Oh, the banality of living by (several) supermarkets.
I started #16 during lunch time, and I was already on 4% when I finished my last morsel. Here's hoping to hit 25% by the end of today (I do, after all, have a life).
- To be continued.
Monday, June 25, 2018
Monday Blues
I woke up this morning to the sound of obnoxious honking. The audacity of these trucks, disrupting my slumber blatantly. As if there was nothing more dire than to unload produce at 5 in the morning.
Sunday, June 24, 2018
Comfort Zone
New York Times, with its encyclopedic knowledge, had been a
source of delight (or dismay) for as long as I can remember. A couple of months
ago, I came across a blurb in the Books section that highlighted a novel by
Martha Grimes. Having never heard of the author prior to this, the short
paragraph peaked my interest, and I kept an eye out for its release. Little did
I know there were 23 books preceding the latest Richard Jury adventure. I was
going through a rough patch at the time, and drowning myself in quirky detective
novels, rather than facing my problem seemed to be a viable solution. The more
stress I was under, the quicker I went through the books. There were times when
I went through a book in a day. Not because the books were amazing, or
educational; but because it stopped me from overthinking. After my 8th
book, I was released from my impending stress, and I let go of my maniac
reading.
Two weeks ago, I picked it up again, and I am now 75% into
my 15th. The characters became part of my every day life, if only
because I spent more time with them, than with anyone else. Finishing the
series became a symbol of finishing in life, as I was never great at seeing
things through. I would start them off brilliantly, boasting would be accomplishments.
Lists were created, and there were many. Yet as soon as a rough patch occurred,
it was hasta la vista, mi amigo. Hence my renewed rigor to finish the series. If
I can finish all 23 books, surely I can, oh, I don’t know, exercise, sleep at a
reasonable time, excel at work, and more importantly, write every day?
Ah, the possibilities.
Only 8 more to go.
Thursday, April 26, 2018
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Time After Time
Every year I give myself the same speech: this year was good, but next year will be even better. I have identical resolutions. Travel, eat well, exercise, home goods, and for goodness' sake, get a new coat so I don't freeze in winter.
If we can compartmentalize into a check list, wouldn't that be much easier?
If we give ourselves a deadline, would that serve to motivate us?
If we dream enough, would it become a reality?
Stay tuned. I will find it in a few hours.
If we can compartmentalize into a check list, wouldn't that be much easier?
If we give ourselves a deadline, would that serve to motivate us?
If we dream enough, would it become a reality?
Stay tuned. I will find it in a few hours.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Please leave me alone
Years ago, my friend and I had a discussion of how we each dealt with stress.
"Oh, you know, listen to music, read for hours, sleep." I blabbered on.
"But what about actually talk it out with someone?" Hints of concern reeked across the screen.
"I don't think anyone wants to hear me whine, for starters."
"You can talk to me about them. At least you'd be able to address the issue"
"You can talk to me about them. At least you'd be able to address the issue"
"Oh, I don't know. I think I'm better with things on my own." Great, now I sounded defensive. Insert more things to say when you weren't exactly close with them, and you tried your best to keep a civilized tongue.
Fifteen minutes later, I grudgingly accepted that if I ever felt stressed, I'd turn to him.
The fact that we are no longer speaking should establish that, yes, it is much better to deal on my own.
Because nobody wants to hear about your misery in life, and how problems seem to pop up like ads. No one can be sympathetic, or emphatic, more than you can do for yourself. No one understands what you are going through, not exactly, except you.
But go ahead. Watch their eyes gloss over while you are in the middle of telling your conundrum. Have them dismiss their problems like they were nothing. Listen to their "everything will work out" speech. After all, they aren't their problems.
Rather than burden and aggravate someone else with your problems, wouldn't it be better to deal them on your own? Instead of displace your agitation on the ones who are close to you, wouldn't it be better to be left alone? In the mean time, let me stew in my own misery. Let me cut off contact with the rest of the world.
I will feel better after this.
