Boys and Girls, this blog is officially shutting down. This will be the last entry.

Thanks for reading my thoughts, letting me share bits of myself with you, and all the emails.

Why am I shutting down? Well, a number of reasons. I started this with the idea of making it a real online journal, no holds barred. For a time, I was satisfied with it and it was all very real. I felt like I could write about anything, without worries of offending anyone or overly embarassing myself.

I feel that doesn't hold true anymore. As arrogant as it may sound, I believe that reading a person's blog, just like a diary, is a privelege. And when you're the one given the privelege, you should never make the writer feel uncomfortable in her own space. You should never make the writer feel ill at ease in her world. Most importantly though, you should never ask THIS writer to explain herself. I will tell you if I want you to know, if not, then screw it.

I think the publicity of it all has made people forget that reading this is not a right, that they don't have a right to know what's going on in my life. It is, after all, MY life. I will do with it as I see fit, in my best interests.

Unfortunately, I've been feeling like my blog doesn't belong to me anymore, especially in these past few days. It's beginning to feel like I'm always holding back, like I'm losing perspective of who I am and I'm beginning to fall into a mould that is alien to me. And I hate it. To borrow a thought from an ex-blogger, I'm going to stop flaying myself in pubic now.

As sorry as I am to let my blog go, I think that it has to be done. Better it than me.

Salamat sa pagbasa. Have a nice life everyone.

EMAIL WANDA

Interesting day.

I was on the bus stop to go to Fleet bank this afternoon. Since I didn't really know what bus to get on, I asked this lady which one was going downtown (Woodbridge, not Manhattan). She pointed to the right waiting shed, so I started trotting over there. This blond guy who was standing beside us walked beside me and started a conversation. Apparently he was trying to go to the same area. As it turned out, he was a marine back from Kuwait, on his 30 day leave!

So we chatted until the bus got there, and I went in and took my seat. He sat right across and we picked up where we left off, telling me about how the sky turns red just before a sandstorm, how all his friends were either in jail, working as cops, or with him in the military, and how he wished he could go back because, as he said, the marine corps is one big band of brothers and they had to be there for one another.

Anyway, we got off the bus (at the exact same stop) and I told him I had to go to the bank. He walked me over there, and I went in, took my time dealing with the bank people, and lo and behold, when I came out he was still there.

I told him I had to go the train station, and he offered to walk me over there. We stopped by Quikchek first to get coffee.

At the train station I discovered that the next bus wasn't coming for another 45 minutes. He offered to keep me company while I waited. Well, if nothing else, it was a very interesting wait. He was telling me that even if they really weren't pro-war, this was what they were trained for and this was something they had to do. This was part of being a marine -- you had to be ready for whatever was asked from you, whenever it was asked, even if you aren't necessarily in concurrence with the issues at hand. That was part of the job description and that was part of serving the country. He also told me about the rivalry between all the different groups in the military -- how marines hate the army, the air foce and the navy (okay, everyone else), because their training is wimpy and they have the nerve to act all macho and tough. Ha ha. I had to laugh at that.

He reminded me so much of my brother! Talk about an overload on nostalgia. We talked about Daytona, drag racing, his car which he sold (a souped-up '79 Camaro), the car his friend modified (a '67 Camaro), being banned at this race track near Trenton becasue he crashed his car there, and a whole lot of other automobile-related stuff.

He also seemed to have led a pretty amusing life. He spent a couple of months in juvie for beating up a 45 year old alcoholic who was (allegedly) raping his friend's thirteen year old cousin. Their family has been harassed countless times because his dad's a "Dirty Harry" kind of cop. He's been to rehab (but not for anything more serious than weed). He got kicked out of his house when he was 15 and had to find a job to be able to rent his own house. He finished school without any support (at all) from anyone. Now he's up for sergeant in four months, which will make him the youngest sergeant in his group.

We also talked about the fun part of being a marine -- which is getting deployed all over the world. Last year he was stationed at Okinawa, the year before he was in Australia. Plus he showed me his military ID card which usually lets him in bars and clubs even if he's not 21 yet. He's been to so many different places, done so many different things, and he's only 21. Actually, he's turning 21 on Sunday, and he even invited me to his birthday dinner on Saturday. Haha, as if.

He had a different perspective on things. I don't think I've ever met a U.S. marine before. I never really thought about what could possibly be going on in their heads, or what their thoughts on the war are. It's interesting to note that fear isn't usually a factor. They aren't really afraid of dying in the battlefield, not unless they're in the frontlines. What they really feel, he said, is some measure of pride. Every single marine feels proud of who he is, of having the responsibility of defending his country on his shoulders, and of knowing that he was trained in the best way possible, and that he is ready for whatever may happen. And that if he does die in combat, his life would have meant something, even if people never learn his name.

He knows I'm anti-war, and he said that it doesn't matter. No one is really ever for war, per se. People just have different opinions on what makes going against this belief legitimate. And while people debate about it elsewhere, people like him do their business as best as they possibly can. That was a very provocative statement, but he said with so much conviction that I just felt I had to respect him for his belief in the purpose of what he's doing.

Anyway, It's been a tiring day, and I didn't even accomplish all that much AND I still have to go to school. I'm supposed to have dinner with Johnny today, but he called me up last night and said tonight was iffy because he was trying to close a deal at work. I told him to just call me before 6:30 if he was going to be free and that if I don't hear from him I'll just assume dinner won't be hapenning. If that's the case, I'll probably end up eating with Grant and company, which means I'll have to cough up some cash. Ugh. Extra expense. The bad thing with this new schedule is I have to eat in New York. If I wait until I get home, I'd end up starved out of my mind.

So that's about it for now. Have to trot off to class.

Yes, I am confused.

So are you, I imagine.

But it's a nice kind of confused. At least for me. It means that there are too many things hapenning, instead of nothing at all. It means I'm awake and thinking. It means I'm going somewhere, moving, deciding where to land my next step.

It means I'm alive.

Do you feel the stars? Yes, I know you can't see them. No, not in New York. Not when there are stars on the ground you walk on and the on the sides of buildings, and the roofs of apartments. You can't see them, but can you feel them there?

Staring at you. Burning every second. Because to burn is to be alive.

I can feel them. I can feel the stars on my skin, floating in my head, thickening the air I breath.

Confused.

Aren't we all?