This is a rather random post but I felt like I had to write something since nothing seems to be coming to me lyric wise.
Today, I went to eat ramen with my little bear cub. He has a spot that he likes a lot–we usually go there whenever he’s craving ramen, but today we did not go there. Not because we felt like being adventurous but because the place that makes vermicelli salad was closed and I really did not want to drive across town to a different one. So we saw Ichiddo Ramen at the end of the little connecter buildings of food (I have no idea what the actual technical term for this is) and I suggested we try it out since it was literally 3 feet from us.
Although I don’t have much ramen experience, I didn’t really find myself liking ramen that much, at least not the restaurant kind. Often times the broth felt too strong or the ingredients didn’t seem the most fresh. This was not the case at Ichiddo Ramen. Expecting it to be the same, if not similar, results to the short list of other ramen places I had tried, I picked the first ramen name that caught my eye and just went for it.
(This should probably be where I insert a beautiful photo of the bowl but sadly, I do not have one.)
I’m not sure what I was expecting when it came to the table. I guess I expected the noodles to be harder than they were and the broth to smell strongly of either beef or pork: whatever they decided was the base for the broth. This was most definitely not the case. It resembled something more to kapong broth, giving off the curry kind of feel but also completely different. It wasn’t anywhere near as oily. The broth was an attractive light red with speckles of yellow here and there. My poached egg sat hopefully on the side of the noodles, seeming to hold on for dear life before finally surrendering itself to the broth. The noodles themself were array, not placed in any particular way as if presenting itself for a perfect minute Instagram photoshoot. The charsui sat on top, sprinkled over the noodles and pooling into the red and yellow broth, mixed together with the green onion garnish.
Just as it sat in front of me in a mediocre manner, I treated it so. I poked my wooden disposable chopsticks into the noodles, stirring it up and mixing everything together chaotically. At that moment, I did not care for it to look good. I did not care if it did not smell strongly. All I cared about was cooling it down, knowing it was too hot to eat at the moment. Thinking back, I had only had a yogurt for break at work and had headed over to the clinic with him right after, leaving me with six to seven hours without food in my system. (With the whole period thing going on, I was running low on poop as well.)
Bear Cub, after mixing his up a bit, took a spoonful of his broth and tasted it, something I had totally neglected. He said that his was “alright.” I followed suit right after, realizing late that I had no actual idea of what I was about to put in my mouth. I stirred it up some to move the meat out of the way and took a quick sip from the spoon, proceeding to choke on a few stray meat that decided to parkour in my throat. Bear Cub laughed at me, stating that it wasn’t that spicy. Little did he know, I almost died before his eyes–if only those pieces of meat were 600% bigger.
The broth was amazing. Of all the places I have eaten ramen at (meaning only 4 places so please take my opinion with a grain of salt) this broth is my absolute favorite. There was a slight hint of the base of beef broth, yet it wasn’t so strong as to have the odor, nor did it taste too strongly. I’m not sure what else they had put in it but it all blended excellently. The broth was strong in its own unique way without being too over powering, sliding down my throat like silk. Upon taking a bite of the noodles, meat, and garnish, I was in heaven. Okay, maybe not that great but it was super good! The broth not only tasted amazing but the meat did not present itself as charred to a state that it became too coarse to compare to the smooth broth. The garnish was just the right amount of softness. The bamboo! Oh, how could I forget about the bamboo. For the first time in my life of eating bamboo in a noodle dish, it did not taste like it came from a jar or a can. It was also a perfect amount of crunch and soft. Not too much that it’d cause a hindrance to the teeth by getting in-between, but still having that hint of bamboo monch.
Everything seemed to be a perfect blend. The smooth broth, the fresh tasting veggies and the perfectly cooked meat! My first actual meal of the day and it was some actual bomb ass ramen. I was so happy I danced in my seat (to which Bear Cub made fun of me for).
I am sad to say, however, that because my stomach had not been fed for such a long time, it had not expanded to its regular “we-out-to-EAT” size. I had to sit sadly, trying to wait for my stomach to pass on, wishing I could eat and experience more of this greatness in front of me. In the end, my stomach persisted and I had to leave the establishment very upset because I didn’t finish my food but was full already.
Ichiddo Ramen, I will come back for you when I have more money! I will bring more people to enjoy your food, and I will finish. my. gat. damn. order.
I’m still struggling to convince myself that a small infant needs me to wake up every day because I, as an adult, do not.
I want to die.
I’m not sure how I came upon this idea. Sometimes I wonder if it was the media that fed me this idea, if I really felt it within me myself, or if I had convinced myself this otherwise.
The truth is, I’m a coward; a coward about many a things and also nothing.
