I need to go home to my cushy life, so I can get chauffeured around from dawn to dusk, so I can spend endless hours at appointments for my eyebrows or my bangs, so I can hand over my credit card to every counter without a second thought, so I can greet mornings in a random McDonald’s with my friends–

so I can stop collapsing on my springy bed at 9PM after taking out the trash and cleaning my bathroom and doing my laundry, so I can stop waking up at 3AM everyday to roll around in my blanket looking for warmth, so I can stop skipping meals because the exchange rate kills me, so I can stop spending hours everyday looking for street signs or checking Google maps or running after trains, so I can stop watching movies and plays alone–

so I can go back to a boring life of convenience, without the constant inspiration of libraries housing magazine issues from the 1980s or museums so deeply steeped in world history, without a billion creative ideas humming in the atmosphere around me, without the constant hunger to become someone or achieve something or get somewhere.

I need to go home. Because if I stay any longer, this will become home.

I had a To-Do List before I left.

I crossed many things off– eyebrow threading, Canon Service Center, get drunk– but I had a few left undone.

1. Buy pens at Muji.
2. Moleskine envelopes at National.
3. Memory card reader. Megamall?
4. Dye hair.
5. Exhibit at Finale, West, Silverlens.
6. Learn how to drive.
7. Go to Batanes.
8. End it with _____.

And I am so, so glad I never did.

Here’s a secret.

I haven’t finished a book or a magazine in a while– any sort of reading material actually. I mean, I have, technically, finished a few things (others have battered covers already because I bring them around, but I’m pretty sure I’m only a few chapters in), but not in the way that I used to– I haven’t devoured anything from start to end, cover to cover, front to back, and emerged inspired, energised, comforted, blah blah and whatever else “-ed” I usually get from reading. Even with a great piece. Even with a crappy piece. Sure, there have been things I’ve enjoyed but off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything that has stayed with me as of late. Even comic books– I go through the dialogue, waiting for the cliffhanger at the end, barely looking at the art. I don’t let names or faces settle. My mind blanks when I’m asked for something specific.

I have this odd feeling that I’ve become a piece of fiction. That I can be boiled down into a paragraph or two, that I can be explained in a novel, that all my twists and turns are a plot. I can’t settle down into an everyday– I feel like each and every day should be riveting!, fascinating!, out of this world!– something to write about, something never to forget. I see myself too much in the things that I read, even when it’s just a phrase, an instance, an example. I don’t know where this is coming from. I feel like something is forcing my humanization, and I don’t understand why.

I have no enthusiasm to discuss– not a movie I’ve seen, or a book I’ve read, or people I know, or thoughts I’ve had, or ideas I’ve birthed (birthed talaga, Andrea? Anyway)– and instead all I want to do is listen. I’ve always enjoyed doing interviews, because I get to ask and ask and ask, and I don’t come off as strange or suspicious because my curiosity is justified.

I don’t even know how those last three paragraphs are even related. I feel like they are– I know they are– but I can’t sew them together.

Then again, that’s me, isn’t it? I keep thinking, I’ll be me again soon, I’ll be me again soon, I’ll be me again soon– I’ll go back to who I was a couple of years ago, or few years ago, or a decade ago, and everything will be okay– but it doesn’t happen. How long does a phase last anyway? “I’ll be me again soon.” Right. When I get sewn back together. When the pieces fit again. When I figure it out.

Where the fuck am I going? Why do I still have this blog? Why did I not go on that archaeological dig when I had the chance? Why can’t I settle down?

Today is my last day at my first ever job.

Today, on my last ride to work– late, as per usual– I tried to sort out my emotions. I realized I didn’t have any. Not any real ones, anyway.

Sure, I’m dreading the eventual boredom. I’ll pack my first few days with so many plans that it’ll feel like I’m still doing something. I’ll hang with all my friends, I’ll go to all the galleries I’ve wanted to go to, I’ll see all the movies I want to catch. And then I’ll miss the advertising grind. I’ll miss being torn apart and then built up again and again. I’ll miss having justification for my mediocrity. I’ll miss learning everyday, and the people I’ve been learning from.

