Since Precious, the Mariah Carey movie that I’m dying to see is not going to be shown in Manila theaters anytime soon, and which might be shown mid-2010, by which time I would have already died from anticipation, I re-watched Wise Girls, a small movie that would have showcased a smidgen of the acting talent of the greatest diva of our time. Wise Girls tells the story of a certain New York, mob-run Italian restaurant that serves more than just pasta, it serves cocaine too. Mira Sorvino, Melora Walters and Mariah Carey who is Not Bad play the waitresses. And if you really want to know what it’s about, go to IMDB because what I aim to examine and expound on is how Mariah is not at all a terrible actress as Glitter would have you believe.

Mostly I’m more interested in the experience of seeing a movie than the movie itself and I could say without reservation that Mariah would have been spared the breakdown had this movie been shown ahead of Glitter. If something as reputedly bad as Glitter can be shown in a third world, THX-equipped cinema, months after Rotten Tomatoes and just about every web traffic-hogging blogger had already proclaimed it to be bad, then an indieish movie such as Wise Girls can too, not because we, the Philippines have truly progressed as an above average appreciators of superior films nor because our local distributors never cared much for profit, but because and only because in the year that it was shown, 2002, Mariah was as popular as ever, and any movie that has at least one recognizable name in it will be shown, no matter how marginal the movie’s following is in the States or wherever. And so Wise Girls, the would/should-be launchpad of Mariah’s film career was shown here but only in the stinky SM Manila cinema, a telling sign that we were not going to see her in anything anymore.

I’m more concerned about critics’ assessment of movies so when I watch a movie that has her in it, and there aren’t many, I Google them and forget for a minute that I’m supposed to be doing other things in my life and I make searing commentaries such as this. And rewatching Wise Girls made me conclude, wow, that she isn’t so bad an actress after all. Even though I’m predisposed to mention her real life capacity for comedy, I could say with only the slightest bit of prejudice that she has put to great advantage her great comedic timing which she is supposed to have in real life. And even without having to say everything I’ve just said, I could never see her as anything as terrible or awful, as an actress or as a human.

I’ve seen this movie in the exact number of times that the average Mariah fan is supposed to watch it, which is to say, countless times, and the scene where she walks in the middle of the restaurant, gets her ass grabbed, and delivers what could have been THE career shifting dialogue of her acting career, never fails to elicit a fawning, admiring gasp that can only come from someone who has had the nerve to bring his girlfriend to see Glitter and not be ashamed of his skin after pretty much giving away his real nature. And speaking of Glitter, is it really so awful? I think what paved the way for the tomato-throwage was that one corny scene where they were in a club and Max Beesley hands her a mic, done in a hazy, corny, slow motion effected sequence and she starts to spontaneously sing to the random beat being played. Apart from that scene, what else was so bad I just couldn’t see.

In the upcoming Precious, the great diva will play a Mrs. Weiss. Needless to say, I have read almost all that can be said about the performance. Not that it matters but I wish I can make an original critique of the movie or Mariah’s performance but it will be impossible but I’ll bet that she’ll kill in the movie because she already got wiser.

