Can’t say that I haven’t been this upset, but I can say it’s been a while. I honestly thought she had more sense that this, but I guess I’m beginning to expect much more from her. Knowing expectations, they’re never fulfilled unless they’re simply that amazing, that connected, and that aware. She’s not. I should accept that.

What if I don’t though. I think I’ve done a splendid job understanding her. When she’s drunk, she absolutely has no regards to who she may or may not be making uncomfortable, and that’s my friend’s included. Accepted. When she cries, most of the times they’re about insecurities, and I do me - I revive her as much as I can. Accepted. When we argue, she blows things out of proportion, and I’ve realized that as much as I listen, when I’m heated, I don’t, so in her case I will myself to shutt my trap. Accepted. But seriously. I haven’t been this confused, tortured, and dismayed about my family since the last time my father and I fought.

It’s my mom’s house. It isn’t my family’s. My sister doesn’t live there with my dad; it’s my mom’s. As pleasant and quaint as the space is, it’s foreign, and it represents everything that is represented by a failed marriage. Why couldn’t she take an hour out of her schedule to be with me, to hold my hand, to kiss me, and to tell me everything will be all right. I need that right now. Instead, you decide to go jogging. Jogging. You haven’t exercised in months, and the day I might be ready to cry in the crevice of your neck, you blow me off.

This, to me, is not love. I know love. I knew love. I thought I’d find it with you, but this was a mistake.

You’ve argued on so many worthless occasions the things you do for me, but I can tell you, I have never tried so hard to change my general outlook on social light and relationships all in all just so you’d be happy.

I’ve never expected anything from you. I’ve never asked anything from you. I don’t ask for help, but you fucked up, Rejoy. I swear, this kills it for me.

Maybe, I deserve all this. Maybe, my family’s falling out is karma. Maybe, you’re my karma, but I digress. I may deserve this, but I don’t deserve this much of it.

Can’t xanga this.

I spent the entire day relocating couches, paintings, and tables to my mom’s new house in Daly City. I was completely out of my element, and I can’t even begin to explain the awkwardness when my father looked at the empty living room and went to his room. “His room.” Laughable.

As sad as all this should be, I’ve become so desensitized.

as;dlfha;sldhf i don’t want to write.

And she said she loves me. 
Oh, it feels so good to be loved, again.

Dear Rochelle,

I believe this will be a full blown letter, and hopefully its appeal won’t go only as far as its novelty. (“Novelty” you used that word a lot, and so have I ever since. You’re such a trend setter, lame-o)

Anywho, in regards to my current facebook status update, I am now coupled again – this time – with a very pleasant girl named Rejoy. I think I’m subconsciously debating over whether or not providing a link is necessary because I’m sure you’ll do some snooping, but we’ll see. Continuing, I guess I should start with a brief description. In this case, she’s extremely talkative, very opinionated, and at times difficult to keep up with. She’s an artist of the sketching nature, so her abstract thoughts are usually translated into speech which you could imagine for me is hard to wrap my mathematically trained mind around. For this very attribute though, I’ve come to like her very much. She’s challenging, but in a very beautifully optimistic way.

I met her through a friend. He’d invited her to his house where there were 3 other boys present – all of whom were very interested. I, on the other hand, was simply enamored by her aesthetics. In other words, the girl was hot, but I assure you, at the time, I wasn’t in any haste to build a relationship! Actually, I was preoccupied with the single life, clubbing, hooking up, the whole “shebang” (no pun intended because I didn’t do that! Well, maybe once, but that’s a different story. And that story’s theme would be considered “mistake”.)  During the small gathering, alcohol was more or less the catalyst to our conversation and to our trading of phone numbers of which I utilized all too well with my constant texts and phone calls to hang out.

Our commonality, to my favorite surprise, was music! She played the guitar and the violin, aspired to learn the harmonica, and I – well, you know me enough to procure a decent assumption. I’ve always loved music, but more than that, I loved to play it, so as soon as we found this out about each other, we quickly set little play dates which later on would be the foundation to further hangout sessions.

