What Freud Thinks of Me

What Freud Thinks of Me Okay, again, I got this off Nat's blog...if you want to take the same test, click on the title to go to the link.

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Freudian Inventory Results

Genital (70%) you appear to have a progressive and constructive outlook on life. Latency (46%) you appear to have a good balance of knowledge seeking and practicality. Phallic (70%) you appear to have issues with controlling your sexual desires and possibly fidelity. Anal (50%) you appear to have a good balance of self control and spontaneity. Oral (33%) you appear to be stubbornly and irrationally against receiving help even when it might be the more intelligent option.

Take Free Freudian Inventory Test

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Freuds theorized that there are 5 stages of psychological development. At the oral stage the main issue is dependency, at the anal stage the main issue is self control, at the phallic stage the main issue is sexual identity, at the latency stage it's skill development, and at the genital stage its creativity and productivity.
Freud theorized that psychological problems are related to problems during one or more of these stages. For example, being too cared for or too neglected causes someone to be orally fixated, too much or too little control causes someone to be anally fixated, insufficient parental role modeling causes phallic fixation.
An orally fixated person is either irrationally dependent (expects what they want to just appear) or irrationally independent (always refuses help).
An anally fixated person is either irrationally self controlled and servile to authority or has no self control and is compulsively defiant of authority.
A phallicly fixated person is either a sexual compulsive (sexually innappropriate/promiscuous) or sexually repressed.
Freud did not classify any latent fixation but I think it is as plausible as those at the other stages. I speculate that people that like to learn and acquire knowledge without any purpose or people that are compulsively non curious represent both dysfunctional ends of the latency spectrum.
The genital stage is the final Freudian developmental stage and according to Freud people don't all succeed at this. Freud believed the ideal for human happiness is to be happy in love and work, problems in one or the other cause unhappiness.
Like any personality system, Freud's developmental levels are just a theory, so, be speculative about your results.

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this had really been a good test...i just had to laugh about the questions on my fidelity...i've always been faithful and look what it turned me into (lol)....and i always will be, i still consider it the lowest thing one can ever do to a person (do i detect i hint of bitterness in here? ha ha, only real friends would know that)...anyway, as for the rest, the survey was accurate enough but kinda too, i dont know, vanilla-ish of me. i never knew i was this cut-to-the-chase person. i guess living with 5 very difficult persons in all shapes, age, and sizes have taken out the excitement out of my life.

Pancaked

My family was eating the pancakes I prepared for merienda with gusto. Stories and comments flew freely from mouth to mouth that were dripping with amber-colored maple syrup swirled with lemony yellow melted butter that releases a feeling of hope and warmth that rises unto the ceilings, floating out the windows streaming with afternoon sunlight after a downpour, with each bite of the fluffy cake.

They have no idea what had transpired when I was preparing the pancake 30 minutes ago that my family were now devouring happily, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

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I made sure that the ingredients were ready. All of them stacked neatly, beside each other at the blue-tiled counter like soldiers in line formation, awaiting orders from their captain, maybe wondering who would be the first to die at this battle.

I cracked the egg on the side of the bowl. It sounded like someone's heart breaking. Next came the water, then the pancake mix, and then oil. Contrasting ingredients that resemble a morning after sleeping with someone you hardly know then waking up in his bed the following morning.

Furiously I stirred the ingredients, forming them into a lumpy batter, like the face of the moon seen through a powerful telescope at nights when there are no clouds.

I stirred until my arms ached, until the lumps disappear in accordance to the steps in the recipe. At last, the batter was now as smooth as a statue made from flesh-colored alabaster.

I opened the stove and waited for the griddle to heat, staring at the batter as I do so. How could something this mellow come from something as chaotic as ingredients thrown together in a bowl, coming from all directions, dropped like a kamikaze bomb, creating destruction.

