doodles over writing

i can stand the heat, it's the humidity that's killing me. when i was in canada, it also got pretty hot but you don't walk around feeling sticky like you just took a lotion bath. i don't know if it's why i can't do anything this summer. maybe it's just an excuse, the weather is the same for the past 17 summers of my life. i'm just too darn lazy to do anything productive. i hate it.

i have been picking up one from my supposedly 'summer books', and i also have been able to read half of it, or 1/4, i don't know. it's just, after that, i put it down. PUT IT DOWN!! what's that? i've never done that, i'm the type who can't, and won't put down a book once i've started reading it. papa said i must be reading dull books, i don't think so, something's wrong with me, that's what i think. i may be suffering from a sudden, dire need for illiteracy! ain't that quite scary? anyway, papa said i was not entirely unproductive, after all, i've spent half my days sleeping, and the other half googling sketches and trying to learn from them. i have improved much he said.

it's scary, i kinda like drawing more than writing now. again, WHAT IS THAT? i'm the girl who's got it all figured out. well, not really, but when i was young and all the girls my age wanted to be a teacher or a doctor, i wanted to be a writer. ofcourse, i did wish i could carry a tune and awe the audience in a good way at the same time, or dance like teacher chippy from satin slippers. but for as long as i could remember i never wanted to do anything else, but to write. when i was mature enough to realize that kids my age can write better than me, i still continued writing. by the time i failed enough to realize that i can't even write better than half my class who doesn't even know nick joaquin, i still continued writing. because i love it. but now i haven't written a single thing. and i am supposed to be, atleast starting a short story for my thesis. i have been doodling my days away, and the product are not exactly exhibit-worthy. i have been filling my jordi labanda notebook with silly sketches. and my dad fueled the fire by giving me all his art materials, which are, by the way, a lot. he even gave me the coolest professional-looking sketchpad-how can i say no to that??

i am, ugh, f-o-r-c-i-n-g myself to read. i am currently in page27 of Bridget Jones the edge of reason. in beautiful, beautiful hardbound. how can i not love it? why would i rather doodle? that is the question.

well, this is long. could this count as writing?