Tag Archives: blogging

should i start riding the train?

I hate commuting
that’s why i live near my workplace
where i can just walk by the lake
or sometimes in the basement
where cars are parked –
the shortest path.
but when I do,
it takes me back
to the night i met you.
the night i remember
i just wanted to drink wine
so i passed by the familiar bar
in the basement.
i sat at one corner of the bar-
the bartender facing me
a stranger behind me
no one in my left side
and there you are in my right-
you’re murmuring something to me
while i was deep in my thoughts
i told you i was writing a poem about dying
but i doubt that you heard it
because you kept talking to me
and never stopped staring at me
until you asked me if i want
to go upstairs
i remember your blue eyes
begging me or have i mistaken
begging for seducing?
i did not answer.
but i found my dress on the floor
of an unfamiliar bedroom instead.
i forgot if it’s the red one, the orange one
or my favorite one.
i can’t keep track of which dress i wore
on those countless sleepless nights,
or did i even wear any?
because i can feel the white duvet
on my bare skin while thinking about
my unfinished poem
or did i even finish it?
if not, i want to write a poem about dying.
again. or
if it would mean i am still living.
or should i take the longest path?
or should i start riding the train?

Paula Bianca via Berlin ArtParasites

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10 Qualities The Most Authentic People Have in Common

What makes you one?

1. They’re self-reflective.
To be authentic, unique and individual you have to know who and what you are, which comes through self-reflection. How can you know who you are if you are following everyone else?

2. They have a healthy ego.
In order to be a successful leader of others, you must do so with courage and empathy. You must be confident enough in yourself and your abilities to consider others’ feelings.

3. They focus on possibilities.
When you live authentically you have no time to waste emotion on temporary and sometimes necessary setbacks.

4. They have good character.
You do not say things you do not mean, promises are not made you cannot keep and you stay in a place of integrity in all of your dealings, in and out of work.

5. They’re visionaries.
Because you are deeply connected to yourself, you are open and more innovative. You have been visionary in the creating of yourself and this allows you to bring that skill into all aspects of your life, especially business. You also help others to realize their goals and their potential, and you push both yourself and others to reach those.

6. They’re listeners.
You are more than willing to consider contradictory ideas with an open mind and change your opinion if the argument makes sense. You are genuinely interested in learning, and you are dedicated to discovering the truth.

7. They’re transparent.
Open communication is woven into the fabric of your authenticity. You never leave anyone guessing or hurting because you’re transparent.

8. They’re open and consistent.
You do not hold judgmental attitudes towards others. As you evaluate the thoughts and opinions others hold, even those you do not agree with, you still place them under an umbrella of respect. You are true to who you are and the principles you hold and do not require another person’s approval to feel good about yourself.

9. They’re team-oriented.
You build successful teams and give credit where it is due, sharing your success and achievements with your entire team.

10. They draw upon experience.
You have learned through your own life and improved yourself in thoughtful ways.

– by Psychologist Sherrie Campbell

 

Fixation Problem

My ex-husband said I have a fixation problem.

To him, it means not being able to forgive and forget his deliberate mistakes and failing to turn a blind eye to his shortcomings and not shutting up about it.

In another context I would agree with him, I do have a temporary obsessive interest in something sometimes, like scarves, bags, shoes, succulents, porcelain dolls, silk flowers, and food. Luckily like happiness and the first intoxication of morphine, it doesn’t last very long. I could easily forget the obsession and move on to the next thing. 

But while I am in that obsessive state, nothing can stop me. I must and will acquire whatever the object of my desire at that moment. Which reminds me of someone accusing me of exactly the same thing but talking about people.

Anyway, the other day while watching Strictly Come Dancing I noticed that everyone wore a Remembrance Poppy brooch and I was right away interested. I saw paper versions of the same pin but these ones were different, they were proper jewelry, beautiful and shining. Looking closely, I saw that there were few varying designs, some were larger, some smaller, others had only one stem and no leaves and one was with diamonds. After scrutinizing each, I decided that I want only three and was so elated I was practically dancing around on the front of the T.V. 