A month of hanging out continued. There were late nights, plunging into the depths of the starry night, staring into its abyss, talking about everything that’s nothing for hours, and it was here that I started to grow feelings for her. She lit my interest. I sparked hers as well, I think, but don’t quote me on that. (haha)

Shortly after this frightening realization, I asked her out on a date. This was not very successful. One night, after a party at my house, I drove her home, knowing not my agenda or intention, but as I parked my car I felt a surge of anxiousness.
“Bye!”
“Later!.. .. … OH! Uhh… would you… like to.. uhh………. Nevermind! Later!”

And yes, you’re right. It WAS embarrassing, and I DID mentally barrage myself with “stupid stupid stupid!” But she was gorgeous, and I was just a boy with a crush, so I drove off. However, at some cross section of her street, I parked my car, picked up  my phone, and dialed her number. My heart raced as it would for anyone in this state of unguarded.
“Would you like to go on a date sometime?”

To make this tragic part of the story short, she denied me. In the most gentle way possible, she denied me of which I accepted with open arms because force is not my nature, but as the bruise of rejection subsided, we continued to talk every night until dawn, play music until our roommates’ ears bled, and laughed about everything that’s nothing. During these days/nights, I had continued my attempts to date her - many of which were met with the same disheartening, distinct answer: no.

One morning though, after a night of sharing music on our iPods, there held a long sustained silence between us as we sat on her couch. Rapture. Brimstone and fire. Lightning. These are some of the visualizations that would describe my state of mind before – before – before I threw my face into her cheek to kiss her. And here – at this pleasantly uncomfortable moment in our relationship – did we begin.

I do hope you get to meet her soon, Rochelle. She’s a great girl, and I think you two would hit it off! If not… it’s cool, I guess. =\ (haha) Give my best regards to Floyd, and of course, I have always a wish or two for blessings onto you, my dear Rochelle.

Love always,
Fat Franny

p.s. Do write back with any updates on your end! I’d love to hear from you in depth!

I woke up at 1am to 5 missed calls; 4 from my mom, and 1 from my sister, asking where I am. After I call them back, I head to San Leandro. I take the long way because I knew I needed time to think things through: what my facial expression should express, what my thesis on the topic is, who I’m doing this for. I remember, I’m doing this for my family, but I’d learn my idea of family in the first place was distorted.

I arrive home to my father in a robe, rosary in hand, grasping for dear religion. We sit in the living room. He knows this is coming. I ask how he is, he tells me he’s been better through the sullen gasp of air he exhales through his nostrils. I don’t fidget, I don’t weight my options, I just go.

I was angry if you didn’t know. That he’s been so lazy, and my parents relationship had deteriorated to this degree because I thought I told him the last time I yelled at him - this was it. And even I didn’t know I was right.

We exchanged harsh, booming words for 30 minutes, a half hour I’ve tried to forget since I drove back to SF. This is why I went to Angie’s place. TK was there. I wanted to forget for a while and be peaceful, but even there, it shook me. I shouldn’t have said those things, but I did. I guess I mean I wish I didn’t regret saying them. Yea, that’s more like it.

Not since my finding out, had I lost control of my emotions. I never want anyone to see me cry, anymore - not even myself - but it seems to be a much harder feat to succeed in. For another half hour, we spent blaming things on each other. How my mother’s never home, how I’ve disrespected him, how he’s been lazy and a fraud.

We tire. We retreat with swollen eyes to the kitchen where dinner is cooked, and I close off my mind to access the situation in which diplomacy failed. There is still war. I am exhausted. So is he. He feels depleted and expendable. But I don’t think I cared.

I leave the house, get in my car, and I drive home. Like I said, I don’t want anyone to see me cry, anymore, so I never will, but I am a little broken still from the events of today. I just don’t want to be alone tonight.

