#2: He would drop everything.

His bright smile lit up the room.

Again, he overlooks my expectations by dressing up in blue striped pajamas. He's God. His closet must be radical.

"Jack. I've been waiting for you."

What was I supposed to say? To the man responsible for creating the universe, the Earth, the very maker of my flesh and blood? The man responsible for parting the sea for those who used to deceive him? The man whose son has walked on water and revived the dead? You can't blame me. You just can't blame me for being speechless.

"Well? Have a sit. You seem surprised to see me." He smiles wide again.

OK, he has got to stop smiling like that. I'm not used to being intimidated. This just feels different. I know you've never met God, and boy, what they say in the Bible? That whole "fear of the Lord" thing? Now I get it. He makes me shiver without even trying.

"Is it the AC?"

"Huh?" He asks me, puzzled.

"I'm feeling a bit chilly."

He throws his head back--and laughs thunderously. "What AC? We don't need that here. You and the rest of my kids, all of you, you want to snuggle in your big beds, turn up the AC. Here the air simply moves. Feel that?" He begins dancing the hula.

Who knew? God, he dances.

"May I?" I ask awkwardly. He nods, and I take my seat.

"Jack Anthony Lawrence," he says. I begin to get used to being blinded by his smile. "Tell me. What brings you here?"

I knew this moment was coming. From the second I realized I wouldn't last any longer down there, I had been anticipating, no, dreading this moment. Where I had to confront the person I had been neglecting my whole life.

But he, he seemed serene, which was ironic to me. He knew about every little thing that went on in the universe. Chaos. War. Hatred. Disobedience. And yet he was calm. Unlike me, who fidgeted and twitched everytime something went wrong.

I take a deep breath and speak louder.

"He...he wanted to kill them...my family...I just had to kill him before he could hurt them...I...I...can't believe I did that, but I had to...it was a mistake...and...I just, I just had to..."

I bang my fist on the coffee table in front of me, spilling a glass of water placed on it. He doesn't blink.

"Jack. No one messes up too much for me. So if you think I'm gonna blow up in a rage, I'm not."

Again, the intimidating smile.

Somehow I feel compelled to tell everything to this man. I was glad I had died and ended up here. He seemed eager to listen to every little detail about my life. I just knew from the start that I could count on him.

"You don't know how hard it is, God. To just stand there, neck-deep in the...the realization that you're your family's last hope. I love them. I had to do that. He said he would cut off my son's head if I didn't give him the money...you can only imagine the agony...the pain!"

"Oh, I don't need to imagine it, Jack. I was right there with you."

"How...how could you let such a thing happen?" I cry, harsher than intended.

I just love to scrape the blame off myself so I can thrust it to someone else. And now I was blaming God.

He ignores my tone. There was no point in arguing. He would always have the upper hand.

"How would you like to come back to Earth with me, Jack?"

I am stunned. Well, of course. He can bring me back. The question is, why? And of all people why me? To this moment I do not understand how God manages to give all his attention to one person when the rest of the universe is in jeopardy.

"Would you like to come back to Earth with me?" he repeats, and I briskly nod my head, afraid that he would change his mind.

"I'm sure you miss Linda and the kids. So we'll pay a little visit, see how they're doing. That sound good to you?"

"I'd love to!"

"All right then. But there's a catch."

"I knew this was too good to be true," I say, and we both laugh.

"They won't be able to see you."

"Oh...I guess that's all right." I look down, almost scared to look at him after what he just said. Did he just say he'd personally take me? And drop everything he's doing here? He has got to be kidding.

"Tomorrow. First thing in the AM. You need some shut-eye. Now off you go. It's been a long day for you."

He stands up and leaves through the double doors.

When I hear them close, I look up and find myself already in another room. There's nothing else in here but a bed, a plasma TV, and a glass floor where I can see sheets of thin clouds covering the place I used to call home.

I fall asleep in a heartbeat.

#1: He would open His door even if you don't deserve it.

There's no turning back now. You couldn't have blamed me for shooting him. He threatened me. I can't have him come close to my family for even an inch. I love them. Do you think they remember me?