I dropped the first batch of pancakes to be cooked, then it all became a blur of flipping, spreading margarine, drizzling maple syrup, and then stacking them like kiddie alphabet blocks, each cake dangling precariously on the edge. Some were burnt, because I left them on the griddle too long than what is asked for. Some were cooked prematurely, that when sliced, uncooked batter oozed out. But it would be a waste to throw them all out. So we had to contend to eat them even if they were cooked poorly, even if they do not taste good, that's why blueberry and raspberry jams were used to offset the unwanted taste. Yet some were cooked to perfection: gleaming brown on both sides like a farmer's broad back that glistens underneath the heat of the afternoon sun.

Why do I get the feeling that this is just more than a simple pancake that we were eating? This is my life that they were devouring. All twenty years of my life were thrown in that mixture, seeping its way into the folds of the batter that was stirred, then cooked into the hot griddle for everyone's verdict.

Were they happy? Were they satisfied? Is that distaste I saw in my father's mouth as he bit into a particular burnt portion of the cake? Does my nephew thinks it taste good or was he more interested in throwing pieces and crumbs on the floor? My mother, the champion bruiser and cooker in this family, what does she think of my cooking? Does it live up to her standards? Can I ever eclipse her legendary cooking prowess? Fact is, I don't really care.

I'm more concerned about the stack of plates that is ever growing on the kitchen sink. Dirty plates that are now calling my name, begging to be washed and placed in the dryer.

Sigh.

I picked up the sponge, pour soap on it and gave it a short squeeze. I opened the faucet, releasing a torrent of clear water and proceeded to wash each plate, one by one.

The Quest for Ardee's Holy Grail

Since I’ve just finished reading Dan Brown's "The Davinci Code" i think that this was an apt title for today's entry. I know, I know, I’ve said that I’ll be on-hiatus for a while but I just couldn't turn away a friend in need. Maybe after this we'd be even-steven, huh, ardee?

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What if, suddenly and without meaning to, your life fell into place, like a 10,000 piece jigsaw puzzle set in the likeness of Davinci’s Mona Lisa put together after laboring on it for weeks and weeks. What then? Would you savor the accomplishment by having it framed, with a gold-plated border and hang it where people could admire the it all the time so you can brag that you did it without any kind of help in only a matter of weeks. Or would you disassemble it again piece by piece losing interest in it then just chucking the pieces back into the box where it would just become some child’s plaything where it would get discarded too as soon as the child loses his taste for it.

Someone confided in me that he’d just found his inner peace after losing it and searching for it years and years ago. I was happy for him, truly I was. I’ve never so much envied him as he said that after being lost for the past couple of years, there he was, suddenly at peace with himself and to those that surrounded him. While I, holding no less than a college degree to my belt with some minor accomplishments on the side, still feels as if I’m not making any headway at all in the grand design of my so-called life. After battling emotional demons, getting heavily scarred from it in the process, my friend has sought and found calm. He is at peace. He is tranquil. Or so he thought.

His was the voice of reason. Not one people could count to him for advices, words of wisdom, and a listening ear. He would not offer half-baked advices, he would just listen and to those people who needs it the most, people who had so much to say but no one to say it to, that was enough. Even I had been guilty of foisting my trivial, sometimes not-so-trivial concerns, and he had been there. Always. Like clockwork. There were days when I would not hear from him for days, weeks even, but he'd call whenever I need him the most (usually Sundays).

But I’d forgotten that even those who listen needs to be listened to sometimes.

He is human after all.

And human wants and needs for his survival. Even if there was nothing to want anymore, because as I've said to him, sometimes it's the chase we want. And if we do get what we wanted, what do we do with it? Is it the same thing that we wanted in the first place? Should we have it framed, for the entire world to see or should we keep it in a box, tie it with a red ribbon and shove it under the bed?

It's a vicious circle, isn't it? We want what we cannot have and when we do acquire it, we long to be what we were before we got what we thought we wanted (I’m sooo confused right now). One can easily wish that he need not grow up, get older and die ultimately or not fall in love and get hurt but if, on some strange circumstance his wish be granted, where should he go then?

