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Is it mistaking Ateneans for Halle Berries? Or does our university really have the most featherweight population in the whole of Davao.

This thought crossed my mind one time when I spent yet another sad day in front of the elevator queues I mean, how sad is that?

Having nothing else better to do but stand in front of elevator lines?!? I should definitely join a club or something.

Note to self: ask Nerdy Geekdweebson about prospective chess club openings. There are three lines in the lobbies, each almost the same length.

I choose my line and, as usual, always end up with the slowest moving lane There is actually a science to that! I read an article about it on a psychology journal once.

As I am idling about as only a teenage idler could idle, I calculate in my mind whether I am going to make it or not. As I do my computations, I take into consideration not the weight as one would in a fishing competition but rather the width of those ahead of me as one would do in measuring for a coffin.

There could be at least 15 people ahead of me! I simply have not the time. So in improvisation I do a quick math which is about what I can only do! I should show you my algebra grades….

I figured I could make it; there were two tiny anorexic-looking waifs somewhere in the front chitchatting to themselves probably about the color and consistency of their last self-induced vomit, which should be around two minutes ago.

We make way for those lucky bastards whose classes are over for the moment and were now happily making their way as far away from the university as possible.

Lucky bastards. Finally, when the shiny metallic box is empty, the students start piling in and this is where the true test comes in.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… Something has got to be wrong here …twenty… Where is that alarm?!? Speaking of which, Michael Jackson has probably paid a visit to our elevators by the looks of…er… it.

And I bet he was number twenty-two. Just a guess. On the way up, I take a look around which was, I must say, quite an acrobatic borderline-yoga feat!

I am amazed at how much…or how less…air space there was left in the elevator…if there even was any breathing space left.

Suddenly, the elevators idle about and we could feel that butterfly sensation you feel when elevators stop.

Startled and disgusted looks are constrained. Who the hell..? You have no idea how much I needed a Mentos moment just then. As he gets off and the rest of us are left with mixed emotions, I was left with that fleeting image of the faces of those back at the elevator lobbies.

Those in dire need of a lift. Those who were already mins. Those who lost that chance just because Elvis was too lazy to put one foot in front of the other.

What a complete waste of sweet precious space. Their fat behinds as fat as their almost unused soles? Which ultimately impregnated in me the seeds that would bear fruit to this yet another angst-filled chronicle.

Nobody wants to be late. And maybe not because one more late would debar you from attending any more sessions. Note: respectable.

And yet as these metallic doors open and close and the oblivious airheads step out of the elevator, diligently taking their time of course, we normal folks could do nothing but sigh and shake our heads while the back of our minds are busy conjuring up some lame excuse to throw at our languid professors for being late.

Either that or nobody just really wants to waste any more time with a prosaic sermon about being too lazy to take the stairs through such a short distance.

The doors close with a bang, which our elevators actually do sometimes probably in protest! The Elevator Chronicles Ah…one of the greatest wonders of the world: the Elevator….

The earliest simple elevators, pulleys and ropes…and good old-fashioned elbow grease, were built to shuttle food or other non-living objects such as tiny cats or Adolf Hitler to their untimely end down the caustic gut of some Ye Old English bureaucratic turd.

Nowadays, the elevator has gone a long long way…and quite literally too! It was based on the supposition that humans, once stepping inside the claustrophobic realm of The Elevator, have the tendency to change characters in a snap…like a multiple personality schizos.

He argued that there was like a switch somewhere inside the human mind that transformed a man from what he is in his normal state…to this totally outrageous or unusually commendable person significantly unlike from the norm.

The Elevator Behavior? The Elevator Chronicles I:. Fat People Smell Funny. I just came to school ready for my Mgt class when I headed for the elevator lobby.

Of course, it was around 7. I daintily made my way to the queues forming in front of the elevators…minding my own business, silently praying that today would not be such a pop-test-filled day.

I use my brain.. After about eons of idling about which is actually just 5 minutes in Teen time , I finally was able to squeeze myself into that tiny metallic box Hm…which makes me think again.

Everyday, I put my life into the hands of a metal box suspended up a hundred-meter shaft by a couple of metal wires tremendously taut from hundreds of pounds of pressure.

That was a little too histrionic. My stop was the last stop…at the very top, the 7 th floor. Just before I thought another ho-hum humdrum ride inside The Box was about to end…which was somewhere between the 2nd and the 4th floors the 3rd floor, duh?!

There were these bunch of guys that squeezed themselves into the already Omg-this-is-too-close-for-comfort elevator. But of course, Ateneans are not a lot to complain well actually, we are.

So shift-shift, shuffle-shuffle, make space for these people who seem to think they are Naomi Campbells. Naturally, any essences that person may possess would surely be sensed.