This place seems empty. Where on Earth am I? Heck, I don't even think I'm on Earth. Damn, I can't comprehend it. All the work I left behind. Again...you can't blame me. I'm dead now. Go ahead, punk. Pinch me. It won't hurt at all.

Up ahead I see something sparkling. What--what is that? My pace is incredibly slow. Just like Foster Trohman, my lawyer. He walks the way people do on the Moon. Jeez, someone should indict him. I try to lift my legs faster and put one foot over the other, but--WHAT THE HELL?! I'm floating! I can't even blink to show my astonishment. How is this happening?

Beneath me I feel a wind, a somewhat gentle force that is pulling me to my destination. I can begin to see what sparkles ahead--it looks like a gate, no, a door? A bookshelf. It's my mother's cupboard. A gate. Yes, a gate.

It is only here that I am beginning to be aware of where I really am. I'm completely naked, stripped of my usual suit. All my hair's gone, too. Well, I was balding anyway. Touching my chest I don't feel a heart beating. Instead I can hear a faint thumping sound from the palm of my hand. I'm breathing, sure, but no air escapes from my nostrils. Nothing from my mouth, either. Somehow, even before I think of moving, the wind beneath me moves first.

Finally, I reach the pearly gates. The wind beneath me is gone, and I am back on my feet. Where is that Saint Michael they call? Shouldn't he be manning the gates with vigor, holding the big Book Of Who Gets To Go To Heaven in his hand? Wearing some sort of dressy outfit like Moses did in The Ten Commandments? Turns out, you can't trust a movie.

Instead, the door is left ajar, open for anyone to enter. I take my chances. Saint Michael must be out to lunch. It's now or never. I start talking to myself like a madman. Jack, get in! This is heaven we're talking about. Not just some increase in revenue or being named the biggest shareholder in the company. Or being first in line for Missy's Hotdogs. Or courtside seats. It's heaven. And the door is freaking open, so you better get your sorry ass in there or else!

What I see inside is nothing from the stereotype Heaven image we're spoonfed back on good ol' Earth. Here, Heaven seems more like a lounge than an all-white courtroom. Oh, and there's Saint Michael. Seems very busy, the guy. He must be the receptionist. I walk over to his desk.

"Hello. You must be Saint Michael." I give him my hand to shake, or kiss, whatever they do here.

He waves a hand at me, as if to shoo me away, and points to a small metal hook. Golden cards with numbers hang on it. "Take a number, Jack."

What, what is this, a doctor's appointment? This is just like my trip to Tucson last September. Completely blown off. I sit on the plush white couch and grab a copy of Time from the coffee table before me. God is on the cover.

God?

I always imagined him to be a thundering grandfather figure. Here he seems...different. He's wearing a jersey and shorts, balancing a basketball on his forefinger. His big smile almost blinds me. There's a tagline here that says: God, The New Obama? No way. This can't be God.

"Excuse me," I wave at the woman beside me. "This is God?" I ask rather idiotically, holding the magazine in front of her. Obviously this woman has never met me, and has most likely never met God either. She shakes her head goes back to reading Sports Illustrated.

It's only then that I see enormous double doors just beside Saint Michael's desk. THAT is heaven. Where I am, I have no idea. I look down at my golden card. Engraved on it is a number 3. Well, now. I feel like a valued customer.

After an hour or so of waiting, Saint Michael stands up from his desk, walks over to me and says, "God wants to see you now."

He leads me to the double doors. The thumping on my palm is faster. My breaths are shallow. I'm going to heaven.

"I hope you'll enjoy eternity here." He gives me a quick smile, gestures for me to come in, and closes the door behind me. I turn around and am given the shock of my life.

(to be continued)

twitter, jaiku, pownce, facebook--and then what?

I spent more than half the day in the school clinic.

Why did this headache manage to pencil itself into my schedule, leading me to drop everything else and do what I could to stop it?

On my way downstairs I heard my classmates' voices. Oompa. I'm hearing things again. Or is that really them?

"Maybe you didn't get enough sleep last night?"

I did. Slept at 10, woke at 6. Ain't that following the Golden 8 Rule?

"Something you ate siguro."

Anong something I ate, something I ate? I ate, sure. Ikaw nga namigay eh.

"Rawr. Stressed ka kasi."

