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currently memorizing facts i'll immediately forget after exams. brain is overheating
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Peek-a-boo! You found my silly website!
Hallo! I’m Chesca, and welcome to my super duper fun website!
I made this place to show all the fun stuff I made instead of studying, plus whatever hobby I hyperfixated on three days before an accounting exam. This site is made with and for Chrome, preferably viewed around 100% zoom. If you’re using a phone, tablet, or another browser, things might look a little wonky.
I’m just a beginner at coding and still figuring things out, so this site looks messy sometimes. But I made it with lots of love and patience and the time I have stolen from my study schedule. I hope you have fun exploring. Feel free to use the chatroom and sign my guestbook!
Posted: October 10, 2025
what is the point of this site?
This site exists as a personal record of my curiosities, fixations, philosophies, and shameless color choices. It might come off as self-indulgent because… well, it is. Also, because I mostly stopped using social media. They were regressively starting to look like corporate clones of each other, filled with ads, Ai slop and performative content. That said, I’m not claiming moral superiority over anyone who uses social media happily. Honestly, I envy people who can use it without frying their brains, because self-control is not my thing.
In making this site, I pinky-promise to observe these arbitrary rules I made up: I will be sincere without taking myself too seriously. I allow myself to share the weird, the dumb, the sad, and even the mildly disturbing stuff. I prioritize honesty over trying to look good for an imaginary audience and focus on making things that matter to me first, while understanding that everyone else is just a confused guest wandering through.
I own this happy place and let the site evolve the way I do, inconsistent, inefficient, but endlessly entertaining. I post freely, change and rebuild the layout whenever I feel like it, and embrace creative curiosity, intentional browsing, and organic interaction.
Above all, I guard this space carefully and keep it colorful and fun. Maybe years from now, someone will wander across these digital relics and catch an honest glimpse of what an ordinary person’s life felt like in an age of endless digital noise.
November 28, 2025
Neighbors
Some sites I like to peek at now and then (randomly arranged). Wanna be neighbors? Leave a note on the guestbook!
Fanlistings
Recent Drawings - 2023
i kno i kno it's been years since i last made decent illustrations
Updates Log
Dec 10 wrote a couple blog posts and added buttons of sites I recently interacted with ^-^
Nov 29 wrote a new blog post, finished the library and about me page :P.
Nov 28 made a rainbow bridge page and finalized my website manifesto.
Nov 24 finished the poetry-ish page, added a mood feed, and a yapping hamster? mouse? idk. and moreee javascripts hahahah
Nov 21 Finally! I’m so happy. I finished about 80% of my index and stuck with this vibrant kidcore style. I’m just happy. I’m also learning about webrings, guestbooks, and fanlists, hoping to join some communities here on neocities.
Nov 20 threw away the dollhouse index layout after almost finishing it because it didn’t look how I imagined. And i’d rather use only assets I make myself instead of outsourcing because it felt like i was stealing? But at the same time, I don’t have much time to create the assets since it’s my last month of university (hopefully).
Nov 8 made the accounting page instead of studying accounting. i'm trying to make it fun to get myself interested. and unfortunately it's the most ineffecient way of learning... but it's fun tho..
Nov 6 This is my second attempt at making an index layout. I wanted it vibrant and colorful, like kidcore, to hide the dark tones of my content (sarcasm, self-deprecating jokes, morbid humor) and I’m liking it. But the main container is huge, and when I tried to scale it down, everything looked squishy and floaty on mobile, and I couldn’t help but have a small internal meltdown.
Nov 2 finished my index layout, but something felt off. I realized it didn’t reflect my style or personality. what I made was functional, is something what i thought people would like and not what i actually like.
Oct 27. As someone who clicks and touches everything I find cute, I want every little thing on this site to be clickable, functional, and full of surprises. I also want it to feel very personal, like a dollhouse filled with things that have been an integral part of my becoming.
Right now, I’m working on the bookshelf and filling each book with what I’ve learned from it. Not gonna lie, it’s tedious as hell, and it might take me a month to finish, especially since I have more pressing matters to deal with... like that upcoming exam I’ve been putting off studying for.
Oct 24. moved to a different neocities site name since i will be using a different email entirely. so from chescakrafts.neocities.org to chesca.neocities.org
Oct 23. It’s 2 AM, and I’m wide awake and absolutely buzzing with excitement because I just finished building my Video Room and Surreal Gallery! I’m so happy I could scream!
Oct 22. made the coffee cup and sticky notes clickable, and even added floating cute GIFs! It was such a funny and wholesome experience experimenting with the code.
Oct 21. am finally satisfied with the blog page. I also added a few sticky notes in my room and made sure my website is compatible with desktop and mobile view.
Oct 20. edited the fonts and the margins of popups.
Oct 19. made the blog page (the 3 organizers below the desk).
Oct 18. made the index layout. I wanted it to look like a 3D room where everything is clickable.
Oct 10. started coding my Neocities website.
Nov 29 wrote a new blog post, finished the library and about me page :P.
Nov 28 made a rainbow bridge page and finalized my website manifesto.
Nov 24 finished the poetry-ish page, added a mood feed, and a yapping hamster? mouse? idk. and moreee javascripts hahahah
Nov 21 Finally! I’m so happy. I finished about 80% of my index and stuck with this vibrant kidcore style. I’m just happy. I’m also learning about webrings, guestbooks, and fanlists, hoping to join some communities here on neocities.
Nov 20 threw away the dollhouse index layout after almost finishing it because it didn’t look how I imagined. And i’d rather use only assets I make myself instead of outsourcing because it felt like i was stealing? But at the same time, I don’t have much time to create the assets since it’s my last month of university (hopefully).
Nov 8 made the accounting page instead of studying accounting. i'm trying to make it fun to get myself interested. and unfortunately it's the most ineffecient way of learning... but it's fun tho..
Nov 6 This is my second attempt at making an index layout. I wanted it vibrant and colorful, like kidcore, to hide the dark tones of my content (sarcasm, self-deprecating jokes, morbid humor) and I’m liking it. But the main container is huge, and when I tried to scale it down, everything looked squishy and floaty on mobile, and I couldn’t help but have a small internal meltdown.
Nov 2 finished my index layout, but something felt off. I realized it didn’t reflect my style or personality. what I made was functional, is something what i thought people would like and not what i actually like.
Oct 27. As someone who clicks and touches everything I find cute, I want every little thing on this site to be clickable, functional, and full of surprises. I also want it to feel very personal, like a dollhouse filled with things that have been an integral part of my becoming.
Right now, I’m working on the bookshelf and filling each book with what I’ve learned from it. Not gonna lie, it’s tedious as hell, and it might take me a month to finish, especially since I have more pressing matters to deal with... like that upcoming exam I’ve been putting off studying for.
Oct 24. moved to a different neocities site name since i will be using a different email entirely. so from chescakrafts.neocities.org to chesca.neocities.org
Oct 23. It’s 2 AM, and I’m wide awake and absolutely buzzing with excitement because I just finished building my Video Room and Surreal Gallery! I’m so happy I could scream!
Oct 22. made the coffee cup and sticky notes clickable, and even added floating cute GIFs! It was such a funny and wholesome experience experimenting with the code.
Oct 21. am finally satisfied with the blog page. I also added a few sticky notes in my room and made sure my website is compatible with desktop and mobile view.
Oct 20. edited the fonts and the margins of popups.
Oct 19. made the blog page (the 3 organizers below the desk).
Oct 18. made the index layout. I wanted it to look like a 3D room where everything is clickable.
Oct 10. started coding my Neocities website.
Recent Blog Post
▼
I Thought I Killed My Dad
December 10, 2025
TW: death, abuse
For the past five years I felt responsible of my father's death to a point I started admitting to people that I killed him. I kept his urn in my room, mainly in my desk, visible so it would remind me of how horrible I was. I know my parents loved me. They never neglected my basic needs and I was spoiled with material things. To be fair, I was a very obedient high achiever child, a typical prodigy other parents would often compare their own kids to.
My parents were evil in ways that felt justifiable, so I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. My mother was a pathological liar but protective. My father is a possessive tyrant but a great provider. They were manipulative by nature, and would always win in psychological warfare, and may i add, madly in love with each other. I wanted to believe they were not inherently cruel, they are just shaped by fear, by the brutal childhoods they themselves had survived.
Everything in our house felt like currency. As long as I echoed only the words my family wanted to hear and performed my assigned role perfectly, the house ran smoothly. They would smile and praise me, but only when I met their high expectations exactly. The moment I show weakness, the mask of love and care would crumble. This kind of family is said to have a name. Pseudomutuality. A relationship that seems loving and understanding on the surface, but is actually destructive and deeply depersonalizing underneath.
Eventually, the time came when I stopped living up to their ideal identity of me. He became very furious and physically violent. So, with all my tears and desperation, I prayed to ask for something, to put an end to my misery or just end my existence entirely, to kill me or my dad. Events unraveled quickly and he died. the end.
To say the least, his death was anticlimactic. Although, my life took a drastic change right after. I felt more relieved than sad when he died. I felt like a doll who had finally earned the right to be sentient, freed at last from the crank and puppet strings that had bound me. I don’t want to dwell on how the sequence of events unfolded during that time. but every now and then I have to remind myself and convince myself that it was not my fault and it was all just a coincidence. And also, i finally had the courage to put away his urn.
December 10, 2025
TW: death, abuse
For the past five years I felt responsible of my father's death to a point I started admitting to people that I killed him. I kept his urn in my room, mainly in my desk, visible so it would remind me of how horrible I was. I know my parents loved me. They never neglected my basic needs and I was spoiled with material things. To be fair, I was a very obedient high achiever child, a typical prodigy other parents would often compare their own kids to.
My parents were evil in ways that felt justifiable, so I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. My mother was a pathological liar but protective. My father is a possessive tyrant but a great provider. They were manipulative by nature, and would always win in psychological warfare, and may i add, madly in love with each other. I wanted to believe they were not inherently cruel, they are just shaped by fear, by the brutal childhoods they themselves had survived.
Everything in our house felt like currency. As long as I echoed only the words my family wanted to hear and performed my assigned role perfectly, the house ran smoothly. They would smile and praise me, but only when I met their high expectations exactly. The moment I show weakness, the mask of love and care would crumble. This kind of family is said to have a name. Pseudomutuality. A relationship that seems loving and understanding on the surface, but is actually destructive and deeply depersonalizing underneath.
Eventually, the time came when I stopped living up to their ideal identity of me. He became very furious and physically violent. So, with all my tears and desperation, I prayed to ask for something, to put an end to my misery or just end my existence entirely, to kill me or my dad. Events unraveled quickly and he died. the end.
To say the least, his death was anticlimactic. Although, my life took a drastic change right after. I felt more relieved than sad when he died. I felt like a doll who had finally earned the right to be sentient, freed at last from the crank and puppet strings that had bound me. I don’t want to dwell on how the sequence of events unfolded during that time. but every now and then I have to remind myself and convince myself that it was not my fault and it was all just a coincidence. And also, i finally had the courage to put away his urn.
Shop Update
A goodbye to my little art business.
It was fun when everything felt new, but after years of doing the same thing, the spark slowly turned into routine, and I don’t like doing things on repeat. I crave the novelty of experience…
CHESCAKRAFTS Oct 17, 2021 - Feb 27, 2025
A goodbye to my little art business.
It was fun when everything felt new, but after years of doing the same thing, the spark slowly turned into routine, and I don’t like doing things on repeat. I crave the novelty of experience…
About the Webmistress
Hallo! I’m Chesca, a 23-year-old Filipina currently studying Bachelor of Science in Accountancy, a 4-year course I’ve somehow managed to stretch into five and a half. I’m still surviving though (barely). I'm occasionally straying away from the “should-be” path to chase whatever looks fun or interesting.
I’m working on becoming more disciplined and consistent because, right now, I’m obviously a scatterbrainer. My to-do list is purely vibe-based. The fun stuff gets done first, while the boring-but-important ones wait until the deadline starts screaming at my face.
I love dissecting feelings and finding the right words to describe them. I’m impulsive and indecisive to a point that even I get shocked by my own decisions. And that ends the summary.
I’m working on becoming more disciplined and consistent because, right now, I’m obviously a scatterbrainer. My to-do list is purely vibe-based. The fun stuff gets done first, while the boring-but-important ones wait until the deadline starts screaming at my face.
I love dissecting feelings and finding the right words to describe them. I’m impulsive and indecisive to a point that even I get shocked by my own decisions. And that ends the summary.
What I’m Into (and Not) 
LEISURE
Journaling
Digital Drawing
Watching commentary videos
Long walk
Sleeping
Reading manhwa and manga
Binging K-dramas
Playing Weplay voice games
Writing long essays
Web designing
Listening to cute playlist
Watching series with interesting plot twists
Studying Psychology and human behaviour
Studying Philosophical subjects
Exploring personal emotional depths
Hyperfixating on topics I find fascinating
Journaling Digital Drawing Watching commentary videos Long walk Sleeping Reading manhwa and manga Binging K-dramas Playing Weplay voice games Writing long essays Web designing Listening to cute playlist Watching series with interesting plot twists Studying Psychology and human behaviour Studying Philosophical subjects Exploring personal emotional depths Hyperfixating on topics I find fascinating
LIKES
Surprises and Love letters
Satisfying kdrama plot twists
Got7
Creative Expression
Dark Humor Memes
Unpopular opinions
Nostalgia
Playful Aesthetics
DISLIKES
Performative wokeness
Ads/sponsored content
Ai slop and bots
Motivational videos
Sad Endings
Asking others for help
Surprises and Love letters Satisfying kdrama plot twists Got7 Creative Expression Dark Humor Memes Unpopular opinions Nostalgia Playful AestheticsDISLIKES
Performative wokeness Ads/sponsored content Ai slop and bots Motivational videos Sad Endings Asking others for help
About the Site 
I started my first website on Weebly on January 9, 2021. It was easy and hassle-free with drag-and-drop features, but also limiting because I couldn’t make it look exactly how I wanted. Then, around October 2025, my YouTube algorithm introduced me to Neocities, and I became fascinated by the “old web.” I felt a pang of FOMO for an era I wasn’t even old enough to participate in. Like, where have you been my whole life? Why did I only discover you just now?
