There’s this powerful and compelling switch inside of me being acted upon or affected by something external. Some call it love. For others, it’s hate. I call it passion. It’s a strong feeling it makes me constipated.
*Health, character, environment, family planning, "making love", blogging, arguments, badminton, recycling are just few of the digested stimuli that feed my extreme addiction: life. Unlike the MILF-vs-government’s no sign of turning off the dispute, I am switching my passion on.
My past few days were spent in emotional black hole filtered by mysterious elements. This blackout blinded me from something to hold on. Bigfoot helped me find my muse by sniffing his blood traces. His big steps let me see our family’s history of aneurism, olympics’ share to inferiority, my deprivation due to rains and storm, unsolicited advise as source of my universe’s expansion on pressing concerns that awaken the fizgig in me.
All I’m just saying is, to end my illusion that I am making a very serious point here, I’m back with my blog and this time will make your spasm lasts longer because I’ve drafted my star represented by asterisks. And this would be the pathssion of my self-inflicted-importance in this domain.
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