We were designed to be forever discontented. As a child, we long to eat gloopy Hershey’s bar and peanuts M&M's from morning til night until our teeth and stomach would ache we would ask our parents for a glass of warm milk or a plate of peanut butter sandwiches. It would go on and on until we get older, us, wanting to live our lives the way we wanted to. Wanting immortality by clinging to our material, emotional, and erotic wants. But suppose we earn all the money there is to earn in the world, fallen in and out of love, and fucked our lives away, what do we do then? Should we voluntary wish for death to come and take us away from all the superficialities that we thought we once wanted?

for Phoebe

For Phoebe
boys are cheats and liars
they're such a big disgrace
they will tell you anything to get to
second base-ball, baseball
he thinks he's gonna score!
if you let him go all the way...
then you are a
horticulture studies flowers
geologists studies rocks
the only thing a guy wants from you
is a place to put his
cock-roaches, beetles
butterflies and bugs
nothing makes him happier than a giant
pair of jug-glers and acrobats
and dancing bear named Chuck
all guys really want to do is
forget it, no such luck!

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about ardee:

ardee, whom i call phoebe/pheebs/angelo/fag, and who also goes by the name dylan is my one and only fag (aside from ryan, that is). we met through a mutual friend (karen) 2 years ago. i never knew that we'd be this close...because what brought us together originally was our love for the show 'charmed.' now phoebe knows me more than i know myself...(he's a shrink-in-training that moonlights as an eRep)...and god, ardee, is much of a whore than i am (rolling on the floor laughing!!!). phoebe and i could talk for hours over coffee or bottles of San Miguel Strong Ice and never run out of things to talk, diss, or laugh about. phoebe and i have this weird intution thing between us and we've proven on more than one occasion that we could read each other's minds. we both like older men, and as far as i know, we've never lied to each other. as mentioned before, phoebe knows more stuff about me than most people i know (including myself) and vice versa. phoebe is my fag, and i am his hag. =p

miss yah, pheebs! see you tomorrow!

What Type of Poetry Are You?

What Type of Poetry Are You?

got this off natasha's blog and this is me:

I'm the limerick, mired in muck.
I refuse to be bored or get stuck.
I like to offend, But not, in the end,
As much as to thwart expectations

ha ha..funny but accurate...

Extracted (part1)

ouch...im still hurting...gagging over a mouthful of cotton soaked in my blood. karen commented i must be in vampire-heaven right now, but my blood doesn't taste sweet. it tastes of salt mixed with copper. but it's not so bad. a bitter way of reminding me that bliss is not everything, that it could be found even in the deepest sorrow. you have to taste pain and it will not get better, despite what everybody says. you will have to keep biting the blood-soaked cotton until it cannot absorb anymore or your own blood runs out.

Benched

I sat on this bench, easily ambushed by memories. The smell of grass will always be forever trapped on the fringes my nostrils. The scent of the moist earth after a downpour is like you, gone after a few seconds but the scent will linger, getting stronger every time, short-circuiting my senses.

This is where I first met you. I was garbed in blue and white, and yours were purple and black. How we clashed, even then, I just didn't realize it. Back then, three years ago, the bench that I'm sitting on was just a bare wooden plank, battered as my heart during the tome and I sat on it as long as I could, as long as it can held me.

First game trepidations sank through my dry throat down to my gut where it settled in my already butterfly-filled stomach.

Then the shrill sound of the referee's whistle sliced through the tense atmosphere. I clenched my fist, and coiled my stomach, this is it. My first game, and I was ready. Or so I thought. You were running towards me, dribbling the black and white ball on your feet. I got my first look at you.

Scoring an easy goal against me, I knew right then, I would never win against you, that much I'd admit. You were always too fast, always one step ahead of me like Atalanta and her suitors, outrunning them but not out-cunning them. But there was no golden apple for me to throw for you. I was just as swept away like countless of star-crossed lovers that were talked about in books and songs and paintings.

I remember waiting for you in this same bench, watching you as you train. Admiring how agile you are on the field, how fast you are until you are nothing but a blur and I couldn't see you anymore. I remember how the ball would make an arc over the field as your spikes connect with it with a thud, like the same sound my silly heart always makes whenever you're around.