I tried coding back in 2021 but gave up almost immediately because divs and symbols felt overwhelming. On October 10, 2025, I created my first Neocities site and decided to give it a second try. That is when I started to appreciate coding. It can feel empowering and fun, although it can sometimes be frustrating when I make a typo, because even the slightest mistake can turn a calm web design into the wonkiest mess.
I don’t have a fixed style for this site, and I am okay with that. I have tried all pink, all white, and eventually settled on using all the colors of the rainbow while pretending I planned it this way. I am just experimenting and figuring out my taste as I go. The site is my personal playground, and I feel a sense of accomplishment every time I tend to it.
I mostly post essays and drawings here because I wanted a place to preserve my creations without the pressure of social media. I tried using Instagram, but eventually social media stopped being fun. What business does my fanart drawing have next to a photo of a hot girl and her matcha shoved at me by an algorithm? Why post when no one is going to see it? I also felt pressured to keep creating every week or risk feeling left behind. That is why I deleted my social media art account altogether and created a place on the internet to store all my creations.
I have also been inspired by sites that feel like 3D spaces where every object is clickable. My first attempt at building an index copied everything I found beautiful, and I realized it did not reflect my own taste or character. That is why I kept rebranding and experimenting, and this is the version you see now.
I tried coding back in 2021 but gave up almost immediately because divs and symbols felt overwhelming. On October 10, 2025, I created my first Neocities site and decided to give it a second try. That is when I started to appreciate coding. It can feel empowering and fun, although it can sometimes be frustrating when I make a typo, because even the slightest mistake can turn a calm web design into the wonkiest mess.
I don’t have a fixed style for this site, and I am okay with that. I have tried all pink, all white, and eventually settled on using all the colors of the rainbow while pretending I planned it this way. I am just experimenting and figuring out my taste as I go. The site is my personal playground, and I feel a sense of accomplishment every time I tend to it.
I mostly post essays and drawings here because I wanted a place to preserve my creations without the pressure of social media. I tried using Instagram, but eventually social media stopped being fun. What business does my fanart drawing have next to a photo of a hot girl and her matcha shoved at me by an algorithm? Why post when no one is going to see it? I also felt pressured to keep creating every week or risk feeling left behind. That is why I deleted my social media art account altogether and created a place on the internet to store all my creations.
I have also been inspired by sites that feel like 3D spaces where every object is clickable. My first attempt at building an index copied everything I found beautiful, and I realized it did not reflect my own taste or character. That is why I kept rebranding and experimenting, and this is the version you see now.
Personal Lore
People will sometimes approach me asking favors I don't really want to do. But if I do them, those people will smile and thank me, and that will make me feel good. So I often end up doing these favors, feeling resentful and secretly angry the whole time, cursing myself for freely choosing to work hard on things I don't care about.
When I have to do something for money, obligation, or expectation, it drains all the joy from it. This is why I can only hyperfocus when it is voluntary, but the moment it becomes required, I feel my creativity drain away.
Sometimes I find it difficult to find value in casual leisure, like reading books or watching movies, because there is nothing to show for it. My mind measures worth by tangible outcomes, so activities done purely for enjoyment feel empty or wasted. Even when I relax, I am haunted by the sense that time should be productive, making it hard to fully enjoy the moment.
I am built to feel life intensely, even when it hurts. I have learned that to experience the beauty and vitality of life, I must also be willing to feel its emotional pain. I do not numb easily. This is both my curse and my strength. My heart beats loudly. It insists on honesty and refuses to live half alive.
I am a contradiction in motion. I want discipline yet resist structure. I chase inspiration yet procrastinate on execution. I seek meaning in everything yet most of the time feel detached from the moment.
When I have to do something for money, obligation, or expectation, it drains all the joy from it. This is why I can only hyperfocus when it is voluntary, but the moment it becomes required, I feel my creativity drain away.
Sometimes I find it difficult to find value in casual leisure, like reading books or watching movies, because there is nothing to show for it. My mind measures worth by tangible outcomes, so activities done purely for enjoyment feel empty or wasted. Even when I relax, I am haunted by the sense that time should be productive, making it hard to fully enjoy the moment.
I am built to feel life intensely, even when it hurts. I have learned that to experience the beauty and vitality of life, I must also be willing to feel its emotional pain. I do not numb easily. This is both my curse and my strength. My heart beats loudly. It insists on honesty and refuses to live half alive.
I am a contradiction in motion. I want discipline yet resist structure. I chase inspiration yet procrastinate on execution. I seek meaning in everything yet most of the time feel detached from the moment.
MOOD FEED
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What's in my bag?
Info last updated: November 29, 2025
...shall I tell you a secret?
Welcome, curious reader! Here you’ll find my most recent blogs from 2025. For everything I’ve written since 2021, check out Scattered Papers, the full archive of my musings.
I Thought I Killed My Dad 
▼December 10, 2025
For the past five years I felt responsible of my father's death to a point I started admitting to people that I killed him. I kept his urn in my room, mainly in my desk, visible so it would remind me of how horrible I was. I know my parents loved me. They never neglected my basic needs and I was spoiled with material things. To be fair, I was a very obedient high achiever child, a typical prodigy other parents would often compare their own kids to.
My parents were evil in ways that felt justifiable, so I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. My mother was a pathological liar but protective. My father is a possessive tyrant but a great provider. They were manipulative by nature, and would always win in psychological warfare, and may i add, madly in love with each other. I wanted to believe they were not inherently cruel, they are just shaped by fear, by the brutal childhoods they themselves had survived.
Everything in our house felt like currency. As long as I echoed only the words my family wanted to hear and performed my assigned role perfectly, the house ran smoothly. They would smile and praise me, but only when I met their high expectations exactly. The moment I show weakness, the mask of love and care would crumble. This kind of family is said to have a name. Pseudomutuality. A relationship that seems loving and understanding on the surface, but is actually destructive and deeply depersonalizing underneath.
Eventually, the time came when I stopped living up to their ideal identity of me. He became very furious and physically violent. So, with all my tears and desperation, I prayed to ask for something, to put an end to my misery or just end my existence entirely, to kill me or my dad. Events unraveled quickly and he died. the end.
To say the least, his death was anticlimactic. Although, my life took a drastic change right after. I felt more relieved than sad when he died. I felt like a doll who had finally earned the right to be sentient, freed at last from the crank and puppet strings that had bound me. I don’t want to dwell on how the sequence of events unfolded during that time. but every now and then I have to remind myself and convince myself that it was not my fault and it was all just a coincidence. And also, i finally had the courage to put away his urn.
For the past five years I felt responsible of my father's death to a point I started admitting to people that I killed him. I kept his urn in my room, mainly in my desk, visible so it would remind me of how horrible I was. I know my parents loved me. They never neglected my basic needs and I was spoiled with material things. To be fair, I was a very obedient high achiever child, a typical prodigy other parents would often compare their own kids to.
My parents were evil in ways that felt justifiable, so I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. My mother was a pathological liar but protective. My father is a possessive tyrant but a great provider. They were manipulative by nature, and would always win in psychological warfare, and may i add, madly in love with each other. I wanted to believe they were not inherently cruel, they are just shaped by fear, by the brutal childhoods they themselves had survived.
Everything in our house felt like currency. As long as I echoed only the words my family wanted to hear and performed my assigned role perfectly, the house ran smoothly. They would smile and praise me, but only when I met their high expectations exactly. The moment I show weakness, the mask of love and care would crumble. This kind of family is said to have a name. Pseudomutuality. A relationship that seems loving and understanding on the surface, but is actually destructive and deeply depersonalizing underneath.
Eventually, the time came when I stopped living up to their ideal identity of me. He became very furious and physically violent. So, with all my tears and desperation, I prayed to ask for something, to put an end to my misery or just end my existence entirely, to kill me or my dad. Events unraveled quickly and he died. the end.
To say the least, his death was anticlimactic. Although, my life took a drastic change right after. I felt more relieved than sad when he died. I felt like a doll who had finally earned the right to be sentient, freed at last from the crank and puppet strings that had bound me. I don’t want to dwell on how the sequence of events unfolded during that time. but every now and then I have to remind myself and convince myself that it was not my fault and it was all just a coincidence. And also, i finally had the courage to put away his urn.
Apparently, People Worry When You Disappear
▼December 10, 2025
Today I learned two things: I might actually be anti‑social, and my friends apparently think I am someone worth worrying about.
I was at the library doing my best impression of a normal student, studying for exams. Most of the faces around me were people I knew. When I packed my things and prepared for my usual departure, a friend beside me asked where I was going. I said “home,” and she replied, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to them?”
I stared at her, confused. Say goodbye? To who? She pointed at the group of acquaintances nearby, and suddenly I found myself awkwardly waving at them, though they waved back enthusiastically.
One time, I was about to sneak out to buy food when a friend asked why I wasn’t inviting her. Again, why should I? Another time, when a different set of peers suggested we walk home together and I declined, they asked, “What is wrong with you? Why do you always separate yourself?” I hadn’t realized my behavior looked like I was overly distancing myself. I thought I was just... living. I had simply grown used to doing things alone. This might be what a few years of solitude does, you end up functioning like a solitary animal that occasionally hisses at sunlight.
I know I should feel grateful to have many friends who ask if I’ve eaten or slept well or how my day went, yet my brain immediately becomes suspicious. Why would anyone care? There’s no reward for befriending me. I’m not even emotionally useful.
They explained it clearly today that if I want to go home or disappear, I should atleast bid goodbye so they won’t worry. They mentioned that I apparently have a bad habit of evaporating from the crowd. It never even crossed my mind that my disappearance could concern anyone. I always assumed that if I vanished, the only ones who would notice would be my plants, and only because they realized they weren’t being watered.
Today I learned two things: I might actually be anti‑social, and my friends apparently think I am someone worth worrying about.
I was at the library doing my best impression of a normal student, studying for exams. Most of the faces around me were people I knew. When I packed my things and prepared for my usual departure, a friend beside me asked where I was going. I said “home,” and she replied, “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to them?”
I stared at her, confused. Say goodbye? To who? She pointed at the group of acquaintances nearby, and suddenly I found myself awkwardly waving at them, though they waved back enthusiastically.
One time, I was about to sneak out to buy food when a friend asked why I wasn’t inviting her. Again, why should I? Another time, when a different set of peers suggested we walk home together and I declined, they asked, “What is wrong with you? Why do you always separate yourself?” I hadn’t realized my behavior looked like I was overly distancing myself. I thought I was just... living. I had simply grown used to doing things alone. This might be what a few years of solitude does, you end up functioning like a solitary animal that occasionally hisses at sunlight.
I know I should feel grateful to have many friends who ask if I’ve eaten or slept well or how my day went, yet my brain immediately becomes suspicious. Why would anyone care? There’s no reward for befriending me. I’m not even emotionally useful.
They explained it clearly today that if I want to go home or disappear, I should atleast bid goodbye so they won’t worry. They mentioned that I apparently have a bad habit of evaporating from the crowd. It never even crossed my mind that my disappearance could concern anyone. I always assumed that if I vanished, the only ones who would notice would be my plants, and only because they realized they weren’t being watered.
Erotic Obsession with Death
▼November 29, 2025
I’ve always been fascinated with death almost as much as life. The difference is that life happens while I’m alive, so I can poke at it and taste it, whereas death is the one experience I can only flirt with from a distance. I am not depressed, but deranged maybe? There used to be phases in my life that the idea of being dead is arousing, it turns me on. And I kept on thinking what kind of mind fuck is this.
Naturally, I traced it back to childhood, because that is where humanity often blames their issues. I remember being around eight, having my first existential crisis. I tried to confide in my religious parents, and they responded with bible scripture which did not help. The more I tried to make sense of things, the more I ended up with even more questions, until existence itself felt suffocating. So I wrapped my little hands around my throat, slowly tightening my grip until no air can get through. I choked my self to death, except I did not die. Rather, I found comfort in it, the questions and voices in my head quickly faded. Sometimes, when my brain got persistently loud, I would bang my head against a wall to drown the thoughts out. It worked. So I assumed this was normal. Surely other people experience this too and this is a way to deal it.
Then I turned twelve. My seatmate saw me hurting myself during break and ratted me out to my parents. My mom got furious and told me to never do it again as if it would automatically stop me. Naturally, I just got better at doing it privately.
Fast‑forward to high school. Life became eventful but repetative that needed better plot twists, so the idea of death started feeling fresh and exciting. So I tried cutting myself, I had mixed feelings, horrified by the sight of blood but aroused by its metallic taste. And I can’t distinguish the two feelings, because whether I’m scared or enthralled, my heart is beating fast as fuck either way.
