i don’t post anything of interest here for ages. but i’m wondering who’s this regular visitor from mountain view, california that shows in the live traffic feed. just curious. tell me.


This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Last letter to God


Why won’t you let me die?
I’m tired. I’m lonelly. What’s the use of living each boring days of this life when I hate every single minute I’m alive? Just take me. I’ve been bad my whole life and taking me could at least make this world a better place. What’s the use of keeping me here? You’ve already taken the only thing that keeps me alive almost two years ago. Well, one of the many things but the only person that makes up my everything. It’s the only lifeline I had before and you’ve taken it. Well, of course I’ve got my wonderful family and friends, but that was different. Now, after everthing, why am I still here? I don’t think I’m still here for a reason. I’m tired. Already. Tired of waiting for nothing. Nothing’s happening in my life anymore. I don’t even know what I want and I don’t want to anticipate anymore if there’s any value in this. I don’t intend to wait for whatever something surprise you got in your sleeves for me and have me realize to continue living a life that i can’t even call a life anymore. I’m a dead man walking, waiting for the world to stop revolving. You’ve sent me to a far flung country to be alone, helpless as if to really rub it in that I deserve to be alone. Right?
So, why don’t you take me? I’m not insisting. I am just tired of waiting.
I got a lump the size of a marble just at the left side of my breast, below my armpit. Sometimes, I’d wish it’s something deadly, cancerous. I just can’t wait for my exit from this world.
Yeah, I know. You decide when you’re tired playing like a puppeteer. Like a snap, You’re the one when to decide when it’s time. You hold the key. You have the button right there under your thumb, waiting perpetually, until you’ve think I’ve suffered enough and you’d push the button and end my life.

I dare you.

“To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in it’s perfect power.”

As strong as a hurricane, as destructive as a perfect storm, that was how I saw my mom.

My mom used to beat the shit out of me. God knows how much blows I had to endure during those years when my body was all too fragile to even take a simple slap.

I grew up fearing nothing but my mom. She passed away when I was in third grade.

I am now 27 years old. Looking back since she was gone, I’ve done a lot of things I am not proud of, and of course, things I know my mom would never be proud of.

Thinking about them makes me realize that I did deserved those beatings I had when I was little. Just when I thought I could have died because of too much suffering I had during those years, looking how I’ve become today, every stab, every bruise, every cut, every drop of blood I had when I was young from the hands of my mom, was all I deserved since she won’t be around to kill me today for every shameful person I’ve become.

Every time I chance upon any photo of her (which is not a lot) scares the shit out of me because looking at them, even in a faded snapshot, makes me feel guilty as hell. I now realized that whatever mom did to me when I was young was for me to get my acts together when I get older.

Whatever you did when I was young was a way of punishing me for my future stupidity because you will be nowhere around to cut my hands when I steal, tie me with rope upside down when go somewhere I am told not to, not feed me anything if I try to eat too much of what I am allowed to, and just let me stay in shadows since you will be too ashamed to let anyone know I am your daughter.

Now I know.

You knew all along what I would become one day.

Mom. I am sorry. I hated you because of what you did to me before. Now, I don’t know if I still have a reason to continue hating what you did to me.

I don’t know if I make you proud. I used to think that I do. Maybe, someday, I’d find a way to make you proud of me.

Nevertheless, Mother’s Day won’t be the same without remembering you.

The Love Letter




I just don’t know what to write.

I feel bad about myself lately.

Perfect life, jeez, where can you get that? Every single soul on this bloody earth has their own crisis, their own drama, their own fucking issues. But why the hell I feel like I’m alone when I’m with my family? Why do I feel like it’s the heaviest weight I ever have? Why I can’t feel ok when all I try is to feel like one every single day? What the heck is wrong with me?

Sometimes I imagine I’d be sitting on the beach getting high with alcohol, drugs, or just smoke whatever I got and then drive home and since I’d be high I’m gonna hit that tree or crash head on against a truck or any oncoming car or I’d swerve out of control and my car would drop off a cliff or something.

Sometimes I’d rather not go to sleep or wake up.

I’m suicidal.

It’s a term I’d rather not use but it’s how I feel.

I didn’t know I had a new year’s resolution until I’ve forgiven the people who broke my heart, and forgiving myself at the same time. To love is to let go of any hate you have inside. You couldn’t say you’ve finally moved on and is telling I love you’s to someone new when all the while there’s pain etched on your heart and hate in your vain that could explode anytime when triggered. To love is to be happy. To love is to let go. To let go is to hang on to love and memories, not hate and grudge. It felt good.