And who is that unfortunate person? Anyway, the doors closed and the elevator creaked up again. Wait a minute … Whiff.

Dude, what is that?! That is just not right…. Do you want me to put the smell into words? Take a sweaty old sock, preferably worn by a senior citizen.

Take a cat a street cat would be preferable , scare the hell out of it and make it piss on that sock. Take the soaked sock and rub it on the cat for additional feline aroma.

Drug it if need it be. Find the sweatiest player you can find. Use the sock to soak up his sweat. Go to the Sahara. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration.

Fat people, especially males with poor deference for personal hygiene, smell F. Dear fat person, you may not care about how you smell much, but pleeease.

This has been the elevator chronicles. My eyes dart across the room in desperate search of resolution where is it and why is it taking so long to come to me???

The yearning for the free-form thought the uncensored abandon. The trickling of musings that would startle me to discover it written down in black and white.

When did I merely turn into what I am now? When I forget the delight of letting the muses take their will? When did I suddenly try so hard to craft these words?

The memories flash before me as the glint of light plays with the patina of my trinket. The effigy of the crucifix fixates me and reflects in the glass of my eyes.

Soft tiny drops of glass roll down the side of my cheek. Beads up on the varnished redwood of her casket. Rolls down the brass handles and quietly…peacefully…is laid to rest on the cold marble floor….

I don't want to try anymore. I merely want to do. I don't want to be paralyzed by not being able to achieve perfection.

I never will. I don't want to be wrapped around the idea of trying to impress. I merely want to let these words fly free. I'm sick of starting sentences with the word, "I.

Here I am. Slapped in the face. Stunned by my selfishness. Up in heaven…. When I grow up, I want to go to heaven, mum! We all do, sweetheart….

And live in a beautiful house! With you…and me… and daddy. A BIG house! So all of our neighbors could come and see our big pretty house…. That's what it's all about, isn't it?

The desire to please. To impress. To wow. To show off my pretty dress. To show off my pretty words. To make you "ooh" and "ahh. A silent scream ricochets through my body.

Your grandmother wanted you to have this…. I want my grandmother!!! Where is she?! Your grandmother died a few hours ago…. The taste of salt stains my lips.

We were supposed to go fishing tomorrow… and bake pies for grandpa next week…. The repetition of the words sickens me. Nausea takes over my body This isn't what I created this paper for.

This wasn't what I intended it to be. This was for me. And no. If I were truly selfish, I would hoard my words away. I would hide these confused mumblings.

I would shelter the world from my cracked and tainted shell of perfection. I wouldn't be so free to admit my failings. My insecurities.

More sentences starting with "I" I, I, I, I Perhaps it's Inescapable. I sat outside on the swings, diligently obeying what my parents had told me: You go on outside now and play with your cousins.

I was in no mood to play with dumb four-year-olds. I admired the new addition to my left wrist, finding it ironic how much I hated it just moments ago.

My stubby right finger counted off the charms. Wuhnnn… Tssssooo… Trrreeee… Foooohhh… fffaaaayyyv…. Words have been easily spilled on a page.

And yet they mean nothing. Like a schizophrenic, the phrases shriek through my mind:. What is the point? Why am I trying so hard?

Why am I getting nowhere? I see where I want to go, but I simply can't get there. Frustration causes me to save another draft and I sit back and feel the emptiness….

Writer's block. My pride rebels. What a horrid phrase. And it isn't true! Ideas and stories and descriptions waltz within my mind, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling I can hardly sleep because there is so much I feel pressured to get down in black and white.

To squeeze into words and create breath-taking imagery But still there's emptiness. Shallow words on a page. Five days was the span of the wake. Five fat black birds on a single power line.

Praying five times that the birds would just fry to death…. What an ugly way to learn your numbers…. So I sit here, forcing myself to write.

Forcing myself to get past this. Frustration causes me to save another draft and I sit back and feel the emptiness…. Writer's block. My pride rebels.

What a horrid phrase. And it isn't true! Ideas and stories and descriptions waltz within my mind, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling I can hardly sleep because there is so much I feel pressured to get down in black and white.

To squeeze into words and create breath-taking imagery But still there's emptiness. Shallow words on a page. Five days was the span of the wake.

Five fat black birds on a single power line. Praying five times that the birds would just fry to death…. What an ugly way to learn your numbers….

So I sit here, forcing myself to write. Forcing myself to get past this. Forcing myself to wheedle out that chapter in my life that has mellowed into molasses.

This creative bottle-neck that halts just before dripping out my fingertips must be unclogged someday. My nose drips like a faucet. My mother walks over to me and hands me a tissue.

