Buddhists Do Scratch Their Heads Too

Talk about sordid little secrets, I have one and I am lying alright. A 25 year old girl can not possibly just have one sordid secret. That is as ludicrous as saying that I have not eaten any cookies in the past 5 days. Besides bingeing, I have tons of these little secrets, which I may only surmise for now as long been forgotten and buried in the depth of my dead grandmother's chest. Then again, there's this one little secret, a very recent and still active one, that I am itching to spill.

The news is: I have a crush. Not that there's something wrong with that. Even my 55 year-old mom is still drooling over hot Korean actors and tennis players. Crush is good and healthy and more than anything, normal. Crush gives light to our otherwise bleak and boring world. Very much similar to the tentative comfort a cup of green tea ice cream would give on a stifling hot sunny afternoon.

Except that, It's not the looks or the personality or the smile or the humor that I fancy about him. Rather, not that I am proud of it, it's his plump-and-firm round butt that salaciously captivated me. *blush* Yes, butt. Thank you. You are not reading it wrongly and I'm definitely not drunk or out of my mind while typing this. In other words. Ass or buns. In yet another term, Buttocks. More precisely, the one apart from our face that has two cheeks in it that we sit on. Clear enough?

Now, this crushing of butt is bothering me. Because ever since the day I discovered my weird fetish for butts, all the more I religiously count as to how much extent I have been furtively stealing glances of his butt. As a confirmation, yes, I am in fact staring at it. Everywhere I go or whatever I do, I just find myself totally fixated on his butt whenever he passes by. And that's not a decent girl must do. I mean, it's not right to be talking seriously with one colleague about your work while your eyes suddenly glance sideways or downwards to be a peeping tom, is it?

I need help. Seriously. This is a matter of life and death. This is my credibility at risk. How can I prevent my eyes from staring at his butt?

When I said my life was lacking in color, I was lying. Truth be told, there a a few streaks of blue and gray and green in my otherwise hapless life that only I stupidly enough, fail to recognize. Let's see, I have a few girl friends, a puny number of three to be exact, who regularly call me up (read: annoy!!!) apparently not to ask how I am but to find someone to listen to their sordid little secrets. Sordid secret is good if it's the kind when you can use it to earn money. Otherwise, I say never mind.

There are moments that I seriously pondered whether something, a banner or a poster that is, is glued on my forehead begging people to read me that which it vociferously clamors "Come y'all! Come to mama! Come and tell me all your secrets and make me your emotional dirtbag. I am willing to listen. Come!"  I don't get why I have put up this banner.

To say that I totally don't deserve this is irrational. In retrospect, I am pretty sure I contributed to this to. I probably have unconsciously left this goddamn banner on my forehead years back when I was still a young little fella who was nothing else but warm and bubbly and quite stupid for not having anticipated the probability that I will grow weary and sullen too someday.

Now, It should not come as a surprise that I am suffering from the horrible monster I created and I am utterly helpless. Thing is, I can be anything but ambitious. I don't expect someone to take-off this banner for me. All I ask is to change the text on my forehead banner, say, "I resign! I am fed-up! All of you, stay away from me! The farther the better!  " In all caps. With a big sad face to enhance the projection of misery.

Not that I am projecting anything here, but I am just tired. Really. I do agree with what Limine(Thanks Limine!) once commented though. She said that we should look at these to-and-fro emotions with a certain amount of detachment. Quite true. The detachment.

Even so, sad.

In lieu of my quest to fix my ho-hum life, I decided to come up with a list of to-do things that I hope to fulfill the soonest possible. Just so, you know, to put color into my life and convince myself that I am a woman of wisdom and I'm serious. As serious as a computer virus wanting to rule or destroy the world, whatever.

But before the life-changing list proper, I first need to list down some pesky stuff in my life that I need to get rid of:

1. Dispatch hope-filled she who calls me to - besides grumbling of how they always inanely kiss and make up over their petty fights - share how blissful it is to have someone beside her. Like, I need to know. Like, being the true friend that she thinks I am, I am expected  to huddle all our friends together and throw a surprise party for them because they love each other and we need to celebrate. Sweetie, misery loves company. I am miserable. So fuck off. I don't care if you're happy. Coz', guess what, I am not.