I feel like my behavior is very erratic lately. It’s certainly erratic because I felt the need to document it right now! and I could not wait to put it somewhere, immediately after I’ve encountered the word ‘erratic’ in David Foster Wallace’s essay about tennis. The word erratic stuck and it seemed like an adequate description of my behavior lately. I’m sorry for even saying anything about what is supposed to be just a fleeting idea. I’m apologizing for it because I know that these are maybe 90% lies and because I have a knack for being hyperbolic about my self and for things and people I dislike. It would be fine if I know that I’m unrecognized but that’s not the situation, and I’ve not been successful at all at making stuff up, at least here, which would explain why I’m occassionally generous with the way I address things here, as if I’m sure that a good number of boys and girls care about the things that are addressed. And I think that what all this is, is for me to be able to say that I’m just like how David Wallace described Andre Agassi in his essay in that  my manner now and ever since, is that of the ‘slightly smug self-aware one of somebody who’s used to being looked at and automatically assumes the minute he shows up anywhere that everybody’s looking at him.’ I could be very wrong about this but also I could be very right. But it really feels like it and if it can be proven that I’m being just insufferable now, then the error of my behavior is not entirely made up or wrongly felt. But that I had to associate my self-perceived erraticness to Andre Agassi is in itself wrong and too obvious. But what I really wanted to think about is why I’ve been doing things that I’m not so sure of lately like downloading the discography of Natalie Imbruglia when I’ve never particularly cared for her back when she was still relevant. I feel like my 24 hours isn’t enough to do everything I want and think I need to do like listen to CDs I’ve downloaded that I’ll probably never listen to more than twice. I also suspect my motivation for trying so hard to finish a book which is maybe the root of all these. I think that having to prepare for dinner is a waste of time because I feel like 24 hours in a day is truly not enough. I aim to sleep as early as possible because the hundreds of pesos being deducted from payroll isn’t worth staying up late for and getting up late for and therefore being late to work for. To add weight to my erratic behavior blah blah is that right now, I’m giving too much thought about money and what I’d spend for the next time I get them again. I make a list of things and in it, there’s an item for hygiene which is expenditure for Nivea , Gillette blades, Old Spice and face towels, the only things that I could afford without feeling guilty, if that makes sense. I’m hoping for the holiday season to be over soon because I can’t forget or forgive the crook who took my wallet who may have human reasons for taking it but of which Christmas is surely one of them. I feel stupid for saying in two separate interviews, from interviewers who’d offer me the same job, that my worst criticism is that I’m Too Indecisive. In my mind, I have a perfect workaround for this impossible question but I never should have given the same answer to both of them. But I can’t decide whether it’s good that they never called back or it’s bad because it means I’ll have to complain, but just maybe, about the same set of boring things for as long as I am where I am. Since this is already too long, I think I’ve already somehow erased the memory of my previous thought which was centered on something so irrelevant. I wish some day I can convince anyone that there is a reason for this activity that I keep doing other than wanting to say things like I’m just like how so and so author described Andre Agassi in whatever essay.

The David Foster Wallace book, which I got for a bargain 50 PHP is still unfinished after 3 painful months. I almost hated books and reading in general because of this difficult book. I have a feeling that some of the things I’ve read so far are funny but these funny bits escape me. In short, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again has the power to make you feel stupid. Lesson learned: limit purchase of books that have cute titles.

This is what happens when you try to get your hands on books that you think is a big deal, because their authors killed themselves or because the titles are cute. This is just like the time I bought Kate Bush’s Aerial CD just because it has a nice cover and because it’s so cheap. Her voice is very weird and I can’t bear to listen to her again even if she’s supposed to be a hybrid of Tori and whoever else does that kind of singing. I’m thinking of a future when I’m so broke that I’d have to sell all the worthless things I bought by virtue of their being cheap.

I lament being unable to read as much as I want to, even though its David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs and Franny & Zooey that I mostly read. I intend to read more Filipino authors but what I’ve noticed about local books is that unless you’ve heard about them from somewhere, you’d have no idea what they’re really about because in place of a book summary, what you get instead are blurbs and the authors’ educational backgrounds. Are the readers supposed to care that the writer graduated from the University of Quezon City when published writers like Bob Ong, who writes in the most annoyingly casual manner, sells thousands, and whose educational history we know so little of? His books don’t have much in the way of summary either, but he has the distinct advantage of creating very accessible reading matter. You may see him as a humorist who can be funny but who just tries too hard, but his publishers don’t see the need to plaster his book jackets with complete details on where he got his Masters in Silly Writing, but he sells a lot.

I reread Archie & Jughead and I must say, it’s still the best thing to read in any day at any age. I can claim to like the later works of Ian McEwan or the early Patricia Highsmith but nothing is as fun to read as the two boneheads from Riverdale. I’m so sorry I sold all my Archie comics to some girl who took advantage of my innocence. I’m sorry too that I lent some of them to kids who saw no difference between borrowing and taking/thieving.

I’m sure there’s someone out there who covets this David F. Wallace book and if you’re someone who has many Archie comics, I’ll trade my A Supposed Fun Thing (such a long title) for 10 Archie/Jughead Double Digest. 10 because I believe A Supposed Fun Thing is quite valuable in spite of itself. Will negotiate too with anyone who has A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, also from the Books With The Cute and Catchy Title cannon.

A friend, who I’m vaguely good friends with, is possibly still very lonely because of a break-up. This is a friend whose house I never leave sober and whose house I once left in only my boxer shorts one very rainy Saturday night. He of the endless cheap tequila, leftover stale red wine, cheese, paksiw and various leftovers, whose heart, to borrow a phrase from one of our time’s greatest romantics, Stephen King, has just been shot to shit. It used to be a Them with the cheap tequila, leftover stale red wine, cheeses, etc, but there would be no more them, the once unbreakable, Brangelina-like power couple. Now there’s just him and the leftovers.

