Friday, April 22, 2005
For the past two years, I've been doing something that I can now consider as a crime. I only do it when I'm at America and I tend to overspend whenever I do it. What is it?

I buy lots of books.

Just like last year, I came to the U.S. with only a book in hand. I think it's Anne Rice's novel called "The Blackwood Farm". When it was time for me to go home, my baggage gained 5 more pounds compared to its weight before going to the U.S. - and I owe it all to the 11 books I bought during my vacation.

Yes. 11 more books.

And right now, while i'm experiencing once again a vacation here in the Land of the free, I already bought 4 books, one of them being hardbound (and I don't usually buy hardbound books 'cause I find them hard and irritating to use) while the rest are paperbacks. But of course, they're not the paperback kinds that you often see in drugstores or at the cheap section in a bookstore. When converted to Philippine Peso, the books I usually buy here range from 600-900 bucks a piece. I can't even imagine how much I'm willing to spend for these books. But I do love spending money for them and I do love buying them. There's something with the way they smell and the way they feel like whenever I touch them that makes me love it whenever I read them. God. I sound so pathetic.

And psychologically disturbed.

Nonetheless, I love the fact that I am a bookworm. I think that this trait distinguishes me from my siblings and my cousins and even my aunts and uncles. The last person who loved reading books in our family was my grandmother (who is now with God). Sad enough, my passion for books weren't that visible yet when she was still alive. Maybe we could've shared books and opinions if I loved books then or if she's still alive now.


I should really go out a lot, don't you think?


I am complicated.
I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's honest, it's efficient.
You get in and out with a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of bullshit. - Brian Kinney
What do we say about ourselves? Some of us would say good things and the others would do otherwise. We are complex and even if we write down everything we think about ourselves, any amount of paper and ink won't do. Explaining or describing yourself is hard. It's like solving problems but only this time, you actually know what the problem is, and its solution is something that would either shatter you or complete you.