After that, my death fantasies got out of control. Eventually, my passiveness turned into actions. One time I overdosed on antidepressant supplements (definitely not depressed) my heart was speed pumping while my lungs were dying for some air. Then I collapsed. Out of all my failed attempts, that was the most comedic because I woke up later with a horrible diarrhea. And every time the adrenaline faded, I would get that bizarre post‑nut clarity and think, “Oh yeah. I definitely need therapy.”
I’ve always been fascinated with death almost as much as life. The difference is that life happens while I’m alive, so I can poke at it and taste it, whereas death is the one experience I can only flirt with from a distance. I am not depressed, but deranged maybe? There used to be phases in my life that the idea of being dead is arousing, it turns me on. And I kept on thinking what kind of mind fuck is this.
Naturally, I traced it back to childhood, because that is where humanity often blames their issues. I remember being around eight, having my first existential crisis. I tried to confide in my religious parents, and they responded with bible scripture which did not help. The more I tried to make sense of things, the more I ended up with even more questions, until existence itself felt suffocating. So I wrapped my little hands around my throat, slowly tightening my grip until no air can get through. I choked my self to death, except I did not die. Rather, I found comfort in it, the questions and voices in my head quickly faded. Sometimes, when my brain got persistently loud, I would bang my head against a wall to drown the thoughts out. It worked. So I assumed this was normal. Surely other people experience this too and this is a way to deal it.
Then I turned twelve. My seatmate saw me hurting myself during break and ratted me out to my parents. My mom got furious and told me to never do it again as if it would automatically stop me. Naturally, I just got better at doing it privately.
Fast‑forward to high school. Life became eventful but repetative that needed better plot twists, so the idea of death started feeling fresh and exciting. So I tried cutting myself, I had mixed feelings, horrified by the sight of blood but aroused by its metallic taste. And I can’t distinguish the two feelings, because whether I’m scared or enthralled, my heart is beating fast as fuck either way.
After that, my death fantasies got out of control. Eventually, my passiveness turned into actions. One time I overdosed on antidepressant supplements (definitely not depressed) my heart was speed pumping while my lungs were dying for some air. Then I collapsed. Out of all my failed attempts, that was the most comedic because I woke up later with a horrible diarrhea. And every time the adrenaline faded, I would get that bizarre post‑nut clarity and think, “Oh yeah. I definitely need therapy.”
My Theory of Unpracticed Love
▼October 14, 2025
I have been thinking about my non-existent love life lately, and for once, I am not trying to romanticize it. I have always told myself that I am not ready. That love, at least for now, is a chapter I am not equipped to open. But this self-awareness has been on repeat for so long that I am beginning to wonder if my hesitation is less about timing and more about fear.
When I like someone, it rarely has anything to do with them as a person. I fall in love for the impossibility of it all. I turn fleeting moments such as an eye contact, a brief exchange, a late-night conversation into full-blown narratives. for me it’s easier to love from afar, where the idea of someone remains intact, untouched by reality.
People have tried to bridge that distance. There have been men who wanted to court me, to take me out, to start something. Each time, I pull away as soon as the possibility becomes real because I’m afraid of what would happen if I said yes.
I’m 23 now, and I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never been kissed. Sometimes I lie about it out of self-preservation. There’s a certain shame in being untouched by romance in a world that treats experience as proof of worth. I know it shouldn’t matter, but when everyone around me has a story to tell, my silence feels like an absence I have to justify.
Part of me believes I have a “type,” though I struggle to define it. Maybe it’s not even about the type of man, but the type of love I expect: something intentional and emotionally intelligent. The problem is, while I can imagine the man I want, I don’t think I’m yet the kind of woman who could match him. I believe love requires a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.
And then, there’s fear. I’ve seen what love does to people. I’ve watched women I admire crumble under the weight of betrayal, and it makes me wonder if love is just another form of self-destruction we willingly sign up for. Sometimes I ask myself, is my dream man just a fantasy stitched together by my delusion? Or is he out there, quietly proving me wrong?
I hate to admit this, but I’m drawn to handsome men. And then I shame myself for it, as if wanting beauty is a moral flaw. I call myself “conventionally ugly” to soften the guilt, to preempt rejection by rejecting myself first. I tell myself that if I were my type, I wouldn’t want me either.
Maybe my problem is not that I don’t want love, but that I want it too ideally. I want it to be painless and perfect. And anything less feels like settling. But perhaps that’s what keeps me lonely, this refusal to engage with love in its imperfect form.
I keep waiting for a love that won’t hurt, forgetting that pain is not the opposite of love but a part of its anatomy. I don’t know if I’m ready. Maybe readiness is a myth, and love only arrives when you’ve stopped preparing for it.
I have been thinking about my non-existent love life lately, and for once, I am not trying to romanticize it. I have always told myself that I am not ready. That love, at least for now, is a chapter I am not equipped to open. But this self-awareness has been on repeat for so long that I am beginning to wonder if my hesitation is less about timing and more about fear.
When I like someone, it rarely has anything to do with them as a person. I fall in love for the impossibility of it all. I turn fleeting moments such as an eye contact, a brief exchange, a late-night conversation into full-blown narratives. for me it’s easier to love from afar, where the idea of someone remains intact, untouched by reality.
People have tried to bridge that distance. There have been men who wanted to court me, to take me out, to start something. Each time, I pull away as soon as the possibility becomes real because I’m afraid of what would happen if I said yes.
I’m 23 now, and I’ve never been in a relationship. I’ve never been kissed. Sometimes I lie about it out of self-preservation. There’s a certain shame in being untouched by romance in a world that treats experience as proof of worth. I know it shouldn’t matter, but when everyone around me has a story to tell, my silence feels like an absence I have to justify.
Part of me believes I have a “type,” though I struggle to define it. Maybe it’s not even about the type of man, but the type of love I expect: something intentional and emotionally intelligent. The problem is, while I can imagine the man I want, I don’t think I’m yet the kind of woman who could match him. I believe love requires a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.
And then, there’s fear. I’ve seen what love does to people. I’ve watched women I admire crumble under the weight of betrayal, and it makes me wonder if love is just another form of self-destruction we willingly sign up for. Sometimes I ask myself, is my dream man just a fantasy stitched together by my delusion? Or is he out there, quietly proving me wrong?
I hate to admit this, but I’m drawn to handsome men. And then I shame myself for it, as if wanting beauty is a moral flaw. I call myself “conventionally ugly” to soften the guilt, to preempt rejection by rejecting myself first. I tell myself that if I were my type, I wouldn’t want me either.
Maybe my problem is not that I don’t want love, but that I want it too ideally. I want it to be painless and perfect. And anything less feels like settling. But perhaps that’s what keeps me lonely, this refusal to engage with love in its imperfect form.
I keep waiting for a love that won’t hurt, forgetting that pain is not the opposite of love but a part of its anatomy. I don’t know if I’m ready. Maybe readiness is a myth, and love only arrives when you’ve stopped preparing for it.
A Long-Term Tenant of Rock Bottom
▼October 13, 2025
There’s a strange numbness that comes after too many failures. Not the soul-splitting kind of pain that arrives with the first fall, but something duller. A fatigue that feels like apathy. I’m somewhere in between: not in hell, because I’m no longer suffering, but not in heaven either, because I’m far from thriving. It feels like being trapped in an emotional purgatory, where nothing hurts enough to move me, and nothing shines enough to lift me.
I once failed three major subjects before managing to pass them, but I’ve failed my four pre-rev subjects twice. Now, I’m taking them for the third time. The same syllabus. The same exams. The same suffocating sense of déjà vu. Rationally, I know the odds are not in my favor. Statistically, I might fail again. Yet, what unsettles me most is not the fear of failing, but how ordinary it now feels to live in the aftermath of failure. Rock bottom used to be terrifying, a place of despair and regret. But after two years, it has begun to feel like home. And that comfort is far more frightening than the fall itself.
Still, I know I can’t stay here forever. My privilege to fail is running thin. Tuition fees, time, and patience are not infinite currencies. I tell myself this often, hoping urgency will ignite discipline, but my body remains still. I rarely panic, except maybe once a month or the night before an exam, when the question inevitably arrives: What have I even done with my life these past few weeks?
When I failed the first time, it was because I was too afraid to fail. I clung to the belief that I wasn’t as capable as everyone else, and in the end, that belief fulfilled itself. The second time, I failed for the opposite reason. I was too busy escaping. I lost myself in games, in conversations, in late-night laughter with online friends. I chased instant gratification, pretending each small joy was worth the long-term cost. So, this third time, I tried to do things differently. I went cold turkey, cutting off distractions and isolating myself in the name of focus.
But isolation bred a different kind of self-destruction. Whenever I sit down to study, my mind wanders elsewhere. Sometimes, it drifts toward fantasies of a different life. Most times, it drifts toward K-dramas. I’ve finished more than twenty series since classes began, each one more comforting than the silence of my unread notes. Somewhere along the way, I lost the grit that once kept me going. I lost the discipline that made me believe I had a purpose. I’ve forgotten my “why.”
I keep asking myself: Am I really meant to be here? I spend hours watching tarot readings that promise success I never see, listening to self-help videos I mock yet still replay, searching for divine signs in coincidences I don’t even believe in. It’s all an elaborate ritual to find meaning. And yet, for all my searching, I remain lost. Being lost isn’t the problem but refusing to move while lost is.
There’s a strange numbness that comes after too many failures. Not the soul-splitting kind of pain that arrives with the first fall, but something duller. A fatigue that feels like apathy. I’m somewhere in between: not in hell, because I’m no longer suffering, but not in heaven either, because I’m far from thriving. It feels like being trapped in an emotional purgatory, where nothing hurts enough to move me, and nothing shines enough to lift me.
I once failed three major subjects before managing to pass them, but I’ve failed my four pre-rev subjects twice. Now, I’m taking them for the third time. The same syllabus. The same exams. The same suffocating sense of déjà vu. Rationally, I know the odds are not in my favor. Statistically, I might fail again. Yet, what unsettles me most is not the fear of failing, but how ordinary it now feels to live in the aftermath of failure. Rock bottom used to be terrifying, a place of despair and regret. But after two years, it has begun to feel like home. And that comfort is far more frightening than the fall itself.
Still, I know I can’t stay here forever. My privilege to fail is running thin. Tuition fees, time, and patience are not infinite currencies. I tell myself this often, hoping urgency will ignite discipline, but my body remains still. I rarely panic, except maybe once a month or the night before an exam, when the question inevitably arrives: What have I even done with my life these past few weeks?
When I failed the first time, it was because I was too afraid to fail. I clung to the belief that I wasn’t as capable as everyone else, and in the end, that belief fulfilled itself. The second time, I failed for the opposite reason. I was too busy escaping. I lost myself in games, in conversations, in late-night laughter with online friends. I chased instant gratification, pretending each small joy was worth the long-term cost. So, this third time, I tried to do things differently. I went cold turkey, cutting off distractions and isolating myself in the name of focus.
But isolation bred a different kind of self-destruction. Whenever I sit down to study, my mind wanders elsewhere. Sometimes, it drifts toward fantasies of a different life. Most times, it drifts toward K-dramas. I’ve finished more than twenty series since classes began, each one more comforting than the silence of my unread notes. Somewhere along the way, I lost the grit that once kept me going. I lost the discipline that made me believe I had a purpose. I’ve forgotten my “why.”
I keep asking myself: Am I really meant to be here? I spend hours watching tarot readings that promise success I never see, listening to self-help videos I mock yet still replay, searching for divine signs in coincidences I don’t even believe in. It’s all an elaborate ritual to find meaning. And yet, for all my searching, I remain lost. Being lost isn’t the problem but refusing to move while lost is.
When Thoughts Refuse to Rest
▼October 14, 2025
Writing feels like thinking out loud, except sometimes it’s just my thoughts running laps around my head. I analyze everything, why things happen and how I feel about them. Yet I’m not sure if I’m actually learning or just orbiting the same thought, mistaking motion for progress.
Writing is an act of untangling. When I write, the loops slow down just enough for me to see what they’re really made of: fear, curiosity, or sometimes plain boredom. So, I write to meet myself halfway: the part that overthinks and the part that longs for silence. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head. When I ignore it for too long, the noise grows louder. It starts to spill into my day and turns into misplaced daydreams, where I start acting out inner dialogues like someone schizophrenic.
My brain demands the right vocabulary before it can rest. I can’t just say I’m happy. I need to know if it's fulfillment, contentment, or pleasure. I can’t just say I’m sad. I have to identify if it's regret, upset, or melancholy. Who is this feeling directed toward? Myself? Someone else? Only when I find the precise words does the noise die down temporarily, for about 24 hours before the cycle begins again. The tricky part, though, is how fast my mind changes. The moment I gain a different perspective, what I wrote a week ago might already feel wrong, like I’ve betrayed my old self with new information.
The hardest part of writing essays is figuring out when I’m being cautious, when I’m self-censoring, or when I’m straight-up lying. Because there’s that invisible potential reader who I subconsciously try to please and who makes me self-conscious, pushing me to polish my truth into something prettier than it is. Fortunately, self-awareness is my antidote to recognize the impulse to impress. I can mute it long enough to write something closer to honesty. So I write to make peace with my own noise. My thoughts tend to wander, and writing is how I call them home.
Writing feels like thinking out loud, except sometimes it’s just my thoughts running laps around my head. I analyze everything, why things happen and how I feel about them. Yet I’m not sure if I’m actually learning or just orbiting the same thought, mistaking motion for progress.
Writing is an act of untangling. When I write, the loops slow down just enough for me to see what they’re really made of: fear, curiosity, or sometimes plain boredom. So, I write to meet myself halfway: the part that overthinks and the part that longs for silence. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise in my head. When I ignore it for too long, the noise grows louder. It starts to spill into my day and turns into misplaced daydreams, where I start acting out inner dialogues like someone schizophrenic.
