Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Quote for the day:

“I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

- Gob, Arrested Development

Last week, I made the unpleasant discovery that the person I had deemed worthy of my bad poetry and daydreaming was, in fact… not.

See people, I have a disease.

I have pedestalectasis.  When I find someone… interesting, I have the tendency to fling them up on a pedestal and idolize idealize all their good qualities while pretending that the bad qualities aren’t really all that bad… these flaws only make them three-dimensional.  Then I find someone from film or literature to associate them to, so everything I don’t know or understand about this person is filled in and explained by their fictional counterpart’s traits and background stories.  So you can imagine what a mess I end up with when everything falls into shambles.

Eventually, [sometimes thankfully] I get a wakeup call.

Usually, it comes in the form of another girl on his arm [nuuuuuu!].  But in this case, it was… an unresolvable, intolerable clash of opinions. Taste is relative.  I get that. Good and bad taste is not, but it’s tolerable. Then there’s right and wrong taste, which is on a whole different level altogether.

Illustration:

Bad taste is tolerable: “So… you like Gokey…  *insert abrupt topic change here*”
Wrong taste is wrong: “You’re a Nazi?  Have a nice life.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that this was a big, glaring case of right versus wrong taste.  [No, he didn't tell me he was a Nazi but it was almost as bad, I swear.] And the sad thing is, I had been hung up on this poor schmuck for YEARS because he had *sigh* that Paul Varjak air about him.

I mean, come on.
PAUL VARJAK.

So now I am trying my best to dissasociate my ex-crush from one of my favorite films while at the same time attempting to avoid Moon River because it just makes me feel sorry for myself [avoiding Moon River is impossible - the song's everywhere].

To help me mourn and rejoice over the long-overdue death of this infatuation, I have set my eyes on Mr. Darcy.  Paul Varjak is wonderful and everything, but he’s done nothing but fuel this silly crush for years. We need some time off.

I will blame Mr. Darcy for my next crush.  Bwahahahahahahahaha.
Strong and silent types beware. Rebound powers initiate!

A shield; knights in shining armor are hard to come by these days.
[And I'm no damsel in distress.]

Band-aids. Lots of band-aids.
[In all colors, patterns, and sizes. Preferably sparkly.
Having a hurting heart doesn't mean I have to stop smiling.]

Quote for the day:

“But when I think about leaving,
I think about losing
The only love I’ve ever known
Every time I think of you

My heart  starts aching
My hands keep shaking
And you know, you know, you know…

It would take a strong, strong [girl]
To ever let you go.”

- It Would Take a Strong Strong Man by Rick Astley
[sorry Raianne haha.]

Remember freshman year?

Out of tens of thousands of suitors, she picked you. Yes, you.

Remember that surreal and euphoric feeling you got during those first few months? For years you had thought of her as somewhat out of your league, yet there you were, by her side, asking yourself, “What on earth is she doing with a loser like me?  I can’t believe she picked me.”

You wonder when she’ll realize the error of her ways – that she made a mistake picking you. And she makes no demands, at least not out loud – she’s not that kind of girl. But you know that one small slip could result in the premature end to your love affair.

So you work.  You work to prove yourself worthy of her love, and you push your mind and body until you’re spent.

Sometimes, it pays off.  But the sad thing is, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you just can’t offer what she wants. And you often find yourself crying over your inadequacy and cursing the day you fell in love with her and she with you.  Some days you just want to end it, and you probably would if only you had the courage.

Gradually, you end up neglecting her for other seemingly more rewarding relationships, only spending time with her every now and then, but only when you really need to. And only because you need her.

It’s only a matter of time before she tells you that it’s time to leave.

You always knew that this day would come. Only a chosen few end up spending the rest of their days with her.  A mere mortal like you would only be digging your own grave by staying any longer…

And as the day grows nearer, she grows more and more beautiful. And so you find yourself loving her in a way you couldn’t before.

It’s like you’ve fallen in love with her for the first time all over again, except this time you know her. You know the sound of her voice, her every curve and scar, her smell in the rain, and the way she looks in the moonlight and in the morning sun. And you know that you’ll always hold a place for her in your heart.

Why is that?

Why does she choose to be beautiful now, just when she knows it’s going to cause the most pain?