Feeling better? A little…. I hate Death. I wish he would just drop dead! Stingy laughter pierces through me like a thousand daggers.

I look away. Laughter was crying…. Me too …Laughter says through Sobs. Don't attempt to write a good story. Write a bad one. Write something to be discarded.

To be sneered at. To be ridiculed. Just write. See the cracks in this faulty pedestal. I am just like you.

You're just like me. We're just like everyone else. We all have our cracks. We all have our poisons. We all have our trinkets. We all have our struggles.

Superficial struggles, the attempt to impress with my flowery words. More like weeds. Weeds pulled up and discarded for rubbish.

Yes, that's what it is. But once you've cleared the clutter, there is room to start anew. Fingers poised above the keyboard.

A fresh page. A new start. A pencil with a thick eraser. A time to move on…. A deep breath and Post a Comment.

No longer chained to the momentous task that they had balked at before, they canter and frolic and fly about the keyboard.

Silver trinkets linked on the chain of my bracelet have inspired Rolls down the brass handles and quietly…peacefully…is laid to rest on the cold marble floor… I don't want to try anymore.

We all do, sweetheart… And live in a beautiful house! So all of our neighbors could come and see our big pretty house… That's what it's all about, isn't it?

Your grandmother died a few hours ago… No!!! We were supposed to go fishing tomorrow… and bake pies for grandpa next week… Your grandmother wanted you to have this… The repetition of the words sickens me.

Like a schizophrenic, the phrases shriek through my mind: What is the point? Frustration causes me to save another draft and I sit back and feel the emptiness… Writer's block.

Five charms on a chain. Five charms laced with poison. Poison to the soul. Praying five times that the birds would just fry to death… What an ugly way to learn your numbers… So I sit here, forcing myself to write.

Laughter was crying… Me too …Laughter says through Sobs. Posted by Miss Twinkle at AM. No comments:.

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We all do, sweetheart…. And live in a beautiful house! With you…and me… and daddy. A BIG house! So all of our neighbors could come and see our big pretty house….

That's what it's all about, isn't it? The desire to please. To impress. To wow. To show off my pretty dress. To show off my pretty words.

To make you "ooh" and "ahh. A silent scream ricochets through my body. Your grandmother wanted you to have this….

I want my grandmother!!! Where is she?! Your grandmother died a few hours ago…. The taste of salt stains my lips. We were supposed to go fishing tomorrow… and bake pies for grandpa next week….

The repetition of the words sickens me. Nausea takes over my body This isn't what I created this paper for. This wasn't what I intended it to be.

This was for me. And no. If I were truly selfish, I would hoard my words away. I would hide these confused mumblings.

I would shelter the world from my cracked and tainted shell of perfection. I wouldn't be so free to admit my failings. My insecurities.

More sentences starting with "I" I, I, I, I Perhaps it's Inescapable. I sat outside on the swings, diligently obeying what my parents had told me: You go on outside now and play with your cousins.

I was in no mood to play with dumb four-year-olds. I admired the new addition to my left wrist, finding it ironic how much I hated it just moments ago.

My stubby right finger counted off the charms. Wuhnnn… Tssssooo… Trrreeee… Foooohhh… fffaaaayyyv…. Words have been easily spilled on a page.

And yet they mean nothing. Like a schizophrenic, the phrases shriek through my mind:. What is the point? Why am I trying so hard?

Why am I getting nowhere? I see where I want to go, but I simply can't get there. Frustration causes me to save another draft and I sit back and feel the emptiness….

Writer's block. As he gets off and the rest of us are left with mixed emotions, I was left with that fleeting image of the faces of those back at the elevator lobbies.

Those in dire need of a lift. Those who were already mins. Those who lost that chance just because Elvis was too lazy to put one foot in front of the other.

What a complete waste of sweet precious space. Their fat behinds as fat as their almost unused soles? Which ultimately impregnated in me the seeds that would bear fruit to this yet another angst-filled chronicle.

Nobody wants to be late. And maybe not because one more late would debar you from attending any more sessions. Note: respectable. And yet as these metallic doors open and close and the oblivious airheads step out of the elevator, diligently taking their time of course, we normal folks could do nothing but sigh and shake our heads while the back of our minds are busy conjuring up some lame excuse to throw at our languid professors for being late.

Either that or nobody just really wants to waste any more time with a prosaic sermon about being too lazy to take the stairs through such a short distance.

The doors close with a bang, which our elevators actually do sometimes probably in protest! The Elevator Chronicles Ah…one of the greatest wonders of the world: the Elevator….

The earliest simple elevators, pulleys and ropes…and good old-fashioned elbow grease, were built to shuttle food or other non-living objects such as tiny cats or Adolf Hitler to their untimely end down the caustic gut of some Ye Old English bureaucratic turd.

