Somebody Tell Me What the Heck am I Doing

So, I came upon another daily encounter of my stupidity with salad.

1. A cucumber that has been left in the fridge for a week (because your mom came over to make other deliciously unhealthy food so you forsook the sad salad for the moment), is completely (questionable) but edible.

2. There is absolutely no correct way of slicing/cutting a tomato + avocado. Those squishy suckers just comes off in slabs and you deal with it. Especially if the avocado is half overdue – as aforementioned with all my deadline-fruits/vegetables. Thanks Mom.

3. Not checking the fridge to see your stock is amateur. Now you’ve got about half a dozen tomatoes for one, Duck.

4. Who the hell invented goat cheese and that gooey stuff in the middle? Was it meant to be put as gourmet on some artistan sandwich? Because I bought it to feel cool. Then realized there was in fact an expiration date, thus commenced to just slowly and painfully mulled the sucker off with a fruit knife and let it melt in one zesty fiasco fiesta. That’s some heavy stuff.


5. All the above is acceptable as my salad was completely drenched in dressing. Plus, accompanied by boiled mini potatoes. Cute, but they make you gassy, so don’t do that.

p.s eating salad as mentioned above does not justify your new desire to be ‘healthy’ Duck. It’s called being poor and on a budget and cheating because you had a Starbucks cinnamon swirl later that day. So much for that early morning work out.

What am I doing working out? I found a better answer than to say I want to get fit or get disciplined. I just want my friggin annual money’s worth. Motivational enough for some of you ladies? Just remember each time you’re craving to buy those sweets or itching for that new sweater, it’s all because of this, so go kill that gym membership with a vengeance.

Though in all fairness, the one I’m attending is another format of me cheating. A 30 minute kickboxing, pilates, self-defense 13-rotating stations one-shot work out jam? I can convince myself in two minutes intervals at each station I’m doing alright (for the most part). The best thing about it is getting your own kick-ass leather boxing gloves and gym totes. Mine is baby blue, but who gives a shit if I can pack a good punch right?

Then again…getting completely beat by a laid down punching bag between your loins should ring a bell for some significant physical changes that needs to be taking place in fear for my human pride. I will not get owned by something we are asked to put between our thighs and kick like madwomen.

Too weird? You’re right. Maybe I should consider like, therapy.

It’s alright because I ended up at the Vancouver’s Writer’s Festival. Last minute drop by in the down pour that has been happening. I swear the weight of all that water has drowned that poor island an inch. Also engaged in conversation with some otherwise random peeps here and there as well. Discovered after watching a considerably new 21st century comedy, of which I feel my sophistication on this blog does not permit for me to disclose, that conversation with just any one guy will not simply do. Of course all in depth day to day epiphanies about your true self happens in the midst of laughing at inappropriate jokes. Perhaps I am potentially genuinely am intrigued by this certain man I have been contemplating. Intrigued as to not give away the chase. We’re all getting a little too caught up in this rat race, ey?

It was an overall good night though. I decided on the way back home that the cars passing by on the streets seemed to me like wild animal runs on African planes. In my field of vision is the camera’s eye, and we all watch intently as they fled across that white border. Then a looming giant nudges it’s weight into the picture on the peripheral, large and impatient, while one last lollygagger was tucking in it’s bottom, zooming past to be with the pack ahead. The bus turns the corner and roars past me.

I have been way too tired for the night.

It’s 4:11am. Somebody tell me what the heck am I doing.


Besides the dental floss
Clings, a crumpled towel
Thrown off to join the golden repertoire
Against misaligned bathroom tiles.

The smoke trails away in such that I’ll bet it
To the rest of the household where certainly
The frame of our minds exposes, wherein
Dampened echoes
Translates to sodden heat and writhing visions
Mounting onto slick walls
Into supple realism,
The room recollects itself, heaving.