My brain demands the right vocabulary before it can rest. I can’t just say I’m happy. I need to know if it's fulfillment, contentment, or pleasure. I can’t just say I’m sad. I have to identify if it's regret, upset, or melancholy. Who is this feeling directed toward? Myself? Someone else? Only when I find the precise words does the noise die down temporarily, for about 24 hours before the cycle begins again. The tricky part, though, is how fast my mind changes. The moment I gain a different perspective, what I wrote a week ago might already feel wrong, like I’ve betrayed my old self with new information.
The hardest part of writing essays is figuring out when I’m being cautious, when I’m self-censoring, or when I’m straight-up lying. Because there’s that invisible potential reader who I subconsciously try to please and who makes me self-conscious, pushing me to polish my truth into something prettier than it is. Fortunately, self-awareness is my antidote to recognize the impulse to impress. I can mute it long enough to write something closer to honesty. So I write to make peace with my own noise. My thoughts tend to wander, and writing is how I call them home.
I'm Where She Hoped I'd Be
▼February 18, 2025
There was a time when I was so miserable being myself that I could not even step outside my room for years. I lived in silence, trapped in the fear of my own existence. But now, I find peace in the struggle.
I am happy with how difficult things are because this is exactly where my younger self hoped I would be. Alive, trying, and learning. She believed in me before I ever did. She trusted that I could face everything I am facing now, and I owe it to her to keep that faith alive.
I might stumble and fall or pause for a bit, but I will never go backward. Even if I cannot feel it, I am always moving forward. That truth comforts me on the days when progress feels invisible and success feels far away.
No more self-destruction. I am sorry for being disorganized, ungrateful, and impatient these past months. But I am learning to forgive myself for being human. Thank you, younger self, for never giving up on me, for holding the light even when I could not see. You trusted that I would get here, that I would live the dream we once imagined.
This semester, I will graduate. I MUST GRADUATE. Motivated or not, I will outnumber every doubt with resilience, hard work, and small, steady steps. I may not move fast, but I am moving with purpose. I love myself now for continuing and not giving up.
To my present self, don’t be too hard on me. I am working steadily, and I will get there soon. I promise.
There was a time when I was so miserable being myself that I could not even step outside my room for years. I lived in silence, trapped in the fear of my own existence. But now, I find peace in the struggle.
I am happy with how difficult things are because this is exactly where my younger self hoped I would be. Alive, trying, and learning. She believed in me before I ever did. She trusted that I could face everything I am facing now, and I owe it to her to keep that faith alive.
I might stumble and fall or pause for a bit, but I will never go backward. Even if I cannot feel it, I am always moving forward. That truth comforts me on the days when progress feels invisible and success feels far away.
No more self-destruction. I am sorry for being disorganized, ungrateful, and impatient these past months. But I am learning to forgive myself for being human. Thank you, younger self, for never giving up on me, for holding the light even when I could not see. You trusted that I would get here, that I would live the dream we once imagined.
This semester, I will graduate. I MUST GRADUATE. Motivated or not, I will outnumber every doubt with resilience, hard work, and small, steady steps. I may not move fast, but I am moving with purpose. I love myself now for continuing and not giving up.
To my present self, don’t be too hard on me. I am working steadily, and I will get there soon. I promise.
How to Leave Gently
▼ August 14, 2025
I have this habit of making my exits memorable. Not because I crave attention, but because I can’t seem to disappear without leaving something behind. A letter. A handmade gift. A message filled with too many thank-yous and too many sorrys. My goodbyes always come wrapped in ribbons and reverence, as if I am archiving people instead of letting them go.
Maybe it started when I realized that most relationships, especially the digital ones, don’t have clear endings. People just drift away. Conversations stop. Usernames change. One day, someone who once felt like home becomes just another silent bubble on your screen. So instead of waiting for the drift, I started making my exits intentional. If I was going to leave, I wanted to honor the part of me that stayed.
It was the same story in WePlay. When I knew I was nearing the point of quitting the app, I poured everything I had into it. I made parody awards, posters, games, and handcrafted souvenirs for a meetup I couldn’t even attend. I gave it my whole heart, because part of me believed that if I exhausted every bit of energy, my system would finally feel at peace. It worked and I gently faded out.
I told them I’d be inactive because of exams. That was true, but only partly. What I really meant was that I was finally leaving for good. And strangely, it helped. I’ve been offline for a month now, and I don’t miss it the way I thought I would. It feels like I finally gave the goodbye I needed.
I have this habit of making my exits memorable. Not because I crave attention, but because I can’t seem to disappear without leaving something behind. A letter. A handmade gift. A message filled with too many thank-yous and too many sorrys. My goodbyes always come wrapped in ribbons and reverence, as if I am archiving people instead of letting them go.
Maybe it started when I realized that most relationships, especially the digital ones, don’t have clear endings. People just drift away. Conversations stop. Usernames change. One day, someone who once felt like home becomes just another silent bubble on your screen. So instead of waiting for the drift, I started making my exits intentional. If I was going to leave, I wanted to honor the part of me that stayed.
It was the same story in WePlay. When I knew I was nearing the point of quitting the app, I poured everything I had into it. I made parody awards, posters, games, and handcrafted souvenirs for a meetup I couldn’t even attend. I gave it my whole heart, because part of me believed that if I exhausted every bit of energy, my system would finally feel at peace. It worked and I gently faded out.
I told them I’d be inactive because of exams. That was true, but only partly. What I really meant was that I was finally leaving for good. And strangely, it helped. I’ve been offline for a month now, and I don’t miss it the way I thought I would. It feels like I finally gave the goodbye I needed.
Why Everything Feels Cringe
▼ October 14, 2025
Lately, everything feels off. Things that never bothered me before, as well as things that once brought me joy, now trigger an involuntary wince. I scroll through social media and spot a video that gives away its agenda too soon. A bright thumbnail, a suspiciously tidy apartment, a voice too enthusiastic to be real and I swipe away before it has the chance to hypnotize me. It was an unskipabble Ad.
Even my actor and idol crushes, whose aegyo poses once gave me butterflies, now make me cringe. I find myself thinking about how awkward they must have felt doing that as an adult in their 30's, which they sometimes admit themselves and only confirms my suspicion that we’re all part of this ongoing collective act.
The worst offenders, perhaps, are the productivity gurus and lifestyle coaches who perform authenticity for a living. I can’t unsee the calculated spontaneity of it all. I wince at the idea of them turning on the camera before pretending they’re just waking up, or at how they always set up a tripod to capture the perfect cinematography for a walking montage. What was meant to be motivation now feels like manipulation, and the sincerity they try to sell collapses under the weight of its own curation.
Then there’s the trend of reaction videos, where people film themselves reacting to other people’s moments. Layers of performance stacked on top of each other until meaning evaporates. I watch them act shocked, tearful, or amused, and all I can think is how rehearsed it looks. Once, out of curiosity, I tried recording myself while crying. But as soon as I hit record, the tears retreated. My mind shifted from the reason I was hurt to how I looked being sad. Was I expressive enough? Did the angle flatter me? The lens made me self-conscious.
Sometimes I wonder if this hyper-awareness makes me an awful person. Seeing through the bullshit of everything has made me cynical. It’s as though I’ve lost the ability to believe in anything at face value. It’s exhausting to view the world as one long audition. Maybe this cynicism is my defense mechanism. When everything feels like performance, disbelief becomes a form of self-preservation.
If I expect less, I spare myself the disappointment. But the irony is that beneath this numbness, I still crave something that isn’t optimized for engagement or designed for the algorithm. I want to stumble upon unfiltered sincerity. Perhaps disillusionment isn’t the end of wonder but the beginning of discernment. Maybe learning to see through artifice is the first step toward recognizing what’s genuine. The world might be full of counterfeits, but there’s beauty in realizing that not everything can be faked. And when I finally encounter something that doesn’t beg to be recorded or performed, it feels like a small act of rebellion.
Lately, everything feels off. Things that never bothered me before, as well as things that once brought me joy, now trigger an involuntary wince. I scroll through social media and spot a video that gives away its agenda too soon. A bright thumbnail, a suspiciously tidy apartment, a voice too enthusiastic to be real and I swipe away before it has the chance to hypnotize me. It was an unskipabble Ad.
Even my actor and idol crushes, whose aegyo poses once gave me butterflies, now make me cringe. I find myself thinking about how awkward they must have felt doing that as an adult in their 30's, which they sometimes admit themselves and only confirms my suspicion that we’re all part of this ongoing collective act.
The worst offenders, perhaps, are the productivity gurus and lifestyle coaches who perform authenticity for a living. I can’t unsee the calculated spontaneity of it all. I wince at the idea of them turning on the camera before pretending they’re just waking up, or at how they always set up a tripod to capture the perfect cinematography for a walking montage. What was meant to be motivation now feels like manipulation, and the sincerity they try to sell collapses under the weight of its own curation.
Then there’s the trend of reaction videos, where people film themselves reacting to other people’s moments. Layers of performance stacked on top of each other until meaning evaporates. I watch them act shocked, tearful, or amused, and all I can think is how rehearsed it looks. Once, out of curiosity, I tried recording myself while crying. But as soon as I hit record, the tears retreated. My mind shifted from the reason I was hurt to how I looked being sad. Was I expressive enough? Did the angle flatter me? The lens made me self-conscious.
Sometimes I wonder if this hyper-awareness makes me an awful person. Seeing through the bullshit of everything has made me cynical. It’s as though I’ve lost the ability to believe in anything at face value. It’s exhausting to view the world as one long audition. Maybe this cynicism is my defense mechanism. When everything feels like performance, disbelief becomes a form of self-preservation.
If I expect less, I spare myself the disappointment. But the irony is that beneath this numbness, I still crave something that isn’t optimized for engagement or designed for the algorithm. I want to stumble upon unfiltered sincerity. Perhaps disillusionment isn’t the end of wonder but the beginning of discernment. Maybe learning to see through artifice is the first step toward recognizing what’s genuine. The world might be full of counterfeits, but there’s beauty in realizing that not everything can be faked. And when I finally encounter something that doesn’t beg to be recorded or performed, it feels like a small act of rebellion.
Not Knowing What You Want
▼October 11, 2025
Lately, I’ve been thinking... What do I really want in life? And the honest answer is I don’t exactly know. It’s not that I feel lost, it’s just that nothing feels quite definitive. I know what I need to do: study, work, move forward. But when it comes to what I want, I find myself hesitating. Because deep down, I actually want to be surprised.
I think I stopped wanting too much because I’ve come to believe that maybe the universe has something better planned for me than I could ever imagine for myself. After all, as humans, our view is so limited and shallow. When I was a kid, all I wanted were toys. As a teenager, I wanted to be pretty and popular. And now, as a young adult, I think about wanting stability and success. But what if life is more than just that, something I cannot imagine yet.
Lately, I’ve also noticed that I daydream a little too much. It’s scary how much it’s been disrupting my daily routine. Sometimes, I unconsciously speak the dialogues out loud, like I’m losing control of my own thoughts. I enjoy the silly thrill of it and let myself get carried away because that euphoria feels so addicting. But the more I let myself drift into those daydreams, the harder the embarrassment hits when I snap back to reality. The shame of entertaining those cringe fantasies just swallows me whole.
Honestly, I feel torn between my realism and idealism. The realist in me wants to stay grounded, to “get it together”, while the idealist keeps whispering that life is supposed to feel more magical than this. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel paralyzed by my own thoughts, afraid that if I choose one path, I’ll lose all the other possible versions of me.
When I think about it, maybe I’ve been detaching myself from wanting too much because I’m scared of disappointment. I often think, “It would be nice to have that, but I wouldn’t mind not having it.” It sounds neutral, but really, it’s just a soft armor I’ve built against heartbreak.
A quick segue: I recently bought a GOT7 album that came in seven versions. I was really hoping I’d get my bias’s version (Jinyoung), but thinking about the one-out-of-seven chance, I immediately gave up hope and thought, “It would be nice if I got Jinyoung’s version, but I wouldn’t mind if I don’t, I might learn to like the others.” While my parcel was in transit for a couple of weeks, I drowned myself in GOT7 videos during my free time, laughing nonstop and eventually finding each member’s charm. Long story short, when my parcel finally arrived, IT WAS JINYOUNG! I screamed from excitement and felt like the universe’s favorite child for an hour, flipping through the album filled with his face. (I might write a separate essay just geeking out about GOT7, honestly.)
Anyway, back to the point, giving up all hope is, in a strange way, my method of trusting that something special will happen, something I can’t predict. I want to believe that life still has surprises waiting for me. For now, I think I’ll just let things unfold. I’ll stay curious, keep daydreaming, but maybe with one foot on the ground, and let the universe meet me halfway.
Lately, I’ve been thinking... What do I really want in life? And the honest answer is I don’t exactly know. It’s not that I feel lost, it’s just that nothing feels quite definitive. I know what I need to do: study, work, move forward. But when it comes to what I want, I find myself hesitating. Because deep down, I actually want to be surprised.
I think I stopped wanting too much because I’ve come to believe that maybe the universe has something better planned for me than I could ever imagine for myself. After all, as humans, our view is so limited and shallow. When I was a kid, all I wanted were toys. As a teenager, I wanted to be pretty and popular. And now, as a young adult, I think about wanting stability and success. But what if life is more than just that, something I cannot imagine yet.