Break-ups are ugly and normal. For two boys, it’s really just a pronounced desire to want to be with another boy. It’s just that sometimes, the pronouncement comes in the form of staying behind and leaving something behind. And by something, I mean evidence. But that’s just me imposing my narrow view on the thing. But for some, breaking up means re-evaluating living conditions, dropping off regular activities, re-adjusting to the absence of the person you used to do fun things with like splitting utility bills and fighting over who gets to wash week-long dirty underwear. But ultimately like week-long dirty underwear, break-ups are shitty. Even shittier is that in this day and age, no breakup is spared from a facebook status update.You would not like to be the on the receiving end of a vengeful ex. It’s relatively safer to quote a line from a love (or hate) song to say what you feel because it’s easier to disown borrowed, already copyrighted anger should there be a need to disown. If you’re in a relationship, it’s impossible for you and partner not to be not connected on all of your online social networking accounts. So when you break, it’s important that you be prepared for the possibility that your wall will have something along the lines of  ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, fuck you, whore.’ If you’re the type who barfs at this type of crass sentimentalizing, you’d feel ickier by the fact that such feelings are obtained from popular movies. And there’s no escaping this. But if your ex were to be more compassionate, you might find this act of juvenalia safely burrowing in your inbox instead. It is never wise to break up with an online community-thriving person via cheating.

Moral: obliterate all connections of you and wronged partner immediately after admitting your sin and be more morally upright next time. Or just try, or just be more stealth. I hope my friend stands by his song of choice although I don’t completely approve of the idea but who cares. Maybe next time he could pick something from Placebo, the emoest of all emos. I’m just suggesting because I can’t belive he picked Rihanna.

A year ago, Kicks invited me to a birthday party. It was during that period when the prospect of meeting a fellow blogger is… thrilling. So I went. Is it fat? Is it gorgeous? Does it wear a pink tee? These are important questions when deigning to meet people online. Up until that time, Kicks was the only person I’ve met within the blog community whom I felt at ease with. So I went to party even though I wasn’t planning to, and even managed to drag my usually undraggable friend Jose. Blogger attendees were commanded not to tell about it since the celebrant was a prominent Mafioso. I’m not sure if any of us are allowed to do it now that a year has passed but I’m thinking, no one among those guys is likely  to divulge undivulgeable personal business as I am.  By which I mean, no one among those guys will make a year old retrospective about how attending that stranger’s bash meant something other than being referred to by their real names by people who originally referred to them by their online names such as… I’ll divulge some other time. So if you could already see where this is going, quit already and I’ll just blah blah blah and celebrant and me hooked up and are still together, and it turned out that my attendance to that party meant more than just getting very drunk that Sunday night in Timog.

Ours is not a story Joyce Bernal flicks are made of as it is ostensibly from the Brillante Mendoza stockpile since it has Coco. And since you told me I’m corny sometimes, I might as well indulge. I’ll just set This to private when I feel like I have to, or if you command me to, since blog drama is very much part of our Brillante movie. I’m sorry, art film. And I’m telling these as if I won’t be cringing about this when we wrestle on the weekend and hopefully the weekends after that. 17 movies, 54 late night talks over beers, 29 fights, 18 flights, 1098 smooches and 1 war later, we’re still on. May we have more and still be on.

In short, I’m glad I went to your birthday party last year.

Contrary to Augusten Burroughs’ personal belief, old man Burroughs isn’t such a terrible man. He’s just not the type of father you’d want to hug after coming home from school. He’s also not the type  you’d give an affectionate, spontaneous son to father kiss on any given day. But daddy Buroughs is not completely deserving of the supposedly symbolic Wolf in Augusten’s A Wolf at the Door. To be honest, Augusten’s father simply wasn’t much of a father figure and that is it. But for little Augusten maybe that’s enough to earn him the title Worst Father of America. But he’s not my father so it’s probably best not to judge.