Then, like a cold November shower, I suddenly came to the realization that there is no way I could have them; not those exact designs, and before I knew it I was in tears. I was so sad if my heart could break it certainly would at that moment. And I don’t even like jewelry and seldom wear any. But those pins were so cute I wanted to put them next to each other and admire them. I like to have anything that can put a smile on my face. There are not so many of those. The list is short: certain puppies, certain dolls, certain babies, birds and anything unusual.

Before the night was over, I have forgotten about the poppies already but for one short moment, they were so important to me, enough to make me cry, and I didn’t even bat an eyelash when I’d lost 2,000 dollars on a bus while on holiday and certainly didn’t shed a single tear during or after my divorce or when my parents died. 

Do I have a fixation problem? 

I don’t know.

What do you think? 

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I Don’t Do Happy

Somewhere someone told me: “You’re too heavy to digest on a daily basis.”

It reminds me of what a reader once said to me a long time ago, that she will not recommend me for daily consumption. According to her, she didn’t yet meet someone who is constantly in a dark mood 365 days. People get depressed, have bad days, angry, hurt, grieving lonely and sad but not ceaselessly she said. In most cases, being down is an exception to the rule. Normal people are mostly happy most of the times she added. I, on the other hand, seem to have a perpetual dark cloud hanging above my head, following me everywhere and on occasions releasing torrents of rain if not thunder and lightning.

Before the revelation, I was not aware that I was projecting this kind of image out there. I thought I was just being me, relating things the way I always do: honest and straight to the point without beating around the bushes. In fact, I didn’t realize I sound pessimistic. Like in real life, I tell stories matter of factly. I never like drama nor I ever aspire to play a victim. It is simply not my way of handling things. I can’t help that my life happened the way it happened. Believe me, if I could choose, I would have chosen another path you can be sure of that.

But according to my mother-in-law, it isn’t the constant dark mood that is the problem with me because she never has seen a more well-disposed individual than I am. (She must know because we go together on a three week holiday each year.) It is those weighty/heavy conversations I seem to favor that the problem is. Most people don’t do these kinds of talks because they are often revealing, confronting and emotionally taxing. 

 I beg to disagree. 

What they call a heavy conversation is to me a chit-chat. If they want me to go shallower than that, I might as well shut up. Why spent hours talking if you have nothing sensible to say? If you are not genuinely interested in the person/people you are taking with, why pretend? Why spend time with each other? Why bother?

Anyway, I still don’t believe I really am like that. I could believe I am not everyone’s cup of tea, it’s nothing new to me but perpetually dark mood and favoring emotionally taxing conversations … no.

Again, it reminds me of yet another incident which happened again, a long time ago when people I then acquainted with said another thing which again wasn’t true.

I didn’t know anymore how it all begun and what was the reason but while sitting on a terrace looking down to a group I used to hang out with back then, I heard one of them said I have a frozen heart. Then someone chimed in: “Frozen? It would be better if her heart is only frozen so there will still be a chance of thawing it but if you ask me her heart isn’t frozen it is made of iron.” Laugher followed. Not to be outdone, another one of them stated: “Iron you said? Then my friend you are wrong. Her heart is made of concrete it is impossible to melt.” Another burst of laughter.

They were aware I was watching. They knew I was there, hearing their comments, and I believe they mean no harm and only fooling around and the remarks didn’t make me angry or hurt but it made me think though. It made me realized how wrong they were and how little did they know me.

It reminds me of what my mother said to me once upon a time. She said I am not capable of loving anyone. I don’t know if she was talking about herself because her own judgment certainly is applicable to her. My ex-husband would agree with her though because according to him I am a man-hater.

The truth is I am neither one of those they were accusing me of. I just didn’t find anyone yet worth___ how could I say it? Loving? Losing myself? Breaking my heart over with? Crying buckets full? I don’t know also on what they were basing their opinions of me. All I know is they aren’t true. And I’m getting better. There was a time I could not incorporate the world love in writing I always substitute it with aarrgh instead. And I am not terrified of colors anymore. I can stand them now on my blog. I still favor black and white or sepia but colors are no longer banned.

But still, I don’t do happy. I cannot. I don’t know where to begin.

If I say I am watching a beautiful bird and I like it, am I happy?