STRESSED? STRESSED KA DIYAN? I'M PERFECTLY FINE! SEE? PULSE. BEATING. VITAL SIGNS. MENTAL CLARITY. I STILL KNOW 1+1. AND I DO KNOW THAT I HAVE A REPORT ON WEDNESDAY, A PERFORMANCE ON FRIDAY AND A FACIAL ON SATURDAY. HOW CAN YOU SAY I'M STRESSED?!

"We'll bring you to the clinic. Init mo."

Oo na. May lagnat na ako. Susuko na ako. Show me the handcuffs.

"Mainit siya," Tin says to the nurse at the clinic.

And sure enough, the gun thermometer shows 3 and 7. With a .5 to boot.

"You want to lie down?" the nurse asks me. I smile faintly.

"Yes, please." As I lay down, I devote my time alone to think. What could have caused this headache?

I broke down every little thing I did the day before. And trust me, you wouldn't want to know. Beneath all the other little things lay a silent killer. It has been victimizing me ever since the day I reached 8,000 Paw Points on Pet Society.

Facebook.

I spent 6 hours on Facebook yesterday. Shocker? Not quite. Most kids my age can actually devote more time to this so-called book with your face on it. And yes, we are much aware of its consequences--eyestrain, carpal tunnel syndrome, shorter attention span, HEADACHES.

Bingo, and I have found the culprit.

I will attempt--nay, do--the almost-impossible; and will only give one hour of my time to Facebook. The first three days of my mission will kill me. It's for a good cause anyway.

Why must we yearn for the things we do not need?

you embrace my fragility.

I love you.

Those three words became so familiar between you and me. Every chance we'd get we would say it out loud in public, and I remember how I sparkled for a week after hearing you say that for the very first time. Now nobody can explain the aftermath. Tell me. Do you think this is what we deserve? I have been fighting tooth and nail not to fall apart. What we had, that held me together. But what we are, it's tearing me bit by bit.

Last night you crossed my mind. My subconscious mentioned you in passing, then all of a sudden I was thinking of nothing else. You refused to leave my thoughts. I actually had to calm myself down several times. You don't know how hard I've been trying not to think of you. You simply don't know.

Whatever happened to our storybook romance? You and I were inseparable. I remember having to constantly pinch myself to see if I wasn't dreaming. I just couldn't comprehend it.

This time I never wanted to wake up.

*****


I would trade the whole world for that moment.

It was all exactly the same. You had the same brown eyes, the same crooked smile, the same messy hair. Just the way you were when I first met you. Nothing had changed. Still the same boy who had spoiled me rotten with love letters and chocolate months ago.

Sometimes the last hope is an intervention. This was the only way I could hold you again. Before I could do that your arms lifted me off the ground, carried me, spun me until I got dizzy. Nostalgia. The look in your eyes said it all. That smile. "I love you! So much, ha? Kung alam mo lang!" you scream. I let my head fall back and laugh out loud. You never get tired of me.

And then you set me back on the ground. I rest my head on your chest, the safest place in the world. Nowhere else. You cup my face in your hands, embracing my fragility. Just when I had recovered from the nausea you kiss me, ever so softly. First my forehead, each of my eyelids, my nose and then finally my lips. Once again I'm dizzy. I am at a loss for words. Right then and there you had rescued me when there was no other hope in the world.

I can feel your smile on my lips. Too early you pull away, and one last time you say, "Even if I don't show it, I do. So much. I love you. Forever you'll be my love. Hold on." And then you're gone.

Stunned, I jolt awake.

I had a dream about you.

you are my december.

I was inside the bathroom, minding my own business (pun not intended) when Mr. Big Idea thumped his fist on the door and sucked the misery out of me. And here, my friend, is the quote I made:

It's only August and I'm wearing socks to bed already. Maybe it's me or I just need your warmth. You are my December.

whoever you are, whatever you do.

She limps into the room, looking every bit as monstrous as my current hairstyle. Turning heads the wrong way, she is a disaster. She doesn't belong here. Anyone, just not her.

It was like seeing a puddle of dirty blood in an all-white room. No one bothered to ask who she was, what she was doing there. In their minds they were judging her from head to toe, scrutinizing every square inch of her blotchy skin. She doesn't belong here. No.

