and all satisfaction that spawned from the gaining of knowledge is so sparse and measly in comparison that it hardly even matters. Such is the way of human nature, being the curse that it is. How much of what we know do we really need to know? How long before we start speeding along on our tracks again, only to be suddenly reminded of how ignorant we are and how pointless it all is? I realized the irrelevance of my list, my thoughts, and my entire being at that point. Yet I still manage to get sucked back into my “busy” life because I have no idea what else to do. Life just seems so important. Is it? I suppose whether or not it is is a moot point, it’s all we have, either way. And so it seems sleep has been stolen yet again by the question that plagues me: is it worth it?


I was sitting with my second brother in a restaurant today while he was jumping about on the couch. Eventually, the inevitable occurred and he fell. Being a two year old, he cried for quite some time and started hitting things. At one point (while sobbing on my mom) he shot a few glances at me, as if he were waiting for me to admit that it was my fault. It reminded me of all the times he blamed my first brother for everything (whenever he hurt himself, he’d blame this brother). When I did nothing to provoke him further, my youngest brother started hitting his bag and blaming his surroundings. 
It had me thinking: at such a young age, we learn to blame, it’s in our nature. Is it some sort of defense mechanism, perhaps? Maybe it helps us stay sane. Our minds instantly revert to blame in order to keep afloat. Maybe it’s in order to avoid the humiliation and pain of either, one, being at fault for a mishap or, two, not understanding an event or why/how it occurred.
“Who is responsible for the rain?” 
“The rain is angels’ tears, it is caused by their sorrow.”
We give children false explanations for phenomenon because the truths are either too complicated to explain, or are simply unknown to us. The first reason hardly makes it a crime, seeing as there is probably no other way of explaining complicated things to a child without squandering his or her imagination/curiosity, boring the child, or confusing the child. The latter of the two reasons, however, is or can be an offense of great magnitude. After all, giving the appearance that one knows all by simply inventing can easily lead to damage. I’m sure many people have witnessed instances wherein making up stories or resorting to inferred conclusions has led to undesirable consequences. But sometimes putting blame on the fictitious, supernatural, or highly improbable is necessary. 
Keep in mind Sherlock Holmes’s philosophy, “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” People have resorted to the supernatural to explain many things that would otherwise be unexplainable, because any other alternatives, at least to certain people, are impossible. For example, religion. If people never conjured religions, beliefs, we’d be forced to face the only other possible truth. Without religion, people would be forced to see that the only probable remaining truth would be that we exist due to complete coincidence; that there is no greater consciousness that oversees our lives, and that nothing we do has any real, lasting impact on the universe. All we touch are the lives on this minuscule, insignificant, infinitesimal, little speck of matter we call Earth. Many refuse to believe this, and so came religion, an explanation that countered the impossible.
So why is blame needed? Because, perhaps, we would be nothing without it. We use it to hide from the fact that we are ignorant and flawed. We use it to hide from the fact that we know relatively nothing. It’s our defense. It’s a means to reassuring ourselves that our existence is, indeed, necessary and worthwhile, that the world isn’t such a mysterious and endless realm, that we aren’t as insignificant to existence as it may otherwise seem. Perhaps it’s a means to deceiving ourselves, a means to an end. Therefore, what’s the point? If this is true, is life worth it? Then again, perhaps I’m getting it all wrong. Perhaps it’s a means to the truth. Maybe flawed human nature does, indeed, have a place. Maybe what is indeed impossible is that life is useless. Maybe the world is that simple. Who knows? No human being does. But many believe.

Lost and Found

I used to wonder what it would be like to grow up. What would happen? How different would I be? Will I still be me? I was afraid of so many things (and still am). I was afraid of becoming something else, someone I wouldn’t particularly like, losing my friends, losing my faith in myself and others, feeling pains that I’ve never felt before, and making mistakes. Unfortunately, I’ve had the extremely unpleasant experience of being, as Kapitan Tandem puts it, “a first-time teenager.” Why so unpleasant? I mean no offense to people who enjoy this awkward stage (what’s wrong with you?!), but in my personal experience at least, it seems as if I’ve gone through all my fears without even having reached adulthood. I should have anticipated this. I swear, if ever I meet ten-year-old me, it’ll be one hell of a smack-down, with him kicking my pwet until Kingdom come. He won’t be pleased with how he’s grown up. He’ll be asking for a refund. Not to say that I’d agree with him.

I’ve changed a lot, and I speak the truth about the ten-year-old me’s expectations (seriously, the kid sits on me, and it’s over), but, like I said, a lot’s changed. His expectations no longer match mine. I have different goals and a new mindset. Not to say that I’m completely satisfied and set with who I am, I’m probably as far away from that as I can get. I used to think that I’d be fine if I just stayed exactly as I was, but that’s not possible. Change brings about better and worse things, and it’s never worth giving up the best things in people in order to avoid the worst.

When I was twelve, I thought that kissing girls was gross and awkward. A couple months later, I didn’t. In sixth grade, I was getting really mediocre grades, the kind of grades that wouldn’t stick out in a vegetable patch. A few months later, I wasn’t. In the beginning of the fourth grade, I was having trouble writing (I couldn’t write a paragraph without freaking out and crying at least thrice), and approximately 4 9/12 years later, I stood front and center while a loud voice announced that I had won the award for Excellence in English. And of course, I’m blogging. Wow, words. Suck that, ten-year-old-me.

So anyway, the point of this? I suppose, simply to sort things out between myself and, well, myself. I’m insecure about who I am and who I’m not, I blame myself, I hate myself, I bash myself, and I sell myself short, and I don’t expect that all to change because I typed out a few words, but maybe it’ll get old me to give current me a little more respect.

Self respect. I guess that’s the point.