for the past few days, i pretended to be brosnan's lonely character who plays a jaded hitman (not that i wanted to kill anybody) in the matador for the sheer indulgence in self-pity because i love it. i am not happy. grandpa has cancer and it's sick that everybody's waiting for him to ring the alarm and i couldn't care less about them. i simply don't. the same goes to the realization over the fact that i've been a world class arse but i've got my reasons and i'm banking on some pseudo-psychic thing so that the message gets across. maybe i'll make the issue clear one day, say, on the 5th of never. and hey, the tourney's coming so go crazy. seriously, i will go crazy, like skipping my afternoon lessons just to run around the track in my boxers at 12 pm, believe me, if we do well in the tourney which i doubt we will because i don't think we will. soccer, fuck, i hate it because it's my only remedy.