Like the spring of a beast


Whoa. Where did the year go? It’s finally December, people! πŸ˜€ Lately, I have been both tiptoeing and stomping my way around circumstances in life. To tiptoe or to stomp? It all depends on my mood. I swear, nothing in this world will make me wipe off that smirk or stop me from clapping my hands out of delight if I really don’t feel it. It’s a curse: My face cannot hide how I feel.

I have been more nice that naughty this year, so I am 50% confident that I am included in Santa’s list. (No, Krampus, stay away from me.)

More times than I can count, I thought of writing the experience I have had since that fateful November last year when we learned about my father’s stage four cancer. But each time I try to write more than three sentences, I stop. I realize that the pain and hurt are still too much. Each time, I feel that wave of grief and sadness, and I don’t want to drown in those. So I stop. Someday, I’ll write about it. That someday, though, is not today. Not any time soon, I think.

Archery is the name of the game for our office team event. I have dismal hand-eye coordination, so I have been practicing my dodging skills instead.


2016 has been one hell of a ride. I don’t even know what to say to 2017 anymore.

My selfie game still isn’t strong. I still feel awkward taking them and by the time I get to a third shot, I’m like, “UGH. NEVER MIND. Post this. Scare the people away. Give them nightmares. Even better, post it along with a recording of my voice. Give them nightmares for weeks. Possibly months.”

Turning inward and restarting my creativity wheels. Kafka summed up my feelings PERFECTLY in these brief sentences:

10 o’ clock, 15 November. I will not let myself become tired. I’ll jump into my story even though it should cut my face to pieces. — Diaries, Franz Kafka

* exit, stage left


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