Everyone writes about falling in love, and falling out of it, and suffering through it– and hugs, and kisses, and blowjobs, and anal, and sex– and trying to forget, and wanting to forget, and never forgetting– and wishing, and waiting, and wanting– and longing, for something or nothing–

But no one ever writes of its banality, does it? It’s not an exciting thesis– Love is banal. Love is repetitive. Love is one damn thing after another. No one ever writes about the everydays, because there’s nothing in the everydays. You don’t write about a love that doesn’t live, a love that doesn’t breathe. It doesn’t mean it’s not love. It’s love in the best parts, and love in the worst parts– but best and worst don’t cover the in between.

I hate the long stretches. I hate waking up, trying to figure out my why.

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions because I don’t keep them. I do, however, become extra dramatic during the holidays, and it became apparent mid-cheesy New Year’s text that this was the year I learned to make decisions again.

I can argue myself into and out of anything, which is how I’ve been sitting on the face about everything for so long. But somehow things changed for me in the middle of the year, and I just… decided. I did the things that were always in the back of mind. It wasn’t about saying yes per se– actually, I said no to a lot of things– but for the longest time, I had no dreams.

And now I have them again. Dreams and plans and hopes and ideas, and I want to do them all, and I want to do them all well.

So, upon this article’s suggestion to have a “word” resolution to guide myself through the year, I decided that this is mine–


There’s no better time to. I’ve wasted 23 years so far and that is more than enough. I’m not saying 2015 is going to be my year or some bullshit like that– I will never believe myself ‘unfuckwithable’ or ~flawless– but I do know I’m better than a TVC of two girls trying to figure out how to install a TV box.

Could I have done better? Maybe.

  1. Jimmy Eat World – 23
  2. The Drums – Book of Stories
  3. Charli XCX – Break the Rules
  4. Mary J Blige – Family Affair
  5. The White Stripes – In the Cold, Cold Night
  6. Hookworms – The Impasse
  7. Angel Olsen – Forgiven/Forgotten
  8. Temples – Shelter Song
  9. The War on Drugs – Under Pressure
  10. Taylor Swift – Black Space
  11. Hookworms – Off Screen

Movie theatres and laundry and jet lag and long distance connections and sandwiches and palaces and getting carded and Liverpool and pantries and hotels– and being alone.

  1. The Band – The Weight
  2. Ariana Grande – Break Free
  3. Meghan Trainor – All About That Bass
  4. G.R.L. – Ugly Heart
  5. Tove Lo – Habits
  6. Betty Who – Runaways
  7. Chairlift – Bruises
  8. Jake Bugg – Seen It All
  9. Jake Bugg – A Song About Love
  10. The Beatles – Ticket to Ride
  11. DIIV – Druun
  12. Beach Fossils – Clash the Truth

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?


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