Cheers to the freakin' weekend

Over the past 7 months, I have become drunk more often than the past 3 something-ish years of my life in Canada. Here's the plaintext.

This year in university was what I could say the most exhilarating year I have been on. After being included in someone's circle of friends (who I just met online too), I found myself going to house parties, making friends with people I barely knew, and having to pretend to be sick because I'm way hung over.

I met my buddy Brandon over our university confessions page. He had an interestingly awesome last name, so I added him on Facebook. It was only until the first few minutes of sending the request that I realized that this is the boyfriend of our family friend's sister. I was mortified. I very rarely add family friends as "friends" on any of my social media profiles, let alone my own relatives. But I went with the flow and let everything take its course.

He went to my other friend's Halloween party, and that's where it all started. He met a guy in the party who I shook hands with as well, and found out that he throws awesome parties. I went to one, initially awkward at what mess I'm in, going to a party where I knew only one person.

Alcohol made it tons easier for me to say hi to random people, shake their hands, and talk with. I decided to bring a camera to one of his parties. Halfway through the night, I began taking pictures with my hefty DSLR, fueled by my alcohol-induced mind. I was a shutterbug. I took some 200ish pictures, and the next day gave me great surprises.

Looking from the shots the previous night, I instinctively knew when to shoot, and at what angle to do it. I was shocked at how perfectly candid all my pictures were, and I pretty much documented every nook and cranny of the party. I posted them on my profile, and as they set my pictures as their profile and cover photos, I believe that they thought the same. I decided drunk pictures are a good idea, and I lugged along my trusty camera to house parties ever since.

I went from being a random unknown university boy to a guy who regularly gets invitations to go out for drinks. Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I did not add this boy who's the boyfriend of our family friend's sister on Facebook.

I would probably still be skulking on my bed every weekend, typing how alone I am in this tundra. Before, I asked for even just an acquaintance, a small set of friends I can maybe go for a Starbucks with. Now, I have hundreds of them. I can literally post on my Facebook profile and send 80 people knocking at a door, ready to party.

They might not be "share-secrets-with" friends [at least not yet], but hey, you cannot turn down alcohol and all its wonders. After all, misery is best shared with company, eh?

Unspoken words and inducted thoughts

Many have I written blogposts that touch a specific topic so personal I feel that writing them is an invasion of my personal space. If my drafts folder ever get published, you'd view me as a different person.

I mean, this blog *is* meant to be personal, it's just that some things I want to talk about are not really the stuff you would like to say to a random stranger across the street. Just think of it this way: would you just go up to a random passerby and interject, "I'm going commando today!"? I don't think so.

But then, I'm not implying that my personal, most private thoughts consist of my preference for wearing underwear, or lack thereof, but it just goes to show that I need someone to tell stuff to, without prejudice or any other judgment. A confidant. A breathing journal. And probably, a friend.

I have written posts about trust and love and freedom and independence, but they never see the light of day. Probably I was playing the role of the cryptic connoisseur a bit too much, probably my real intentions are muddled up in a sea of confusing lexicon that nobody would understand. But then again, nobody *would* understand. I'm a Scorpio, the most secretive, most misunderstood sign of the zodiac.

I was once punished for my own honesty. Writing my thoughts down led me into serious trouble, something that reminded me of pain and crying and all that desperation. Then I vowed never to write my emotions again: that never would I ever put my feelings down on a piece of paper where everyone could read it. I must lock up all my feelings in my mind, compose long blog posts in the recesses of my consciousness, where only I could read.

I have stories I dare not tell anyone. Not publicly, at least. I think it's justified for me to think that everybody has one: that one fact about them that they don't want just about anyone to know. Like a vegetarian who adores bacon, or a football player who longs for the loving comfort of a gentle woman. Unlike others, though, I don't have anyone to share it with. But probably I didn't need one anyway.

If only opening the lock was this easy.

But maybe I *do* have someone, I just don't trust them enough. Probably, somewhere out there, one of the people I know are having the exact same thoughts as I do, just waiting for someone like me to trust them with all of their spirit. An unbreakable friendship. Where you tell someone that one thing that will destroy you and trust them not to use it against you.

I don't think I'm even making a persuasive blogpost here. I just wanted to write what I feel about things, which is not my forte, because coming from a scientific background, I always write something with a conclusion. Not all this sappy boo-hooing shit you're reading right now. Is it ever so wrong for me not to just tell anyone how my day went and not go delving into waist-deep philosophical ramblings about life? Probably not.

I guess being cryptic has its disadvantages after all. By hiding my emotions, my real intentions, in the comforting illusion of deception, I shut myself out to the world. Then I go like this, complaining how no one understands me. It's probably my fault then, being so shut out to the people who want to reach out their hands to me, to offer their listening ear to my stories, because maybe, just maybe, one of the people I know sees me as an infinitely interesting person, one whose stories never get stale.

Something nags at me and tells me I might be right. Maybe it's time to break the lock. It might be weird, but I'll try. At least if this blog doesn't work, I hope I have someone to tell it to. I don't say "find" someone because I may have found him/her and not just realized it, but still.

Here's to hopefully getting my trust in the world back again.

Like Frankie said, I did it my way.

Regrets, I've had not a few, but a lot. Like tonight.
So guys, here's the plaintext.

It's the first day of school, and as always, I traversed the hallways alone. Typical immigrant non-native-English-speaking freshman dude. Three classes passed, and I never met a soul. Or maybe it's just me, trying to rush myself into things? Maybe it's just me not taking one step at a time.

Maybe. That's the same thing I thought when I attended my first class on campus, last summer. But whatever, maybe this term, I'll have to meet people. Maybe joining student organizations would be a great tactic after all. Maybe just pulling up all the courage I can get to say, "Hi, I'm Leonard" would get me places. After all, it's a 300-seater lecture hall and I could just move to another seat far away from one where a failed introduction occurred.

Two paragraphs of maybes. Just like any other typical youth blogpost, full of what ifs. What I hate is asking myself what if questions, unless I'm doing science. This post is intended to be one of those sleepy thoughts that I have while at school, or the myriad scattershot opinions I have at night. But no. Tomorrow, I will speak my mind. No more thoughts to myself.

Tomorrow, the world shall hear my story.

P.S. F'Real's strawberry milkshake is so fucking good.