i feel guilty for not posting sooner

it's a shame: there's so much i wanted to write about but i think i'm (momentarily) suffering from goldfish memory. have you heard of that? there's a theory that goldfish have a memory span of 30 seconds. that way, they spend their little lives in their little bowls in eternal wonderment.

goldfish 1: my, what a lovely view! what's this?
goldfish 2: hullo! i'm *insert goldfish name here*.

(1...2...3...)

goldfish 1: my, what a lovely view! what's this?
goldfish 2: hullo! i'm *insert goldfish name here*.

and so on. some people are like that but more from a lack of mental activity or total brain deprivation altogether. maybe they should be put in human-size fishbowls, too.

. . .

speaking of deprivation, i've been feeling that way since i realized that my bookcase is only 40% filled with books. everything else consists of the various odds and ends i collect impulsively: beads, paint, ribbons and bits of string, old school readings, pictures, and memory boxes. but that's another story.

i was trying to list my five favorite books/authors and i snuck a look at my 'babies'; i have only this much?! or at least the books i have aren't the ones i love best. it was disturbing to realize that a lot of what i've read or read are borrowed. i lament this immensely, being the obsessive-compulsive-possessive person that i am. in short, a spoiled brat. it sounds better than being a victim of consumerism, i think.

. . .

what is this bullshit concept of "mr. right"? and the whole notion that if s/he's "the one", everything would be perfect?

i don't like this idea of perfection, really. what i do believe in is a state of happiness, which is much like love itself, a choice one constantly makes.

in my blissfully-ignorant days, when i knew nothing about deconstruction (and kakoi, for that matter), i read a few books on 'christian romance' (mind you this was a long time ago). ej galang even used to tease me about it, along with a host of other things like the poems i received during the 9th writers workshop. anyway, it was all very idealistic: you meet the perfect guy or girl at the perfect time and place and everything just goes on perfectly.

to be fair, i suppose there are people who experience such things. but for someone like me who's been disillusioned a great deal with just about everything, i prefer to live in the real world and look at things realistically. i still dream, whether asleep or awake, and truth be told, would like to live in a sort of dreamworld.

i've been dreadfully angst-y about how my life's going, which is admittedly unfair to the better parts of it. so forgive me if i bitch so much; i just need a 'normal' vice like smoking. drugs don't appeal to me (i'm afraid of looking like a certain someone) and my husband discourages me from drinking alone. so here's the closest i got to:

"hi! i'm den and i'm a chocoholic."

there goes my waistline. out the window, right next to my sanity.