Confessions of a Jerk Long Gone, An Asshole Long Dead, a Dreamer Newly Bred

I will be telling this with a sigh. And a roll of my eyes.

Really, after all this time, I shouldn't even bother writing about Mary's and the people I met there. What part of 'letting go' did my memory fail to understand? Apparently all parts of it. Damn it.

I should be studying for tomorrow's lecture. I should be doing my homework. I should be perfectly content being the anti-social dork that I am, but my mind kept getting back to the people I've met when I was still the biggest asshole I knew. My mind kept wondering what they would say when they've realized that I've somehow, if only a little, changed, and that I wasn't the asshole I was back then. I kept wondering how I'll act, if, by any chance, I'll join the half-dreaded, half-anticipated reunion that my best friend keeps bullying me into attending.

Honestly, I'm shit scared. Really. I know that I'm risking a lot, writing these things here, but I figured, I should probably bleed out a few of my worries. I've been silent for too long, and I was thinking that perhaps now's the time for me to be honest with things other than my desire to be a writer and my obsession with Japan. I you guys, and myself, that much.

I know who'll be reading this. The people I've met during college knew nothing about the awkward, anti-social jerk who'd rather bitch than make friends way back in high school. They knew of the dauntless president who led them from one battle to another. They knew of the servant who they could bully into doing things for them- from borrowing a TV set and DVD player to facing off demented professors who'd sue an entire class for eating a few packs of mongo bread (which aren't even THAT tasty, I might add). These friends, these beloved friends, saw me not only during my best, but also my worst moments. We've fought together, fought each other, fought for each other. We've loved together, loved for each other, loved each other. They've seen me at my best, and they've seen me at my worst, and they still loved and respected me.

But they knew nothing of that awkward girl who let her high school life pass her by without her even knowing it.

Let me tell you a story about a girl who went through college, and a fraction of her working life, declaring to all that's good and holy how much she hated high school.

How I hated high school back then. I hated it so much, that I even hated the people and majority of the memories I've made back then. I won't elaborate on this hatred anymore, because frankly, this hate for an innocent place, which bled to hate for beautiful, wonderful people, was in fact, hatred for myself.

College saw me change into this less-awkward, more self-sufficient weirdo of a girl who'd love and serve everyone within a ten-mile radius. (Alright, so I'm exaggerating, but you guys know how much I love you, right?) . Sure, I had my down times, and I'm pretty sure that there are moments where my friends wanted nothing more than to oust me as their president and just wish me dead, but I'm pretty sure that I was better than I was when I was in high school.

It was weird, really.

One day, I woke up just as the sun was glaring through the flimsy curtains of my window, and I realized how much of a failure I was back then in high school. I realized that, in more ways than one, 'I could have done better'.

I abhorred the way I treated people who never did anything to me, except maybe to extend a helping and friendly hand. I despised the way I broke the hearts of the few men who dared to like me, in spite of me being 'me'. I particularly detested my grades. Damn it to hell and beyond, my grades would shame the person I am now. It was a rather rude wake up call.

That morning, as the sun rose on my window while the neighbors' blasted rooster kept screaming their narrow throats out, I woke up and told myself that there wouln't be a repeat of that horrid phase. That morning, I swore that I would NOT graduate without any medal of sort. I got up, took a long bath, and washed my act clean. I rinsed off all the remnants of the things I hated about myself when I was in high school, and when I towelled myself off, I promised that I 'would do better this time'.

I managed to pull my act together, and worked harder than I've ever remembered working in my entire life. I've wasted away two years of college lurking within the curriculum, doing just well enough to get by. I got good grades during my first two years, but it was that morning on my third year that battle started. I wanted to do better. I want my mama to walk up the stage during my graduation, and I want something more meaningful than a 'loyalty award'. I worked my ass off during that particular semester, and when the time came for me to reap my rewards, I was practically beaming with pride. The north star had nothing on the way I shone that day when I logged into my account, computed my grades, and shit, found out that for the first time ever, I made it to the Dean's List.

