suckiness abounding

So I just got back from a planning seminar with one of my orgs. Ok, I didn't just get back. I've been back for quite some time now. It was pretty much standard planning sem fare. Great company, serviceable accommodations, lots of booze and increasingly dirty bathrooms (what else can you do with more than twenty mostly drunk people sharing a measly few?). What I like about these planning sems (which effectively allows me to ignore the smelly costs) is the veritable orgy of freedom the very concept ensconces. I always feel like I'm in a vacuum of time and thought and meaning. And it's great. During our last night we experienced a little thing called a brown-out (good ole Philippines). We just kept on drinking. A bunch of us congregated around a stub of candle and tried their darndest to make each other pee in his or her pants (shorts, really) with ghost stories. I stayed by the poolside (all smelly with chlorine and... other stuff) with a friend and we just talked till our pink-glowing, alcohol-induced buzz died a little rose-colored death. I like long, drunken conversations. I really do. Of course, I can't remember most of what I (shouldn't have) said. All I really remember is staring up at the glorious sweep of black sky and stars (lots of stars), my calves dangling in cold water, concrete hurting my back, that odd smell of cigarette leftovers, hearing the occasional squeal from the ghost-story-tellers and the occasional exuberant burst of inebriated song from the frustrated people of the karaoke machine. At around 1, when execom finally reared their executive heads from their session, my driving friend got a worm in his head that we should go drive up to UP Los Banos and visit his old high school. And we just hopped onto his van. UP Los Banos is scary at night. All I really remember seeing was thick, viscous darkness and lots of thick-trunked trees. Oddly enough, I did notice that they had better architecture than Diliman. Or maybe it was the dying alcohol.

Right. Ok, that's enough self-involvement bordering on emo-ness. O, god, my stomach is attacking me.

What would really be emo is if I start to babble about my ex and failed... whatchamacallit. Which I did. I didn't know it could still hurt. For some time I thought I was just this gaping wound of flesh and blood and fat and little pieces of heart-pulp. I think... I think I'll always fancy myself just a little in love with him. Them. Him. Just him. We had a lot of conversations too. We didn't do much fooling around. Considerable experimentation, yes, but not a lot of woohoo (I've been playing Sims2 a lot). No woohoo at all, actually. Just a lot of meandering conversations. Soaring words, phrases, sentences; wet, gelatinous googoo eyes. And... ok stop.

I got some of my classcards today. Talk about crushed hopes and dreams and expectations. I curse you, 131. You are a huuuge pile of dog poo. I had a 90+ average! How could I just drop right off the 1.something-sky? Just like that? Ooh. I curse you, 131. For being mean. To me. To us. F*ck. It's a mess, it's all a mess. On the other hand, 109 was nice. Or maybe I'm just too depressed to care at this point. It just feels so... heavy. Knowing how sucky things are.

This is just too long now. Maybe I should try to be coherent some other time.

Yes.