If I enjoy walking in the city, am I happy?

If some days I feel blessed and content, am I happy?

How do I know I am happy? What happiness feels like?

Can you tell me?

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Standard

I remember the time our neighbor- the mother of my then best friend– phoned me to say that the brother of my current tenant was the perfect candidate for my future fling come next vacation. She said unlike all of his predecessors, this one is a professional and not a bum which seems to be my preference and would it not be great to have someone exactly the opposite for a change.

I could have told her a lot of things, one of those is_  it’s none of your busines_ I could have defended myself and my reputation against her wrong assumptions but I can recognize a hopeless situation when I see one. People talk judge and prejudice according to their cranial capacity. One can try to be the summum of decency and morality and still, people would talk. You cannot please everybody.

I could explain to her also that the reason I hang out with bums was time. They have plenty and I had a limited amount of it to spend before I go back to reality. Every second count. I have also an unorthodox way of doing everything. For one, I don’t sleep at night. I gallivant to my heart’s desire and often seek dangerous pursuit not suited for a lady. With me, expect the unexpected, anytime anywhere. The life I lead was not convenient for anyone who has a 9 to 5 day job or any job at all, married or committed or worried about what the people might say. I needed someone who was willing to be on standby 24/7, able to defend himself and protect me, streetwise, charming, sportive and daring. Someone who will lay his life for me and my quest, someone who does not ask too many questions, doesn’t expect anything and doesn’t want a title and the rights to go with it. And who is the ideal person to take the job? A bum.

A professional would complicate and expect things I cannot give. Besides, I didn’t need just a bum, I needed a fairly intelligent, innocent bum. Preferably a virgin who will be content with holding hands and doesn’t demand sex from me because contrary to what other people think, I don’t sleep around. That’s why that time I hung around mostly with teenagers. No, I am not a pedophile. I just preferred their no-nonsense approach in life. You would be surprised how more mature they are than their older counterparts. Luckily, because of my good genes, I looked like just one of them. I never encounter any difficulties associating myself with this group aside from what others thought of me that time_a wayward teenager with enough time in her hands and financial back up from mom and dad. I never bother to correct them.

Like my neighbor who was questioning my standard for a company, onlookers didn’t know or understand my motives. And I cannot blame them because actions speak louder than words they say. They made judgment based on what they think they see and process their thoughts accordingly. It is much easier to jump into conclusion than engage with the taxing work of understanding what lies beneath. Nobody does that anymore. Time-consuming. Wrong pursuit. 

As for myself, I hardly care. I know who I am. I knew what I was doing and what I wanted and the rest were sideshows. My standard when choosing a partner is sky high. I will talk about it in another blog post.  The people I have shared my escapades are not chosen for their shining achievements and social status. They were chosen because they served a purpose. Momentarily. They don’t have a place in my reality nor they hold a permanent position in my life. They were just casualties of my ongoing battle with finding my rainbow connection. Nothing more nothing less.

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Karma Is a Bitch

I was always the one who left, broke hearts, and made grown men cry. I didn’t care who they were, or how many. I lost count a long time ago. But now I find myself on the other side. I’m the one who can’t leave even though I know I should. The door is wide open but I don’t move. So this is how it feels. It’s like all their broken hearts and crushed hopes are coming back to punish me.  — Sweet Serenity

Guilty. Guilty all the way.

I didn’t only break hearts, I trampled them into pieces and walk away without a backward glance.

Don’t get me wrong. I never intended to hurt anyone. It just happened that way. I was upfront with my intentions. Never deceive. I never lied about my age, who I am and my relationship status. They knew what they were getting into right from the start. 

Whatever I said and did during the entire affair, I meant it with all my heart.

But what happened in Vegas stays in Vegas. I can’t let fantasy ruin my reality. I always left everything (and everyone) behind the moment I boarded the plane. So simple is that.

In theory, it is. But there were complications sometimes. Few of them had threatened to make a mess of my carefully separated existence. None of them passed the threshold of my home and my heart. Both are intact.

None of them was the reason for the break up of my marriage. It was doomed from the start and already beyond saving when I found out that eat your heart out is a wonderful, wonderful motto. Have a taste of your own medicine. Nobody likes the taste it seems. And life goes on.

