I just sort of had a quasiepiphany: writers who cannot feel cannot write real shit. You know "real shit", the ones that tug the latent emotional inhibitions in any man, be he a mawkish wailer or an insensate ingrate. But then again, I'm not planning to write any bathetic novel in the future, though the ones bathetic move the collective masses into cults of fervent following. Take for example, err, William Shakespeare, Paulo Coelho, Mitch Albom, and uh, Og Mandino--though I don't find them the most astonishing movers of human emotion, they have sold millions, you know, millions. (Alright, I'm guessing. But conduct a survey and those names are the ones that'll pop up.) Well. I hates them, really. Them bathetic novel writers.

And you know what? Fuck it. Just. Fuck the world. Fuck society. Fuck the government. Fuck politics. Fuck mass media. Fuck advertisements. Fuck corporations. Fuck McDonalds. Fuck Jollibee. Fuck IBM. Fuck Globe, Smart, and Sun. Fuck Microsoft. Fuck Dell. Fuck investments. Fuck properties. Fuck your school. Fuck your job. Fuck your whole fucking career. Fuck your car. Fuck your health. Fuck your family. Fuck your friends. Fuck your fuck buddies. Fuck the unfuckable contents of your lusty imagination. Fuck your wife. Fuck your husband. Fuck your girlfriend. Fuck your boyfriend. Fuck your kids. Fuck your relatives. Fuck your enemies. Fuck your boss. Fuck your professors. Fuck your dog. Fuck your cat. Fuck your little hamster. Fuck your goldfishes. Fuck your aquarium. Fuck your clothes. Fuck your shoes. Fuck your computer. Fuck your cellphone. Fuck your mug. Fuck your fridge. Fuck your washing machine. Fuck your television. Fuck your DVD player. Fuck your day. Fuck your night. Fuck your shitty dreams. Fuck your shit. Fuck your toilet. Fuck everything. Fuck the universe. Fuck the multiple universe. Fuck the alternate universe. Fuck ghosts. Fuck apparitions. Fuck poltergeists. Fuck quantum physics. Fuck quantum energy. Fuck black holes. Fuck anti-matter. Fuck dark matter. Fuck the conduits that connects matter with non-matter. Fuck the whole goddamn fucking fuckable shitheads crawling on the planet. Fuck every goddamn fucking thing.

Saying 'Fuck It' is the spiritual way of releasing your mind of the tension, anxiety, angst, animosity, hatred, anger, and what have you, of the world. It's got this liberating feeling, breathing in every fucking thing and letting them go by breathing out. Good. I'm goooood.XD And now, to happy thoughts!XD

I bought pasalubongs to my rents!XD Yay! A jar of crispy roasted peanuts, a jar of chocolate crinkles, another jar of strawberry jam, and a bottle of homemade strawberry wine from Baguio. Brought them home when surprise! Surprise! One fucking day gone by and my rents haven't touched one fucking thing.XP So HAPPEEEEEEEEEE!XD Just because I'm a pessimist doesn't mean I'm incapable of being happy, no-oooo sirreeeee! I'm happy happy! Bouncy bouncy like a freewheeling bullfrog!XD I'm an optimistic pessimist, mind. Tell me one catastrophe, and it'll make my day.XD Take that jar of strawberry jam, crispy peanuts, chocolate crinkles, and that bottle of strawberry fucking wine, all bloody fucking untouched, oh joy I am so fucking happy.XD And I'm really looking forward to my rents not touching those fucking things until tomorrow, or next week even, or the year after that, until they all rot and the wine ferment, turned vintage then I'll be fucking happier.XD Really. On to other happy thoughts!

I want to quit school altogether! (School and what with together??) School and school work and professors and school organizations and all those shites! Now that's a happy thought to muse about.XD Quit the passion about writing, that right! You'll just end up miserable any fucking way, right! Now that's another happy thought!XD Yay happy thoughts! Horay!XD I swear I'll die suicidal smiling.XD Take a shotgun and gunshot the hottest person alive but that'll be committing suicide. Waaaaaaaahahahahaha.XD I'm so FUNNEEEEEEEEEEEE.XD

Bleah.

...............and the quasiepiphany: I can't write without ever knowing how to move the deepest recesses of man's desires. I don't know passion. I don't know fear. I don't know pain. I don't know happiness. I don't know despair. I don't know excitement. I don't know anger. I don't know human emotion. But I know how to write. But without anything emotional to write about, that's just about writing a nil about emotion--not about emotion, you imbecile, writing with emotion. Not with words, but with ideas. Write technical. Write science. Write articles. But I will never be able to write novels. Novels. Sheeeeeeeeeeeesh, who you kidding, you idiot. You can't make a fortune from writing novels! You don't even have anything schmaltzy to write about.XP Hmmmmmm.

To all strangers out there: HEAR ME. I'm the stupidest fucking idiot on the planet. I had my whole fantastic life ahead of me and I fucking blew it all away. For what? For one fucking useless shitty unprintable bloody fuck.

Word did you say?

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