Take me there. To the point of all return where somehow - I am seen complete, again and seamless. In self-reflection, that is. Because mirrors don’t do me justice when I view myself with heavy eyes that swell, so I concern myself with fragrant arms and branching fingers that do me well to ease. I need that. Like smoking candles, I had glow that filled a hollow space, but these prayers dissipate to reach the gods where fire cringed the wick, melted the wax, and lifted the sent to attract the soul. And breathe. You fool. How this too has become complicated, I know, but turning pale won’t hide the blue in you. In me, I mean, but I digress from the courage that admitting I have a problem ensues. And like an empty cup, I’ll say I’m half full, but lies are hard to cover when I spill them from my eyes. I don’t do this on purpose. For purpose is what I lack, and so child, I am, to wear thonged slippers, blue trunks, and kevlar as if their eyes won’t shoot my downcast, but I can run, you know - like the blood to a cherry blossom face after the bottles bleed before the feet of his fleeting sobriety. I can run, like a kiss that loves your heart with speed to cross the distance between your lips and your chest. Yes, I can run - but you exist to take me there, so I’ll collapse between your knees to cry you closer still. Take me there. As I look to the home upon your chest.

I was close to quitting WS, but further analysis of my situation has entailed an overlooked mistake: I’ve only been working there less than a year. To find a job quickly would be impossible, and I need the money to pay off my car. After all, that is this job’s purpose (well, booze too haha).

My coworkers (now, my friends) are right though. The new store manager does not have the best attributes, nor does she have the competence to run the store smoothly. But I reminded myself that she’s entirely new to this system; she’s wet behind the ears. I cannot conclude with the pretenses offered by the asst. managers because - well, that wouldn’t be me. Maybe, with the other two gone, I’ll understand her a little more without the constant, behind-the-back talk of the others. I mean, I love them, but I can’t begin to like my job again if they’re there. We hated the store together, so it’s natural to never see the bright side while we blocked each other’s views. It’s a natural effect, caused by our own insight-deficiencies.

Anyway,

New Years Re-cap:

I spent it in Sacramento. Very straightforward, but to the point is something we should all strive for (haha). Two nights before nye, I was talking to Rej over the phone, and as we traded stories and opinions, we came to jokingly planning my trip to her neighborhood, Elk Grove. As I continued, the seriousness progressed, and as we came to the resolve of my morning departure, my excitement grew to surface upon my face as an immense smile. That smile, it kept me sleepless the entire night. Sleep is for the weak, they say. I say, it’s for the sad.

As the Earth rolled on its axis, my quadrant of the world discovered the sun with vigor and content. It was a voyage, and I was my own captain and passenger. iPod, check. Jacket, check. Glasses, hat, nice shirt, handsome sweater, and a pat on the back - check. I was ready.

“Leave at 9am, it won’t be that long of a drive,” Rejoy said a few hours earlier over the phone. But by the time I had collected all that was necessary, it was only 730am! “What the fuuuuuuuuuuu!” So I read. I read articles, I read pages in my book, and I wrote - all this without full comprehension because my focus was set on Sacramento. This place was said to be boring and lifeless, seeping away any life brought from the outside. But how could this be, I supposed. I had a best friend, and gorgeous girlfriend waiting for me there. To call this place nothing less than perfect - I suggested to myself - was blasphemy! *Index finger waving through the air*… while I sat in my room, still waiting for 9 swiftly come and save me.

“Fuck.
It.”
I pick up my car keys and shove my wallet into my pocket, hanging a right from my bedroom to pick my cell phone up from the kitchen table. Grasping the doorknob with contempt, I tell it “Move, son!” After all, it’s in my way.

I drive. To McDonalds to grab some lard. It’s the morning, and I hadn’t seen such a sight in so long because “I gave half the day to last night.”

Take the one, exit brotherhood, take 280 towards downtown SF, cross the bridge, remain on the left to hit the 80, ride it until your eyelids feel heavy, and watch for the 99, exit Bond after. Look for the gorgeous girl who lives in Elk Grove.

