Hello from Tokyo

Hiya kiddies, guess who is coming home? A few more hours and I will be home, sweet home. Lots of snow in Tokyo. I am debating taking a bus out to see a shrine but I do not want to drag my bag around.

One thing I can say is Japanese keyboard is really weired and the entry kept turning Japanese on me. **beats it to submission** Can you tell that I still cannot find the apostrophe button? Besides, all the buttons and pull-down menu are written in Japanese. O.o

Thailand was not as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, it was quite lovely. I have forgotten what it was like to be spoiled rotten. My little sister is fantastic and my little brother is the cutest spoiled brat on earth. I love them loads.

The stories of internet cafe in every corner of the streets of Bangkok still remained a myth. I did not find them as easily as I thought I would.

I think I am going to go shopping now. See you at the next stop, Los Angeles The Praedonis.

One more time, before I go.

The next entry will be transmitted from BANGKOK!! O.o What kind of a name is that? BANG.KOK. I heard that there's a city call phuket, too. PHUK.ET.!!

=P World orgy!! Here I come.

May Saint Christopher protects me while I'm travel.

You let me change lane, while I was driving in my car.

In which she gossips about her heroes.

Well, now.

How have you been? I just came back from hell. Funny place, hell is. If you don't believe me, ask my old friend, Dante. He even wrote a book about it, called Inferno or something. Go read it! Just remember to cock your head to the left and squint a bit to get into my perspective, m'kay?

I started to write a poem about going home.

Into the shadow gate, I thread barefoot;
To the dark realm, no one dare stood
Tip-toe on thin wire with shaky legs
Pray to all deity that my knees shan't cave.

I cannot fall. I just cannot.

Shards of glass under my feet
Splinters cut into my heels
Burrow their ways into my head
Exhale slowly. Thread lightly.

The wolf is waiting. He is hungry.

Close my eyes and count to ten.
When I get there, it'll start again
Bloody footprints, rusty stains
Will lead me back where I begin.

The Captain saw my poem and told me I was being silly and the poem is lame, in fact, it's not even a poem. So, I gnawed at his hand. Captain called me "Madame Cranky Pants" and gave me shiny-buckle boots, so that I don't have to worry about walking on glass shards with no shoes. He gave me bangles that make sounds which reminds me of the hoops on the sails hitting the poles, too.

There were also unexplainable surges of melancholia while I was in my "cranky" state. I thought I was loosing my mind, but my friend, Mister Superman – who looks better than that Tom Welling guy on the tele, mind you - told me that my brain is not turning into mush and I don't have anything to worry about. I ought to listen to him. I heard that those Supermen sort got some kind of defective underroo-checking x-ray eyes or something.

One quickhand cowboy told me that beer and carpet are best for writing aids. We, pirates, only have rum so I use that instead. Beer and rum made an interesting combination; however, I don't remember anything that happened the 2 days after. I shall remember this information, in case I need to take down a 500-stone bull. Tipsy the hattie for the deadly concoction.

Alright, I am going to crawl back to my hammock. The beer-rum love potion has not completely worn off and already there were too many talks of orgy today. I should be quarantine and kept away from the mass population.

Thank you to those who helped me got through my blue zone. ..whoever you are, I want to thank you.. (I got this bloody song stuck in my head since yesterday when I came out of the depression. So, I thought I'll be generous and share. Bwaahhahhah!!)

I'm not your h0r. Go away and bug me no more.

Already then, New Year. Another year. Hoo-hah!!

You know, *that* minute? The Minute when you know that a depression is about to hit?

You grind your teeth while your eye started to twitch and you tell it, "NO! Not this time!!" You fight it and you try to beat it into submission. And you are so gorram tired. And your knees are weak. You hands, knuckle-white, in tight fists and you can feel your nails biting into the palm of your hands. And the pain comforts you and reminds you that you are still fighting this beastie thing. And the voice in your head keeps screaming your name like it's a new religion, like you are its only savior.

Your eyes lock and you look at it while it is breathing in your face. It's too late for fear. Adrenalin is the only thing shooting up to your brain. Adrenalin is the only thing running in your veins. Adrenalin is the only thing pumping through your heart.

Not this time, depression. You cannot have me this time!

~*~*~*~

So, all you writers out there, I have a question for you.

How do you trap your train of thoughts?

You see? I have a problem. My brain can spin out at least 2 rambles and 1 complete story lins – with plot twist, dialogue, beginning, ending, the whole cha-bang – in a minute, if you leave me in a place quiet enough that I can just let my spinning wheels go wild.

The problem is the minute I reach for a pen, my perfect stories and my perfect key-points have all vanished from my brain. "Self," I said, "why don't we get a recording thing-a-magic. We can record it faster than write it."

Yesh, in theory, this is true. I went and get a recording thing-a-magic like I suggested to myself. Well, guess what happened? Guess? Guess?!?!?

My voice puts a break on my dialogues. It's not like thinking inside your head. There something about saying things out loud that just irks my nerves and I lost the witty, clever, fantastic banters that the characters in the attic batted back and forth. Gone, all gone.

The fact that my attention span is shorter than those of the goldfish probably didn't help with the problem neither. It's not the attention-span's fault. Frankly, with all the information coming at you at the rate comparable to the bullet trains to Tokyo, exploding in from every direction, who has time to sit down and smoke a cigarette these days.

So writers – yes, this includes you if you update your blog at least once a month – help me here, what is your ways of recording your brainwave patterns?