To some, it wasn't that much of a big deal. But for me, it meant /everything/. Damn it. It meant everything to me. I remember fumbling over the keys of the calculator. I had to calculate and re-calculate for over four times, because my hands won't stop shaking. All I could see was the row of 1's shining on the screen of my laptop, and my heart was just praying so damn hard for those grades to fucking make it to the List.

Damn it all. Ode to joy. I made it.

After than, I screamed like a banshee, ran all over the house, went to look for my mother, and showed her the half-fucked computation I made. I squealed like a pig and fidgeted like a demented high-schooler on her first taste of crack, and told my ma, 'I made it to the Dean's List'.

And she just smirked, handed the paper back to me and said, "Of course."

Way to burst my bubble there, momma, but that's ok. I mean, for her it was a given. No daughter of hers /wouldn't/ excel. She mustn't have noticed the way I worked my ass off, because for her, it's only /natural/ for her daughter to achieve something. It was both a compliment and a let-down, but I'd rather focus on the 'compliment'.

And so from there, it has been an uphill climb. But it was so, very worth everything. I loved every moment I shared with my friends in college. How I loved learning and studying everything I could get my hands on. Alright, so it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. I've slacked off way more than I should; I was reading hawt man-to-man, triple X yaoi fanfiction when I should have been reading a theory on Orientalism. I was studying how well Sendoh and Rukawa fit together in bed when I should have been reading on how the political circumstances that surround the conditions of the sub-alterns in India. I was reading manga after manga when I should have been preparing for my thesis.

But those shortcomings do not hold a candle to how I've neglected my studies when I was in high school, and I hated myself for being the person I was all those years ago.

I've managed to maintain my spot in the List, and even managed to come out fourth in the entire college. I remember garnering a grand average of 1.20 one brilliant semester, and I couldn't have been more proud of myself back then. But grades aside, the thing I love most about college was how I've opened my heart to let myself love not one, not two, not five, but twenty beautiful people. I've made very special friends, who helped mold me into the person I am today, and I'm afraid I haven't told them how important they were- still are- to me.

How I loved those four years spent within the walls of UST.

I loved those times so much, that one afternoon, as I was sitting down in front of an age-old statue pointing God-knows-where, I prayed, with every fiber of my being, for time to stop. That was the time when the 'end' started to rear its ugly head in. That was just about the time where all my classmates were scurrying around submitting their resumes and preparing for their interviews. I stood in the middle of the room, listening to the faint buzz of conversations going on in the classroom, and realized that these people are so ready to move on- and I'm not.

I wanted to spend more time with them. I wanted to learn more with them. Learn more about them.

People keep asking me for advice on what they were supposed to do, and I kept smiling and encouraging them to do whatever it is they dream of doing, but inside, I was screaming for them to stop.

'Stop,' I want to say. 'Not yet. I don't want to say good-bye yet.'

I've never felt that much happiness around a bunch of people- save of course, my best friends since twelve- before. Ever. The friends I've made and kept since high school- Miko, Buddy, Totay, Mitch, Mavic- they all knew me inside out, and I could probably kill someone with a penk knife and commit every crime in every book and they'd still love me, and I'm so thankful for that. But the friends I've made during college, as well as the experiences I had back then... they /molded/ me. They /made/ me. I became this new person that I, and other people could be proud of.

I only ever wanted my family, and the Fangirls (high school barkada- that's what we call ourselves) to be proud of me. And these people I've met, and the moments I had during college- they all helped me to become that person everyone could be proud of.

And for that I owe them so much.

I did so bad during high school.

I did better in college.

I'm striving hard to do 'way better' now that I'm serving my MA in UP.

I thought that by becoming this new person everyone could be proud of... I thought I've let go of my past cargos. But I never even realized I've been carrying that burden like a heavy sack of potatoes on my back until recently. I realized that it wasn't my high school life I hated, but myself. And this hatred blinded me to the wonderful things I've experienced and the wonderful people I've met during high school.

