the zeppelin of burning dreams

WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS.

HELL, YOU THINK I'LL GIVE?

BRING IT ON, COSMIC SHUCK.

I can't seem to do anything right. Oh well. Nice thing about being human is that there's always the next test, and the next, and the next. . . . .

Wahoo! Nice gig last friday. Except that the freakin' house amp was shot. Coupled with my 60b, it sounded like I was shooting firecrackers out my ass. But it was cool. Thanks for anybody and everybody who went to the gig, and for those who were hoodwinked by my "free beer" ad, my apologies. Kahit ako nagago nun. :D

We'll be doing this twice every month. Time to start looking forward to Fridays! Mm-mm.

I was writing a short story for an entry. Hell, I was on fire. The words were burning, like road rage at three o' clock in the morning at Ortigas. I find it fascinating when words just spill out of my brain the way I want them to; it gives me a sense of control over what I think, who I wank off to, what I wank off to. Seldom do you see that kind of power tripping; never stare a gift horse in the mouth.

When you've got the power, baybee, use and abuse. Lightning doesn't strike twice at the same spot for a very very long time.

There was electricity in my head; I was fucking electric, man. It felt like a thousand different blends of amphetamines were coursing through my bloodstream. So this is what it felt like, looking at reality through the eyes of God, I thought.

Let me tell you something.

The eyes of God . . . are friggin' amazing.

I am blazing down the page like a hedonistic lawyer with enough evidence to put the richest tycoon behind bars. It was impressive just how much crap I have had stored in my mind. A month-long of literary constipation! The end result: wondrous magic at the very fringes of my now-euphoric imagination.

Then the hangman called and asked for the taxes. Lightning did strike twice. And the power fluctuated. Microseconds, but enough to cut the computer's life-blood.

This is why the true writers of old used typewriters.

I have not been writing recently. School's a bitch, and mostly what I've been enjoying is sleeping. That, and reading. I have a ton of books in the ruined shelf (yes, that is the sheer amount of books I personally own: my bookshelf collapsed) that are waiting for me to read. Not to mention the borrowed books from Bruce and Mao, the books I swiped from my sister. I sometimes dream of swimming in a sea of books. I can taste the salt of words.

The last piece of writing I managed to come up with, I am not proud of at all. This was an article for Manual magazine, and bloody hell. I most definitely screwed up that job. A late article's a late article. However, a late article that has no substance is slander.

I wasn't able to finish the short story I was writing for the Cultural Center's ANI collection. I haven't been able to finish a short story in nearly a year. It's just so sad.

My band's been doing well, tho. That's keeping me afloat.