But, the truth is, what’s new?

I quit things all the time. I give up all the time. The second something doesn’t serve a specific purpose that is completely aligned to my life vision, I cut it off. That was my logic behind leaving advertising– it’s not what I want in the long run, so why say?– and it made perfect sense at the time, until I realized how many times I’ve applied that logic to everything else in life.

I didn’t want to be a quitter, but I guess I am.

Now I’m writing in my bloody WordPress account because– as per usual– I’ve created a problem for myself.

So not only am I a quitter, but I’m a self-destructive millennial as well. Well… what’s new?


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“If you ever want to find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood.”

Bill Watterson, 1990 Kenyon College graduation commencement address

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out doing something I don’t love. Accompanying paragraphs to that sentence usually involve what I’d like to be doing instead and why I’m not doing them yet, but I am done analyzing and intellectualizing and philosophiizing, and all I honestly want to do is do.

I don’t pretend to know you. I don’t pretend to know what wakes you up in the morning, or what you look for when you visit a city for the first time. I don’t pretend to know what pop culture references you make, or where’d you go if I handed you a one-way plane ticket to anywhere.

I had a really long paragraph (fine, I had multiple paragraphs) somewhere here, explaining why, despite not knowing you, I’m writing this, but I don’t want to complicate things. I don’t want to overthink this anymore, because that’s what I’ve been doing my whole life. So… a toast.

To your eternal happiness. The kind of happiness that wakes you up in the morning with pancakes and a smile on your face, that overwhelms you as the past and present sweep the rug from underneath your feet, that fills your stomach with laughter bought by cultural currency, that inspires you at every moment. To the choices you make, to the people you love, to the future ahead. To your eternal happiness– lest no one ask for more, nor anyone to want for less.

The truly frustrating thing about figuring out who you want to be is that the person you want to be and the person you could be are not always the same. Or in sync. Or even parallel.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and yes, I’ve always wanted to be a writer– but feature writing and TV ads were only a plus, never the main event. It was short stories, and novels, and essays, because (and I cannot get over how lame this sounds) those are the things that mean something to me.

But I’ve also always wanted to be a chemist, or an archaeologist, or a computer engineer. Research, development, innovation– I thought these were things that upon intersection with my more cultural inclinations would come to fruition in advertising.

I was wrong. I still want to discover a new element to squeeze into the periodic table, and I still want to find a forehead wide enough that it could only belong to the First Men, and I still want to look down on earth from a watchtower in space. Everything else was only ever icing on the cake.

Except I don’t have the mental capacity for any of that. I never took any classes, I never tried any experiments, I never expressed more than a passing interest, because, bottom line: I’m not smart enough for any of it. I know that, and isn’t that what sucks the most? Only ever knowing how to dream, but leaving it just at that?

Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I consume too much science fiction slash fantasy. Um, yes, I probably do– but I also like creating things. I like believing that nothing is impossible.

Ironically enough, that’s my agency’s internal campaign for the year. I don’t think I made a mistake by coming here, even though everyone else seems to think so. Why do I stay? I like the environment. I like being told to think big, but within the constraints of reality. I like being only worth as much as your last idea. Yes, I do sometimes worry that I’ll start to prefer overtly airbrushed images and write with a consumerist undercurrent, but to be honest, I know this isn’t for me in the long run– but I feel like I’m training my brain to pump out ideas left and right, and to make something out of everything.

I already know what everyone else thinks would be a better fit for me (conveniently forgetting that I am painfully awkward, and that I am not a likeable person). I know the acceptable logic is to go where you know you’ll succeed, or be great, or whatever, but I’ve always been the opposite: if you know you’ll do well, why not take on something new, something different, something you’d completely and utterly suck at? Setting yourself up for failure is so boneheaded, but it just gets so boring when your job is “fun,” and not “challenging,” or “discouraging,” or “utterly heartbreaking.”

Sigh. I never know what to do anymore. Usually when I write, I end up figuring out a conclusion along the way, and I close my laptop knowing what to do, but now… Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha I want a doughnut.


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