I don't like the coinage of 'FML'.

When people add 'FML' to their complaints, I don't doubt that they are going through a difficult time. They are obviously voicing that for a reason. Yet I cannot begin to believe that a life is truly "fucked" unless one is in a serious hole that he or she can't seem to dig out of.

I have been to the moon and back of ups and downs in my life, many downs, and ups that have been rewarding. I thought of this year as one of the most rewarding years of my life. I put together an amazing senior portfolio for my final semester. I was the co-head editor of the Northridge Review. I graduated college. I got into grad school. I got a short story published in a Filipino-American literary magazine. I got my first real job three months from graduation.

And that is what brings me here. Somehow, these upward trends in the graph of my life only suppress the things that makes me fall to the floor and brings me to tears. One wrong move, and my depression comes running back to me, always present, always with me, like a ghostly reminder that something is never going to be right...unless I fix it.

So I thought things like that I had listed above would fix me, but it only made things worse.

Am I that spoiled, that I'm never satisfied, that I always want something more? That I should be grateful to even have a job during these times? I swear I'm grateful, but to wake up every morning to tossed aside like sludge on a sidewalk, while I write profiles for septic tanks and air conditioners is not my idea of an experience where I can learn and grow at work. I have learned a great number of things while at work, however, concerning office culture. And the job has taught me a lot about other towns, and I've even got a few places in mind that I might want to visit someday.

But it's so hard to feel motivated in such a limiting environment.

For the past two years, I've been in the cocoon of CSUN's English program, where the world was far and wide, and we were free to roam, imagine, think, play. We were encouraged to push boundaries--no--kick them down and trample over to the untouched side. I thrived in that environment, I did so well. I was free.

And then...I sold my soul because I thought it was the right thing to do. I sit at a desk in a room with fake air, hoping for someone to talk to me, and wondering if gouging my eyes felt better than torture of complete lack of brain stimulation. Do you wonder about caged animals? The lions at the zoo, pacing back and forth? They're bored. They are not in the world they belong. And that's what I am.

My life at home has suffered. I get into fights with my dad, and my brother, when I don't mean to. I shouldn't push the people away who have done their best to help me even with all the bullshit. My car is broken, in case I forgot to mention, and it has been broken for over a month. I'm terribly lonely and I miss all my friends, yet I push people away, time and time again, especially when I'm depressed. No one wants to talk to a pessimist.

Soon, my contract will end, and I can go back to the life I want to lead. I've had the taste of the commute, the corporate atmosphere, the office politics, and I don't want any of it. Never, ever, ever again.

It's the same old emo shit out of me, isn't it? I'm sorry. I have nowhere else to turn.

Found My First Book (Novel Attempt?)

I just found the first novel/book I wrote that I wrote around the ages of 9 to 12, perhaps. It's called The Triple D Mortuary and Graveyard. HA! Emo much? I read a lot of R.L. Stine at that age... :/

And in this story, a 10-year-old boy named Tim who is fascinated with graveyards receives a ghostly visitor. In the cemetery by his home, he finds the grave of his father. He never knew much about his father, barely knew his name. His mother never explained much, and she was a coarse lady, not very nice to Tim.

Late one night, when he's visiting the cemetery, a ghostly spirit appears to him and then later appears in his home. This frightens Tim terribly, and he's afraid that he's disrupted the status quo of the cemetary, for whatever reason.

Along the way, he meets his sidekick while visiting the cemetery at night. The sidekick turns out to be Clint Eastwood, who becomes a father figure to Tim. He also helps Tim figure out how to shake the white demons that follow him.

Somewhere along the way, the story twists and Tim and Clint become separated. This is when the writing gets particularly hazy (I might have been 11 or 12 at this point). He steps into a house, where, in an almost Nabokovian (though I didn't know it was Nabokovian at the time!), Lolita-esque way, a young girl coaxes him to have sex with her. She's being coy, she's being cute.

And then the story ends because I was probably either too shy to write sex or develop the story further. It's kinda odd, random. And goes to show that even kids at that age think about sex. It's unsettling, perhaps. Maybe a little disturbing, too...LOL But ya know, we writers are disturbed people. Edgar Allan Poe, ya know?

That is all. LOL. Thought it was interesting.