Making her way to the receptionist's desk, she smiles faintly.

"Magkano po magpa-haircut dito?"

The lady behind the desk doesn't bother to smile. She raises one eyebrow and points to the wall behind her. "Eto yung mga services namin. Di mo ata kaya, ma'am. Masyadong mahal para sa taong katulad mo. Doon po sa kabila, may salon doon, mura lang. 30 pesos lang haircut nila doon."

Even I am shocked at the lady's response. Surely she could have shooed her away less harshly?

With arms akimbo, the woman tilted her head and said, "EH DI HINDI PALA TOTOO YUNG COMMERCIAL NINYO?"

Everyone turned to look at this woman's sudden confidence. Murmurs echoed from every corner of the room. Voices were raised and the salon was alive with chatter. She raised her head high and gathered all--if any--of her pride.

"Alam mo bang tatlong taon na akong naglilimos...naghihirap...isang beses lang ako nakakakain sa isang araw. Sa wakas ay nakapag-ipon ako para lang makapunta sa isang salon tulad nito. Ganyan lang pala trato ninyo sa akin."

"Ha?"

"Nakita niyo na ho ba ang commercial ng salon?"

And sure enough, all who were in the room turned to see the commercial looping on the salon's plasma TV.

At the end of the commercial, the founder of the salon emerged from the roster of stylists, smiled proudly and said:

Whoever you are, whatever you do, _____'s Salon will bring out the best in you."

They gave her a haircut for free.

instant noodles vs. starbucks.

"I'll treat you guys to one round. Your budget's 150 pesos," Leandro's mother cheerfully says, pointing to the frappuccinos. "It would be so embarrassing to have you guys sit there and order nothing."


I laugh nervously. Ellis is looking somewhere else. Starbucks. I haven't been here in weeks. And so they used to call me The Starbucks Kid. I barely go here anymore. High school has warped me to live on Minute Maid and instant noodles. Exams were looming ahead. A good frap would be nice.


"Um...here, vanilla."


"And you, Ellis?"


"I'll have the chocolate chip."


"All right. You guys go upstairs and get a table."


Ellis and I head to the second floor and sit down. This place is perfect for a review. Quiet, cozy and air-conditioned. And absolutely no trace of kids our age here. I sink luxuriously into my seat. Hell week ahead. I have every right to veg out before I get grilled.


Then again, I sit up once the drinks arrive. "Review time," Leandro buzzes me back to reality. We bring out our books and take a deep breath. This would've been more agonizing if we'd done it alone. Misery loves company.


"Okay, Filipino. Yung sanaysay, it has two types, pormal tsaka di-pormal. Pormal, it's serious, and deep yung mga terms. Nagbibigay ng impormasyon. Yung di-pormal naman, ano, parang kwentong magkaibigan lang. Di masyadong malalim yung terms, tsaka easy to understand." I laugh at my Taglish.


"So there's pormal and di-pormal..." Ellis recounts, taking a deep sip from his frap. I was cramming them with information overload again. It's a habit I try to put an end to. Entirely impossible for someone who does all the dirty work. Continuously, my mouth begins to air out everything I have learned in Filipino for the past two months. Leandro is frozen in his seat. If Ellis could throw a chair at me that very moment, I bet he would.

*****

Only an hour has gone by and we've covered two subjects already. My motormouth has never failed me. After closing our Chemistry books--which continues to relieve us everytime we do so--I prep them for the last subject, AP. It's more on the analysis front, so I opt to cover them with only the key points.

As I spend an excessive amount of time ATTEMPTING to explain the 7 scientific theories of the Earth's beginning, a man taps Ellis on the shoulder. He and his girlfriend sit down on the table next to us, drinks in hand. "Could you plug this in, please?" the man asks, handing Ellis the other end of his laptop charger.

"Sure," we all say in unison as he smiles to say thanks. I continue to explain the Gaseous Tidal Theory.

"Well, the gravity of a passing star causes several waves of gases to be torn off from the opposite side of the sun. Those gases cool and gradually become solid--I have no idea how that happens, but anyway--"

The man behind us with the charger stops me at mid-sentence. "Because less heat means more density."