Friday, March 23, 2018
Controlled Chaos
Having spent the last half an hour looking over some chick's progression posts on Instagram, where she gabbled on about her numerous digs from flea markets and vintage shops to create her effortless, Bohemian, and mid century cool abode. I looked around at my apartment, staged to a fault, with every piece picked out with precision, down to the paperclips. Those supposedly spontaneous purchases I made? I've been on them for months, if not years. That flowers that are wilted with nonchalance? I probably saw it in a magazine. Nothing is left to chance, everything is a controlled variable. Then I looked at her posts some more, and heaved a heavy sigh.
Ever since I was young (where apparently most of my realizations occurred. Freud would've had a field day with me), I knew I was better at elevating, than improvising. Give me a prompt, and I can give you a story. Give me a case, and I will provide you with a solution. Give me a blank canvas, and...you'll surely get one back. This probably means that I am a very rigid person, though I'd like to think I'm more righteous instead. No matter how much I have been exposed to, I probably won't be the girl who'd gush over an ottoman she scored at a consignment shop for $20, while I have to pay ten times the amount for something similar. It probably wouldn't be made in the 19th century either, though that mattered less in the grand scheme of things. I simply don't have the eyes, nor the patience, to comb through thousands of seemingly unconnected designs in order to search for something that was "cool." Stability and staying classic suit me, thank you very much.
So what happens when you're quote unquote, cool? You throw money at it, and hope that something sticks. Whoever says money can't buy you happiness simply isn't spending them correctly. Therefore, it should come as no surprises that I won't deny the importance of financial stability, it's paramount; and I won't apologize for my affinity to materialistic goods.
You can say taking a walk can be quite enjoyable. Yes, but where are you taking the walk from? A walk by the Seine is beautiful, but you have to take the plane to get there first. Taking a walk in your neighborhood is good and all, but you have to be able to have a place to live first. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs dictates quite clearly the pivotal role of shelter. You can argue your significant other's smile brings enough happiness, but let's face it: you need a special someone first.
How do you compete with innovators?
How do you compete with effortless cool?
How do you compete with that case of je ne sais quoi?
How do you compete with that?
The answer is, you can't.
Weirdly, even knowing my shortcomings, and my strengths, I still envy the people who are effortlessly cool. Sure, I can't see what's behind the curtain, but that's the thing about grass being greener on the other side: it doesn't need to be experienced.
The only thing I can do is to live passionately. With every uneven brushstroke, every passing view. One day, I will accept that being me is enough.
One day.
Ever since I was young (where apparently most of my realizations occurred. Freud would've had a field day with me), I knew I was better at elevating, than improvising. Give me a prompt, and I can give you a story. Give me a case, and I will provide you with a solution. Give me a blank canvas, and...you'll surely get one back. This probably means that I am a very rigid person, though I'd like to think I'm more righteous instead. No matter how much I have been exposed to, I probably won't be the girl who'd gush over an ottoman she scored at a consignment shop for $20, while I have to pay ten times the amount for something similar. It probably wouldn't be made in the 19th century either, though that mattered less in the grand scheme of things. I simply don't have the eyes, nor the patience, to comb through thousands of seemingly unconnected designs in order to search for something that was "cool." Stability and staying classic suit me, thank you very much.
So what happens when you're quote unquote, cool? You throw money at it, and hope that something sticks. Whoever says money can't buy you happiness simply isn't spending them correctly. Therefore, it should come as no surprises that I won't deny the importance of financial stability, it's paramount; and I won't apologize for my affinity to materialistic goods.
You can say taking a walk can be quite enjoyable. Yes, but where are you taking the walk from? A walk by the Seine is beautiful, but you have to take the plane to get there first. Taking a walk in your neighborhood is good and all, but you have to be able to have a place to live first. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs dictates quite clearly the pivotal role of shelter. You can argue your significant other's smile brings enough happiness, but let's face it: you need a special someone first.
How do you compete with innovators?
How do you compete with effortless cool?
How do you compete with that case of je ne sais quoi?
How do you compete with that?
The answer is, you can't.
Weirdly, even knowing my shortcomings, and my strengths, I still envy the people who are effortlessly cool. Sure, I can't see what's behind the curtain, but that's the thing about grass being greener on the other side: it doesn't need to be experienced.
The only thing I can do is to live passionately. With every uneven brushstroke, every passing view. One day, I will accept that being me is enough.