I lost the taste for it.  I lost the patience and got tired of running. I settled down. I often ask myself if it is the right decision. I miss the chase. I miss the fun. I miss being alive. But time waits for no one. I was not the girl I once was. Perhaps deep down inside I didn’t really change, but the effect of the fountain of youth I discovered once upon a time is slowly wearing off and wearing thin. Mirrors don’t lie. Though it is still early summer in my heart, in reality, it’s November. Winter will be here soon. Sooner than I wish. Sooner than I want.

See you next time.

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Paradoxically Yours

I’m a paradox. I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad. I’m lazy, yet I’m ambitious. I don’t like myself, but I also love who I am. I say I don’t care, but I really do. I crave attention but reject it when it comes my way. I’m a conflicted contradiction. If I can’t figure myself out, there’s no way anyone else has.

― Imjust-a-girl

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And Yet

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.

— Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)

And yet people seem to always know you. In fact, in places where people have ample times in their hands, they seem to know more about your life than you do. They create far-fetched stories about faraway places they never been and put you in the middle of their fantasy. The funny thing is others tend to believe them. Great minds think alike indeed.

Reminds me of something I’ve read somewhere that goes like this:

Gossip can have devastating consequences. We tend to have a strong negativity bias: Almost all of us pay more attention to negative information than we do to positive information. Think about the last time you posted something to Facebook, for example, and got a string of enthusiastic comments followed by a single, stinging rebuke. Which comment did you focus on?

It’s true, isn’t it?

We always tend to see the single black dot on a paper and focus on it but we forget the vast whiteness of the paper surrounding the black spot.

People love to believe fat juicy lies than the simple truth especially if it is about someone they are secretly jealous of or envious of the life that someone is leading. They will gladly swallow anything that can damage their perfect perception of you and your life. It makes them feel better about themselves. Justifying somehow their insecurities and personal issues. Often than not those sort of people will happily feed the fire till there is nothing left anymore of whatever the truth might have been. I have fallen victim of this sort of gossips so many times I lost count already the number of times people have spin gory tales about me. Mind you, my unconventional behavior and nonchalant attitude towards rumors didn’t help much with their already wrong impression of me and once upon a time I couldn’t care less.

They can say whatever they want as long as it doesn’t interfere with my agenda. But you cannot be in the middle of someone’s concept and be invisible. Sooner or later hell will break loose and often times the leading character is the only casualty because it is easier to hit a single target than multiple ones. Safety by numbers and the majority always win.  Fortunately, their movies are not my reality. Unfortunately, like one of those sci-fi movies, when you get hurt or die in virtual reality you die in real life too, the consequences can travel through time and dimensions and even if you don’t die the scars are deep it shows.

You know what they say:

It’s difficult to be the subject of a negative rumor, particularly one that has no basis in reality.

And even if:

You can’t always control what other people say about you, but you can control how you respond—and you can be resilient…

You are only human. You are not invincible. Everybody has limits and sooner or later you will reach your saturation point. And once you’re there you can only do a couple of things:

Wage a war against those who are set to harm you  (which in Dutch is equivalent to “dweilen met de kraan open.” Literally translated: Mopping the floor with the tap wide open meaning: ‘Bailing out a sinking ship.’)

Change your ways and conform. (Yeah, follow the heard and be a copy of the majority. Die before you’re dead.)

Or be a Hermit like me.

Which one it is?

Make your choice and let me know.

 

Butterfly Effect

I was watching the movie the other night (out of nothing better to do) and I realized that I have something in common with the lead character; an urge to make everything the way it supposed to be, in other words, __ perfect.

He traveled back and forth, back and forth to the future/past to set everything straight, often resulted in more disastrous events. In the end, he got it right but who knows what will happens next.

His actions remind me of myself when one time out of a strong desire to iron a crease that was barely there I burned a new Michael Kors coat. And that wasn’t the only mistake I made trying to make things right. I killed plants that way. I ruined a couple of my paintings and sketches, scratched for real the paintwork of my laptop trying to eliminate imaginary scratches, and dozens of other little things with catastrophic effect. 

