crybaby

a member of my high school class suggested that i watch football to at least not wallow in heartbreaking tears. it's football, the real thing (soccer for the denizens across the pond) not michael vick's football. anyone who can tell me the etymology of the term soccer is very much welcome in this page. but as the english premier league unfurled its new season, not even the dynamic tottenham strike force (who are not fulfilling their unfair promise as of this time) or the managerial drama behind the scenes can lift up the pervading torment of my solitude. television is taking a backseat. but not you tube, which also serves as a venerated reservoir of hidden gems.

i haven't actually constructed my thanks in writing to all the the people who my sibs and i in our saddest moments. you know who you are. all the first degree cousins, aunts and uncles down to all the relatives, my parents' friends, colleagues and contemporaries, our neighbors, all my brothers' friends, classmates and co-workers. ditto with mine. the hurt is intense. the tears will continue to flow, forever.

struggling with a crippling cough, i lost the use my pc for eight days, something to do with computer's power supply that took me from being cryptically moody when unable to express myself through writing to the calmness i latched unto while poring over jane eyre. thanks to carol lynn for the extra room in the couch in letting me catch up with ysabella.

the messages i've read, advice i've heard were great, very well-intended. i'm grateful, even for the cliches. as i used all my pent-up energy to ignore the negative vibes. sometimes i wish my friends could read sports. i'll get over myself somehow, dip into the plot of mansfield park, pore over the biography of oscar wilde, scan through some films and music. himala will do for me. really. my longings are not automatically balderdash. as for the music, sentimentalities beware.