Nowadays, the elevator has gone a long long way…and quite literally too! It was based on the supposition that humans, once stepping inside the claustrophobic realm of The Elevator, have the tendency to change characters in a snap…like a multiple personality schizos.

He argued that there was like a switch somewhere inside the human mind that transformed a man from what he is in his normal state…to this totally outrageous or unusually commendable person significantly unlike from the norm.

The Elevator Behavior? The Elevator Chronicles I:. Fat People Smell Funny. I just came to school ready for my Mgt class when I headed for the elevator lobby.

Of course, it was around 7. I daintily made my way to the queues forming in front of the elevators…minding my own business, silently praying that today would not be such a pop-test-filled day.

I use my brain.. After about eons of idling about which is actually just 5 minutes in Teen time , I finally was able to squeeze myself into that tiny metallic box Hm…which makes me think again.

Everyday, I put my life into the hands of a metal box suspended up a hundred-meter shaft by a couple of metal wires tremendously taut from hundreds of pounds of pressure.

That was a little too histrionic. My stop was the last stop…at the very top, the 7 th floor. Just before I thought another ho-hum humdrum ride inside The Box was about to end…which was somewhere between the 2nd and the 4th floors the 3rd floor, duh?!

There were these bunch of guys that squeezed themselves into the already Omg-this-is-too-close-for-comfort elevator. But of course, Ateneans are not a lot to complain well actually, we are.

So shift-shift, shuffle-shuffle, make space for these people who seem to think they are Naomi Campbells. Naturally, any essences that person may possess would surely be sensed.

And who is that unfortunate person? Anyway, the doors closed and the elevator creaked up again. Wait a minute … Whiff.

Dude, what is that?! That is just not right…. Do you want me to put the smell into words? Take a sweaty old sock, preferably worn by a senior citizen.

Take a cat a street cat would be preferable , scare the hell out of it and make it piss on that sock. Take the soaked sock and rub it on the cat for additional feline aroma.

Drug it if need it be. Find the sweatiest player you can find. Use the sock to soak up his sweat. Go to the Sahara. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration.

Fat people, especially males with poor deference for personal hygiene, smell F. Dear fat person, you may not care about how you smell much, but pleeease.

This has been the elevator chronicles. My eyes dart across the room in desperate search of resolution where is it and why is it taking so long to come to me???

The yearning for the free-form thought the uncensored abandon. The trickling of musings that would startle me to discover it written down in black and white.

When did I merely turn into what I am now? When I forget the delight of letting the muses take their will? When did I suddenly try so hard to craft these words?

The memories flash before me as the glint of light plays with the patina of my trinket. The effigy of the crucifix fixates me and reflects in the glass of my eyes.

Soft tiny drops of glass roll down the side of my cheek. Beads up on the varnished redwood of her casket. Rolls down the brass handles and quietly…peacefully…is laid to rest on the cold marble floor….

I don't want to try anymore. I merely want to do. I don't want to be paralyzed by not being able to achieve perfection.

I never will. I don't want to be wrapped around the idea of trying to impress. I merely want to let these words fly free.

I'm sick of starting sentences with the word, "I. Here I am. Slapped in the face. Stunned by my selfishness.

Up in heaven…. When I grow up, I want to go to heaven, mum! We all do, sweetheart…. And live in a beautiful house! With you…and me… and daddy.

A BIG house! So all of our neighbors could come and see our big pretty house…. That's what it's all about, isn't it?

The desire to please. To impress. To wow. To show off my pretty dress. To show off my pretty words. To make you "ooh" and "ahh.

A silent scream ricochets through my body. Your grandmother wanted you to have this…. I want my grandmother!!! Where is she?!

Your grandmother died a few hours ago…. The taste of salt stains my lips. We were supposed to go fishing tomorrow… and bake pies for grandpa next week….

The repetition of the words sickens me. Nausea takes over my body This isn't what I created this paper for.

This wasn't what I intended it to be. This was for me. And no. If I were truly selfish, I would hoard my words away. I would hide these confused mumblings.

I would shelter the world from my cracked and tainted shell of perfection. I wouldn't be so free to admit my failings.

My insecurities. More sentences starting with "I" I, I, I, I Perhaps it's Inescapable. I sat outside on the swings, diligently obeying what my parents had told me: You go on outside now and play with your cousins.

I was in no mood to play with dumb four-year-olds. Community Looking for a group of people as devoted to hypnosis as you are?

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Come say hi! Some kind of summer getaway? A kind of Rehab? Or something much darker…? Camp Soumet was founded for troubled young adults around college age , as a place for them to forget their troubles and to work solely on bettering themselves.

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