Filing this under 'Useless but Cute Purchases.'

DIY Stamp.
Had to use an exacto knife to cut out the letters. At least the rubber letters had double-sided sticky backs; all I had to do was peel and stick the letter to the wood thingy that came with it.

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Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld

for the not-so-random stranger who needs to read this

This used to be my story. The water washed it to your bank. Let it cleanse you, and know that it will not rest it your bank forever.
The current will take it out to sea.


By the river Piedra I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the waters of this river—leaves, insects, the feathers of birds—is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.

By the river Piedra I sat down and wept. The winter air chills the tears on my cheeks, and my tears fall into the cold waters that course past me. Somewhere, this river joins another,then another, until far from my heart and sight all of them merge with the sea.

May my tears run just as far, that my love might never know that one day I cried for him.
May my tears run just as far, that I might forget the River Piedra, the monastery, the church in the Pyrenees, the mists, and the paths we walked together.

I shall forget the roads, the mountains, and the fields of my dreams, the dreams that will never come true.

I remember my "magic moment"that instant when a "yes" or a "no" can change one's life
forever. It seems so long ago now. It is hard to believe that it was only last week that I had found my love once again, and then lost him.

I am writing this story on the bank of the River Piedra. My hands are freezing, my legs are numb, and every minute I want to stop.

"Seek to live. Remembrance is for the old," he said.

Perhaps love makes us old before our time or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments? That is why I write to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance. So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. That's what the woman who has given me shelter told me to do. Only then in the words of one of the saints will the water extinguish what the flames have written.

All love stories are the same.

a curve ball from god

"jinggay! i haven't seen you cry since 2004!"

because since 2004 i had no reason to. boo!
that last night sa bocaray is what kamote fries are made of.

thank you kerol for being there.