He straightens up to explain further. "When the gases are torn off from the sun, they're still hot, right? And you know that a gas' molecules are very loosely arranged. But when these gases cool down, the molecules get denser, and that's when everything comes together."

My motormouth just got a nosebleed.

Somebody hand me the instant noodles.

back with a vengeance.

And writer's block is the farthest thing from my head at the moment. Pain can be such an inspiration. It pushed me to do more than I could ever imagine. I'm inspired by who I already am and what is yet for me to achieve. Here I give you my comeback stories. Hope you like 'em :)

*****

I sobbed and watched the agony of it all. They were torturing him. I couldn't stand to see it unveiling in front of me. Much less squirm through the next three hours watching them devour him. I thought it was unfair for me to bear witness to this. Then again, I always had the choice not to look, but my pity was hardwired to my eyelids. It seemed that I would never be able to blink again.

I watched four men force his mouth open and heartlessly stick a knife in it. Blood squirted out like a geyser. I turned away swiftly, and looked back, a baffling first for someone who couldn't sit through a horror film like me. He let out a blood-curdling scream, prompting me to cover my ears.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I picked up an old shirt and rubbed my face. Why me? I was only seven. Was I even old enough to see this? Suddenly, the darkness of the room began to close in on me. Still, why me? And more importantly, why him? He didn't deserve to be subjected to such a brutal means of death.

He shrieked and hollered all he was worth, and even from the window in my grandfather's bedroom, I could see his legs weakening. His ears, which seconds ago were stiff and upright, were now bent against his sweaty temples. I wanted to come downstairs and set him free of those ropes. I wanted to look him in the eyes and tell him everything was gonna be all right.

But the door was locked. I was grounded until dinnertime--about time for him to mingle with my digestive juices.

Pink, my pig, was dying. Later on I would see him on a platter for everyone to feast on. And there was nothing I could do.

*****

Looking out the window, I see cars whizz by. Each of them have a particular destination, most of which I cannot presume. I believe that when one is in motion, he makes more progress than one slouching in a fairly circuitous Math class--regardless of the kind of motion.

The sophomores are supportive of each other's vices. From where I'm sitting, I see two guys fumbling with their cellphones, one chewing gum, and two freshmen are in our midst for reasons yet unknown.

Suddenly, I snap back to reality as the class erupts in cooperation. This is the easy part of Math, and I do not plan on opening my mouth to speak anytime soon. Only 30 minutes to lunchtime.

But I just did. It's virtually impossible to keep my piehole shut when I'm in this room. You could say everyone was on a roll this morning--and the rolling goes on. I hear expletives being muttered under breaths. My melange of frustration and discouragement is hurtling stones right smack in the center of my mental faculties and I can't stand it.

My stomach churns. I am subjecting myself--against my will--to the very first legal form of slavery that is school.

*****

As I settle down on the foamy white cushioned chair, my eyes drift toward an angel emerging from the door, followed by a whoosh of hot steam. It turns heads as it moves across the room. Everyone oohs and aahs, myself included. I of all people. It's a masterpiece.

Its smell wafts around the room and lingers outside my nostrils before it takes its sweet time in.

It smells so DELICIOUS. I wanna spend the whole night with it and let it take me to a new high. Its delectable soft texture makes me wanna give in to its divine taste. I don't know what's gotten into me, but for sure, I am far from lonesome. It's gonna be mine.

As I see the waiter put the dessert plate before me, my heart jumps with excitement. I can't wait to relish its heavenly sweetness on my tongue. Palatable would be an understatement. I stick the fork right in the middle of its multiple layers. Everyone in the restaurant watches as it goes into my mouth...

I must have this decadent chocolate cake!

*****

I hop down from the packed bus, donut in hand, about to face my biggest interview yet. It's not like I didn't prepare for this. Heck, I even got myself a shiny new notebook to take down every possible note. But as the looming Ganzon-Olan building towers over the sunny F. Llamas street, I feel a twinge of nervousness.

A tingle creeps down my spine. This is it.