I remember how your cheeks would get pink from the exertion and how I would hand you a towel and bottled water, which you would drink from as if you'll never drink again. I wished then that you were drinking from me, or me, for that matter, that way our souls would commune for a brief hour before you sweat and all liquid would dispel itself from your pores. Sometimes I close my eyes to savor your scent (your shampoo or cologne, I never could tell) as it wafted from you and I was certain that that must've been forever I smelled.

We used to eat in the carenderia that I don't eat in anymore. I used to walk with you on the dark streets of Gelinos, stopping at the door of your dorm, where our awkward goodbyes and indefinite shrugs were drowned by the singing drunks from the pub nearby and the students milling out of the campus, talking about the day's test.

No, I do not pass there anymore. I go by a different route now. I rarely see you and by now, you must've broken already countless hearts, took someone's breath away without intending to. You could do that to me, you know. You used to have such power over me. But I had to keep my spikes on the shoe rack and hang my blue and white uniform on the closet someday, and that's just what I did.

Yanking the Plug

If I had my way, I’d move in with you in an instant. Maybe even marry you if given the chance. I’d have let my life be swallowed in yours; I would gladly merge myself in you as the smoothest of silks cling to my skin after every bath. I will wear these clothes, as you will engulf me in the unsafe-security of your life. So that we’ll be bound to take each step together, every side steps however which way made together. We could be each other’s shadows and maybe I’d stitch you to myself like Wendy stitched Peter Pan’s unto himself after keeping it folded beneath her own silken dresses in her antique drawer.

But if ever that would be the case, someday I’d have to un-stitch every poorly stitched edges until my hands get calloused from doing so, to atone myself for sins that you and I have both done. Someday, I’d have to put you away, have you folded and tucked in my bottom drawer, have it locked and keep the keys in my pocket because by then, the once-comfortable shadow I’ve worn might be in tatters and shan’t be worn anymore.

There’d be no vine-covered cottages for us, where we would’ve spent each day of our blissfully wretched lives even though I already know the plot of the garden we will plant, every seed to be planted, every plant to be cultivated, every stem to be grafted.

There’d be no domestic animals for us to feed and keep even though I know that we will adopt two blue-eyed, white Huskies: one male, one female named Sam and Lighting respectively. No cats would be allowed because I’m quite allergic to it, I wouldn’t want to sneeze each time I pick them and die on the floor hacking nor find my bedposts scratched because of its territorial issues. Sea creatures are definitely allowed; I could stare at them for hours until I’d find myself with a diamond-patterned shell on my back hiding from curious-lookers.

There’d be no kids for us. No bassinet to paint, no formulas to fix at 4 in the morning, no incessant wails reverberating in the walls of our vine-covered cottage. Although I would have wanted to named our kid Eric if it’s a boy or something romantic-sounding like Guinevere if it’s a girl.

There’d be no bed for us to share, no table to dine-in even if I’ve been thinking of getting oak-made furniture (because oaks are supposed to last a long time) and I would’ve matched our sheets with the curtain’s color which would’ve been robin’s egg blue complemented with white. Our kitchen would have to be yellow with hardwood floors accented with old and mellowed red bricks with big windows so sunlight could stream through while I fry the eggs over-easy for breakfast.

If I had my way. But I don’t.

I don’t even know your face nor caressed your morning stubble nor kiss you the way I would. If I had my way. You’re just a faceless voice connected to me through this white wire that keeps getting tangled in me as I walked across my own kitchen (colored white for sterility) to grab a cold beer from the fridge. Twisting and turning I futilely tried to release myself until I had to yank it out of the plug. And the line went dead.

scheduled for surgery

im scheduled for surgery this thursday..damn molars...aargh!