Beneath the thin light under the doorway
Speaks blurred visions,
A astigmatism on the other side of the translucent mirror.
It feels like breathing water
From when you grasped my hair
The soul yawns
Feeble respite

Since when did I get to know you?

Well, I’ve Been Back and Forth

Recently I find myself pondering in a lot of ways what I represent. Particularly on my blog if you are really going to solidify the epitome of a human being into a concrete (somewhat, web and all) substance.

I come across bloggers from time to time that seamlessly share their life stories and find that I don’t find that weird. It is completely strange though, if you really think about it. Then some days I feel inspire – or ambitious – and try to write you some not-so-funny anecdotes about my life, or just another sincerely irrelevant event that only true artists can make a topic of. Turns out I didn’t find them all that funny. Sarcastic? Yes. Puny? Almost indefinitely. Then I tried my hand at some inspirational writing, and though it was well received, I felt like such a phony. I mean, who talks like that?

Right, you guys do.

So who is the Duck exactly? What with her faulty poetry and handsome literature, if the Duck does in fact say so herself. Honestly though, they are much too complicated, if I weren’t inside my own brain with all the excessive background noises going on for each piece I don’t think I would like to read them either. Don’t worry about it, you don’t owe me a thing.

I just figured as well that the ‘Laughing Duck’ as a title is truly the biggest scam on the internet. Some works were truly done by one sullen, lonesome ducklet. So lots of duck hunting soul searching has been coming about. In fact, this entire post too, was taken after another blogger’s voice. Sigh.

But anyway, you don’t mind right? Go figure.

In Sharing Our Lot

I’ll often read something quite private out here and understand the feeling that the author feels safe to do so. So many people pour out their troubles and discontent, alongside their secret desires and frankly strange obsessions; posted and updated to their blogosphere, vulnerable for the next person to see. I try to wrap my head around this phenomenon. How safe can one feel exposed and yet secured between the two of us.

Who am I precisely to the next person who may stumble upon my blog? Do I care to revise and edit my current post so that it will undeniably burst in figurative terms trying to embody all of me, just so that it may per chance captivate you, so that I may appear significant and sophisticated in some way.

Who do we blog for?

Sometimes during the day an excellent phrase might flow through my mind and I would think to myself what, “what a great phrase” and entertain the idea of the next masterpiece I will post. On my worse days, I feel the need to share with you all how truly revolting my experiences may be. I try to find words that will take on the bluntness of my emotions while trying not to think about any specific individual who may read them, but just another anonymous figure who have taken a few intimate moments to share with me.

Recently, I find that I am truly the lowest in being lonesome.

I believe this emptiness is not one of pure physical senses, though that may play a large part, but as well for once I am touching the fringe of what people may call their salvated completion with something Holy. Though I don’t count myself to be an overtly religious person, I feel that we may all just want to be a part of something greater than ourselves, and as I speak those thoughts I am mindful that I have never truly submitted myself to be a person of faith. I may even go as far to say that I am not faithful, perfectly aware of the ambiguous meaning behind it. I don’t really understand it, but if what I had said earlier in this post were to be true, then why would we not put our best foot forward for all these anonymous figures to be impressed? Wasn’t that my goal?

I share with you guys words that I would not say aloud. They are so private and despicable, in want for the purely selfish reason of sharing something. I recall standing in the shower, greasy wet hair because I have not showered for the last two days, a slant body, quite starved of proper nutrition, dry weathered lips, just holding myself and pissing in the rain; I feel it may somewhat summarize the feeling of being here. I am naked.

I think alas I may begin to know how it feels for other bloggers to share their life. In the strangest of ways you wish to let other people know who you are so that they may pay their respects(?) They may even like your work; commend you. At the same time I still slightly shrink away from any comments though I would love the feedback. Some days I would check voraciously for a sign of life – somebody who read this and liked it, but could I ever stand the thought of someone reading this in front of me? I want you to read it, but I also want this to be all my own. I want you to expose me.

