So it turns out that the Beatles' Come Together was not really supposed to mean anything. But I still am bent on memorizing the damn thing so I have something to play on the guitar during down time (flashback: me striding through the basement of Megamall, staring severely at the matchbook-like picks and buying one, looking sideways for usiseros and then boldly proclaiming, "Ayus, gitara na lang," much to the amusement of the guy at the store).
That is both a sad thing and a good thing. I mean, really, Freud was once seen at the back of some room, he with the fixation on proving that everything means everybody wants to have sex all the time at all costs (not sure he's about that but we're talking general impressions), sucking a cigar. And this guy comes up to him and asks him about it and Freud (insert Freud rolling his eyes) says, "Sir, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
And the same goes for life, in general. In the grand scheme of things a lot of the shit going on is ignore-able shit, shit you can let slide, shit you can choose not to hassle you, otherwise known as them small stuff. I hope your life is never about the small stuff, boys and girls.
In other news, Day Two of the Amazing Capoeira Sessions has just ended. My calves are getting sexier by the minute it's not funny. Must practice the moves when watching TV (also, to scare the aunt).
Also, travel dreams must materialize: brain fodder includes Colleen's stories of the Backpacker Series and Justine's best places to break up, dance, heart-stopping destinations / activities and all sorts of glorious shit from the BlueList.
And finally, from the lefthanders' site, a sincerely heartfelt letter to Subway, reminding me of that day I wrote a somewhat similar letter to Shakey's SM North, asking them to please, please, cut their pizza in a logical manner.
Dang! They're singing Christmas songs at Unang Hirit!!