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over lunch, we (mom, nitwit brother, me) were talking about my impending surgery this thursday and, weirdly enough, i told them that i am not scared. both of them scoffed, not believing as the procedure, which will take about an hour and a half, would include slicing open my gums, sawing the crown of my tooth in half before pulling the root then stitching it up. what made this procedure twice as hard is the direction of my tooth growth which is horizontal, therefore classifying it as an abnormal. oh, and did i mention that the same thing goes for my other molar as well. oh yeah, i'll be undergoing the damn thing TWICE, if you can believe that...oh well.

as previously mentioned, my mom and the freakazoid, were bewildered by my indifference to the pain it might cause. it's not a big deal, really, i'm more pained by how much it would cost me (2500 a tooth, ugh!) ...good thing my new job would pay me really well...LOL...

Sleep, Interrupted

I’ve always envied how some people could easily during car rides no matter how bumpy or reckless the driver can be. Like last night for instance, after a long trip, I was watching my cousin's feeble attempt to stay awake even though his eyes were already drooping like a sunflower during dusk and each bump sends him nodding into oblivion, until finally Hypnos' summons have been answered and my cousin succumbed to a losing battle. Feeling sadistic, I kept watching him in his uncomfortable position, cramped up in the backseat with not much of legroom and wondered how he could doze off so easily despite my father's intermittent yet sudden brakes and jarring humps that we pass through. He did not even stir as my father navigated our silver sedan into this dangerous curve while I was clutching the passenger's seat headrest, clinging on for dear life, not feeling as immortal as I usually do which I acquired after reaching the age of 21, unlike some people, I suppose.
My mother, too, was fast asleep on the front seat, blissfully unaware (or maybe purposely ignoring) the seatbelt that digs itself painfully on her ribs every time my father makes a sharp turn, snapping her neck back and forth like Bruce Lee's infamous drunken master fighting stance and leaving a reddish diagonal mark from her shoulder down to her abdomen like a sash won after a beauty contest.
I could only shake my head in bewilderment.
Of the million car rides I already endured in this lifetime alone (minus the times during my past lives when I think that I had been once a man and the other life in which I think I had been a cow), I only slept while traveling about once or twice or maybe even thrice because I am somehow deathly afraid of sleeping while traveling or if some transportation I'm riding is somehow in motion, even if the trip would take 5 hours or more.
I simply can't stand to keep my eyes closed.
An assiduous note-taker, I take delight in every scenery that passes by while on car rides, whether it be a cow chomping down on blades of grass in the pastures or the imposing gray skyscrapers which dots every street in Makati or even the drops of rain that slid into the panes which I idly trace in the comforts of the leather seats forming shadows of dots into my skin while waiting for the light to become green. There were unpleasant car rides, though, that still plague my already fitful sleep. During those times when I was into my restless-wakefulness mode, I once saw a tangerine Honda Civic overturned from the opposite lane, swiping in its wake, a maroon van and silver Ford Lynx, leaving in its trail, bits of metal, jagged glasses, and pools of blood that promised of lives cut short and mangled, decapitated limbs. Sometimes, in my dreams, I can still hear a man's skulls connect with the pavement with a sickening crunch that sounded like potato chip cracked in half, only more sinister and lethal, as his motorcycle skidded, avoiding a stray cat and truck, leaving him in a mangled heap sans helmet (perfect location for crime processing).Car rides had provided my life with many blissful moments. Companionable silences with the driver whose name I might never quite forget but shall remain nameless for the time being. I used to watch him steer the car powerfully, so smoothly as he steered our lives in routes and highways and avenues that I can now navigate even in sleep. There are instances when I curl up on the front seat, with the radio turned up and long, sad love songs (think: Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me”) filled the interior as I stared and stared at the driver admiring how he could be so concentrated on driving and watching for signs and navigating busy lanes while somehow finding where my hands are without looking as If I am some intangible part of him.
Of course, there were times when a slam on the car door and an indefinite shrug and half-hearted wave was the last I ever hear from a person. No, not the slammed door, but the engine revving as it zooms back into the highway leaving a trail of gray smoke, which now, I realized, was the color of heartbreak and regret.
Cleaning up the remnants of a take-out dinner, after a long, long drive home. I realized why I do not sleep during car rides. It's the fear of not reaching my destination that keeps my eyes open.
I slammed the door shut. Now I can sleep.