Like Alice in Nightmare-land

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I woke up shaking and sweating this morning. Not because of the sweltering heat that ushers the start of summer, but because of a dreadful dream that rendered me gasping for breath. But, however much I try to remember what it was, I came off blank like white noise after the station ID says bye-bye to their regular programming on the telly. What I remember is the feeling it left me afterwards – DREAD.

It’s enough to make me imagine myself as a scared teddy bear to lessen the feeling that peskily took residence inside my chest.

According to studies, an average human being can generate around four to six dreams during REM, the deepest stage of sleep. However, it is hard to remember most dreams especially when it occurs during the first hours of REM. For someone who’s been plagued with insomnia for years, I can remember some of my dreams in vivid details and sometimes write them down on my journal when I wake up – well, the most impressive or disturbing ones that I could remember.

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The Root of My Cynicism

I’ve done a lot of root cause analysis in conjunction with my profession and suffice to say, it’s about time to do the same process with why I ended up being cynical. After having a brief – and not so happy – trip down memory lane, I finally found the beginnings, if not the cause, of all my semi-pessimist outlook in life. 

When I was younger, I’ve been raised to be conscientious, which eventually lead me into extremes as I grew older.

I’ve always lived by this saying . . .

Think first before you speak or do something.

It’s what the nuns, confessors and advisers drummed into my being while attending private Catholic schools during my formative years. Up until now, whenever something comes along or I’m trying to decide what to do, I never follow my gut instincts. I always deliberate and analyze things first before moving forward. That led me to become a procrastinator and inadvertently an over-analytical person.

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How To Effectively Gag Your Inner Critic

If you have been rejected numerous times like me in the course of my kind of short life, you’d feel like an indelible shadow envelops you by now. It’s a mocking shadow in the guise of an invisible friend, whispering twisted little bits and making you more and more buried in the quagmire that is self-pity. I call it the inner critic.

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Yes . . . everyone has an inner critic unless you’re very egotistical and full of sh*t, reckless and unable to feel like a human being. It’s that conscience-type maudlin voice inside your head that feeds your self-doubt and makes you more depressed, telling you that you’re not good enough or you’re not worthy to be loved. 

In order to complete get away from the manacles of my inner critic, I am surrounding myself with things I love and stay away from things that may remind me of why I was in the funk anyway. When someone or something slaps your cheek with negativity, slap it back with positivity and stick your tongue out for good measure. 

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Be The Special Brick In The Wall

Try as I might, I can’t shake it off. I’m having a bad case of LSS (Last Song Syndrome).

This started a few hours ago when I went through some of my records to decide which album would be my soundtrack for the day. While riffling through the stack, I unconsciously popped my copy of the The Faculty OST. It’s been a long time since I played it – I realized – when the familiar notes drifted from my player and Alice in Chain’s Layne Staley’s voice crooned . . .

We don’t need no education.

We don’t need no thought control.

Class of 99’s rendition of the Pink Floyd original brought back memories of the past and the debilitating fact that almost made me catatonic. Like everyone else in the universe, I’ve become just another brick in the wall.

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Nine Months Later and Beyond

Valentine’s Day is over, both pre and post celebrations. Finally! 

However, the trickling effects of all that lovey-dovey holiday is still in effect. I bet in nine months, there will be plenty of squalling babies delivered in tons of hospitals and medical centers all over the globe. Fortunately, I won’t be amongst the screaming ladies in ORs, shouting for all they’re worth and cursing the men who’ve donated their genes.

Am I really lucky? Did I just dodge a bullet by not getting and won’t be getting impregnated this year?

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I recently read an article about superstition regarding the Chinese zodiac. For the cultural and supernatural know-it-alls, 2013 is the Chinese Year of the Water Snake and based on Feng Shui, it won’t be an auspicious year to deliver bouncing baby boys and girls that will carry on being born in the year of snake until they die. Because of this, the whole multiplying thing is discouraged in Chinese communities.

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