Some of life knows me not to be a coward and yet in it’s presence I am only a coward.
I started cutting when I moved, because I am a coward. I kept saying it over and over again, I want to die, I want to die. I kept writing it over and over again, please die, please just die. Sometimes it’d slip out during conversation with other people. So, I started to cut. Not because I wanted to die but because I “wanted to die.”
For wanting to die, I sure don’t like pain. Cutting hurts. Well, it stings. It stings because it is a small simple cut, and it’s a small simple cut because I am a coward, because I am afraid it’ll hurt.
In the end, I am left laying on my side with my belly overlapping my thighs where my cuts are to be. And I know that tomorrow morning, I will wake up to find spots on my bed and my thighs. I will wake up to find that I am alive because it hurt, so I decided against dying.
It hurts because I am alive, but it’ll feel like nothing when I’m dead. There will only be nothing. I’m beginning to think that that might be what I’m more scared of. I’m scared of nothing. Of being nothing, of meaning nothing, of staying nothing. And I wish I could, more than anything, take it all back. Every step, every breathe, all the wasted energy. When I wake up in the morning, disappointed that I did, I wish I could give all this “waste” to someone who wanted it. Every morning light, every piece of energy, every single one of my wasted breaths. For I know not what to do with it, but have seen many who seem to want and need it more than me.
16 January 2018
I hate you
For teaching me first
that I am disgusting
that I must first seek perfection
in the only form that is you
I hate you
for making me first realize that I am nothing better
To the common man that find disgust
in all action and imperfection
I hate you
For teaching me to be the way I am
Truly a frightful monster to the other sex
so much so, I cannot embrace myself
I hate you
For abandoning me
Denying my existence for as small as I was
fearful of the power I had over you.
I hate you
For filling me with ambition
Hoping it would take me somewhere
so that it could be a blanket over the shame of me
I hate you
For making me smaller than I should really be
for believing the monster
believing in me
for not having died as soon as can be
I hate you the most
cause I hate being me
and despite broken mirrors
not a cut to be seen
I hate you
We haven’t been dating for that long. I get that to us it feels like it’s been a while but to others, it shouldn’t–because honestly, it hasn’t been that long.
Our families ask if we plan on getting married. At two months. My sisters ask if I can imagine myself spending the rest of my life with him. I answer honestly. No.
They complain like banshees. Then what am I doing? Why bother dating? You need to think of the future.
As if I haven’t. You’re always going off and off about the future. As if I’m not always thinking about it. As if it doesn’t stick in my brain like placque. As if it doesn’t haunt my closet at night.
That’s just it though. I’m always thinking about the future. But it’s never long. Not mine. Everyone else’s future seems to expand into eternity while mine struggles to make the year. Maybe two months–maybe three months. I can’t tell. The future is darker than a secret.
Now I get to ask you, is it so wrong for me to try and have some fun? Or is it that you take the thought that because it is fun it is without thought or planning? I don’t understand why I am to be punished for trying to enjoy myself. Why am I only a child when you disagree?
Perhaps I was wrong. I figured that since I can’t seem to see a future for more than a year there would be no harm in having fun. In just gaining an experience before I go. But, I guess you’re right. Why did I bother? I thought I deserved some happiness. Maybe. Possibly. But obviously I am wrong. Since there seems to be no long term agenda with this other human being I should not bother. No lesson to learn, no experience to take. My options are forever, or never.
You’re right, though. Feelings are a fragile and fickle thing. I shouldn’t bother. I’m not going to live long anyway–to connect with someone before I go seems like smudging a painting in a museum I don’t belong in.
Next time I’ll think more about the future. I won’t venture out. I won’t say a thing. There will be no marks and I apologize.
24 September 2017
All that I asked for was transparency.
That was it.
I just wanted transparency.
I always kept you in the know
I was transparent about my feelings.
But because you didn’t like me
didn’t want to know
didn’t want to see
didn’t want to feel
it didn’t matter
So in the end I can only conclude that it would be the same.
A pathetic ditch effort for the result of nothing
You were my last string.
The last thing keeping me sane
The only grasp of hope in reality’s face
And I was wrong to do that
Because you didn’t care to know.
Didn’t care to see.
Didn’t care to feel.
Didn’t care… about me.
So that was my fault.
For putting my hope in the wrong thing
For knowingly attaching my heart
onto something I knew was only temporary
It was my fault for making you my last hope. And because you didn’t care to know
didn’t care to feel
didn’t care to see
didn’t care about me
you were gone.
Along with my hope.
So when the small voices would call
from the farthest distance
telling me not to jump
I ignored them.
I didn’t care to know
didn’t care to see
didn’t care to feel
didn’t care about
So I jumped.