Lately, I’ve also noticed that I daydream a little too much. It’s scary how much it’s been disrupting my daily routine. Sometimes, I unconsciously speak the dialogues out loud, like I’m losing control of my own thoughts. I enjoy the silly thrill of it and let myself get carried away because that euphoria feels so addicting. But the more I let myself drift into those daydreams, the harder the embarrassment hits when I snap back to reality. The shame of entertaining those cringe fantasies just swallows me whole.
Honestly, I feel torn between my realism and idealism. The realist in me wants to stay grounded, to “get it together”, while the idealist keeps whispering that life is supposed to feel more magical than this. Maybe that’s why I sometimes feel paralyzed by my own thoughts, afraid that if I choose one path, I’ll lose all the other possible versions of me.
When I think about it, maybe I’ve been detaching myself from wanting too much because I’m scared of disappointment. I often think, “It would be nice to have that, but I wouldn’t mind not having it.” It sounds neutral, but really, it’s just a soft armor I’ve built against heartbreak.
A quick segue: I recently bought a GOT7 album that came in seven versions. I was really hoping I’d get my bias’s version (Jinyoung), but thinking about the one-out-of-seven chance, I immediately gave up hope and thought, “It would be nice if I got Jinyoung’s version, but I wouldn’t mind if I don’t, I might learn to like the others.” While my parcel was in transit for a couple of weeks, I drowned myself in GOT7 videos during my free time, laughing nonstop and eventually finding each member’s charm. Long story short, when my parcel finally arrived, IT WAS JINYOUNG! I screamed from excitement and felt like the universe’s favorite child for an hour, flipping through the album filled with his face. (I might write a separate essay just geeking out about GOT7, honestly.)
Anyway, back to the point, giving up all hope is, in a strange way, my method of trusting that something special will happen, something I can’t predict. I want to believe that life still has surprises waiting for me. For now, I think I’ll just let things unfold. I’ll stay curious, keep daydreaming, but maybe with one foot on the ground, and let the universe meet me halfway.
Lies I Have Told Myself (and you)
▼July 16, 2025
I do not think I have ever confronted the full unfiltered truth about myself without flinching. When I write in my journal, I instinctively avert my gaze or pause after recording the uncomfortable thoughts, the ones I would never dare share publicly. There is a friction between what I know and what I admit, a subtle self-censorship that has become almost instinctive.
If I am brutally honest, every time I open my mouth, my words are almost always coated with lies. The small distortions, the exaggerations, the delicate alterations I make to seem more interesting, more experienced, more worthy of attention. My stories carry kernels of truth, but I stretch them, polish them, reshape them. Somehow, I believed the version of myself that emerged from those edits was more impressive, more memorable, more acceptable.
For instance, when people ask about relationships, I say I’ve never had one, which is technically true. But I’ve been in countless messy situationships that felt real, that confused me, that taught me difficult lessons. And yet I erase them because saying “NBSB” feels cleaner than admitting I’ve been emotionally entangled and left with nothing to show for it.
I despise how natural the lies feel, how effortlessly I can sculpt myself into someone I believe others want to encounter. The most disquieting realization is that this performance has lasted so long that I sometimes cannot distinguish between acting and existing. I start to believe my own narratives. I gaslight myself.
Yet I understand why I do this. Deep down, I never believed that the unpolished version of me, awkward, uncertain, ordinary, was enough. I constructed a different self, someone brighter and more lovable. And now I am ready to leave her behind. I do not hate her. On the contrary, I am grateful. She helped me survive. She protected me when I lacked the tools to protect myself.
I no longer need her. Honesty, even when it is uncomfortable, promises a deeper kind of connection, both to others and to myself. It offers self-respect that no polished lie could ever replicate. The act of telling the truth, of inhabiting my flawed and complicated self, may be terrifying, but it is also liberating. I am learning that to live fully is to accept all facets of who I am, even those I once thought unworthy.
I do not think I have ever confronted the full unfiltered truth about myself without flinching. When I write in my journal, I instinctively avert my gaze or pause after recording the uncomfortable thoughts, the ones I would never dare share publicly. There is a friction between what I know and what I admit, a subtle self-censorship that has become almost instinctive.
If I am brutally honest, every time I open my mouth, my words are almost always coated with lies. The small distortions, the exaggerations, the delicate alterations I make to seem more interesting, more experienced, more worthy of attention. My stories carry kernels of truth, but I stretch them, polish them, reshape them. Somehow, I believed the version of myself that emerged from those edits was more impressive, more memorable, more acceptable.
For instance, when people ask about relationships, I say I’ve never had one, which is technically true. But I’ve been in countless messy situationships that felt real, that confused me, that taught me difficult lessons. And yet I erase them because saying “NBSB” feels cleaner than admitting I’ve been emotionally entangled and left with nothing to show for it.
I despise how natural the lies feel, how effortlessly I can sculpt myself into someone I believe others want to encounter. The most disquieting realization is that this performance has lasted so long that I sometimes cannot distinguish between acting and existing. I start to believe my own narratives. I gaslight myself.
Yet I understand why I do this. Deep down, I never believed that the unpolished version of me, awkward, uncertain, ordinary, was enough. I constructed a different self, someone brighter and more lovable. And now I am ready to leave her behind. I do not hate her. On the contrary, I am grateful. She helped me survive. She protected me when I lacked the tools to protect myself.
I no longer need her. Honesty, even when it is uncomfortable, promises a deeper kind of connection, both to others and to myself. It offers self-respect that no polished lie could ever replicate. The act of telling the truth, of inhabiting my flawed and complicated self, may be terrifying, but it is also liberating. I am learning that to live fully is to accept all facets of who I am, even those I once thought unworthy.
The Art of Outgrowing People
▼July 15, 2025
Friendships run their course. That simple truth is often uncomfortable, not only for me but also for the people who once knew earlier versions of who I was. There comes a time when I begin to feel the quiet weight of connections that no longer feel alive, friendships that have become more performance than presence, conversations that echo but do not reach. It is a slow kind of work, this shedding. And even though it hurts, I know it is necessary.
My WePlay family wasn’t just another online game; it was a world that mirrored a part of me I could not express in real life. During a time when I felt lost and unseen, that digital space became my stage, my sanctuary, my escape. There, I was admired, even looked up to, yet admiration without understanding can become a cage disguised as affection. Gratitude alone cannot sustain belonging. I’ve learned that it is possible to honor what a chapter gave me while also choosing to close the book. Growth requires endings, and endings do not always mean bitterness.
I’ve come to believe that letting go of friendships is not an act of cruelty. It can be an act of grace. Every bond has its season, and some are meant to teach rather than to last. Walking away before resentment takes root can be a deeper form of care, one directed not only toward others but toward oneself. I am learning that leaving does not always mean abandoning. Sometimes, it means choosing myself for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps it feels wrong because I grew up believing that loyalty meant endurance, even when it hurt. I was taught that leaving was a betrayal, that endings were failures. But maybe loyalty can also mean being faithful to my own evolution. I am allowed to outgrow places where I once felt safe. I am allowed to whisper, Thank you for everything, but I need to walk this next part alone.
Friendships run their course. That simple truth is often uncomfortable, not only for me but also for the people who once knew earlier versions of who I was. There comes a time when I begin to feel the quiet weight of connections that no longer feel alive, friendships that have become more performance than presence, conversations that echo but do not reach. It is a slow kind of work, this shedding. And even though it hurts, I know it is necessary.
My WePlay family wasn’t just another online game; it was a world that mirrored a part of me I could not express in real life. During a time when I felt lost and unseen, that digital space became my stage, my sanctuary, my escape. There, I was admired, even looked up to, yet admiration without understanding can become a cage disguised as affection. Gratitude alone cannot sustain belonging. I’ve learned that it is possible to honor what a chapter gave me while also choosing to close the book. Growth requires endings, and endings do not always mean bitterness.
I’ve come to believe that letting go of friendships is not an act of cruelty. It can be an act of grace. Every bond has its season, and some are meant to teach rather than to last. Walking away before resentment takes root can be a deeper form of care, one directed not only toward others but toward oneself. I am learning that leaving does not always mean abandoning. Sometimes, it means choosing myself for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps it feels wrong because I grew up believing that loyalty meant endurance, even when it hurt. I was taught that leaving was a betrayal, that endings were failures. But maybe loyalty can also mean being faithful to my own evolution. I am allowed to outgrow places where I once felt safe. I am allowed to whisper, Thank you for everything, but I need to walk this next part alone.
My Spoon Fell And I Cried
▼March 27, 2025
Vulnerability is terrifying. To reveal your true self is to offer others a piece of you they can twist, discard, or leave behind. Often, it is not the harm they inflict that lingers but the emptiness they leave when they are gone. And yet, we remain in these cycles, returning to the places that hurt us because they are familiar. Familiar feels safe. At least we know how the story goes.
I admire my younger self. She went through so much and somehow never cried. But now? I cry when my spoon falls. I cry like gravity has a personal grudge against me. But it’s never about the spoon. It’s about everything else that’s fallen, my hopes, my self-worth, my stamina to keep pretending I’m fine. That tiny sound of metal on the floor was just the last straw in a pile I’ve been quietly stacking for years.
When I look in the mirror, I can’t always stand who I see. I know I can recover, but sometimes I lack the grit. I used to chase goals that were never really mine, hoping I could make them fit. It didn’t work. Now, I just exist, and strangely, that feels enough. A quiet rebellion against the old me who thought love had to be earned through achievement.
I used to find pride in being “the smart one,” until I failed 21 units of my major. That broke something in me. Who am I without my achievements? Who am I when I’m not performing? I tell myself it’s okay to be average, as long as I’m a good person. But then I catch myself lying, judging, disappearing. What if I’m not even a good person?
People keep asking when I’ll graduate. I wish I had the courage to ask when they’ll mind their business. I’m tired of living by other people’s timelines. I want to laugh again, cry freely, sing badly, dance terribly, just feel things fully. Maybe that’s what growing up really is, unlearning the performance, sitting with the mess, and learning to call it living.
Vulnerability is terrifying. To reveal your true self is to offer others a piece of you they can twist, discard, or leave behind. Often, it is not the harm they inflict that lingers but the emptiness they leave when they are gone. And yet, we remain in these cycles, returning to the places that hurt us because they are familiar. Familiar feels safe. At least we know how the story goes.
I admire my younger self. She went through so much and somehow never cried. But now? I cry when my spoon falls. I cry like gravity has a personal grudge against me. But it’s never about the spoon. It’s about everything else that’s fallen, my hopes, my self-worth, my stamina to keep pretending I’m fine. That tiny sound of metal on the floor was just the last straw in a pile I’ve been quietly stacking for years.
When I look in the mirror, I can’t always stand who I see. I know I can recover, but sometimes I lack the grit. I used to chase goals that were never really mine, hoping I could make them fit. It didn’t work. Now, I just exist, and strangely, that feels enough. A quiet rebellion against the old me who thought love had to be earned through achievement.
I used to find pride in being “the smart one,” until I failed 21 units of my major. That broke something in me. Who am I without my achievements? Who am I when I’m not performing? I tell myself it’s okay to be average, as long as I’m a good person. But then I catch myself lying, judging, disappearing. What if I’m not even a good person?
People keep asking when I’ll graduate. I wish I had the courage to ask when they’ll mind their business. I’m tired of living by other people’s timelines. I want to laugh again, cry freely, sing badly, dance terribly, just feel things fully. Maybe that’s what growing up really is, unlearning the performance, sitting with the mess, and learning to call it living.
Male Version of My Own Bullshit
▼February 8, 2025
Last night, I spent three hours on a call with a friend. We went on a full-on rant about people, laughing, venting, oversharing, the whole thing. I actually enjoyed it. There’s something quietly comforting about someone who chooses to spend hours just talking to you. It feels rare, like being seen without having to ask for it. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation, something in me shifted. I started noticing red flags, not the usual scattered ones, but an entire red carpet unrolling before me, inviting me to walk straight into it.
He’s manipulative, though I don’t even think he realizes it. On the surface, we don’t share much in common. He’s old-fashioned when it comes to relationships, which already makes me twitch a little. He talked a lot about himself: his INTJ label, his self-deprecating humor, his grand declarations about giving his all when he loves, and withdrawing completely when he doesn’t. It sounded self-aware at first, but the more he spoke, the more it felt like someone building walls while pretending they’re bridges.
Then he brought up his recent breakup. He mentioned his new gym routine, then casually admitted to flirting with several girls he chats with. At one point, he let me overhear him flirting with a drunk, vulnerable girl. It was uncomfortable to witness. Yet what struck me most wasn’t the act itself, but how effortlessly he controlled the flow of their conversation, steering it, shaping it, bending it to his will. And then came the truly unsettling part. Because as I listened, I realized he was a lot like me. Or maybe, I was a lot like him.
I’ve done similar things. I controlled narratives, curated impressions, chosen words like chess moves designed to provoke specific reactions. The difference, I told myself, is that I know when I’m doing it. But that’s a flimsy distinction. Watching him was like staring into a mirror and seeing my own reflection smirk back, equal parts humbling and horrifying.
Still, I didn’t end the call bitter. In fact, I felt oddly grateful. For all his flaws, he was transparent in his own way, and that transparency forced me to confront my own habits. How I connect, how I protect myself, how I sometimes confuse control with intimacy.
I can see the performance he tries to maintain. The version of himself he wants the world to believe. And I recognize that duality because it lives in me too. Maybe that’s what conversations like this are for, to remind us that connection is not always clean or comforting. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it’s a mirror. And if we’re lucky, it reflects not just who they are, but who we’ve been pretending not to be.
