Out With the Old, In With the New

I planned to write different entries within the last few weeks, but this is the only one I actually finished. Then again, those entries don’t really have deadlines, and as a teacher once said, “You don’t need inspiration to write; all you need is a deadline” (or something like that).

The Supposed Ball That Will Be Dropped on Times Square – 2012

A new year was depicted in old cartoons (at least the seemingly-old ones I watched as a kid) as a portal where an old git goes through and turns into a baby. In that view, the old git seems to leave a certain place through a door, while a baby enters the other side (Out With the Old, In With the New… much like going out of a room in the house and entering another; this is a memory that may or may not be true… seriously, I don’t know). We pair this new year up with fireworks, ball-dropping, and perhaps more food in order to make more shit for the sewage system. Of course, this transition is not complete without the to-do list we impose on ourselves to start the year: the New Year’s resolution. Every year, every person with nothing monumentally awful to deal with (like cancer, or stupidity… maybe not the latter) conjures up a list of blahblahs that he must live by during the upcoming year.

Pretty much everyone fails before the first week ends, usually due to death or laziness. Why is that? Why is it that we conjure up these great goals… and fail miserably? Perhaps the failure lies in the fact that those goals are written like this entry, with a deadline in mind. We think of things we aim to do for a year, the details of which have to be released on a certain day (that happens to be so special because the sun supposedly finishes a cycle). There is nothing wrong with deadlines: chances are (p = 1), our favourite essays, short stories, novels, and TV/movie scripts are bound by some deadline. The problem lies in the fact that the goals, attached with a deadline, become a chore. In the beginning, we get ourselves to do our best in the tasks necessary to fulfil the resolutions; but at some point, we don’t see the incentive any more, and fall off. The following year, we do the same damn thing, and fail in the same damn way. New Year becomes rehab– where we vow to start anew, get rid of what drags us down– except we don’t have a firm grasp of what we want to change, and we end up turning the Earth’s revolution around the sun into our very own revolving door to change. Drug addicts have it difficult to become “clean,” and that’s with coercion by forces in society; what makes you think that the same process will be as effective for you, when no one can coerce you to fulfil your New Year’s resolution, even if you’re the dumbo that blogs about your list (or reblogs if you’re on Tumblr, which is worse, but that’s another story).

Perhaps we are doing it incorrectly. While it’s nice to make a list that shows not only that we recognise that we have to improve on some things, but also what we think we need to improve on, it is probably not nice to “start a new leaf” on a specific day. Looking at all the years we lived, it seems that, when it comes to New Year’s resolutions, we have a track record rivalling the 1899 Cleveland Spiders. Despite that, the “you” of 2001 (if your were born then; if not, then my language is inappropriate for you, dumbass) is different from the “you” of 2011… and it’s not just physical. Perhaps change shouldn’t be associated to a new year: that resolutions don’t start when the fireworks explode; that much like heaven is HERE (as The Great Belinda Carlisle– and later on, Madame Lana del Rey– would say, “Heaven is a place on Earth…”), change starts NOW; that our life is a series of Out With the Old, In With the New ‘s.

What is New Year’s Day for, then? Other than providing a potential title for a song, it is an occasion to be happy (and not to write stupid entries like this).

If it’s 0000, 1 January 2012 in your area, Happy New Year! Unless you’re going to greet the Earth “Happy Birthday!” when the clock strikes 0000 in your area (which makes you twice as dumb as that idiot who greeted good old Jeezy “Happy Birthday!” on 25 December; then again, you’re probably dumb enough to do that, too, so make that three times as dumb), feel free to comment.

More to Life

Unlike my previous post (read it!), this won’t be too long. I go back to that disgusting feeling I’m trying to bury with tons of tasks (trust me, there are plenty of them). For some reason, I can’t find a way to “reduce” this feeling into a faint heartbeat that I will return to when I’m idle again. Quoting REO Speedwagon out of context, “I can’t fight this feeling anymore.”

This awful feeling starts with the realization that some (READ: many, many) younger people (I think this obsession with youth may give the impression that I am a middle-aged bastard that writes like a hateful teenager) live more fun, successful, fulfilling, and *insert synonyms here* lives than me (I can take it when people beat you in one or two of those components… but three?). Instead of the usual shit on how “I will work harder, and maybe I will be able to ‘reach their level’,” I take the “WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?” route.

To prove that I am of this generation, I quote a less old artist (this may or may not be out of context). Stacie Orrico once sang, “There’s gotta be more to life than chasing out every temporary high to satisfy me.” Perhaps what I am doing now is nothing more than a temporary high, that I am busying myself just to mask the fact that I am “The M Word” (What is “The M Word”? Click the link above, or just read further, to find out). Perhaps “busying myself” isn’t the problem here; it’s what I’m busy with that’s the problem.