2. Dispatch always-in-denial she who calls to tell me, despite I not even asking coz' I already know, that she has decided to let go of the guy she likes (for the 100th time). Yet surprisingly or rather apparently, never stops talking about him with her smug smile and continues to send him SMS anyway. Misery not only loves company, dear. Misery also hates inconsistent people. If you like him, go chase him. If you really have moved on, for god's sake, stop making him the topic of the conversation.

3. Dispatch couch-potato she who calls to worry over how fat has she become by not doing anything but eat chocolate and ice cream everyday. Let me tell you this. I go to the gym almost everyday and I'm still fat. What makes you think that you're going to thin down by just that? And you have the nerve to complain you are fat? Damn you.

Them. Dispatch all of them.

The phone is ringing. Somebody is calling me. Later.

I sometimes worry whether I was brought up by my parents wrongly or just too conservatively for believing that beauty is supposed to be as close to nature as possible. Is it right to think that between the wide green meadow with all its resources intact and a highly commercialized area polluted asphyxiatingly by modern technology, the green meadow is no question more beautiful?

Today seeing my new colleague who on one angle looks quite pretty but on most angles looks disturbing to me, with her tatooed eyebrow, cakey make-up and all, has terribly prodded me to blog about her. I don't for the life of me get why some girls would want their eyebrows completely removed in exchange for a tatooed one. Unless you're undergoing some hair-losing sort of treatment like chemotheraphy, I don't get why choose fake brows over real ones.

Weird as it may seem, I somehow see this tatoo girl similar to a highy-commercialized area with no tall trees and rustling leaves to be found anywhere. Just pure pollution and corruption. Fake beauty is not beauty at all.

If setting a goal in life and working hard to pursue it is not an easy task, I say having no goal whatsoever in life and not doing anything about it is much more painstaking, much more blood-dripping than say, asking your mom to go to the gym and work-out with you.

Take my word. Coming from someone who once had a goal in life and now drastically downgraded to someone with no specific goal in life whatsoever, the latter is definitely worse. You'd rather choose to sleep all day albeit the possibility of developing a big fat ass or wish that you suddenly transform to a web-weaving spider than to feel the desperate state of drifting and floating and completely at a lost. If anything, a spider has at least the dream of building up a web.

You don't want to end up as pathetic as someone like me who spends all day long drowning herself with books in her dire pursuit to escape from the cruel reality or blogging non-sense stuff for that matter. You don't want to make your blog statistics as your only measure of fulfillment even more, don't you? I kinda lost my dream and desire and drive for the moment. I promise I am going to find it back again. That is my goal for the moment.

I always love telling my dreary friends the same advice. Kinda like recycling them and silently feeling wise for having re-used them. The best and more appropriately the worst advice I've given on record is the superficial "It's all in the mind." It is a pre-loaded thing in me that I can instantly blurt out when faced with a frowning friend. Almost as instinctive as I would squint my face upon drinking a glass of lemon juice. I don't know how my friends take it or did it actually get into them not until early this week when one of my friends returned the same advice to me, that I was slammed to the bitter or rather the rotten taste of my own medicine.

Because honestly, it can't be all in the mind. It's not as easy as you and I or the bestselling self-help books widely say - about choosing to be happy than sad everyday as we wake up. Of course that is the ideal thing and who doesn't want that? Then again, how can you pretend to be happy just because your mind says so albeit all things pointing to catastrophe? I can convince myself I am happy now but is it really what I feel or is it just what my mind is telling me to do? Doesn't that mean I'm just pretentios more than being happy and will I be happy pretending than just be straightly honest?

It is a defacto that our mind is connected to our heart down to our hands down to our feet down to the smallest tissue of our body and when we feel bad even if it's down to the tip of our fingernails, there's no way we can simply tell our mind to stop feeling bad and decide to be happy.  It's not like our mind is totally external to us like the stray cat we see lying on the street, is it? No, it's not all in the mind. It's either you're happy or you're sad. It's either you're black or you're white. A black cannot pretend to be white so as a white cannot pretend to be black.