Tell you the truth, I became extremely nervous after parking my truck near her house. Her parents. They’re in there. I imagined a king and queen of ghostly qualities, ready to pronounce my fate as dead.
I smoked a cigarette.
I smoked a second.
I called Rejoy
and I smoked a third.
*Doorbell*
“Hello, Mr and Mrs… oh, it’s you Rej.”

In the corner of her hip, hid Clarin. Her eyes open wide with fixated awkwardness and curiosity, and I could bet she thought so that’s ate’s boyfriend! Knowing her now, I can assure you I was wrong because her mind works at the speed of light, and I am only human, you know. haha

Rejoy’s Mom, the matriarch of the Armamento’s, floats out of the kitchen like an ongoing scribble, full of energy and delight. I properly compose myself as I do with all Filipino elders. “Hello, Tita!” And as she greets me, she questions the existence of Rejoy’s slippers, and their lack of placement upon her feet. “Oh, you know mom, I never… wear slippers…” This house is huge! I think quietly to myself with amazement. It really is.

“Come in to the kitchen! Are you Filipino? Can you understand Tagalog? Kakain na kame’! (We’re going to eat, now!)” It’s been a while since I’ve eaten food that provided healthy sustenance and culture, so I did.

And there he was, the father, the iron fisted patriarch… installing the sink. He was quiet, and I was fine with this because I still needed to warm up, so I said my hello and left him to continue his handy work.

Standing around, I waited for the family to gather and sit around the table. This house is huge! I repeated in the solace of my mind. As Rejoy wiped the table clean, I retreated to my corner of the dining table, knowing not I would be eating next to Rej. Clarin, sitting diagonally across from me, still gazed in my direction every few seconds, studying my nervous habits as I smiled her way. My smiles were always met with her own, and that calmed my reality.

Clarin, Rejoy, and their mother sat in their respectable quadrants while their father continued to work. We prayed. Soon after, the rapture began upon the food bestowed before us, and so did the questions of where I was from, what I studied, and where I worked. Small talk with parents is something I take very seriously, and I am always sure to never offend my elders with any speech that would suggest we were equals. That’s just how I was brought up. Speak only when spoken to. But this was Sacramento, and I would soon learn the difference.

Soon after the grubbing had ended, Clarin took me upstairs into the billiards room. Now this place was by far, the most impressive of sanctuaries. A couch lined the closest outer rim of the volume, facing a net pocketed pool table where a couple lamps hung from the sealing connected by a wire which displayed the scores of past and future dueling opponents. The windows breathed light upon the painted walls which held posters that would account for present day culture to reference the father’s interests. The Kings bobble-head memorabilia rested on a high windowsill, and wires ran rampant upon the floor with ends housed in amps and guitars and keyboards. This, I would think, was my natural playground. No one knows of my love for pool, how I have my own stick in my bedroom back in San Leandro. Everyone knows, however, of my love for music, and heck, I love couches, too. lol

Clarin played Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah which debuted in the major motion picture Shrek 2, but that’s a fact unnecessary to this story. haha Continuing, as Clarin played, I decided to attempt to impress her by singing along, and as we rounded the second verse, she stopped and turned my way with “You sing good.” “Thank you.” Dear Hesus Christo, this girl likes my voice! Crack’n. I giggled a little. I played a few chords, started to sing John Legend, and Clarin halted me. “Ew!” So of course, I stopped.

… i’ll continue the story later.

I spent Christmas with my mother and her side of the family. She slept at my grandmother’s house while my dad spent his Christmas with his brother and sister. I spent an hour with him before I left for my grandparent’s, and I know that this wasn’t enough. But in reality, I didn’t go to my grandparent’s for my mom. I went because that’s where my sister was. I brought Rejoy with me, and I am so glad she was with me because I feel so much better about everything when she’s around. I spent my Christmas eating, watching movies, and taking naps.

but I also spent Christmas talking to my mom about her divorce with my father. I spent Christmas debating with/against her as to who gets custody over what: the house, the care-home, percentage of money… etc etc. I spent Christmas giving her advice, my opinion, as to what my dad was going through, and how she should go about dealing with the present dilemma. I spent Christmas a little depressed, but I realized later on that this is my life from now on, and even though it is a sad sad case, it doesn’t mean I need to be sad, too. Not for long, at least.

