(1) Graduate from college. Hey, you never know. 
Last night I dreamt that I didn’t graduate because I apparently signed up for a math class that I never went to. Needless to say I woke up feeling very stressed.
(2) Get a job. Am seriously considering teaching high school after college.
(3) Attend graduate school. Or rather, get accepted into an English Lit graduate program somewhere reputable.
(4) Produce an EP. The band should have one out by June or so.
(5) Learn to drive. Technically I already know how to drive but I just can’t manuever down EDSA for shit.
(6) Travel. Probably a really cheap trip to Bangkok next summer with my friends.
(7) Settle some scores. I’m still undecided on this one, actually. Talking might be good but on the other hand, perhaps closure is overrated. Something tells me it might end up being a complete waste of time, with me making a complete idiot out of myself. We’ll see.
(8) Make more friends. I’m bound to meet a lot of people next year but I hope at least one ends up being someone I can completely connect with. You can never have too many (real) friends.
(9) Write fiction. Even though half the time I can’t stand the stuff I come up with.
(10) Get a tattoo. Perhaps next year I could get started on my black wings backpiece. I want it to look something like this, but mine will be far better.
Happy New Year, everyone! Try not to blow a limb off.
(Excerpt from a diary I don’t own. I’m very thrilled with my Christmas haul but I’m surprised that nobody thought of giving me a notebook. A small, 32-peso one would’ve done the trick. I’m a cheap date.)
My mood swings frighten me and I can’t blame it on PMS anymore. Last night I was sobbing uncontrollably, plauged by the pointlessness of waking up to another day of struggling with academics and an entire lifetime of struggling to make a name for myself in a capitalistic world, only to fall victim to clever marketing schemes and the illusion of the good life as shown in pristine real estate advertisements. It’s the complete opposite of where I am right now. Tonight I’m as zen as a Tibetan ascetic, a smart little motherfucker having multiple intellectugal orgasms with Foucault in below-zero degrees Starbucks weather. Perhaps a visit to the shrink is in order because I’m probably bipolar or something; the mood swings happen more frequently these days, with more intensity than ever.
Complete happiness is not what I want because I know it’s not possible for me to be happy all the time. To quote Veronica Sawyer in the movie Heathers, “If you were happy every day of your life you wouldn’t be a human being. You’d be a game-show host.” What I often wish is to be either consisently okay or consistently miserable. Unfortunately, the only consistent thing with me is that I’m inconsistently flailing between seriously-almost-suicidal and so-fucking-giddy-I-could-hug-a-total-stranger (I hate touching/being touched by strangers). I pity the poor soul who will eventually end up in a relationship with me; I wouldn’t be able to handle me at all.
In other news, my tongue-piercing experience got chosen to be a recommended read in the BMEzine website. Yay! My secret goal is to be featured in ModBlog because most of the girls there are unbelievably gorgeous. I have my doubts though because my piercings aren’t particularly exciting and I don’t have any tattoos yet. Perhaps someday.
I figured that it’s about time I learn how to cook a certain dish, so I said that I’d make the seafood paella, which we will have for Christmas dinner tonight. My mom insisted that I cook it this morning while the crab and the prawns and the shrimp were still fresh from the market. It was only 10 a.m. and my brain wasn’t quite awake yet. Thus, “Lauren making the paella” ended up being Lauren poking at the seafood with a spatula, Lauren shuddering with horror at the squid tentacles, and Lauren watching in amusement as the prawns turn from dark blue to orange–while the maids did the actual work.
If this were the 19th century nobody would want to marry me because I’m simply too lazy to take the effort to make an actual dish from scratch. I am so not a domestic woman. I have never cooked for anyone in my life. Why should I, anyway? Just because social norms say that women have to be good in the kitchen doesn’t mean that I ought to don an apron and unleash my culinary skillz at every visitor that sets foot in the house. Admittedly, I do feel a lot less like a woman because I can’t cook for shit. I don’t like kids, either. I suppose this womanly impotence that I’m going through right now is a lot like what men feel when their psycho ex-girlfriends cut their balls off in their sleep.
Merry Christmas, everyone. 