Last night, I spent three hours on a call with a friend. We went on a full-on rant about people, laughing, venting, oversharing, the whole thing. I actually enjoyed it. There’s something quietly comforting about someone who chooses to spend hours just talking to you. It feels rare, like being seen without having to ask for it. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation, something in me shifted. I started noticing red flags, not the usual scattered ones, but an entire red carpet unrolling before me, inviting me to walk straight into it.
He’s manipulative, though I don’t even think he realizes it. On the surface, we don’t share much in common. He’s old-fashioned when it comes to relationships, which already makes me twitch a little. He talked a lot about himself: his INTJ label, his self-deprecating humor, his grand declarations about giving his all when he loves, and withdrawing completely when he doesn’t. It sounded self-aware at first, but the more he spoke, the more it felt like someone building walls while pretending they’re bridges.
Then he brought up his recent breakup. He mentioned his new gym routine, then casually admitted to flirting with several girls he chats with. At one point, he let me overhear him flirting with a drunk, vulnerable girl. It was uncomfortable to witness. Yet what struck me most wasn’t the act itself, but how effortlessly he controlled the flow of their conversation, steering it, shaping it, bending it to his will. And then came the truly unsettling part. Because as I listened, I realized he was a lot like me. Or maybe, I was a lot like him.
I’ve done similar things. I controlled narratives, curated impressions, chosen words like chess moves designed to provoke specific reactions. The difference, I told myself, is that I know when I’m doing it. But that’s a flimsy distinction. Watching him was like staring into a mirror and seeing my own reflection smirk back, equal parts humbling and horrifying.
Still, I didn’t end the call bitter. In fact, I felt oddly grateful. For all his flaws, he was transparent in his own way, and that transparency forced me to confront my own habits. How I connect, how I protect myself, how I sometimes confuse control with intimacy.
I can see the performance he tries to maintain. The version of himself he wants the world to believe. And I recognize that duality because it lives in me too. Maybe that’s what conversations like this are for, to remind us that connection is not always clean or comforting. Sometimes it’s messy, sometimes it’s a mirror. And if we’re lucky, it reflects not just who they are, but who we’ve been pretending not to be.
How to Be Delusional and Happy
▼February 15, 2025
I’ve been thinking about how ridiculous I can be sometimes, and honestly, it makes me laugh. There’s a strange comfort in realizing how foolish I can be and still finding amusement in it. Once again, I’ve placed someone on a pedestal, constructing an elaborate fantasy around a person who, by all evidence, is not remotely interested in me. Perhaps they even find me intolerable. And yet, for a moment, it’s liberating to float in that little fantasy world of mine. It’s cringe, yes, but it’s mine to embrace.
I know I’ve lost my moral compass a few times. If someone else behaved the way I have, I’d probably raise an eyebrow too. But being human means making choices that don’t always make sense. Sometimes I overthink, sometimes I lie to myself just to make it through another day. That doesn’t make me a bad person; it makes me a person trying.
My delusions are a bit unhinged, but at least they’re harmless. They belong entirely to me. They add color to the grayscale of routine. My mind can be messy, but it’s a mess I’ve learned to navigate. I’ve realized that I’m both my fiercest critic and my most loyal supporter. I fall apart, then I laugh at my own drama, then I rebuild. There’s a rhythm to my imperfection that I’m beginning to appreciate.
I don’t believe in manifestation anymore. None of my wild fantasies ever came true, thankfully, because most of them were absurd. What I believe in now is effort. The quiet, unglamorous kind that doesn’t always yield visible results but keeps me moving forward anyway. I may not have everything figured out, but I no longer punish myself for it. Growth is rarely tidy, and for now, I’m content with having space to grow.
I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. I take pride in feeling things deeply, even when it hurts, and in noticing subtle shifts in people that others might miss. I love that I’m flawed but capable of change, that no matter how often I repeat the same mistakes, I still choose to try again. I may not say it enough, but I’m proud of myself for surviving with both humor and grace.
So I’ll stop judging myself for being messy. Life’s too short to live in apology. I’m a little crazy, but I’m learning. I’ll keep embracing the cringe, laughing through the discomfort, and loving myself in the process.
I’ve been thinking about how ridiculous I can be sometimes, and honestly, it makes me laugh. There’s a strange comfort in realizing how foolish I can be and still finding amusement in it. Once again, I’ve placed someone on a pedestal, constructing an elaborate fantasy around a person who, by all evidence, is not remotely interested in me. Perhaps they even find me intolerable. And yet, for a moment, it’s liberating to float in that little fantasy world of mine. It’s cringe, yes, but it’s mine to embrace.
I know I’ve lost my moral compass a few times. If someone else behaved the way I have, I’d probably raise an eyebrow too. But being human means making choices that don’t always make sense. Sometimes I overthink, sometimes I lie to myself just to make it through another day. That doesn’t make me a bad person; it makes me a person trying.
My delusions are a bit unhinged, but at least they’re harmless. They belong entirely to me. They add color to the grayscale of routine. My mind can be messy, but it’s a mess I’ve learned to navigate. I’ve realized that I’m both my fiercest critic and my most loyal supporter. I fall apart, then I laugh at my own drama, then I rebuild. There’s a rhythm to my imperfection that I’m beginning to appreciate.
I don’t believe in manifestation anymore. None of my wild fantasies ever came true, thankfully, because most of them were absurd. What I believe in now is effort. The quiet, unglamorous kind that doesn’t always yield visible results but keeps me moving forward anyway. I may not have everything figured out, but I no longer punish myself for it. Growth is rarely tidy, and for now, I’m content with having space to grow.
I’ve learned to enjoy my own company. I take pride in feeling things deeply, even when it hurts, and in noticing subtle shifts in people that others might miss. I love that I’m flawed but capable of change, that no matter how often I repeat the same mistakes, I still choose to try again. I may not say it enough, but I’m proud of myself for surviving with both humor and grace.
So I’ll stop judging myself for being messy. Life’s too short to live in apology. I’m a little crazy, but I’m learning. I’ll keep embracing the cringe, laughing through the discomfort, and loving myself in the process.
How to Properly Fall Apart
▼May 23, 2025
Sometimes I think about death and wonder if it’s just like returning to the void. Quiet without expectation, no afterlife, no grand revelation, just nothing. Lately, that idea feels oddly comforting. I’ve been fighting myself a lot, denying what I feel because I keep comparing my pain to others’. I tell myself, people have it worse, as if that invalidates my own hurt. But the other night, I finally sat with it. I gave myself permission to feel angry, to cry. Sometimes, that’s all you really need, to allow yourself to be human.
Boredom has a strange way of waking you up. When life feels repetitive and dull, it quietly dares you to change something. But change doesn’t always mean fixing what’s broken, sometimes it means letting things fall apart. I’ve realized that not every shattered piece of me deserves to be put back. Maybe some parts are meant to stay gone. Maybe I’m not falling apart after all. Maybe I’m just falling into place.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about healing. People say it’s about breaking old patterns, but no one tells you how to start when those patterns feel like the only thing holding you together. There’s this strange comfort in chaos, you hate it, but it’s familiar. Still, I think I’m meant to feel lost right now. Maybe that’s part of healing too, learning to sit in uncertainty without needing all the answers.
Some mornings I wake up with this hollow ache, like something’s wrong but I can’t name it. It’s not about any one thing; it’s everything. The joy that used to come so easily now feels out of reach. I watch people laugh, and I can’t join in. The words I need never quite form, so I stay silent. It’s like there’s this invisible distance between who I was and who I’m becoming, and I don’t know how to bridge it.
That’s the hardest part: being stuck between versions of yourself. The things that used to make me feel alive don’t hit the same anymore. I want to change, but I don’t know what I’m changing into. I just know I can’t go back. So here I am, somewhere in between, trying to understand who I’m becoming while everything else shifts around me. Maybe this low hum of unease isn’t something to fix, but something to listen to. After all, not every ache needs an answer.
Sometimes I think about death and wonder if it’s just like returning to the void. Quiet without expectation, no afterlife, no grand revelation, just nothing. Lately, that idea feels oddly comforting. I’ve been fighting myself a lot, denying what I feel because I keep comparing my pain to others’. I tell myself, people have it worse, as if that invalidates my own hurt. But the other night, I finally sat with it. I gave myself permission to feel angry, to cry. Sometimes, that’s all you really need, to allow yourself to be human.
Boredom has a strange way of waking you up. When life feels repetitive and dull, it quietly dares you to change something. But change doesn’t always mean fixing what’s broken, sometimes it means letting things fall apart. I’ve realized that not every shattered piece of me deserves to be put back. Maybe some parts are meant to stay gone. Maybe I’m not falling apart after all. Maybe I’m just falling into place.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about healing. People say it’s about breaking old patterns, but no one tells you how to start when those patterns feel like the only thing holding you together. There’s this strange comfort in chaos, you hate it, but it’s familiar. Still, I think I’m meant to feel lost right now. Maybe that’s part of healing too, learning to sit in uncertainty without needing all the answers.
Some mornings I wake up with this hollow ache, like something’s wrong but I can’t name it. It’s not about any one thing; it’s everything. The joy that used to come so easily now feels out of reach. I watch people laugh, and I can’t join in. The words I need never quite form, so I stay silent. It’s like there’s this invisible distance between who I was and who I’m becoming, and I don’t know how to bridge it.
That’s the hardest part: being stuck between versions of yourself. The things that used to make me feel alive don’t hit the same anymore. I want to change, but I don’t know what I’m changing into. I just know I can’t go back. So here I am, somewhere in between, trying to understand who I’m becoming while everything else shifts around me. Maybe this low hum of unease isn’t something to fix, but something to listen to. After all, not every ache needs an answer.
The Cost of Being Too Available
▼April 14, 2025
I’ve been spring-cleaning my social life. Unfollowing acquaintances. Muting people I used to check in on every day. I suddenly had clarity. Turns out, most of those connections only existed because I kept them alive. I was the one reaching out, checking in, sending memes at 3AM, being the emotional charger. The second I unplugged? Silence.
I understand that people are busy. Life is overwhelming, and time is scarce. I get that. But if I can make the effort, then perhaps others could too. Or perhaps they simply do not want to. Self-help literature advises not to take such things personally, framing it as a “them” problem, not a “me” problem. Theoretically, I agree. In practice, it still stings to realize that some people only appreciate you when you are convenient, cheerful, and easy to manage.
The pain is almost imperceptible. Realizing nobody checks in when you go silent. Noticing how how they ignore your messages for weeks but double-tap your stories like that makes up for the ghosting. Like, thanks for the emotional crumbs, I guess?
Sometimes it feels like the bond only exists when I keep showing up. I reach out? We laugh, we connect. I don’t? Suddenly, we’re strangers with memories. Some friendships are so one-sided, I could’ve sworn I was texting a wall with a profile picture. And yes, maybe I overacting. Maybe I take things too personally. But how do you not take it personally when you’re always the one reaching out, and people only love you when you’re curated and filtered and fun? The moment you show up flawed, weird, or even just quiet… they back away like you're a glitch in the system.
I’m learning now, not everyone deserves a pedestal. Not everyone needs to be defended when the energy isn’t mutual. And no, I don’t want performative connections. I don’t want people who only remember I exist when I post something funny or vaguely sad. I want people who show up even when there’s no audience.
Is it a me problem? Possibly. Yet it seems reasonable to want to feel chosen, to want reciprocity without shame. Love, even in its platonic form, should demand mutuality and not martyrdom. So now, I’m pulling back, not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. I’m not burning bridges. I’m just not begging people to cross them anymore. I am not hard to love. I'm just tired of being the only one trying.
I’ve been spring-cleaning my social life. Unfollowing acquaintances. Muting people I used to check in on every day. I suddenly had clarity. Turns out, most of those connections only existed because I kept them alive. I was the one reaching out, checking in, sending memes at 3AM, being the emotional charger. The second I unplugged? Silence.
I understand that people are busy. Life is overwhelming, and time is scarce. I get that. But if I can make the effort, then perhaps others could too. Or perhaps they simply do not want to. Self-help literature advises not to take such things personally, framing it as a “them” problem, not a “me” problem. Theoretically, I agree. In practice, it still stings to realize that some people only appreciate you when you are convenient, cheerful, and easy to manage.
The pain is almost imperceptible. Realizing nobody checks in when you go silent. Noticing how how they ignore your messages for weeks but double-tap your stories like that makes up for the ghosting. Like, thanks for the emotional crumbs, I guess?
Sometimes it feels like the bond only exists when I keep showing up. I reach out? We laugh, we connect. I don’t? Suddenly, we’re strangers with memories. Some friendships are so one-sided, I could’ve sworn I was texting a wall with a profile picture. And yes, maybe I overacting. Maybe I take things too personally. But how do you not take it personally when you’re always the one reaching out, and people only love you when you’re curated and filtered and fun? The moment you show up flawed, weird, or even just quiet… they back away like you're a glitch in the system.
I’m learning now, not everyone deserves a pedestal. Not everyone needs to be defended when the energy isn’t mutual. And no, I don’t want performative connections. I don’t want people who only remember I exist when I post something funny or vaguely sad. I want people who show up even when there’s no audience.
Is it a me problem? Possibly. Yet it seems reasonable to want to feel chosen, to want reciprocity without shame. Love, even in its platonic form, should demand mutuality and not martyrdom. So now, I’m pulling back, not out of bitterness, but out of self-respect. I’m not burning bridges. I’m just not begging people to cross them anymore. I am not hard to love. I'm just tired of being the only one trying.
