...baby cockroaches in my bed...

Sitting here wasted and wounded, at this old piano
Trying hard to capture the moment, this morning I don’t know…



I think Jon Bon Jovi is misunderstood. This is exactly how I am feeling right now. The coldness in my room from an overworked air-conditioner seems to numb not only my skin but the intellectual in me as well. My usually active neurons are still curled up nicely in their neurotic beds somewhere inside my head. Surprisingly, I seem to be thinking with my fingers. Fancy that! My appendages have a mind of their own!

And you think you could expect much from this entry, didn’t you?

I missed blogging. And not to add more to this pining, a slim whale just summarized in his blog what bloggers actually (it’s rather more a matter of opinion) feel about blogging. Geez, I never thought I could use three derivative forms of the word “blog” in a sentence. Congratulations to me!

Seriously though. Much credit should be given to bloggers. They promote voyeurism in a world where nothing much can be seen. They are the ultimate exhibitionists in the pseudo-sexual world. It takes a lot of courage to actually bare one’s self for others to criticize and lambaste, as appropriately stated by that hormonally-imbued whale “I have stripped my clothes off in this blog, both figuratively and literally, to expose my soul. You have, so far, been seeing me in all my nakedness, excess hair and all. The sublime and the hideous have all been mixed up here like jello and mud, each enhancing the flavor of the other.” Whatever that shit means.

Or simply they are just over-excited self-centered good-for-nothing mothafuckers who think the world revolves around them, and that civilization is benefitting from their extensive narcissism.

I think I belong to the latter.



He walks with a purpose, in his sneakers, down the street.
He had many questions, like children often do.



There seems to be a serious lack of patience these days, so serious that it can be declared an epidemic. Blame it on the scorching 40 degree heat that’s cooking half of the people in the city. The other half (including me) is comfortably soaking their white rich asses inside air-conditioned rooms while intently awaiting footages of Paris Hilton’s prison cell on E! channel. Now, MY patience seemed to suddenly run low.

I’m sorry. There. I had been pervertedly impatient with you. I should, and I know I can, give you more than the usual dose of patience that you deserve. And that ever highly-misregarded favor called understanding. I have been immersed in this lifelong fantasy that what ever I give, I expect to get back in return, much like banking investment. And I am wrong. I have realized this not just recently, but for the longest time I can remember; I am only insistently stupid and selfish not to accept it. And I am sorry.

Yes, you’re right. You are only human. And that is the best excuse you can possibly give. And just as you are right, I am only human too. And this is the best excuse I can possibly offer. It is yours to welcome.



I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head. They crawl in like a cockroach, leaving babies in my bed…



And the cockroaches have returned…