When will the knives that haunt my dreams stop creating bloodless wounds?

From today,

I will stop crying.
I will stop ranting.
I will stop thinking that the world revolves around me.
I will stop hoping that people's perception of me would change.
I will stop trying to be pleasant just so other people would be comfortable.
I will start pleasing myself.
I will begin depending on myself.
I will stop thinking that love can cure my anger and my pain.

It does not.
Love is not anything.
Love is
just
a word.

This is the worst day of my life.

I don't know what to do with myself anymore. The harder I try to fight being myself, the more it becomes painfully difficult. He's right. Maybe I should seek refuge under my parents' wings and stop working for myself. Bata nga ako. Immature. All of that, I learned from him. At first, I felt angry at the observation. But after a while, I felt enlightened. Yes, I should leave. Nobody wants me here, anyway. Not even him. Nobody understands. I am alone. As I always was.

Big Book of Erotic Ghost Stories

pay $75 per story. yihee!

July 28 notebook entry:

On PenMan

Read Penman's article today. I didn't quite understand the distinctions, or nondistinctions, he made about journalism and fiction. I always thought the difference was obvious. But, as he says, there were some writers, like Nick Joaquin, who delivered news in a very romantic manner. So why bother create a line between them then? Why not call it journalistic fiction? Hmm, that doesn't sound like on would see the content as credible. What about fictional journalism? Worse. So, the definition stands? Penman went on and on describing each but didn't actually get to the point of his thesis. Even the best writer falter, after all.