I am not the type that puts in a lot of effort into something I hate. Despite that, a part of me wishes that I’m doing something else: something bigger, better, and all those adjectives used to convey the message of yearning for something of a higher level. Despite this yearning, I never really had a clue on how to take it to the next level, which is unnerving, to say the least. From this begins a war against mediocrity, a war that I need to win, but can’t seem to.

Maybe this is all why I have a high tolerance for “arrogance,” since I fall for the trap they set with their demeanour: that they are, for the lack of a better term, better (although I can sense when hubris sets in; when that happens, I can’t help but laugh).

Like I said, this entry is short, so don’t hate on the underdeveloped ideas.

On a lighter note, TV shows (at least the ones I watch) are coming back! Watch out for my opening entry regarding that… not that you care.

– if you reach this point without skipping anything, I commend you! – 


I opened this little dot on the Internet a week ago so I have some platform to write when I feel like it. This means that upon opening this, I was under the impression that I am yearning to write again. Given that, how many posts (real ones, not like this or this) should you, the reader, expect by now? Take that number and compare it to how many posts are actually done by now; notice that the difference is the first number. That means, in case you’re too stupid to do simple arithmetic, I haven’t written anything. None. Nothing. Nada. The question now is: why haven’t I posted anything?

(above) My Output

Is it because I have absolutely no idea what to write? Probably not. I’m currently reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, which is… *I will reserve my words when I finally finish it*; Lady Gaga misplaced an umlaut in her song Yoü and I, which I should have noticed months ago (then again, I’m very lousy in finding details); and I rediscovered the time-burning joys of playing Diablo II, which I haven’t played since playing someone else’s file in an internet café years ago; among others. I have many ideas to choose from, and some of them are worth writing about.

Why I Haven’t Written Anything: Alibi One
Why I Haven’t Written Anything: Alibi Two

Is it because I write poorly, and the good forces of the Internet are blocking it from public scrutiny? I hope not. If I wrote so poorly, not only would I not open this little dot, I would also stick to reblogging and tweeting in text speak. Besides, the bitches and bastards hu ryt lyk dis stil hav a visbl presnce on d intrnet (I hope my impression was poor, so that at least I know I’m doing something right).

Is it because… never mind, the answer is probably no anyway. Yes, the answer is most probably “No.”

What is it then? Why is the actual output 100% less than the expected output? To answer this quickly is boring, hence not worth writing (or maybe I can’t answer it quickly, who knows?). Therefore, I will answer this the long way, which probably won’t lead to a coherent answer. This is perfect because I specialise in being incoherent (which is a huge reason, if not the reason, why I can’t speak well in public, but that’s another story)!

In case you have memory gap, recall that I claim to “specialise in being incoherent.” Perhaps one of the reasons why I can’t post anything is because I have many (perhaps too many) ideas, but no way to tie them together. Usually, I will just put these things and post a Smörgåsbord of ideas without bothering to tie them up or even checking if the endeavour of tying them up is worth pursuing; now, I’m not doing so because something tells me that the Smörgåsbord may (read: WILL) just end up like the colour of leftover paint in a palette– shit. As indicated previously, I have so many ideas at hand; the problem lies in how I can’t seem to pick one that I can discuss properly. When I do pick one, I end up spewing random, seemingly-related ideas that end up going nowhere.

Then, there’s the part where I can’t pick one. It’s been a recurring theme in my life that when there’s a given set of choices, it takes me a while to choose; sometimes, the less choices there are, the longer it takes me to pick.  I’m not exactly a bank of ideas, but even with just a handful of ideas, I find myself lost like a kid in a toy store, candy shop, or whatever the appropriate analogy is. I’m sure that this phenomenon is not something that’s uniquely mine, but it brings to light another problem: I have little or no direction. I have a lot of ideas on what to write, but I don’t know which to pick and where to start. Worse, this extends to my life: I want a lot of things in life, but I can’t seem to start on most of them.

Then there’s my problems with time management. I don’t know how long the typical blogger writes (according to this, it should take less than an hour), but it takes me ages. Even when I’m “inspired,” I will probably take at least a few hours. Perhaps my free time can’t accommodate writing, and even if it did, I will not allot a proper amount of time for it.

At this point, I haven’t done anything past the level of presenting conjectures. I could try to explain why, but the endeavour is pointless. It won’t fix anything: I still have nothing to present in the form of an entry…

… Oh wait.