I have an image in my head and I cannot rest until I am satisfied that everything is the way it supposed to be,__perfect.

Unlike other “psychological” issues in my life, this one I can trace back to my childhood. To a mother who married someone beneath her out of necessity and missed opportunities to better her life resulting in trying to live her dreams and regain her chances through her children particularly me. Good wasn’t good enough. No margin for errors, punishments were a must, encouragement/support/compliments/help unheard of, and speaking back and speaking your mind were a big no-no. Like I said in one of my posts, she once tied me around a foot of a big table whole night without supper simply because I failed to recite “Our Father” prayer in English. 

I grew up to be a perfectionist and expect no less from others. I cannot tolerate mistakes and stupidity especially from myself. I am my own biggest critic. Before anyone else has criticized me, I have already criticized myself. And often times than not when looking at myself, I cannot find something positive.

Like the lead character in the movie, I will gladly sacrifice myself, my own happiness/health/life if it means good for those I hold dear. I know the consequences of this action. I know them all too well. I suffered them all my life and some of them are still lingering making my existence an ordeal. But we all got choices and what matters the most to us is what really matters the most—that what we most value is what is most valuable to us so to each his own. 

Like the film Premonition, I think what Butterfly Effect (the movie) trying to convey-aside from every action no matter how little or insignificant has consequences- is we can’t change destiny. We can only alter the course but not the result. We will get there no matter what. It could be via a short or long way but eventually, we will get to our destination so, stop avoiding the inevitable and try to make the ride as enjoyable as we possibly could.

See You next time.   

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Guilty I Am

Remember the time I wrote an article about feeling guilty whenever I eat? Well, that is not the only thing I’m feeling guilty about.

I feel guilty if by the end of the day I have nothing to show for it. What I mean is I have an immense urge to always create and do something I can’t sit still for more than five minutes. I feel guilty if I’m not doing anything. I feel that it is a waste of time to sit and relax while you can do a million things instead. Not only I want to create I also want a proof of my labor. A tangible proof. Something I or someone else could admire and cherish. Something beautiful, something creative. If I don’t have it when the day ends, I feel worthless and guilty.

Again, I don’t know why. 

No one told or taught me to feel guilty if I’m idle. If ever, I don’t remember. The reason behind this is probably the same one why I don’t indulge in idle remarks or mere social chit-chat__ it’s pointless. If you want to say something, say something meaningful, remarkable or unforgettable. Say something kind and true and always meant it. Don’t say anything for the sake of__ just saying something or because you think someone wanted to hear what you’re about to say or just placating a person for whatever reason. And for God’s sakes don’t talk about the weather! And don’t start your greetings with “How are you?” if you don’t really want to know the answer to your inquiries or don’t have the time to really listen to the other person’s woes. Don’t say anything out of politeness. If you have nothing truthful or substantial to say shut your mouth and walk away. 

What else I’m feeling guilty about?

Cleaning and tidying. 

I’m a very clean person. I’m keen on hygiene. Not only personal hygiene but about everything. No, I’m not Mysophobic, just clean. And on top of it, I hate clutter. I cannot stand glasses, cups or anything unnecessary on the kitchen counter or coffee table. My espresso machine and water cooker are in the cupboard and only going to be out when needed. No shoes on the hallway and no coats either. People often describe my house as something that jumps out from the pages of a lifestyle magazine. My mother-in-law said my house is clinically clean. My daughter once remarks that it seems nobody lives in my place and one state agent told me that you can eat on the floor of my abode.

Of course, it isn’t true.

I just cannot rest if my house and garden are dirty and cluttered, but clinically clean it isn’t. There is dust everywhere. My house is a dust magnet. I can wipe the table clean and when I turn around, the dust has already settled in. And there seems to be always something on the floor. Mostly strands of my hair which is by the way so noticeable against the light tiles. No, my house and routine are ordinary. Just like me. 

I think I’m going to leave it here before I get totally carried away and say something irrelevant to the topic (as if I didn’t do just that) or something I might regret later.

See you next time?