This is me. 
This is me with my guards down.
This is me scared as fuck.
Awesome… damnit.

I believe that I am liking this girl too much for my own good. “too much,” being the understatement, and “my own good,” being the critique. I couldn’t imagine her being my type; however, I could imagine so much more with her. “with her,” having no reference to future because relationships with foresight scare me - even if I gave her a lie. I am scared. I just want to act opposingly because I know she’s scared, and for some reason faking my strength seems like it should help the matter.

She plays the guitar, the violin, and she plays with pens that dance on paper leaving, not tracks, but landscapes. Beautiful beautiful landscapes of inspiration. She’s humble, eccentric, and her laugh is contagious. So’s her smile. So are her tears when she cries.

I’ve been struggling with myself lately. My family is falling a part at the seams, and I’ve been breaking just to mend. But surprisinly, she’s there. And I never expected that, nor did I want/need it. But I’m so happy she’s there. And I’m thankful.

Life is emotional these days with the holidays coming. I know they’ll never be the same, but it’s my growing process. I have matured so much this year, and that maturation in itself is worth bleeding for.

I am lucky.
Even if it’s bitter sweet irony that reveals it.

Biking everyday after finals. I need to set short goals.

It never takes too long. So they say. And I believe them, now. Because I have not seen precious for so long, and I have never heard a snore with your syncopation, how it calms me, how it rocks me, how it shatters me to sleep with quiet irony and comic. Relieved, I am, of a post I stood so long to guard what guards me where gardens thrive and sleep. You do. You slumber, and I am first to witness this so you can second my opinions when we wake and live a while. Shutting my eyes, you persuade the soul, the mortal however, to keep my third eye open because it takes a sixth sense to know this kind of peace. Why else does a savage war with conflict if not to salvage what is present, a synonym for gift and current. And again, your irony swoons me. So please, when you wake to kiss the sun with your illumination, kiss me, also with inspire. Because it never takes too long, so they say, to leave hesitation, and you are my time’s keeper. When I walk, when I work, when I write you are my thoughts, so you see, you master the seconds. Because if I can’t wait for a shift to end, your memories bring the end in swiftness. And when troubles seem to quicken my heart’s rhythm, you can pace it. And I know my heart beats are a misrepresentation of time, but it tells me I’m alive in a chapter well written, so regardless, you are heaven on canvas where no man has need to keep a watch because I am only late if I am on the way. To say with generic, you can have your hair jet black or bright blonde like the rays kids rally under, swinging on bars we named after a distant cousin, but you will always be unique and perfect like your paintings. And I will always have a thousand words worth hearing like that proverb about a picture. When you’re in them, that is. So paint with your mind’s brush-strokes of a genius, and I remind you - remember -you are masterpiece. And I will write. So no soul can forget. What you do to me.

Why?
I hate that question because it’s so deceivingly open-ended, yet I’m always asking it. From my experiences, I’ve answered a few, but regardless, it’s so much harder knowing that the crucial ones still float in my memories… “why?”

Thanksgiving - in essence, not historically - is a short stretch of time given to thank the shit out of your life, but I just yelled at my father, drove away, and yelled at the red lights that stopped me from being home. So I guess, I’m thankful for my car. Because with out it, I’d be walking home in the bitter cold, pissed the fuck off.

Listening to Jake Shimabukuru, I’m calming myself down from the fury with reasons that will never escape me. I read everyone’s tweets, facebook statuses, and text messages, and I can’t help but remind myself of Scrooge.

I’m losing.