What am I aiming for when I share with you my thoughts? Does it truly matter whatever it may be that I am wallowing in. I just wish to write forever, trying to disclaim my conscience. A purge of provocation. A whole another world I want to hide in forever, even with all these people I love around me, ‘I cannot cater to you, I am so sorry’.I cringe because I am lonely. Maybe it is something as simple as wanting sex – though I cannot let myself loose that far – I am just trying to figure out what I want, versus what I really need, since sometimes they truly could be two different things.

I feel I am missing something in life, and in sharing our lot maybe we can try to find out what that is.

Happy Endings

Sometimes, well a lot of the times, I feel so scared of losing my purpose.

After reading a story, what exactly do we do by ourselves? Our limbs are numb and shocked back into reality, the day has passed and the story is over, but you aren’t satisfied. Why can’t it be selfishly sufficient to just have a happy ending? Naive and childish as that may be, can’t we all derive a sense of self-pity to just want a brief longevity of a happy ending?

Sometimes I ask these ridiculous questions because good authors almost never make happy endings, and I wonder if I could satisfy myself with the delusion that perhaps all our lives are a heroically written tragedy. What may the reader, the third party, reading our story feel? Do they wish for a better ending for each one of us as well?

I think some time ago in the early days of high school a teacher told me that a strategy to write good stories is more or less to have terrible things happen to great people. There is however a skill in that concept, to have those incidents happen in such a gut wrenching way you still reserve dignity as a writer. It made me think how sinful we are that we would like to read such stories, all these sad endings, and praise them indefinitely. Most likely wishing deep in our hearts that maybe there is always a further story than the one we know. Whomsoever these characters may be, they have become so real to us that we dream of a better future knowing full well that was not the intention of the story. So we just keep falling in love with stories, one after another. I keep looking to satiate myself with another story, another adventure, another life. I’d even look at one shot stories; let me fall in love quickly, quickly. I’d turn away from the clock when I glance at it, curious to see how much time has been wasted, at the same time hoping it will escape my notice. That at one point it will be too late for me to do anything for the day and I’ll feel a slight dull thud in my chest of spite, as well a repressing caress, where a part of me reveres in my incompetence.

I just don’t want to face the person in the mirror. That greasy hair and face. Those cold feet.

I still think though, for all the characters that I have come to know, I would just want to selfishly grant them a happy ending, more for myself than out of some altruistic motive. It’ll be somewhat decent, something improbable in their situation but alas something we can peacefully close the cover on. Have them live forever in that bliss, it’s a closure that we may from time to time peek into when we don’t want to look at the rest of the world.

As I lay awake on the weekend, I look around me and I do not want to get up. I always hated this lethargic feeling, it is an escape; I do not look at my phone, I do not remove myself from the same spot I had sat on for the past 6 hours. I do not change my clothes, or wash the dishes from two days ago, or turn away from the dream like state of the dim light in my small kitchen. I hardly get up to pee. It’s certainly not really respectable. I simply do not want to fight for a future. Too many times, as melodramatic as it may seem, I feel I live in such a haze. That there is no real existence. That all those people who believe I am strong – I still feel so cowardly. I have not truly known real fear in this society, to suffer from financial stress, to feel lonesome, to endure the daily grind. I feel as though I wish to delay this gratification of a better life as a punishment of sorts. So I escape into stories, hoping against hope that they will turn out better. Let it be cheesy and impossible, let that need be satiated, the want of something simply transient and beautiful.

Perhaps we’ve been secretly only wishing all these happy endings so that they may happen to us also. I wonder if it keeps us alive, fully human, to have this feeble hope. I guess I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, or simply incredibly naive and lazy, indecent even despite the drama of destruction, I wish for a happy ending. In this case, I suppose we were never meant to forget those stories then.

Isn’t it funny that I used to criticize my sister for being so naive? That 12 year old girl trying too hard to be a grown up.