One day.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Vanity
'Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?" The queen would stare at her reflection, and wait for a response. "It's you, my queen. You're the fairest of them all." The queen would smile with satisfaction. and went on with her maleficent life.
Until one day, the mirror answered "It is no longer you, my queen. Snow White is the fairest of them all." I wonder if the queen grimaced then. "What the heck, Snow White. I wanted one thing. One thing, and you had to take it away from me. Off with her head."
Thus the hunt began, and Snow White was forced to run for her life.The rest, as we knew, ended happily ever after.
I've read many reincarnation of the story since, but two stuck to me the most. One was a short story by the almighty Neil Gaiman, called "Snow, Glass, Apples." Another, amply named as "Revolting Rhymes", was nominated as the best short animation for the Oscar this year. They were two very contrasting view of the original, but one thing remained the same: Vanity would be your downfall. Trust was meant to be broken. Food was weirdly prominent.
Agatha Christie, the King and Queen of detective novels, had many best sellers. "Crooked House" was not one of them. I fumbled through it one night while learning there was a movie being made. “I've never met a murderer who wasn't vain... It's their vanity that leads to their undoing, nine times out of ten.They may be frightened of being caught, but they can't help strutting and boasting and usually they're sure they've been far too clever to be caught.”
Sometimes, we were too clever for our own good. Whatever malevolent acts we committed, we wanted the whole world to know. We would give our best Mona Lisa smile, and dangle the secret at the corner of our lips. We would leave enough breadcrumbs for you to hazard a guess, but we would never tell you straight out. We were too vulnerable for prison, mentally and physically. Yet we kept on pushing. Until one day, our deeds would be discovered for the world to see, and then, and only then, we would give our confessions loud and clear.
What did we have to lose, except our vanity?
Got a secret
Can you keep it?
Swear this one you’ll save
Better lock it, in your pocket
Taking this one to the grave
If I show you then I know you
Won’t tell what I said
Cause two can keep a secret
If one of them is dead …
Edit: This is the lyrics from Pretty Little Liar's theme song. It's called Secret (haha, so creative), by The Pierces. It's here because it fits today's Penny for Your Thoughts. I'm not that morbid, gosh.
Until one day, the mirror answered "It is no longer you, my queen. Snow White is the fairest of them all." I wonder if the queen grimaced then. "What the heck, Snow White. I wanted one thing. One thing, and you had to take it away from me. Off with her head."
Thus the hunt began, and Snow White was forced to run for her life.The rest, as we knew, ended happily ever after.
I've read many reincarnation of the story since, but two stuck to me the most. One was a short story by the almighty Neil Gaiman, called "Snow, Glass, Apples." Another, amply named as "Revolting Rhymes", was nominated as the best short animation for the Oscar this year. They were two very contrasting view of the original, but one thing remained the same: Vanity would be your downfall. Trust was meant to be broken. Food was weirdly prominent.
Agatha Christie, the King and Queen of detective novels, had many best sellers. "Crooked House" was not one of them. I fumbled through it one night while learning there was a movie being made. “I've never met a murderer who wasn't vain... It's their vanity that leads to their undoing, nine times out of ten.They may be frightened of being caught, but they can't help strutting and boasting and usually they're sure they've been far too clever to be caught.”
Sometimes, we were too clever for our own good. Whatever malevolent acts we committed, we wanted the whole world to know. We would give our best Mona Lisa smile, and dangle the secret at the corner of our lips. We would leave enough breadcrumbs for you to hazard a guess, but we would never tell you straight out. We were too vulnerable for prison, mentally and physically. Yet we kept on pushing. Until one day, our deeds would be discovered for the world to see, and then, and only then, we would give our confessions loud and clear.
What did we have to lose, except our vanity?
Got a secret
Can you keep it?
Swear this one you’ll save
Better lock it, in your pocket
Taking this one to the grave
If I show you then I know you
Won’t tell what I said
Cause two can keep a secret
If one of them is dead …
Edit: This is the lyrics from Pretty Little Liar's theme song. It's called Secret (haha, so creative), by The Pierces. It's here because it fits today's Penny for Your Thoughts. I'm not that morbid, gosh.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
Hang the DJ
Funny how time flies. The last time I wrote here was more than a month ago. I wish I have a valid reason, but the truth is, I'm just lazy.