The people in Augusten’s life, his family and those very close to him, do they perhaps daydream about murdering him? If his allegedly psychotic mother were alive and read his memoirs, would she disown him? And his father, if it were physically possible, would he roll in his grave and maybe choke Augusten to death or scare him to insanity? To be fair, Augusten doesn’t quite paint a very ugly picture of his mother as much as he did in previous books where she was described as crazy, aggressive and unstable while his father was mostly a mere apparition. In here, her mother grows a heart and his father takes center stage. If you’ve read any of his previous books, you’d wonder just how he could get away with all the things he said about them and manage to make it appear like he truly cares about them more than his vain, writery self who maybe needs to fulfill contractual publishing obligations. The difference probably lies in the fact that Augusten Burroughs is a New York Times Bestselling author, a distinction that the average father/family disser would want to achieve first before he gets away with saying shit about anyone. And also, that Mr Burroughs is probably telling  truth.

To up the creepy father ante, Augusten shows only brief flashes of wit and focuses instead on the minute details of daddy’s meanness such as willing the household pet to bark at him and his mom and drive said mom insane and him to a strange psychotherapist’s house which he would later on write about and get rich off of. If you think about it, he actually ought to write his father a check for all the books he’s sold (Running With Scissors) because he made his life equal parts interesting/school-free and independent/unbearably loony. I would never understand how it feels to be sent to your psychiatrist’s home and live with nearly insane women-children so again, I shouldn’t judge. But by book’s third quarter, I sort of get the feeling that his dad just isn’t very deserving of this.

One also has to consider the fact that fathers and gay sons, NOT the best of friends. In some cases, not even civil to each other. But mostly, never. In Augusten’s special case, a philosopher/Karl Marx-quoting university professor father and Vidal Sassoon-worshiping and would be NY Times Bestselling memoirist son = foes forever.

I suppose that if one wishes to badmouth one’s family member or anyone, it would have to be in a strictly literary way, which Augusten does effortlessly. It would have to be in such a movie screeplay-in-the-making kind of way so that one could get away with it with impunity. That if one wishes or itches to say ‘My brother is a worthless piece of shit’ or ‘My sister is a slut who conceives 2 sons and leaves the other at home while she skanks around with her sorry excuse of a husband’, one would have to be ambitious enough to stretch such ugly sentiments to about at least 300-400 pages and not just through one lousy tweet or corny blog post, although sometimes either of the two works too. And if disser is skilled enough to really go at it, pronounce his family as Shit to the world and manage to amuse people at his impressively written but ill-conceived memoir, by all means write it. Otherwise, it would be greatly economical to just pollute the web with your ugly, fake identity and even uglier and sometimes fake blues.

If I can help it, I try not to read other people’s petty, corny and useless rants. It’s an assault to the senses to have to read hate stuff if they’re not expressed in a manner that’ll make you go Wow anyway. I myself try not to impose upon the hapless lurker words of extreme hate to anything and anyone. The last time I said shit, a full, carefully-though out and unreservedly graphic steaming pile of shitty things about a friend, and got caught, I swore never to do it again not because it makes me look like a heartless son of Satan, or just Satan himself but because some people just don’t deserve it although right now I’m really not trying to sound reflective and apologetic. But some mornings, I just can’t help but want to pound on some people’s head, and in the absence of the possibility of actually pounding someone and a concrete pounder, I resort to harsh words instead. Whereas I’m supposed to be thinking about piles upon piles of work that are begging to be finished, my mind wanders to far places, sometimes as far as the Middle East and sometimes not too distant such as my home. And so I indulge in this supposedly therapeutic practice of expressing hate and not try to save it for later because if I do, it will eat me up for the rest of the day or the week. In this country there are plenty of things to hate and all the spaces This can provide might not even be enough but maybe it can but I don’t care to be certain. They’re too plenty that I often think it’s too good not being able to buy guns freely because if I have one, it is probable that it will be used but with caution. But it’s not as if today is a day for shooting people. I wish to just let it pass, wait for the day to end and work myself to exhaustion and if really warranted, drown myself in alcohol later but that’s about as useful as fantasizing about owning a gun. I was thinking of bleeping the whole thing somewhere else and get over it in 140 characters but it won’t do because I would hate to have to be asked ‘Sinong kaaway mo?’ in a manner that is no different than being asked what I had for breakfast. What I really, really want to consider doing is to not think about the shit that shat on me this morning. I hate many things and many human beings. I am crippled both by the desire to tell and confront, and by the awareness that saying shit about Anything is mean and ugly. I think I know enough now that if I do say anything mean and ugly about anyone, it will leave such a huge imprint on some people that if I die, very few will attend my funeral, half of which will damn me to hell. If I die, even more people I know might spot this little shitfest I have for a site and think, What a foul person I truly am. If I do die next week or soon, I’m sorry to you, you know who you all are for disappointing you, for not being the opposite of disappointing and for saying those things. But I probably won’t die yet. Masamang damo and that. Actually, I’m not that bad. A little deluded, yes but not very bad. I’ve been trying to maintain a passable composure, online and in Here, in the physical place but I’m in such manic mood that the first person to greet me good morning, or something resembling a greeting, is met with Leche!!! in full force by me. Now I’m tired. This will probably be over by 4 or 5PM.