Why do you choose to love her now, of all times, when it’s too late?

Love.  Ain’t it cruel.

Senioritis is the pits.

Quote for the day:

“But somehow I can’t believe 
That anything should happen. 
I know where I belong,
And nothing’s gonna happen.”

- Tal Bachman, She’s So High

Well, gawkier than usual.  Just like the guy whose feet were too big for his bed; nothing seems to fit… Nope, nothing has ever fit.

I guess it’s just a sign that it’s not time [to make a change, just relax take it easy...].  When things finally click between me and a guy, I’ll let you people know.

Until then, I’m going to enjoy singledom.  I’m pretty happy being “loveless” anyway.

Most of the time.

Click here participate in TRUTH THURSDAYS.

Quote for the day:

“I would do anything for love,
I’d run right into hell and back.”

- Meat Loaf, I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)

I had an epiphany last night.

WARNING: THIS POST MAY BE A LITTLE GROSS FOR MANY READERS.

As the household’s official poop-scooper, I took my dog out for her to do her business like I do on most nights.

Because of her current situation, she’s been eating the worst smelling dog food on the face of the earth. Aaaand the change in her diet obviously had a direct effect on her excrement.

Before when she was on dry food, her crap came in cute little lumpy stumps [see Mr. Hankey]. But now with her PHP50/day magic in a can, they look like black moist Play-Doh snakes [I can't get hold of an image that could capture what they look like; let's just say that I've never seen sh*t like that in my entire life].

I’m not the kind of person who likes waiting around, but since she’s so cute that even when she’s doing her thing you can’t help but go “kyaaa” even a little, I didn’t mind so much. As I watched her answering nature’s call, and I noticed that she was taking longer than usual to get her business done. I guess the muscles down there aren’t as strong as they used to be.

But anyway, she finished, and after running back home, I went straight back to my laptop to continue “working”. I was typing to my heart’s delight when I smelled something strange. To confirm my suspicions, I sniffed around my dog’s rear.

There was something there all right.

Normally I would call my mom to handle situations like this, because I’m like, too delicate for things like that. But unfortunately for me, my mother wasn’t home.

So I got a wet wipe. I thought that I could wipe off the remaining traces of the moist goodness on her arse. And there was moist goodness all right. Lots and lots of it. [My dog's the long-haired kind so things like this get easily overlooked.]

Apparently her butt wasn’t able to… cut the snake loose.

I didn’t see how much of it was left.
I didn’t look.
But let me just tell you that I thought at first that it was only a little.

Armed with only a wet wipe separating my hand from the warm softness her butthole blessed me with, I excavated.

And I excavated some more.

My brother came to my aid with the box of wet wipes and cheered me on. My friends, who were sleeping over for the night, oohed and aahed and thanked their lucky stars that they weren’t me.

It seemed to last forever.

Because you know what?

She wasn’t done!

She was pushing! The bitch [and I mean that in the most polite way possible] was pushing!

So I took her to the bathroom and hosed her butt down with the bidet hose [whoever invented that thing was a genius]. I got in there with a paper towel every now and then. Now I pride myself on having a pretty strong stomach, but those long minutes with my dog’s ass soon took its toll on my digestive system. I started retching [none of my dinner came up don't worry], my eyes teared up, and all I could say was: “yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck.”

It was somewhere in those precious moments when it dawned upon me: LOVE.

Because why else would I be there cleaning out my sick dog’s ass? I am Donya Quixote dangit, and I do not clean out assholes!

You think so highly of your parades of heart-shaped balloons and bouquets of roses, when you having nothing on me! NOTHING! [Not bitter.]

You think that can match up to my bidet? I scornfully laugh at your pitiful displays of what you call love. *insert scornful laugh here* You have nothing on my bidet. NOTHING! [Not bitter.]

Love is powerful.

It moves mountains.
It dies in the place of others.

It hurts.
It wounds.
It mars.

It dares people to move.
To create.
To destroy.

And ultimately for me, to reach for that paper towel and hold my breath.

I know, what a touching story. Parang Marley and Me lang eh.

After the longest five [?] minutes in the world, Donya Quixote finished hosing down her dog’s rear.

They continue to share the same bed. The dog snores.

Matching outfits are now in the works.