Okay, that sounded kind of irresponsible, let me rephrase that.
I haven't updated lately because my mind has been occupied by something else. My time, in turn, is no longer mine, but a shared entity. Don't get me wrong, I welcome it. I'm learning more about myself every day, and I'm definitely happier than I was two years ago. I find myself grasping desperately at Time. It slips through my fingers, and I crave it constantly. My memories, too, have been affected. Not as bad as mistaking my wife as a chapeau, but days seem to blend together. I rely on photos and words to recapture events of life. Clearly that explains why I find Momento as a fascinating movie.
I spent a good majority of yesterday culling my memory space. It went from a little over 1000, to 164. My phone has only 16G memory ("fun" fact), which is practically unheard of in this day and age. Pretty sure even my Grandma has more phone storage than me. There is something surreal about watching memories, beautiful memories, disappear before my eyes. I'm sure there's something metamorphic about the process, but it only left me with a strong case of melancholy.
Last weekend, we decided to watch "Hang the DJ," one of the newer episodes on "Black Mirror." After fumbling for a good half an hour over Google Chromecast (50x more complicated than Sonos, and 100x more obstructive than Apple), we finally got it to work (fine. Mostly him). The premise was simple. Imagine if there was a way to be able to pair up with your "soul mate,"and there was a 99.8% accuracy attached to it. Just one teeny little disclaimer. Before meeting your Bonnie or Clyde, you had to undergo a series of trials, or relationships that were doomed to fail. Everyone was presented with a little Alexa Echo device, and if you clicked the reel at the same time, they'd tell you how long the relationship would last.
At first, it was thrilling. You were constantly being matched up to potential mates, and constantly going on dates. If anything, you'd at least receive physical satisfaction out of it, which, to some , seemed to be enough. Our main couple met in a (very typical, but mutely fashioned) restaurant, and sparks flew immediately. For one, they shared the same type of sordid humor, and that went a long way in prolonging infatuation. After clicking the magical ball, they had less than 24 hours with each other. They were served impertinent food, driven to a case house (there was a roaring fire, so A+ for that), and...held hands while laying in bed.
It was actually quite romantic, as first dates go.
Then time was up, and they were forced to let go of each other.
In the second round, the male protagonist was stuck in a meaningless relationship for a year, but held onto it because what would be the alternative? Dying alone? Having something half way is better than having nothing at all. The girl fared slightly better. She was with someone who was physically attractive, confident, and experienced (this is my 5th, he flashed his 10,000 watts smile). Sure, there was nothing besides infatuation, and that went away fairly quickly. She was constantly aggravated by his behaviors, and didn't even look back when they parted their ways.
More meaningless relationships occurred, and more time was being wasted. They talked about each other constantly, even when they were intimate with other people. Eventually their paths crossed, and they were given a second chance.
"Let's not ask the magical ball about how much time we have. Let's not let it dictate our lives. Let's just enjoy our time together," the girl pleaded lovingly with her eyes. "Of course," the guy obliged. We were then treated with five minutes of the most stunning depiction of relationship. Eating breakfast together, taking bubble baths, reading, cooking, sharing intimacy, and above all, be happy in each other's company.
I nudged him. "I want this."
Of course, nothing is everlasting. The guy, the curious soul, decided to contact the crystal ball and find out their relationship expectancy. "RE-CALIBRATING. RE-CALIBRATING," the device screeched, and I wondered momentarily if the girl was Sleeping Beauty, because how else would she be able to sleep through it all?
It went from 5 years, to less than 24 hours.
Back to the beginning. Back to that horrid thing called a dating pool. Back to being alone, and lonely. Back to fulfillment. But life would never be the same. That was something they could never go back to.
Fate, or in this instance, technology, had a way of bringing people together. If it was meant to be, it would happen. No amount of obstacles was going to change that. They took the obstacle quite literally, as they had to climb a stair-less ladder (it'd make sense if you watched the show) to escape the game. Maybe you had to be trained as a ninja, or at least, be fluent in Parkour to find true love?