Just as I was about to step into the building's huge revolving doors, a beggar in oversized jodhpurs and a tattered white shirt bumps (rather intentionally) into me. My donut lands on the ground, uneaten. Crap, I waited ten minutes at Krispy Kreme for that. I glower at the man.

He smiles--not the kind of reaction I was expecting.

"May sukli ka, miss?"

"Sorry, wala po," I shove my way through the crowd and into the building. He follows me, a big grin plastered on his rugged face.

"Please lang, miss, manganganak na po ang asawa ko..." he says. What am I, an ATM? Someone probably glued a smile on his face. Evidently, he was lying. So to get him outta my way, I pull out some coins from my bag's side pocket, unwillingly hand them to him, and start to walk away. Hmm. What date is it today?

"Miss, sandali lang," he calls once more, and that's when he got on my last nerve. I spin in his direction and point a perfectly buffed nail at his nose. "Manong, pwede ba? May lakad pa ako, pinagbigyan na kita. Pwede ba?!" I admit that was mean, but I was terribly late now, and the difference between charity and rudeness could be my job. I look down. What date is it today?

"Last na po, miss," he says, and he gives me a nicely wrapped box, the scotch tape prominent as

I held it under the sun's rays.

I say the smartest thing in the world.

"Ha?"

But as I look up, he is gone, leaving me with an unopened gift. I start jumping to conclusions. OK. Don't panic. What if this is, like, a bomb? What if I'm the victim of a practical joke? Come on, pull yourself together. It can't be that bad. It's just a really suspicious gift from a complete stranger who has come to make you late for your very first job interview. Yes. I don't even know what date it is today, darn.

Suddenly, I feel completely idiotic for even THINKING of the possibilities. Maybe he was just a nice guy trying to put a smile on someone's face. So I unwrap the gift and am surprised to find a piece of Choc-Nut and a small note. It said:

"Happy Valentine's Day po."

Oh. It's February 14.

*****

"Ummmmm...kamay mo, Anak."

I smile halfheartedly at the woman sitting in front of me. She's in her 40s, in a long, flowy dress, bedecked in jewelry and beads in a kaleidoscope of colors. I am in a white tartan shirt dress anf gray bermuda shorts, sitting uncomfortably inside a booth in Quiapo.

Getting my fortune told.

I cannot believe I agreed to this.

"Anak, mukhang may problema ka sa pag-ibig...o, siya, siya. Matagal na ba kayo?" she asks, and I recoil. Brent and I are fine, thank you. I look up and nod my head. Well, this is better than the convention my mother was gonna take me. Wallpaper convention = boring. I take a deep breath. "Seven months na po."

"Ahh, mabuti, mabuti. May nararamdaman akong vibes sa pagitan ninyong dalawa. Alam kong nag-aaway kayo. Huwag kang mag-alala at magkakabati rin kayo." She smiles and squeezes my hand assuringly.

"Salamat." Except that Brent and I weren't fighting.

"At ngayon, magpa-palm reading tayo. Palad mo." She lets go of my left hand and strokes my right. "Mahaba ang mga linya ng palad mo, anak. Maraming lalaki ang aakit ng ligaw sa iyo. Hahaba rin ang buhay mo, dahil marami kang kaibigan," she speaks matter-of-factly, like her reading had some sort of scientific basis. Outside, I hear catcalls from vendors selling pirated DVDs. Now would be the right time to bolt. I hardly believe in this anyway. I sigh. This is getting nowhere.

She gets hold of the shiny crystal ball poised at the center of her table, closes her eyes, and feels around it. Slowly at first, then she starts vigorously rubbing her hands against the ball, moistening its glass surface. Suddenly, her whole body vibrates, as if volts of electricity had just penetrated her. I remain frozen, mouth agape, in my chair.

"May na-raramdamaaaaaaaaaaan akoooo..." she says, freaking me out even more. I don't know what to do.

Then she stops abruptly, regains composure, and pushes a cowlick back from her sweaty forehead. I exhale, mouth still open.

"Zodiac sign mo?" she inquires, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

I find myself deep in thought, then I look up.

"Scorpio."

"Oh, realistic ka. Mahilig ka sa simpleng buhay, walang dinedemanda. Sapagkat mag-ingat ka ngayon dahil may isang problema na hindi mo maiiwasan. Masuwerte ka sa pera ngayon at wag kang umuwi ng maaga dahil baka may makasalubong kang dating kaibigan."