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My Home Found A New Owner

He was the man I loved for so many years. He held up my universe inside his pocket and picked up the stars so he could light up my night. I wanted to believe that he loved me too. Because he said so, in whispers, in screams, in his sleep, in his songs, in his eyes. For so many years, I let him invade my heart. He let me love him in my own selfish ways. We have so many misunderstandings we took a few days to settle and solve. And we have past mistakes that came up whenever we argue. He barely understood my own language but he studied it so he could see which part of me was vulnerable to hold.

If we are going to talk about endings, then probably that thing has been overused and was scratched too hard I felt numb. We broke up and we got back again. We stopped yet we started again. We paused yet we decided to keep going.

Yet, all endings always had its own severe ending. The one that makes you realize that it won’t come back. The one that makes you ache for silence because you know he won’t reach out. The ending that we all fear.

But I tried to move out and tried new places, without him. Without his shadow. Without his smile and grips and his voice that calms me down. I tried moving out and started collecting scattered dust until I could have my new universe again. I searched for him in someone else’s eyes and voice. I looked for him in someone else’s skin and smell. But I realized he was the only one. He was one of a kind that no matter how many times he hurts me, I could still take it. No matter how many times he forced me to leave, I’d still run as fast as I could in his snap of wave and flash of a smile.

I realized he never holds my universe rather he became my universe. That every time I hear the words love and pain, his face will appear crystallized.

Yet he found his new world.
He found it in you.
Now that you’re with him, you got to understand that he’s unpredictable and changes so often. But as long you could stay, please do.

I might be the girl he had as his dreams form. I might be the girl he got to watch his all-time favorite movies and the first who heard the songs he wrote as he strummed his guitar. I might be his first love as what he called it but you’re with him now.

And you will have him in ways I could never have. I am now a part of the past that will one day be forgotten.

Yet here you are, the one he sees spending the future with and the rest of his life with. The woman he sees growing a family with and pajama cuddles and morning coffees and the hand he’ll hold while traveling the world. The woman he sees sharing the same water bottle and beer-stained kisses, and teases under blankets or the hair he’ll play in his finger and the head that rests upon his chest when you sleep.

And he still has me,
more like a memory,
a past,
a lesson,
a told story,
an ending example.

But he has you,
more like a dream,
a vision of wedding aisle,
a wedding dress,
a mother to his children,
a body he comes home for,
a rocking chair,
a future.

He looks at you
the same way

I see him.

So please,
take care of him.

-Mica Meñez 

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Random Thoughts On Wednesday

I wish I could say I have a love-hate relationship with food, at least, that way, there is still one positive side to it but the truth is I neither love nor hate food. For me consuming any form of nourishment is nothing but a necessary evil. I don’t enjoy the act nor the taste. My father said I eat like a soldier and it doesn’t change since then. I gobble and gulp the food as if there is no tomorrow and with minimal chewing. The sooner it’s done the better. If I have one feeling which associated with food that would be guilt.

I feel guilty when I eat and I don’t know why. Never been anorexic or bulimic. Never had so much issue with my weight. Of course, I don’t want to get fat who does anyway but a serious problem regarding weight I never have. But I feel guilty nonetheless when consuming a fair quantity of food. What is a fair amount in my book? Eating three times or more a day. I feel that I should be eating only once or not at all. If I could skip a meal or two, That would be ideal. I feel better that way. Believe you me if I can go on without food I will, there is no doubt about that.

I only eat when I’m dying of hunger or craving for something. Mostly fried crunchy food because sweets I can’t tolerate. I never fancy cakes or ice cream. I can eat them without a problem (if you consider lactose and gluten intolerance not a problem) but I draw the line at chocolates. No matter how hard I try I simply cannot acquire the taste for it. I can go so far as saying I hate them. I don’t care if they are artisanal or expensive coated with eatable gold leaf, if it’s chocolate, I pass.

So, where is my aversion for food originated from?

From my youth, where else you might say, but I don’t think so. We were poor and every meal we considered a feast back then. I grew up on a diet of seafood being born and bred in a fishpond. Meat was scarce and so hard to come by we only had them once a week on Sunday. If you want to know a little bit more about how my life was when I was growing up, you can read some of the painful details here and here.

Anyway, whatever psychological issues I have with food, I don’t know where it comes from. All I can say is: Food doesn’t excite me. I wish I can go on without.

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