Unfortunately, real life doesn't have an app that tells us who to love. The only people we can depend on is ourselves. It's lonely road, but it doesn't have to be.
When you like someone, you like him because of his qualities.
When you love someone, you love him in spite of.
If you find someone you cherish, and who cherishes you back, hold on to him
If you're lucky enough to find someone who adores you, and your many quirks
Never let him go.
Okay, that sounded kind of irresponsible, let me rephrase that.
I haven't updated lately because my mind has been occupied by something else. My time, in turn, is no longer mine, but a shared entity. Don't get me wrong, I welcome it. I'm learning more about myself every day, and I'm definitely happier than I was two years ago. I find myself grasping desperately at Time. It slips through my fingers, and I crave it constantly. My memories, too, have been affected. Not as bad as mistaking my wife as a chapeau, but days seem to blend together. I rely on photos and words to recapture events of life. Clearly that explains why I find Momento as a fascinating movie.
I spent a good majority of yesterday culling my memory space. It went from a little over 1000, to 164. My phone has only 16G memory ("fun" fact), which is practically unheard of in this day and age. Pretty sure even my Grandma has more phone storage than me. There is something surreal about watching memories, beautiful memories, disappear before my eyes. I'm sure there's something metamorphic about the process, but it only left me with a strong case of melancholy.
Last weekend, we decided to watch "Hang the DJ," one of the newer episodes on "Black Mirror." After fumbling for a good half an hour over Google Chromecast (50x more complicated than Sonos, and 100x more obstructive than Apple), we finally got it to work (fine. Mostly him). The premise was simple. Imagine if there was a way to be able to pair up with your "soul mate,"and there was a 99.8% accuracy attached to it. Just one teeny little disclaimer. Before meeting your Bonnie or Clyde, you had to undergo a series of trials, or relationships that were doomed to fail. Everyone was presented with a little Alexa Echo device, and if you clicked the reel at the same time, they'd tell you how long the relationship would last.
At first, it was thrilling. You were constantly being matched up to potential mates, and constantly going on dates. If anything, you'd at least receive physical satisfaction out of it, which, to some , seemed to be enough. Our main couple met in a (very typical, but mutely fashioned) restaurant, and sparks flew immediately. For one, they shared the same type of sordid humor, and that went a long way in prolonging infatuation. After clicking the magical ball, they had less than 24 hours with each other. They were served impertinent food, driven to a case house (there was a roaring fire, so A+ for that), and...held hands while laying in bed.
It was actually quite romantic, as first dates go.
Then time was up, and they were forced to let go of each other.
In the second round, the male protagonist was stuck in a meaningless relationship for a year, but held onto it because what would be the alternative? Dying alone? Having something half way is better than having nothing at all. The girl fared slightly better. She was with someone who was physically attractive, confident, and experienced (this is my 5th, he flashed his 10,000 watts smile). Sure, there was nothing besides infatuation, and that went away fairly quickly. She was constantly aggravated by his behaviors, and didn't even look back when they parted their ways.
More meaningless relationships occurred, and more time was being wasted. They talked about each other constantly, even when they were intimate with other people. Eventually their paths crossed, and they were given a second chance.
"Let's not ask the magical ball about how much time we have. Let's not let it dictate our lives. Let's just enjoy our time together," the girl pleaded lovingly with her eyes. "Of course," the guy obliged. We were then treated with five minutes of the most stunning depiction of relationship. Eating breakfast together, taking bubble baths, reading, cooking, sharing intimacy, and above all, be happy in each other's company.
I nudged him. "I want this."
Of course, nothing is everlasting. The guy, the curious soul, decided to contact the crystal ball and find out their relationship expectancy. "RE-CALIBRATING. RE-CALIBRATING," the device screeched, and I wondered momentarily if the girl was Sleeping Beauty, because how else would she be able to sleep through it all?
It went from 5 years, to less than 24 hours.
Back to the beginning. Back to that horrid thing called a dating pool. Back to being alone, and lonely. Back to fulfillment. But life would never be the same. That was something they could never go back to.
Fate, or in this instance, technology, had a way of bringing people together. If it was meant to be, it would happen. No amount of obstacles was going to change that. They took the obstacle quite literally, as they had to climb a stair-less ladder (it'd make sense if you watched the show) to escape the game. Maybe you had to be trained as a ninja, or at least, be fluent in Parkour to find true love?
