outside the box

man-watching-television

I woke up sometime last week and decided that I was going to stop watching tv. It’s day seven of no Game of Thrones or Friends, and I’ve started to have weird dreams. They say dreams are sometimes your brain’s way of filtering out the unnecessary, so it makes sense why my dreams resemble an incomprehensible mash of The Magicians, Peaky Blinders, and Planet Earth.

The television has always been my pacifier. I’ve been addicted to it since I was a toddler, up until now. I didn’t realize how addicted I was until I realized I was willing to go to the store at the middle of the night to get batteries for my dead Roku remote. Sorry to say fellow binge-watchers, but TV is actually really bad for you. You go through a phase of real depression when a show is over, you have insomnia, you’re at higher risk of dying from an inflammatory disease. You escape your anxious reality for a brief time, sure, but still have to face it again when you tune into the real world.

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the married life

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Photo courtesy of Zach & Rosalie.

A lot of people have asked me lately: How’s the married life?

To be honest, it’s not much different from how it was before we got married. T and I have been together for more than six years(!). We’ve lived with each other for most of those years and learned how to seamlessly manage our expenses, household, and each other along the way. Although we’ve had completely opposite upbringings and backgrounds, we have similar work ethic, interests, and goals that make us compatible.

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the curse

Beauty is a curse. As with dolls, people treat beauty as an object, a pretty play thing to puppet. No one will ever know your worth. No one will believe there is anything beyond you at face value because they can’t get past your face. Your intelligence will cause them to hate you because they don’t want you too perfect. Just the right amount of dumb. Who am I? Do as I please or give them what they want so they will like me, because at this point I feel like no one ever will know who I am.

My beauty is a curse. Even though someone calling you beautiful – in English, in Tagalog, in Italian, in Brooklyn – should be taken as a compliment, I cannot take it because even those closest to me know that I feel pretty ugly on the inside. I’m not sure if it was there before or after the pretty phase, but my pretty face isn’t all there is to me.