The Art of Embracing Pain
▼October 18, 2024
Lately, I’ve been haunted by a thought that feels both oddly comforting and slightly twisted: no matter how many times love has disappointed me, I never really give up on it. Despite every emotional whiplash, every heartbreak that left me gasping for clarity, I still believe in love, perhaps more than I should. You’d think that after all the mess, I’d learn to protect myself better. But instead, I’ve reached this strange conclusion that maybe it just wasn’t the right time.
It’s not that I’m grateful for the pain, exactly. It’s more that I’ve learned to see meaning in it. The highs and lows, the heartbreak. Yes it’s all maddening, but it also feels real in a way that nothing else does. Love’s turbulence reminds me that I’m alive. The ache that follows isn’t proof of failure; it’s proof of feeling. Pain, after all, doesn’t last forever. It comes and goes like weather, but while it’s here, it colors everything vividly. Without it, would joy even make sense?
Right now, I’m in that familiar ache again. And here’s the confession: part of me doesn’t hate it. Not in a masochistic way, but in a strangely anticipatory one. There’s something deeply human about knowing the end is coming and still staying for the final scene. Heartbreak has this cinematic quality, melancholy at its most elegant. It’s the final chapter you already know by heart, yet you still read it slowly, savoring every word. It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt that makes you feel honest.
And yet, beneath that romanticized layer lies something darker. The truth is, I’m often the first to wound myself. I’ve learned the art of self-inflicted pain, through doubt, rejection, and quiet withdrawal. It’s not that I enjoy it, but it feels safer that way. If I break myself first, no one else gets to. It’s a kind of self-preservation dressed as self-sabotage. I’ve learned my limits through it, the boundaries of what I can endure.
I’m not sure if anyone else would understand this logic, or if it even qualifies as logic. Maybe it’s just the way I’ve made sense of my own tenderness. Maybe it’s how I cope with the risk of being human. Because to love, really love, is to gamble with pain and I suppose I’d rather lose beautifully than not play at all.
Lately, I’ve been haunted by a thought that feels both oddly comforting and slightly twisted: no matter how many times love has disappointed me, I never really give up on it. Despite every emotional whiplash, every heartbreak that left me gasping for clarity, I still believe in love, perhaps more than I should. You’d think that after all the mess, I’d learn to protect myself better. But instead, I’ve reached this strange conclusion that maybe it just wasn’t the right time.
It’s not that I’m grateful for the pain, exactly. It’s more that I’ve learned to see meaning in it. The highs and lows, the heartbreak. Yes it’s all maddening, but it also feels real in a way that nothing else does. Love’s turbulence reminds me that I’m alive. The ache that follows isn’t proof of failure; it’s proof of feeling. Pain, after all, doesn’t last forever. It comes and goes like weather, but while it’s here, it colors everything vividly. Without it, would joy even make sense?
Right now, I’m in that familiar ache again. And here’s the confession: part of me doesn’t hate it. Not in a masochistic way, but in a strangely anticipatory one. There’s something deeply human about knowing the end is coming and still staying for the final scene. Heartbreak has this cinematic quality, melancholy at its most elegant. It’s the final chapter you already know by heart, yet you still read it slowly, savoring every word. It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt that makes you feel honest.
And yet, beneath that romanticized layer lies something darker. The truth is, I’m often the first to wound myself. I’ve learned the art of self-inflicted pain, through doubt, rejection, and quiet withdrawal. It’s not that I enjoy it, but it feels safer that way. If I break myself first, no one else gets to. It’s a kind of self-preservation dressed as self-sabotage. I’ve learned my limits through it, the boundaries of what I can endure.
I’m not sure if anyone else would understand this logic, or if it even qualifies as logic. Maybe it’s just the way I’ve made sense of my own tenderness. Maybe it’s how I cope with the risk of being human. Because to love, really love, is to gamble with pain and I suppose I’d rather lose beautifully than not play at all.
How to Detach Without Being a Jerk
▼February 19, 2025
Lately, I’ve been realizing how much I try to control things. I send the text, check if it’s “seen,” reread our conversation, and overanalyze every word. Was I too much? Too little? Too weird? Too me?
I used to think control meant safety, that if I could just anticipate every outcome, I wouldn’t get hurt. But the truth is, control is an illusion. The tighter I hold on, the faster things slip away, like sand, like pride, like that guy who couldn’t even spell my name right.
I’m learning that detachment isn’t about being cold or pretending not to care. It’s not about acting unbothered so people chase me. Detachment, when it’s real, feels peaceful. It’s that quiet moment when I accept that love, respect, and connection can’t be forced, they either flow or they don’t. And when they don’t, I don’t push anymore. I pull back. I rest in my self-worth.
Because honestly, constant chasing only drives people away. And I’m tired of chasing. I want to attract, not from arrogance, but from stillness. The kind of stillness that says, I know what I bring, and I don’t need to beg for it to be seen. The version of me who can walk away with grace and not make it a grand exit. The one who doesn’t crumble when someone leaves.
Sometimes I ask myself: Am I in love with them, or with the fantasy of being loved by them?
Most of the time, it’s the fantasy. Because they’re kind of available, but mostly not. And I’m finally done mistaking breadcrumbs for effort.
When I stop over giving, something shifts. I become full again. Whole, even. I realize that emotional independence isn’t about cutting people off; it’s about knowing I’ll still be okay if they do. And ironically, the moment I stop trying so hard, people notice. They feel the shift. Maybe it’s human nature, scarcity creates curiosity. But I’m not doing it for them anymore. Silence has become my new boundary.
And maybe that’s the whole point: to meet my own needs first, so no one has to complete me, they just compliment the masterpiece I already am.
Lately, I’ve been realizing how much I try to control things. I send the text, check if it’s “seen,” reread our conversation, and overanalyze every word. Was I too much? Too little? Too weird? Too me?
I used to think control meant safety, that if I could just anticipate every outcome, I wouldn’t get hurt. But the truth is, control is an illusion. The tighter I hold on, the faster things slip away, like sand, like pride, like that guy who couldn’t even spell my name right.
I’m learning that detachment isn’t about being cold or pretending not to care. It’s not about acting unbothered so people chase me. Detachment, when it’s real, feels peaceful. It’s that quiet moment when I accept that love, respect, and connection can’t be forced, they either flow or they don’t. And when they don’t, I don’t push anymore. I pull back. I rest in my self-worth.
Because honestly, constant chasing only drives people away. And I’m tired of chasing. I want to attract, not from arrogance, but from stillness. The kind of stillness that says, I know what I bring, and I don’t need to beg for it to be seen. The version of me who can walk away with grace and not make it a grand exit. The one who doesn’t crumble when someone leaves.
Sometimes I ask myself: Am I in love with them, or with the fantasy of being loved by them?
Most of the time, it’s the fantasy. Because they’re kind of available, but mostly not. And I’m finally done mistaking breadcrumbs for effort.
When I stop over giving, something shifts. I become full again. Whole, even. I realize that emotional independence isn’t about cutting people off; it’s about knowing I’ll still be okay if they do. And ironically, the moment I stop trying so hard, people notice. They feel the shift. Maybe it’s human nature, scarcity creates curiosity. But I’m not doing it for them anymore. Silence has become my new boundary.
And maybe that’s the whole point: to meet my own needs first, so no one has to complete me, they just compliment the masterpiece I already am.
How to Get Over a Crush
▼February 16, 2025
Having a crush feels like being intoxicated on a fantasy. It begins with innocence, becomes a private obsession, and often ends in disappointment. Somewhere in the middle, I’m crying over someone who hasn’t even liked my FB story. Pathetic, I know.
I think I am beginning to understand the lesson. I have a pattern of being drawn to people who do not reciprocate my attention. I convince myself that if I try harder, if I show more care or cleverness, they will notice me. Instead, my efforts only push them further away. I feel like the universe is telling me to chill the fuck out and take the lesson before I waste more time on people who were never meant to be mine to begin with.
So, I’m trying something new: out of sight, out of mind. It works. The less I see them, the faster the spell breaks. If thoughts of them persist, I deliberately scrutinize their flaws until the obsession fades. That’s my detox plan. Also, I seriously need to stop living in my head. My imagination is way too wild. I’ll start daydreaming about a whole future with someone who hasn’t even said “hi” to me properly. Like, girl, get a grip. That’s not romance, that’s delusion. And it’s kind of cringe.
Another thing I’ve learned: I need to stop over-giving attention. I’m not everyone’s free therapist or personal entertainer. My energy is valuable. If they want my time, they can earn it. At the end of the day, a crush isn’t that deep. It’s not love. It’s not destiny. It’s literally my brain being dramatic. I know in a few months I’ll look back and laugh at how obsessed I was. Crushes are for teenagers, and I’m too grown to be spiraling over someone who can’t even reply to a message.
I’m also done letting people play with my emotions. If someone isn’t showing up for me, that’s my cue to leave. No waiting, no emotional games. If they wanted to, they would. Period. Maybe I just need a new crush, one who actually likes me back. Or maybe, better yet, I don’t need a crush at all. Instead of waiting for a text that may never come, I’m going to focus on me.
So yeah, moral of the story? I’m done obsessing over people who aren’t obsessed with me. My life is too important for that. If they come around someday, fine. If not, who cares? I’m still out here thriving. Here is to self-respect, to healthy boundaries, and to embracing the strength I always possessed. I am finally sober, not just from infatuation, but from the illusions I once fed so willingly.
Having a crush feels like being intoxicated on a fantasy. It begins with innocence, becomes a private obsession, and often ends in disappointment. Somewhere in the middle, I’m crying over someone who hasn’t even liked my FB story. Pathetic, I know.
I think I am beginning to understand the lesson. I have a pattern of being drawn to people who do not reciprocate my attention. I convince myself that if I try harder, if I show more care or cleverness, they will notice me. Instead, my efforts only push them further away. I feel like the universe is telling me to chill the fuck out and take the lesson before I waste more time on people who were never meant to be mine to begin with.
So, I’m trying something new: out of sight, out of mind. It works. The less I see them, the faster the spell breaks. If thoughts of them persist, I deliberately scrutinize their flaws until the obsession fades. That’s my detox plan. Also, I seriously need to stop living in my head. My imagination is way too wild. I’ll start daydreaming about a whole future with someone who hasn’t even said “hi” to me properly. Like, girl, get a grip. That’s not romance, that’s delusion. And it’s kind of cringe.
Another thing I’ve learned: I need to stop over-giving attention. I’m not everyone’s free therapist or personal entertainer. My energy is valuable. If they want my time, they can earn it. At the end of the day, a crush isn’t that deep. It’s not love. It’s not destiny. It’s literally my brain being dramatic. I know in a few months I’ll look back and laugh at how obsessed I was. Crushes are for teenagers, and I’m too grown to be spiraling over someone who can’t even reply to a message.
I’m also done letting people play with my emotions. If someone isn’t showing up for me, that’s my cue to leave. No waiting, no emotional games. If they wanted to, they would. Period. Maybe I just need a new crush, one who actually likes me back. Or maybe, better yet, I don’t need a crush at all. Instead of waiting for a text that may never come, I’m going to focus on me.
So yeah, moral of the story? I’m done obsessing over people who aren’t obsessed with me. My life is too important for that. If they come around someday, fine. If not, who cares? I’m still out here thriving. Here is to self-respect, to healthy boundaries, and to embracing the strength I always possessed. I am finally sober, not just from infatuation, but from the illusions I once fed so willingly.
Why Self-Harm Calms You
▼ April 11, 2023
You are out with your friends, laughing loudly like the happy person everyone believes you to be. Your laughter rings clear and convincing, a perfect disguise for the mind that never stops whispering its rebellion against existence. No one would ever suspect that while you joke about the smallest things, another part of you is carefully calculating an escape route from life itself. You have mastered the art of composure because no one has ever seen you defeated. The world rewards strength, and you have learned to imitate it well.
It is satisfying to appear in control. There’s a thrill in managing the madness, in arranging your life into neat compartments that conceal the storm. Yet, beneath that structure lies the unbearable truth: control is an illusion. When life becomes a hurricane, the only thing that seems truly yours is the decision to end it and die.
You return home exhausted, carrying the invisible weight of survival. You sit at your desk, trying to complete your homework, but your thoughts scatter like frightened birds. The noise inside your head grows louder until language collapses. You ache so deeply that it numbs you. You write reminders on sticky notes, promising to catch up tomorrow. Days blur into nights, and weeks later, those notes become memorials of things you failed to do.
Then comes the moment you do not speak of. You walk to the kitchen and reach for a bread knife. The cold metal presses against your skin, and for once, the pain translates into something visible. The sight of blood gets you excited as your body releases adrenaline, giving a brief moment of bliss. It validates what words cannot express. You tend to the wound with care, almost tenderness, as if the act of cleaning it were an apology to yourself. In that moment, you give yourself the comfort you always wished others had given you.
One night, you walk to the ocean with the intention of never returning. The waves seem gentle enough to erase you. Yet as the water touches your feet, something shifts. You realize it isn’t death you long for. It's the compound of feelings that you experienced as you injure and heal yourself. Self-harm calms you.
You are out with your friends, laughing loudly like the happy person everyone believes you to be. Your laughter rings clear and convincing, a perfect disguise for the mind that never stops whispering its rebellion against existence. No one would ever suspect that while you joke about the smallest things, another part of you is carefully calculating an escape route from life itself. You have mastered the art of composure because no one has ever seen you defeated. The world rewards strength, and you have learned to imitate it well.