Unfortunately, real life doesn't have an app that tells us who to love. The only people we can depend on is ourselves. It's lonely road, but it doesn't have to be.
When you like someone, you like him because of his qualities.
When you love someone, you love him in spite of.
If you find someone you cherish, and who cherishes you back, hold on to him
If you're lucky enough to find someone who adores you, and your many quirks
Never let him go.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Phantom Thread
The movie began with a rather procedural outlook of Mr. Reynolds Woodcock, famed couture designer, and confirmed bachelor. Despite having no dialogue, the ambient "My Foolish Heart" glided across each scene like taffeta silk. He was quintessentially well coiffed, but the magenta socks may have foreshadowed his unctuous attitude.
Food seemed to be a reoccurring theme through the movie, namely breakfast. It was the start of a brand new day, and thus must be spent in absolute silence. "Don't speak, unless you've been spoken to"seemed to be the unwritten rule, with the exception of his sister, who he lovingly dubbed as "so and so." While Mr. Woodcock sketched his next winning look with his fountain pen, the girl of the week protested at the table, and accused him of preferring work over her. One look to the so and so, and a mutual understanding was reached.
We never saw the girl again.
The sister convinced him to take a drive to the countryside to regain his peace. He quickly obliged, and drove with his roadster in top speed. He stopped by a seaside inn for a meal, and an instant attraction was formed between him and the clumsy waitress. He gave her an order fit for three men; welsh rabbit with a poached egg on top, sausage, toast, the whole darn sink, jam (but not strawberry. "Raspberry then," Alma smiled coyly), and lastly, a pot of Lapsang tea.
Only Daniel Day Lewis could turn a pedantic order into seduction.
Coming from a five story townhouse draped in white and beige, the restaurant dazzled in colors. Light blue floral wallpapers, salmon pink table clothes, Thonet chairs; it was everything he wasn't. A hedonist at heart, he took a gamble with Alma, and asked her out for dinner. They drove in his roadster, and for a second, it was pure bliss.
They were sitting across each other in a restaurant. This time, it was elegant and aloof, a sharp contrast to the inn's restaurant. "May I?" Reynolds stopped in mid conversation, dabbed the corner of napkin in water and slowly wiped away her lipstick.
"Ah, now I can see you."
Food seemed to be a reoccurring theme through the movie, namely breakfast. It was the start of a brand new day, and thus must be spent in absolute silence. "Don't speak, unless you've been spoken to"seemed to be the unwritten rule, with the exception of his sister, who he lovingly dubbed as "so and so." While Mr. Woodcock sketched his next winning look with his fountain pen, the girl of the week protested at the table, and accused him of preferring work over her. One look to the so and so, and a mutual understanding was reached.
We never saw the girl again.
The sister convinced him to take a drive to the countryside to regain his peace. He quickly obliged, and drove with his roadster in top speed. He stopped by a seaside inn for a meal, and an instant attraction was formed between him and the clumsy waitress. He gave her an order fit for three men; welsh rabbit with a poached egg on top, sausage, toast, the whole darn sink, jam (but not strawberry. "Raspberry then," Alma smiled coyly), and lastly, a pot of Lapsang tea.
Only Daniel Day Lewis could turn a pedantic order into seduction.
Coming from a five story townhouse draped in white and beige, the restaurant dazzled in colors. Light blue floral wallpapers, salmon pink table clothes, Thonet chairs; it was everything he wasn't. A hedonist at heart, he took a gamble with Alma, and asked her out for dinner. They drove in his roadster, and for a second, it was pure bliss.
They were sitting across each other in a restaurant. This time, it was elegant and aloof, a sharp contrast to the inn's restaurant. "May I?" Reynolds stopped in mid conversation, dabbed the corner of napkin in water and slowly wiped away her lipstick.
"Ah, now I can see you."
Saturday, January 13, 2018
Rituals
Ideally, I'd like to be able to wake up with the sun, refreshed from a sound night of sleep. I'd wake up with perfectly dewy skin, with nary dark circles, or eye bags in sight. I'd glide into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for a nice pot of tea. I'd then take a steaming shower, and cook a full Japanese styled breakfast.