Wallpaper suddenly seemed more appealing at the moment.

So I push a 50-peso bill across the table, mutter a low "Thanks" and rush out. She looks at me, stunned, but puts the bill in her pocket, smiles, and calls in her next victim, er, customer.

I will never get my fortune told again.

An awakening, followed by an epiphany.

My mind is completely blank. Still stunned from what happened yesterday, I do my best to pick up the pieces and Mighty-Bond them back together. Too bad Mighty-Bond doesn't work on hearts. It takes time--regardless of how long--for a heart to heal.

I barely recognize the face in the mirror looking back at me. She's gleaming, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes, rimmed with red from the tears she couldn't hold back. The creases under her eyes are suddenly more defined, and her nose stands out, the only part of her face unaffected by the trauma. It wrinkles in disgust. Suddenly it dawns on me that the face I see is my own, and I turn away, afraid to look at who I've become.

Violins swell in the back of my mind. My heart's steadfast beat assures me that I'm not dreaming. I can see it all now--the whole world crashing down on me, far from any hope, far away from you. There's no turning back now.

One word of advice: Never listen to crappy, tearjerking, Secondhand Serenade-like songs when you're not in the mood. All it does is pull you down further, making it impossible for you to come to the conclusion that this, too, shall pass.

But why does it feel like it never will?

freewriting?

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.

Cyril Connolly

On days when I thumbwrestle with my worst enemy--writer's block--I turn to every possible source for just an ounce, a drop, a little bit of inspiration to fuel my numb writing hand. Unfortunately, today is one of those days, so expect this blog to be peppered with links, photos, and just about every other source of what I call "power cookies".

When in doubt, I Google. Specifically, I Googled "symptoms of writer's block", half-expecting to get less than a thousand results. Well, whaddya know? Articles for everything do exist. You just gotta Google. http://www.fictionfactor.com/articles/block.html enlightened me of my current situation. It said:

Ask yourself the following questions:

1) Have you panicked yet?

2) Did you try to force yourself to writer only to become extremely frustrated over the quality of slush you were creating?

3) Has it been more than five minutes since you wrote your last cohesive sentence?

4) Have you wept for the inability to write even an email?
5) Have you begged your friends to just 'shoot' you?

6) Have you almost talked yourself into the idea that taking a job as a check-out chick will be more rewarding than publishing career?

My answers:

1) Why, yes I have. Thank you for asking.

2) I always do that. It's how I start. Thankfully, I consume less than three pages.

3) In a few minutes I may have to tie myself down in order NOT to pull my hair out. Does that answer your question?

4) Well...not exactly. But I break some plates from time to time.

5) Never. (Although that's a good idea...I'll sleep on it.)

6) It appealed to me once, but my resistance is far from futile.

THERE! Inspiration. I now have something to spill my guts about.

"I'll sleep on it."

(This is where I get serious and writer-ish...bring out the popcorn. This is gonna be long.)

Abyss. Imagine me, neck-deep in a pool of emotions I thought I'd never feel. It's not bottomless--if I push myself to, plain brute force will help me resurface. Every minute adds a whole new theory to the way my words react with each other. And because a scar has reopened in my heart, each letter is infused with the rage I am fighting tooth and nail to supress.

And...my paragraph stops there. What is happening to my usually-filled chest of inspiration? Boy, I am running out of fuel. I better start "overhearing" other people's conversations again.

If all else fails...I freewrite. Usually this makes me feel even more frustrated about not being able to grind one almost-perfect...

THERE! Inspiration again.

As a kid, I was always afraid of balls. The mere thought of getting hit by a darn heavy, crappy...oh, forget it. I can't quite think of a good enough topic to talk about. Darn this. I am struggling. I guess this is the whole point of freewriting. To make a fool out of yourself for the whole world to see. Or not. I'm picking up a few ideas from this so called "slush".

This is by far my worst post. And as I'm typing I cringe. CAN SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE ME SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT?

And I should stop, think, and contemplate before I blow up.

Gimme some time. I'll churn you guys an awesome post. :)