I woke up Saturday morning feeling quite nice even though it was so noisy because of the rain. I didn’t care much for the heavy rains even though it crushed our kitchen roof. If anything, it was just the thing that would glue me into bed. It provided me with an excuse not to get out of the house and not do anything, and do my second most favorite thing in the world: sleep. I woke at 8AM, played Mafia, had coffee and slept.

I woke again at around 12NN, and around this time I wasn’t feeling so nice. It was still raining very hard and I was upset because our kitchen roof was truly shot to shit. We can’t cook anything aside from instant noodles which my daddy had the ingenuity to mix and experiment with. I hated the rain mainly because of this terrible inconvenience, not knowing yet that elsewhere, people would not be eating until after they get rescued from their rooftops which would mean no food for them until the following day. And God knows if that’s even going to happen.

I was also annoyed because it was still so noisy and the noise drowned the sound of the speakers which I haven’t yet realized I’m lucky to be even able to turn on since we have electricity. Elsewhere, people are not only unable to hear music, they’re also incapacitated to let people of authority know of their life and death situation because there was just no way they could let people know of their dilemma since they’re very close to being obliterated by the quick rising flood, because they have no access to internet, landline or cellphone because, well, they’re about to be drowned not in sound but in flood water.

I only got to know of the grave danger that most people were in when I turned on the TV and found that Jessica Soho’s regular show was pre-empted by a special news report that aimed to inform of the country’s current situation which at that time was already nearing Noah’s Ark proportions. I was just about ready to call it a night and forget this all happened because we in the south are relatively unharmed and it was just a little too grim to take it all in, the floating bodies, the live footages of people struggling in the San Mateo River in Rizal. It was very depressing.

And then it’s Sunday and my thoughts shifted onto more practical matters, ie if there would be work the next day. Of course there would be. That’s the most brilliant thing about being in a multinational company, is what I instantly though and this is of course a typically bitter sentiment from someone does not LOVE work so much. I was hoping that maybe the bosses were themselves feeling the enormity of the situation and that they call off work for all employees regardless of position or place of residence. Of course, that is not to be the case. Even if our bosses were the most compassionate and most humane of all bosses, we all know, even I, that our work’s stoppage’s will make itself felt in the coming days. But then of course, that’s just me feeling so tamad and hopeful for the best. And so we go to work.

I got over my petty worries and am currently supposedly doing decent honest labor. I just want to make it known for the record that I understand (naks), although maybe not completely, that there are so much bigger concerns than mine. September 26, 2009 might not actually be the worst Saturday of my life but it is for many, many pinoys. I also just wish for things to get better really soon for us and that in spite of our inefficient weather bureau, the NDCC, and our president, may God still bless us.