It is satisfying to appear in control. There’s a thrill in managing the madness, in arranging your life into neat compartments that conceal the storm. Yet, beneath that structure lies the unbearable truth: control is an illusion. When life becomes a hurricane, the only thing that seems truly yours is the decision to end it and die.
You return home exhausted, carrying the invisible weight of survival. You sit at your desk, trying to complete your homework, but your thoughts scatter like frightened birds. The noise inside your head grows louder until language collapses. You ache so deeply that it numbs you. You write reminders on sticky notes, promising to catch up tomorrow. Days blur into nights, and weeks later, those notes become memorials of things you failed to do.
Then comes the moment you do not speak of. You walk to the kitchen and reach for a bread knife. The cold metal presses against your skin, and for once, the pain translates into something visible. The sight of blood gets you excited as your body releases adrenaline, giving a brief moment of bliss. It validates what words cannot express. You tend to the wound with care, almost tenderness, as if the act of cleaning it were an apology to yourself. In that moment, you give yourself the comfort you always wished others had given you.
One night, you walk to the ocean with the intention of never returning. The waves seem gentle enough to erase you. Yet as the water touches your feet, something shifts. You realize it isn’t death you long for. It's the compound of feelings that you experienced as you injure and heal yourself. Self-harm calms you.
MANHWA RECOMMENDATION
A collection of my all-time favorite reads! I’ve reread some of these manhwa more times than I’d like to admit. My favorites are Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint, The Return of the Blossoming Sect, and The S-Classes I Raised. The collection also includes manga I love and highly recommend. I’m planning to add a clickable area on each book so you can see more details about them.
Welcome to Chesca's Bookshelf
Each book was a small lifeline for my younger self. It helped her make sense of life and emotions. Click a book to see her takeaways, thoughts, and reflections.
Disclaimer: It is 2025 now. Most of the books here, which I read in 2020–2021, no longer fully resonate with me. I do not necessarily agree with the beliefs or ideas I once found compelling. Back then, these books helped me stay sane. Now, I read them more critically and question their perspectives, or i don't read them again at all.
ACCOUNTING
(ACCORDING TO MY MALFUNCTIONING BRAIN)
An inventory of half-remembered formulas and lessons retold by a professional retaker who has failed way too many subjects, with three semesters of undergraduate overstaying.
Each entry here is an effort to reconcile what I’ve learned, what I’ve forgotten,
and what I’ve mentally written off and later recovered.
Authored by a going-concern student,
Chesca.
Started: November 4, 2025 – until I become a CPA
Started: November 4, 2025 – until I become a CPA
Topics:
All FAR AUDIT AFAR MS TAXATION RFBTCash and Cash Equivalents
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Practice and Regulation of the Accountancy Profession
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Partnership Accounting
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Variable and Absorption Costing
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Principles of Taxation
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Law on Obligations
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Receivables
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Code of Ethics for Professional Accountants in the Philippines.
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Corporate Liquidation
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Cost Volume Profit & Breakeven Point
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Taxes, Laws and Administration
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Law on Contracts
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Inventories
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Ex-ship - point of transfer pag naka baba na siya sa port ni buyer.
sale with repurchase sgreement - in form a sale, in substance it a borrowing. kung sino nag sell, siya ang nag borrow/ nag utang.
Fundamentals of Assurance Services
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Revenue Recognition
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Financial Statement Analysis
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Fundamentals of Income Taxation
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Law on Sales
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Biological Assets
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Preliminary Engagement Activities
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Home office, Branch & Agency
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AFOBI - Home Office's SHE Account
Home Office Current - equity of branch
Branch Current - long term investment of home office
Agency - dependent
Branch - independent
Budgeting
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Final Income Taxation
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Law on Credit Transactions
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Property Plant and Equipment
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Audit Planning
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Business Combination
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Legal Perspective
- Merger and Consolidation
Acctg Perspective
- Net Asset and Stock Acquisition
Net Asset Acquisition Method
Price Paid xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
Goodwill (Gain of BP) xx
Cash Paid
Noncash Asset @ FV
Est. Liab on Contingent Consideration @FV
Shares Issued @ FV
Price Paid
BVINA xx
↑ Assets xx
↓ Assets (xx)
↑ Liabilities (xx)
↓ Liabilities xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
or
FV of Identifiable Assets xx
FV of Liabilities (xx)
FVINA - Acquiree xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
Goodwill (Gain of BP) xx
Cash Paid
Noncash Asset @ FV
Est. Liab on Contingent Consideration @FV
Shares Issued @ FV
Price Paid
BVINA xx
↑ Assets xx
↓ Assets (xx)
↑ Liabilities (xx)
↓ Liabilities xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
or
FV of Identifiable Assets xx
FV of Liabilities (xx)
FVINA - Acquiree xx
Other Consideration
Acquisition Cost - Expense
Stock Issuance Cost
1. Deduct from Related SP
2. If SIC > Related Share Premium:
Excess is debited to SIC account.
A Contra SHE Account deducted to the ff. in order of priority:
1. SP from previous issuance
2. Retained Earnings
RE - Acquirer xx
Gain on BP xx
Acquisition Costs (xx)
Excess SIC (xx)
Combined RE xx
Share Premium - Acquirer xx
SP excess of par xx
Share Issuance Cost xx
Combined Share premium xx
Total Liab - Acquirer @BV xx
Total Liab - Acquiree @FV xx
Est. Liab for Contingent Consi. xx
Unpaid Cost of BusCom. & SIC xx
Combined Total Liabilities xx
Total Asset - Acquirer @BV xx
Total Asset - Acquiree @FV xx
Goodwill from BusCom xx
Cash pd. for acquisition (xx)
Cash pd. for Acq. Cost (xx)
Cash pd. for SIC (xx)
Combined Total Assets xx
Gain on BP xx
Acquisition Costs (xx)
Excess SIC (xx)
Combined RE xx
Share Premium - Acquirer xx
SP excess of par xx
Share Issuance Cost xx
Combined Share premium xx
Total Liab - Acquirer @BV xx
Total Liab - Acquiree @FV xx
Est. Liab for Contingent Consi. xx
Unpaid Cost of BusCom. & SIC xx
Combined Total Liabilities xx
Total Asset - Acquirer @BV xx
Total Asset - Acquiree @FV xx
Goodwill from BusCom xx
Cash pd. for acquisition (xx)
Cash pd. for Acq. Cost (xx)
Cash pd. for SIC (xx)
Combined Total Assets xx
Measurement period adjustment
- It is not required to establish FV of Asset and Liab of Acquiree at date of acquisition; instead, 1-year period is given.
CHANGES
Relevant question:
Is the change related to facts already existing at date of acquisition?
Did the change occur within the 1-year measurement period?
If both Yes: Measurement period adjustment
If any is No: Non-Measurement period adjustment
> Measurement period adjustment — adjust retroactively through GW/GBP
> Non-Measurement period adjustment — PROFIT/LOSS.
Consolidation of FS
At Date of Acquisition
Price Paid xx
NCI of Subsidiary
Previously-held securities
FVINA - Subsidiary xx
Goodwill (Gain of BP) xx
Previously-held securities = Pre-existing ownership
Cash Paid
Noncash Asset @ FV
Est. Liab on Contingent Consideration @FV
Shares Issued @ FV
Price Paid
BVINA xx
↑ Assets xx
↓ Assets (xx)
↑ Liabilities (xx)
↓ Liabilities xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
or
FV of Identifiable Assets xx
FV of Liabilities (xx)
FVINA - Acquiree xx
NCI of Subsidiary
Previously-held securities
FVINA - Subsidiary xx
Goodwill (Gain of BP) xx
Previously-held securities = Pre-existing ownership
Cash Paid
Noncash Asset @ FV
Est. Liab on Contingent Consideration @FV
Shares Issued @ FV
Price Paid
BVINA xx
↑ Assets xx
↓ Assets (xx)
↑ Liabilities (xx)
↓ Liabilities xx
FVINA - Acquiree xx
or
FV of Identifiable Assets xx
FV of Liabilities (xx)
FVINA - Acquiree xx
Measurement of NCI
Two options:
1. At FV or
2. At the NCI's proportionate share of the acquiree's identifiable net assets
NCI is always measured at FV unless:
1. The parent opted to measure NCI @ proportionate shares
2. Proportionate shares > FV of NCI
Standard Cost & Variances Analysis
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Income Taxation –Final Withholding Tax Table
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Anti-Bouncing Checks Law
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PPE Depreciation
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Study & Evaluation of Internal Control
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Separate and Consolidated FS
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Performance Evaluation
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Capital Gains Taxation
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Consumer Protection & Lemon Law
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Government Grants
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Auditing in an Information Technology Environment
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Joint Arrangement
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Relevant Costing
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Regular Income Taxation
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FFinancial Rehabilitation & Insolvency Act
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Borrowing Costs
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Transaction Cycles
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Forex and hyperinflation
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Financial Markets
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Compensation Income
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Philippine Competition Act
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Depletion of Mineral Resources
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depletable amount= cost of wasting asset + residual value.
depletion= depletable amount / extractable minerals x actual extractions.
actual depletion= depletion x units sold. kay invemtoriable cost
exploration and evaluation asset: expenditures sa pag explore and extract sa mineral resources. not part of it ang expenditures before exploration and evaluation of asset, for example mga explense tung panhon na wala pakay right mag expore. and not part of it pud ang expenses inig nas nay technical feasibility and commercial viability, means gin baligya na.
depreciationin exploration and evaluation asset - ill transfer from tangible to intangible.
initial measurement: at cost. including acquisition of rights to explore, geochemical geologicla geoskimberlush studies etc., trenching, smaplig and general and admin cost related to exploration and extraction.
tapos after initial cost, pwede sita i remeasure through cost or revaluation model.
evaluation and exploration asset are subject to impairement. when? is exploration period expires, if the exploration walay discovery of commerially viable minerals. or if naka discover peor the sale is cannot fully cover the cost of exploration.
wasting asset, aka naturang resources.
cost fo wasting asset. 1, acquisition cost, 2, exploration cost, 3 development cost.
if development cost is tangible - PPE
if development cost is INTANGIBLE - part of cost of wasting asset
since kanang tangible cost ppe, it is depreciable. if movable, edi straightline or othe rmehos, if imovable, can be straight line, other method or output method.
restoration cost - cost sa pag balik sa property to its original condition after exploration and extraction. capitalizable only if naay onligation kaakipat tung time sa pag acquire.
depletion period. it starts the moment mag extract ug wasting asset. it stops if mag stop ang extractions. meaning. no extraction = no depletion.
depletion method: output or production method.
accounting for shutdown.
Consideration of Fraud, Error and Non-compliance
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Derivatives and Hedge Accounting
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Working Capital Management
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Fringe Benefits Tax
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Government Procurement Law
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Intangible Assets
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Evidence and performance of substantive testing
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Not-For-Profit Organizations
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Short-term Financing
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GORDON GROWTH MODEL
Given: Divdends, Purchase price, Floatation Cost, Growth Rate.
Cost of preferred shares - walay growth rate kay fixed lang ang ma receive, and Dividends does not care if D1 or D0 kay stated na pud ang annual dividends.
Cost of retained earnings - walay floatation cost kay di mana share nga gina issue. dapat D1 gamit.
Cost of common shares - naa tanan given sa formula, kay pabida man.
Cost of long-term debt - cheapest cost of capital due to taxz implication.
Cost of PS = Div ÷ (PP-FC)
Cost of CS = (Div1 ÷ (PP-FC))+GW
Cost of RE = (Div1 ÷ (PP)) +GW
Cost of LTD = (Interest (-)Discount (+)Premium) / ((Net Proceeds + Face Value)÷2)
D1 = D0 (1+GW)
CAPM
Risk-based approach with 2 components.
1. Diversifiable Risk or controllable
a. Business Risk > fluctuations of earnings due to interest and tax
b. Liquidity Risk > assets may not be sold in short notice
c. Default Risk > borrower unable to pay
2.Non-diversifiable risk or non-cntrollable
a. Market Risk > change in stock market as a whole
b. Interest Rate Risk > if interest rats rise, bond prices fall
c. Purchasing Power risk > if price will rise, quantity of goods na mapalit drops.
Given: Beta, Risk Free Rate, Market Rate of Return
Asked: Required Rate of Return
RRR= RFR + B(MRR - RFR)
(MRR - RFR) = Risk Premium
Beta = stock movement ÷ market movement
Risk Free Rate > safe option, ex. Govt. bonds
Market Return > usual earnings
Beta > how risky is your investment
Req. Rate of Return > Pila dapat i-earn para worth it ang risk.
B > 1 = stock is more volatile than market
B = 1 = stock is equal to market
B < 1 = market is more volatile than stock
Leverage
- Portion sa fixed asset nga nag represent ug risk sa firm.
- Operating Leverage - measures business risk.
- Financial Leverage - measures financial risk
Degree of Operating Leverage = CM ÷ EBIT
or
DOL = %change in EBIT ÷ %change in Sales
Degree of Financial Leverage = Ebit ÷ ( EBIT - FFC*)
*Fixed Financial Charge
Dealings in Properties
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Law on Partnerships
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Impairment of Assets
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Approaches gathering evidence and Audit Sampling
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Government Accounting
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Long-term Financing
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Deductions from Gross Income
▼
Law on Corporations
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Investment in Equity Securities
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Completing The Audit
▼
Cost Accounting
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Capital Budgeting
▼
Itemized Deductions
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Securities Regulation Code
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Investments in Associates
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Audit Documentation and Communication with those charged with governance
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Risk and Leverage
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Optional Standard Deduction
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