Realizing how much of an asshole I was during those years made me recoil in shame; I never wanted to remember those times ever again. This shame, this embarrasment hid itself behind a defensive wall of anger and loathing, but upon retrospection, I realized how unfair I've been.

Unfair to the very place I considered my second home for ten years; unfair to the people I've shared good moments with.

For that, I'm extremely sorry.

I realized that I can't do anything anymore about the kind of person I was back then, and I realized that I can't do anything by obsessing about the past, so now I can only look to the future. I can't undo the things I've done as a jerk, and hell, I can't sit down and re-take every damn exam I had back then just to come up with a more satisfactory set of grades.

What I have is the 'now'. And the 'now' calls for letting go.

Let go of past hatred, let go of past failures, let go of past heartaches.

And I thought I already that 'letting go' thing but sonofabitch, how come I still feel quesy about this 'reunion'?

I've probably written year eight years' worth of angst and melodrama, and I've probably revealed more than I've ever revealed in the years people have known me, but shit man, I'm damn scared about this reunion that should even be that much of a big deal, dammit.

But I'm scared. I truly am. I fear that I'll revert back to the insufferable idiot I was before.

I fear that I'll recoil and degenerate into the recluse I was back then. Let's face it. I'm /still/ a social retard (I couldn't even initiate a decent conversation with people outside my circle), but holy crap, man.

It's been years.

And to top it all off, I'm not even /sure/ if I'll go to that reunion. Which pretty much sums up the fact that I'm probably obsessing over nothing, but hey, writing this feels good.

So you guys are probably surprised that 'Aki' bared more into this short shit than I've bared in the years you've come to know me. And it feels good.

This will be my promise to you.

From now on, I'll try to share more of myself to the people I know (or don't know, depending on who's reading this, which I doubt people are even doing so).

I believe that in order to write, you have to bleed. You have to open ever scar, even the ones which have long ago healed. You slice that scar open, and pry into the very flesh that closed over the wound. You have to relive that moment- feel every pain, ever heartbeat, every emotion- and let the blood flow into the paper. Screen. Whatever. The blood carries the memories. The memories tell the story.

This, my friends, is first blood.

Thanks for listening.

At Home Where the Sun Rises

Have you ever wanted something so bad, you know that you live only to see the day that you'll finally have it? Have you ever wanted anything so bad, that your whole heart and soul permeates with wanting this thing, and only this thing?

Let me tell you a little something about my dreams. Sure, you know that I've always wanted to be a writer. You know that I dream of being published one day, some day. You know that I spend nights reading and writing, and that someday I'd be able to have enough courage to show you what I've written.

But there is this one dream that I've had since I've first dared to dream.

I want to go to Japan.

So bad.

Ask me why right now, I won't be able to answer. I honestly don't know why I've fallen in love with a country whose people once crossed swords (and bullets) with ours. I don't know why I want to risk going to an empire where language would probably be the least of all my worries. I honestly don't know. Maybe in a while, after I've analyzed things to death, I'd be able to dish out the reason why I want to go there. For now, I'm merely preparing myself because I know that it won't be long before I'd finally pack my bags to live there.

Holy crap, am I making any sense in here at all?

Right now, I'm procrastinating, because I should be reading stuff for a huge paper that's due next week. Old habits die hard, I guess. History once again has repeated itself (or at least, I made it repeat, because I'm still a loser when it comes to working on projects ahead without the threat of the deadline breathing down my neck).

I'll be working on the poetics of the yaoi manga and its manifestations in Youka Nitta's selected works. I don't even have a title for my paper, dammit. I wish the Good Professor would extend the deadline.

For those who don't know what yaoi means, google it up, and you'll find out what I've been obsessing over since I was... twelve. Or thirteen. Yeah, what?