Mood: angry, hypersensitive, scatterbrained, humorless, hungover, puky. Or should I say moods.XP

This is a note to myself. This is what you might call a diary thing. A handy pocket journal except that my laptop's as heavy as a phonebook directory. And, I can't scribble as fast as I type. So, without further afuckingdo, I present: my memory catalog.

Booooooooooooo.

Jumping bullfrog thoughts ricocheting on the walls of my skull. You can't help but write them down and move the fork on with your life.

The excuses we say for blogging.

It's economical, saves drive space, online, and it's cached on Google's suprahyperscanning megacomputer.

Amusing science fiction word, computer.

My brain today can't slow down to the speed of my fingers. The moment an interesting thought hits me, it vanishes right when I punch the first key.

All these explanation, they're a waste of words, of energy, of time and internet space.

At the peak of Mt. Arayat, Pampanga yesterday morning, Angel asked me: Why do you blog? Who gives a shit about your life anyway?

Only I give a shit about my life. All others are phantoms hovering around, entering, reading, exiting my blog. Sometimes they leave ghostprints you call comments. Sometimes they don't. But who cares about what these phantoms care about what they think of this blog.XP

Note the word: CARE.

But really, they don't.

In Alyssa's words: I write, you read. I talk, you listen. If you don't like what you see, bugger the fuck off. (I added the bugger and fuck thing. You get the idea.)

Going back to Angel's question, I write simply because I have a rusty memory. As Gabriel Garcia Marquez says, death doesn't come from old age but from forgetting.

I write because. I am not responsible to give you any goddamn reason.

You're the outsider, I am the in. The same goes when people ask me why I climb. Same answer goes, the mountains sculpt me into the statue that I am in the city.

I am ninja traveler, anywhere, everywhere. Backpacked with nothing but the essentials.

But mostly I just answer: What do you care?

Reasons, reasons, reasons. Satisfying people's questions is such a bloody chore and a waste of spittle.

When someone asks me why I don't believe in God, I ask back: Why? What's the point of explaining if all people I've debated with are narrowfuckingminded?

I used to argue: imagine you're Superman and you want to prove you can fly.

It's simply impossible for me, the skeptic, to disprove your ability to fly. I can't prove you can NOT fly. I can't stalk you with a spy camera for ten years and tell everybody the only time you flew was when you jumped off a building and cracked your skull.

It simply isn't my responsibility to prove your aviation superpower (analogy: God) does not exist.

The only way I'll believe you're Superman is if you fly right on my fucking face even for just five seconds.

All those annoying shittarded preachers and God fans who try to sway me back into The Way, The Truth, and The Light, they're these Superstupidpeople who use gazillion words to prove they can fly, which is pointless.

Imagine you're a Theist living in a country surrounded by eighty million Atheists. These atheists have an atheist church and a god named Nobody whom they praise and worship every Sunday.

How absurd, you think.

That's just what I feel about religion all throughout these years.

All these religious abracadabra, they're everywhere. They're nailed on the wall, posted on bulletin boards, broadcast and argued on TV, written with billions and billions of words.

This magical story of Nobody, it's everywhere.

And I've tolerated them the way a Christian would if he'd live with eighty million other atheists.

All this religious nonsense is just brainwash. Belief in God is irrational, illogical, hallucinatory, mind-altering, self-deluding, blind.

There is no Big Brother, no mystery, no miracles, no First Cause. If you want to know why and how did we exist, read String Theory and Darwin's Evolution.

So far, the number of people I've converted into atheism is a total of 1. My nine-year-old obese nephew Keolo. Everywhere he goes he taps people's shoulder with his pointing finger and says in his cute girlish voice, "Do you believe in God? How do you know he exists? What's your proof? Come on, try. Make me believe." And no matter how these addlebrained adults argue with his quandaries, Keolo can clearly see the holes in their faulty bible punching prattles.

All other shit I'd like to say escaped me. So, BLAH.

Change of plans for my birthday. I am fucking OLD. Twelve of us hiked Mt. Arayat instead of Mt. Anawangin in Zambales over the weekend.

My brother is sending me a new tent all the way from Dubai. My grandma tent is ten years old, already weak and diseased and about to hit the dumpsters.

The mountain itself is a disappointment. The major culprit are the mosquitoes who has the bloodsucking magical power of a syringe. My skin was layered with a generous coating of mosquito repellent, a stratum of antisunburn clothes, varnished with another layer of antibloodsuckers lotion. But them mosquitoes pierced that stratification all the way into the epidermis, dermis, and subcutaneous fat underneath my skin. I have like thirty to forty of them bites, the sons of bitches.

I haven't slept in twenty-six hours. The days before that I had an average of three hours of sleep.

Zombie. That, I am.

Nine of those I've hiked with are freshlegs. They've brought paper plates, plastic cutlery, plastic cups, canned food, and other stuff that produce so much garbage it depleted their energy descending.

So much baggage, so much makeup, so much clothes, so much snapshots, and too little water.

Angel and I don't teach them what. We'd rather let them learn from their own. Better make their learning process a personal thing.

The only good thing about this hike is the people. Them noobies, they're hyperfun and can produce a symphony of impressive farts.

Prolly the most gruelling hike I've ever had.

I conquered Mt. Arayat! Huzzah!

90% of the difficulty is the fucking weight of my bag. Five liters of water, a fucking tent, and rice grains, those mostly forced their way down to the ground like magnets.

My writerly mood skedaddled away, so.

(When thinking precedes writing, the writing becomes a chore. I prefer seeing my own brain at work on the page. Bleah.)

Boring post, this one.

Happy Birthday To MEEEEEEEEEEEE!:D

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