The Sunday Sad Club

I used to say “broken attracts broken”(in a contemplative voice, smoking my pipe as I look into the horizon, reminiscing on times gone by) when asked about why all my friends seem to have major issues. In retrospect, maybe everyone’s just fucked up. Well, obviously, something’s up. The fact that we supposedly are raised in and live our own unique versions of life multiplied billion-fold across the continents, yet come out almost similarly damaged to some degree, something’s gotta give. It seems right now that the common denominator is just life. You hurt, therefore you are. As a person with nihilistic tendencies, I’m usually unbothered by this. Especially given that I am relatively untouched by the most severe tragedies of life - that of harsh poverty, that of physical abuse, that of unforgiving discrimination - I am exempt from these and so much more that I can such afford to ignore the ills of society when it’s convenient for me. But the humanitarian nature of my work

 You've probably heard of stream of consciousness before. Well, I'm more of a tsunami of consciousness kind of person. Sometimes, there's so many things zooming through my head in unadulterated chaos, but then some days, I feel like I'm just floating about, suspended in the middle of the ocean with the debris that my tsunami brain's accumulated over time. That's the fancy way to say I'm kind of a mess. In layman's terms, I'm like a The Front Bottoms song. I just found out - like literally just today - that "front bottoms" is a euphemism for vagina, and honestly? That's such a The Front Bottoms thing to do. They're... they're literally called The Pussies. Love it. So I guess they're absurd. That's what they sound like. They're some kind of folk, some kind of drunk, some kind of weed-induced punk-esque poetry book slash diary - or they're just absurd. They're not really trying to be reasonable with an

Postcards from the Edge is the loose film adaptation of Carrie Fisher's loose book adaptation of her life as the daughter of her mother, movie star Debbie Reynolds. It's fiction, but heavily inspired by her fiction-like but categorically nonfiction experiences. So, it's about small celebrity and drug addict Suzanne Vale (if that isn't Carrie Fisher...) who has to live with her super-movie-star-from-the-60s mother Doris (hello, Debbie) after getting out of rehab. Now, these two, they love each other, like how a mother and a daughter do. They adore each other. And they know it. They say it. They show it. Like how a mother and daughter do. But also... they perfectly manage to drive each other insane. I like to think that the "teen years" officially end at 18, and so officially I'm no longer in my teen years. Im in a confusing in-between where if I'm ever arrested, I'll be tried as an adult, but also I'm still not a registere

This isn't about Cebu as much as it's about my particular circumstance in the city. I heard cities tend to have an alienating effect on people, especially if they spent half their lives in really small towns in the province like I did, but I had always been somewhat weird. Growing up, I had different interests than other kids for some reason, and was always so annoying about all of them. I spent most my life judging people for not sharing the same perspective of things as I did, and so it's safer to say I alienated myself more than I was alienated in our tiny provincial town. This, of course, compounded with the sad fact that teenagers and their families always keep mutually misunderstanding each other in massively complicated ways and so are unable to completely be each other's comfort. Cue A Day to Remember's "All Signs Point to Lauderdale" ( "I hate this town, it's so washed up, and all my friends don't give a fuck" ), and Si

Wristcutters: A Love Story (2006) takes place in some kind of afterlife where everyone who's ever committed suicide was put in, but it's really not that different from our own world, or at least how most sad people see our world anyway. To quote, Mikal says: Do you guys like it here? Who the hell likes being stuck in a place where you can't even smile? It's hot as balls, everybody's an asshole. I just want to go home. The charm of surreal movies like Wristcutters is how it's so different from ours yet so similar. The movie "made no sense" a lot at a rational point of view (there was a literal abyss at the bottom of a man's car, they have jobs in the afterlife, and cottage cheese, and there are miracles, and the political environment is really rather unsustainable), and yet it's familiar. The setting is of a gloomy, dead-end afterlife. There are no stars to be seen. People can't smile. It's uncomfortable. Sad to say, a bunch

I went to Dumaguete for a four-day writing training and, not to be dramatic or anything, but it had arguably been the best four days of my life. I had basically just been working nonstop months prior that it was borderline epiphanic to have four days of just doing what I want to do for once in my life. So you'll find me walking across the Boulevard, a long stretch of concrete by the sea which directly branches out from the Dumaguete port. Bags in hand - I brought two: my Lotor bag (aka a Hawk bag with a Lotor color scheme), and a duffel. And neither had space for anything more. Both had been completely full and ready to go home, and I carried them across the concrete to the gates of the port - around 10PM; we were to catch the 11PM ferry. We had been drinking minutes prior, sort of as a last hurrah, so I guess my brain cells were pretty slow to process what had been going on. It was a flash of panic, and I slowed in my tracks. The breeze hit me sharp across the face, and I look