The moment Anne Rice said she’s no longer going to write about vampires, witches and bitches, and that she would instead be writing about Jesus Christ’s early years, I knew there’s no way I would enjoy any of it even she cuts out all those hefty descriptions of Italian curtains, Greek chairs and Roman marble columns. I think I actually miss her extensive cataloguing of various furniture in her books. And it’s true, I did not fully enjoy Out of Egypt, the first in her Christ the Lord series, a series that couldn’t be more different from the Vampire Chronicles and Witching Hour. However, I’m a little disgusted by myself for openly taunting her decision to write about Jesus. While it’s true that I can’t find a single reason why I should forge and pursue this series (book 2 is already out), I think it’s a little too Satanic to begrudge a writer for writing about something she really likes. I’m not that sorry though. If you’d ever read or had been fascinated by her alternate universes of vampires taking nutrition from menstruating nuns  and ghost granddaddies impregnating granddaughters, then you probably earn the right to be a little miffed that the genius behind such concepts is now satiating the very demographic that her old series’ followers isn’t from. In short, she’s gone Chistian on our asses and there’s no turning back. I’m sorry again, that seems mean. I also realize that it’s not nice to take the effort to say how unenjoyable a book is because it’s mean and frankly, a waste of time. But the thing about Out of Egypt is that it’s a big improvement in her prose. Definitely gone are the aforementioned long descriptions of inanimate and unimportant objects, and trading that for slightly better characterization of the book’s anti-Lestat, Jesus Christ. I was worried that she’d make Jesus speak tons of Egypt’s fine sands, gorgeous Egyptians, silky smooth Egyptian hair, and ornate sandals. That was not to be the case as Jesus in this book is a 7 year old, slightly clueless boy who mysteriously but skillfully heals dead people, just as skillfully and stealthily he kills them. The only people Jesus is killing in this book, I would imagine are the old Rice fans. The goths, if you will. But if you take the time to realize the radical shift in faith it took her to write this, then it might not be too hard to accept that she just had to change and that there are other vampire books to be had anyway, minus Lestat of course. Twilight series, for example. But that would probably suck more. I’m not completely sold though. If I were to be my old spiteful self, I’d probably think that this series is Anne giving the finger to those who maligned her, her faith and her skills as a writer, when the final V-Chronicle book came out and many called her, well, a witch and other unflattering names. I was honestly not too thrilled during the whole day that I sat down and consumed this. And that’s something that could not be said of any Anne Rice book, the proverbial reading in just one sitting. I came to the Author’s Note page and that was all it took for me to have a change of heart, although still  not completely. Say what you will of Anne but her immersion for the things that fascinates her are undeniable and all we could do, the followers or followers-turned hecklers, is to wait to get amazed again, even if it looks like it’s going to take quite a long time.

WordPress is oppressive. You can’t just plainly say anything and be done with it in 20 words or less. You have to be verbose. The white blank page that stares at you in the Add New Post page mocks your inability to fill out its entirety even if you’re completely sober. The page stretches on for eternity and it’s so huge, the space. Unless you have something really important or really  interesting to say, THIS white blank space just wouldn’t do it for you, for people who want to say very inconsequential things about their inconsequential selves. You need small but you’re not getting it here. You just have to have the word Really preceding anything to say even if all you ever say is not really. WordPress is not called WordPress for nothing. It’s not just aiming for cuteness unlike some people we know. The vastness of the available space calls for lengthy words and passive sentences, if there is such a thing, a passive sentence. It begs to be taken seriously as a tool for nonsense-speakers by limiting the amount of gimmicks. Exactly what gimmicks, I wouldn’t know since they’re limited. You can’t just simply complain and be done with it in the standard, high school paragraph-length of just 5 sentences and call it a night. No. Shit you say in WordPress have to have some depth and ‘meaning’ for it to get attention, if attention is what you aim for. And the thing about WordPress is that you can’t have it if you’re not the type who seek attention. You can have it, sure, but it will tell you soon enough that you don’t deserve it. It will get back at you by letting people know about your dormant page when you least expect it to let people know about stuff that are supposed to be secret, even though the idea of secrecy in WordPress is really just a myth. When people find out, that’s when you know that not only were you stupidly oppressed, you’ve also been humiliated and exposed through no fault of anyone but you. This is exactly the type of site that when you’ve committed words in it, you feel so very sorry about all the words you’ve said because they will be published by you, and all the words you’ve said are, in your mind, too precious to be deleted, erased from the mind of those who are embarrassed for you, that they’ve read about what you had to say about a thing they wouldn’t otherwise know or care about. And yet, you don’t go away. You can’t pretend to be speaking to yourself because you’re inadvertently linked elsewhere, without your permission or your liking, although this part about being linked, sometimes you don’t mind it very much. And they, whoever they are, they’re there whether you like it or not. Because really, if all you really ever wanted to do was to have something  immortalized in print, you’d have grabbed a yellow pad, an old notebook, a receipt, a napkin. Not website. Also people accuse you of adopting a style which should just be the thing to erase you from the face of the earth (or just the www) because it hurts to be accused of that whether true or not. I think that in my case, my co-called and totally false style pertains to those instances when I cut my sentences short. And I follow it up with another seemingly cut sentence and thought. And then I precede my statement with a sentence that starts with And, although for me, that doesn’t really count as style. It’s just that I believe that certain thoughts can not be said in a single breath. I would admit though of trying to end things in a rather abrupt way. Good night!!!