Lately it's been waking up till the last second possible, brushing my teeth while trying to put on clothes. Gone are my sanctuary, replaced by this little thing called frantic reality.
It's 2018, time to be more strict with myself. Sleeping early seems to be impossible these days (seriously. How hard is it to sleep before 11? Surely can't be that difficult), and even though I do wake up with the sun, I have little to no motivation of getting up. Worse, I can feel my skin deteriorating. Well, not Freddy and Jason bad, but you get the gist. For someone who is trying to delay wearing make up for as long as possible, having dewy skin is kind of a big deal.
This is what I propose for myself:
Well, with that in mind, I technically only have 3 hours of free time each day.
I'd probably put in 2 more hours of work every day.
Which leaves only an hour of free time.
How does that even work? What about cleaning, staring into space, volunteering, meditating? The next time I talk to you, just know that I'm using my precious minutes to spend time with you.
Lately it's been waking up till the last second possible, brushing my teeth while trying to put on clothes. Gone are my sanctuary, replaced by this little thing called frantic reality.
It's 2018, time to be more strict with myself. Sleeping early seems to be impossible these days (seriously. How hard is it to sleep before 11? Surely can't be that difficult), and even though I do wake up with the sun, I have little to no motivation of getting up. Worse, I can feel my skin deteriorating. Well, not Freddy and Jason bad, but you get the gist. For someone who is trying to delay wearing make up for as long as possible, having dewy skin is kind of a big deal.
This is what I propose for myself:
- Wake up at 6:30AM
- Read for 30 minutes in the morning
- Cook better breakfast, and actually be able to sit down and enjoy it
- Drink enough liquids
- Be more productive at work
- Spend no more than an hour cooking
- 30 minutes exercise
- Have a lighter dinner, but a fulfilling lunch
- Learn something new every day
- Sleep by 11PM
Well, with that in mind, I technically only have 3 hours of free time each day.
I'd probably put in 2 more hours of work every day.
Which leaves only an hour of free time.
How does that even work? What about cleaning, staring into space, volunteering, meditating? The next time I talk to you, just know that I'm using my precious minutes to spend time with you.
Friday, January 12, 2018
Exhaustion
Spent the whole day looking up places to go in London, and finally have a concrete idea of where to go. Not to boast or anything, but I am somewhat of a connoisseur when it comes to food and hotels in London now.
My goals are simple: to eat a plethora of food, to see beautiful things, and to hopefully, find some hidden gems. Food is, and always will be, the most important aspect of my trip. I have searched high and low for places to check out, so much so that I feel like I've lived there for years. Heston, Ledbury, Pollen Street, Clarette, just to name a few. Then there are exquisite shops to check out. The Portobello market, the Columbia flower market, the Leadenhall, all the vintage shops, and the newly vamped Sonia Rykiel store (is it a bookstore that happens to sell clothes, or a clothing store that happens to have books? Je sais pas).
I've always had an affinity when it comes to hotels, specifically hotel lobbies, and London has a fair share of stunning interior designs, that goads you into dressing up. A 1920's beaded dress with spaghetti dress, and open slits in the back sounds like a good bet, even if it's a couple of pounds added to my luggage wait.
Oh, the things we do.
My goals are simple: to eat a plethora of food, to see beautiful things, and to hopefully, find some hidden gems. Food is, and always will be, the most important aspect of my trip. I have searched high and low for places to check out, so much so that I feel like I've lived there for years. Heston, Ledbury, Pollen Street, Clarette, just to name a few. Then there are exquisite shops to check out. The Portobello market, the Columbia flower market, the Leadenhall, all the vintage shops, and the newly vamped Sonia Rykiel store (is it a bookstore that happens to sell clothes, or a clothing store that happens to have books? Je sais pas).
I've always had an affinity when it comes to hotels, specifically hotel lobbies, and London has a fair share of stunning interior designs, that goads you into dressing up. A 1920's beaded dress with spaghetti dress, and open slits in the back sounds like a good bet, even if it's a couple of pounds added to my luggage wait.
Oh, the things we do.
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