It'll be a lot more fun if we talked, ne?
Current mood: in one of those highs again
Current music: Fiona Apple - Across the Universe
Alternate post title: Thin Atmosphere -> Low Oxygen -> Brain In Limbo
"They tumble wildly as I make my way across the universe... Jai guru deva... Nothing's gonna change my world..."
I just saw the last two episodes of Sex and The City, a series on which i swear on. What I love most about this series is that after I watch it, I always enter one of these highs that I rarely get nowadays. I have a faghag (she prefers the term "fagette", coined by moi - so gay, no? Something about the word hag that she dislikes, not surprisingly), and she experiences what she calls a "macabre high" after she reads a really disturbing manga or a, er, stimulating yaoi fic.
So what is it like to enter this high? For starters, it sets lazy-ass people like me to writing, something that the two or three faithful readers of my blog oh-so-eagerly awaits for. Again, I digress. This, ladies and lady-men (and gentlemen, in case someone stumbles across this site) is a classic symptom of this condition. First, one gets tense, uneasy, yet light, free. Then comes the unbearable urge to either talk or compose something. Anything. Usually circling the topic of that which inspired the high in the first place, in my case, about new year - new life - New York (Sex and The City kind of rambling). But once the person (ie, me) starts to either talk to a hapless victim over the phone, or mindlessly type away in front of either mIRC to a stranger who couldn't care any less or to a word processing program who couldn't care as much as the stranger, that person deviates from the topic at hand for no particular reason. Just because that person feels like it (another classic symptom is that they compose unwieldy reader-repelling long sentences). Thought juices just ooze out of every orifice, and the high patient just has to catch every drop and pour it into words as fast as they come. Very useful when one is tasked to compose, since the thoughts can be reorganized, but it becomes a burden when you have absolutely no one to share the high with.
It's not that you're not with anybody, no, not at all. After all, there are the options that are lost somewhere within the paragraph above. What pains me is that there's no one who would understand. Or at least, it's hard to look for someone who: 1) understands, 2) has the time and patience to listen, and 3) who actually genuinely cares. Heck, I myself hardly qualify, given my stiff requirements. At times I get lucky, like my fagette would co-incidentally have her macabre high, then we have a common giddiness to last the night. But more often than not, the source of our highs would be radically different, and often, one has to be the listening end. It's rather hard to make the love story between Carrie and Aleksandr meet with, say, the Devil's Apocrypha. (note to my fagette, if you're reading this, I enjoy our talks pa rin, i'm just rambling, you know how it goes, you also have your highs >:D<)
And so, I never did get to write what I was originally intending to write about. I can feel the high gradually slipping away into ordinary day-to-day verdictlessness. This high, after all, is a viral condition, and as with all viral conditions, it is acute, usually very severe upon onset, has very little to no incubation period, usually systemic in effect, but is self-limiting. The drugs that one takes are often just for symptomatic relief and not curative (ie, it makes you sniff less but it doesn't really kill the virus, with the exception of antivirals). In this case, my snuffles are my fidgety gotta-talk-to-somebody urge, the drug is Nuckaminophen (COX-III inhibitor, generic label - Blogspot), and the virus is Sex and The City (I would never kill this off, someone give me dvds of the last season and I will be forever indebted to thee) (ok, maybe not forever, maybe a week or a month, tops). I think I'm cured now, and the only thing keeping me from hitting the sack is my spam mail. When I'm done with my porn mail, I'm going. When will I actually write about what I intended to write about in the first place? Keep posted.
Oh, and it's now the Year 2005. Mind your roosters.