My Hemingway Complaints

“Write drunk; Edit Sober” – Ernest Hemingway

Probably one of the more popular quotes by Hemingway, this quote appears at least once on most instant-blogging sites, like Tumblr and Pinterest. It carries that succinct directness that only Hemingway can evoke, and a truth that seems at first absurd, but later, more than likely accurately describes the creative writing process of any author. I myself love the quote, although I can hardly relate; I’ve never been drunk more out of self-preservation than not breaking the law or drinking alcohol. However, ever since reading For Whom the Bell Tolls, I appreciate and immensely enjoy his masculine technique with the pen. (Just me, or did that sound dirty?) So, whether the quote was actually said/written by Ernest (I’d like to believe that if he were still alive we’d be on a first name basis) or not, it still speaks to me.


the next novel I read by him was his most arguably famous book, A Farewell to Arms. And, like Pat Solitano, I wanted to chuck that piece of shit out the window.  I would have if I wasn’t in an airplane 50,000 feet in the air. Really, Ernest? How could you? REALLY? If you have ever read this book, please, share your thoughts. I would really like to know how others felt about the ending. And if you haven’t, then read it and come back and tell me what you think. Granted, it’s a good book: the writing is efficient and engaging, the characters (except Katherine) are likeable, and the plot line up until the last page is interesting. But, come on. Not many books can evoke such a reaction from me, and Pat didn’t overreact as you might believe.

One of my ugly posts. I would apologize for misleading you into thinking that this would be an intellectual discussion about Ernest and his quote, but you’re not supposed to apologize for blog posts.



Amateur Blogger Discusses Sex, Beyonce in Times


Have I caught your attention? You, the frazzled businessperson grabbing a tall Americano from the Starbucks on 23rd and Park whose eyes unconsciously zero in on a word that you really don’t have time to think about since you have a meeting in 20 minutes. You, the executive who has enough to do today already, much less read the newspaper, a thing undeniably–yet sadly–becoming obsolete. You, the drug dealer who only reads the paper because you use it to covertly pass on your goods to the next buyer. (Yes, I took that from an episode of Suits). Or you, the guy who uses the paper to wipe his bum, roll his weed, as a blanket, whichever. Whoever you are, I love you and I thank you–and most especially if you’re the fourth gentleman– for at least reading a portion, albeit only a single word out of many, of this article.

As you may have realized, dear Reader, this article has nothing to do with Sex. As much as I would have enjoyed writing about it, I must admit that the word was only meant to catch your attention from the busy life that I understandingly know you are leading and hold that said attention for only a few moments more to finish reading what I have to say. And let me warn you, this is not like many of the Front Page Articles that have graced the Times in…a long time. 

What does one even discuss on the Front Page of the Times? My opinion about America and its dwindling Middle Eastern relations? Obama’s next move pertaining to…everything? All the drama surrounding the stock market? Abortion? Lindsay Lohan? Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to give forth any opinion because I am poorly informed about all of the above. What’s up with Benghazi? Or Egypt? How are Obama’s plans to increase minimum wage? Bernake, how’s he doing? And I haven’t heard about LiLo in the news lately so I’m assuming she’s good. Maybe if the front page of the Times provided a quarterly bulleted list that kept people like me (which I’m assuming is–sadly–a large majority of Americans) more informed? That way our ignorance won’t be as embarrassing when we end up on a Kimmel or Fallon sketch.

But why should my opinion even matter? I’m twenty years old, barely in college, and still have my parents paying my cell phone bill. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve never had a job and I’m not suffering for it. Yeah, I’m part of the 99%, I desperately want to meet President Obama, I like cats, and I want to be successful in the future. And sometimes, it’s hard to realize that once I do all that, I’m going to die. And so is the President, and Steven Spielberg, and Beyonce, and all of One Direction. My point is that we’re all human, and it’s hard to fully realize that. We idolize people who aren’t just like us, but who are us. They have a mother and father and like some sort of animal. They had hopes and dreams and still have hopes and dreams. They get their hair cut, take cabs, have to wait for things (usually), and even go to the bathroom. Just picture Beyonce on the toilet. Having trouble? Yeah, me too.

It’s more than okay to have an opinion that isn’t shared by British boy bands or politicians. It is yours for a reason. And it counts just as much as anyone else’s on this damn planet. The only difference that separates you and them are little green bills; yet, the world listens to them and follows after their actions. President Obama is probably a better public speaker and asserting his ideas and desires is second nature, but you’re probably a better pianist or soccer player. Beyonce and One Direction can probably dance and sing better than you but you shouldn’t just compare yourself based on those two qualities. I’m not saying I’m against celebrities; I sympathize with them. It’s nice being looked up to, but after years and years of being under the public radar and living under the condition that in order to be loved by us you must embody our idea of being lovable, it can get a little suffocating. Especially if you’re just one person taking the heat for not being able to get two completely different mindsets of geezers to agree on something and then once they at least compromise a tad bit, you’ve got to get a majority of the 300 million people in America to acquiesce to an agreement made by the 535 officials. How can you not find that exhausting?

God, we are quite the insufferable bunch, aren’t we?

So I suppose the point to this article is to lay off the celebrities, cut Obama some slack, read the newspaper more often, and most importantly, stop thinking about sex. Hopefully, my expertise as an amateur blogger managed to hold your attention up until now, and to be even more optimistic, that you actually took away from it. Because, despite the preceding sentence, there would be absolutely no purpose to my thirty minutes of furious typing if I wasn’t able to at least scratch the surface of your pithy brains. (Not sure what ”pithy” means, could be used wrong, just seemed appropriate).

Thanks, Reader, for sparing your time and a piece of your brain.


– Note: Looked up the definition of ‘pithy’ and surprise, I did use it incorrectly. While I was meaning to chide you, Reader, and slightly insult your brain, I actually complimented it. I was going for a synonym of ‘stubborn’ or ‘thick.’ Hopefully you got the intent though.

2:32 AM


The gloves are off, the wisdom teeth are out, what you on about?

I feel it in my bones, I feel it in my bones…

My grandmother died yesterday. There’s something about her death that…well, I feel as if I’m drunk. I wasn’t close to her at all–she lived in the Philippines, I lived here in Dallas–but there’s still a sadness about the house that makes it seem as if we were best friends. But I’m more sad for my mom because I saw the depth of her sadness when she cried, and never in my life have I seen her cry. She didn’t break down or anything, her eyes became red and she couldn’t talk for a bit. We were seated at the kitchen table and she told me that my grandmother seemed to know that she was going to die that night because she was asking my mom’s sister if any of her other kids (my mom, and her two other siblings who lived halfway across the world) were coming to visit and my aunt said no.  Then my mom said, “None of her kids came, she died and we didn’t come.” It was just the two of us–my brother was watching TV, my sister was sleeping, my dad was on a trip. I tried being strong as I struggled to comfort her and then I went up to my room and cried for my mom, for my grandma, harder than I have in awhile.

I feel as if I’m drunk because the next day my head hurt. Not hangover-like, just a head soreness from crying too much in a short amount of time. Then I didn’t feel like doing anything but eating. So I did. Then I felt the extreme need to be productive so I was for about four hours and then I did nothing again.

And that’s how I came to listen to Vampire Weekend at half past two in the morning.

The Ferris Bueller photo ( does not pertain whatsoever to this post; it just seemed like the most appropriate picture on my computer that should embody the very first post in the Cursive Journal.