Went out ytd to celebrate sy's birthday..
things didn't exactly start out well
and it didn't end well either.
The middle of it all was fine. enjoyable actually.

And I will appreciate it very much
if pple keep their opinions to themselves
and stop trying to force them on me.
Don't you realize I'm not like you?
I don't think like you, act like you or even feel like you.
So STFU and be on your way.

Okay. For the happy part.
My mom took me shopping and bought me a pair of jeans!
LOL. Big deal I know..
But still it was fun. =P
I'm about to finish my book [Resurrecting Salvador].
Wonderful story that is! Kept me on my toes for the past few days!
My fav part:

See through the tears into a dream,
and watch the dream come real. . .
Go on; imagine it one more time.
Set your mind to work on the details, and maybe this time it will be true.

Encased Stripped Bound Ensheathed
Enclosed in shell-pink satin;
not a fabric you would have chosen for yourself,
but you do not imagine that you will get to exercise a choice in this.
Underneath the satin is a layer of thin white plastic sheet.
And behind the plastic is wood: smooth oak, pale as bled flesh.

The music recedes further; no more than a distant whisper now
and the footfalls crunch on gravel.
A pause, and you are sinking. . .sinking. . .sinking. . .

A jolt, and your journey has reached its last pause.
You skate sideways and sink again-floating down like a feather,
inch by inch, and come to rest at last.
The slack straps tauten and slide out from under you,
snapping out and trailing loose like streamers from a departing ship,
and you are all alone.

They are still there, the congregated presences,
but you are alone in your deep earthen plot.
The patter of stones and soil on the low roof above your chest
finally blots out that last vestige of filtered, muffled light and . . .

. . .And what if you could rise up now?
What if you could drift out invisibly and look into their faces,
what would you see?
How many of them are there for you, and how do they feel?
There is no way of knowing.
But how otherwise can you know what your life is like; until it is finished?
Like knitting up a garment,
you cannot tell until the end whether your life will even fit you.
Now, when it is finally over, it is too late.
When at last people might look at you and judge whether your completed life is fit and suited to you,
now you have no way of looking into their eyes and receiving their judgement:
tears, indifference, satisfaction.

You cannot even look to see whether there is anyone there. . .