The Style Mermaid by Kisty Mea


I want to be with someone who I can spend the rest of my life with. Someone kind, patient and understanding. Someone who’s faithful and loyal. Someone who’ll pull me back into his arms even if I’m trying to push him away. Someone who makes me laugh effortlessly and thinks that my corny jokes are also funny. Someone who’ll stay by my side when I’m in my lowest point. Someone who’ll introduce me to new food, to new things, to new places. Someone who listens. Someone who will brighten my day just because he’s there. Someone who wants forever to start today.

I’m so utterly grateful that someone is you

Pretending to live the celebrity life online

by Cat Triviño

It’s no doubt that the times have changed.

From the intimate secrecy of relationships, to the long conversations on the telephone, to the instant text messages, now the instant broadcast of feelings, love, and news and gossip,everything now comes quick and it’s now easier to judge and talk about people.

A new party, what they’re doing today, what they’re eating or wearing, who they met, a new relationship status, a girlfriend or boyfriend, this generation (and the next) rarely keeps anything “unsharedunuploaded, or unposted”. And when you’re top story of the day, suddenly, it’s like everyone wants to know about you and your story. Everyone is so interested in what you have to say. And everyone is subscribed.

Everyone’s interested in a surprise relationship status change.

If you should pick up one sensible thing from this post, it’s that you have to be careful of the things you share with others. It’s hard to tell the difference between the people who are just in it for the gossip from those who actually care. You don’t have to tell anyone about how you feel when you broke up with he-who-shall-not-be-named, you don’t have to justify yourself or your actions online! No one needs to know, really. Some people just take pleasure in seeing misery, and drama, and… unhappiness.

If they really care, they would approach you. If they matter, you should tell them. Not all your 900+ friends matter. Not all of them would understand. Not all of them need to know.

You go ask any big time celebrity how they feel about their privacy. Cross out Kris Aquino, and you’ll be surprised how many celebrities try their best to keep their personal life in hiding. Some people care so much about their actions, and come to the point of even mailing them hate mails to get their personal insight (usually of disappointment) across. Sure that might sound fun for people who need or crave the attention, but seriously. Get a life.

You need not come to that point that people (acquaintances, online friends, and soon… strangers) will actually intrude and suddenly feel that they have a responsibility to ask you or about your problems. Your problems are not meant to be shared online. Especially, everything about your new relationship status.

Social media makes it suddenly easier for everyone to judge. And everything you share can make or break you. For some people, they wouldn’t even give you the time of day to explain what you meant in a post and judge you right away, sharing the link with other friends who will also inhibit the same judgement. And before you know it, you’re a hot topic, a blind item, a bad kid.

You shout your feelings of affection or hatred, sharing a piece of yourself to billions of people online. To you, it’s important and you’re important. To billions of people, you’re probably just another attention-seeker.

And you will regret it. Jessi Slaughter has.

Sure, I’m being a hypocrite here. I have a blog! But posting “He does not deserve me! He will forever rot in hell!” or just plain judging someone on why she’s dating him… that’s kind of another level. I do keep those things, and my evil eyes to myself. I suggest we play low-key. All of us. For the sake of the next generation (who as we all can assume… isn’t doing very well either).

(via sinosicat)


Words are very powerful things, they can either make or break a person. 

As much as I want to understand, I just simply can’t see the logic or purpose why one must feel it’s necessary to send a hate mail to someone. I know it’s fun to insult someone and to talk behind their back but do you really need to let that person know anonymously?

For those who reply, I understand that you’re just trying to defend yourself or make a witty remark how stupid this person is but learn to choose your battles wisely. Not all hate mails are needed to be answered. In fact, it’s better if you don’t answer any of them at all. Try and be the better person.

And for those who throw that “I don’t care” attitude but constantly answer these hate mails, you’re no better. You just want other people to join in the drama. If you really don’t care, then I don’t see any reason why you should publicize the message.

Honestly, I have things far worse to be bothered over than some hate mail. I’m not going to change myself just because “society” said so. I’m going to live my life the way I want it to be and if you have a problem with it, that’s not my concern anymore.

Almost Pretty

by Isa Garcia

I have decided that I do not want to be pretty anymore.

I am not what society would call ‘conventionally pretty’ anyway. Typically pretty girls have good facial symmetry and wonderfully well-behaved hair. They have the kind of smile that makes the world stop spinning, even just for a moment. With them, the right angle becomes a non-issue. The pretty girl is nice to look at from every single side — all the freaking time.

If you wanted to be particular about it, you could probably break the world down into three aesthetic categories: pretty girls, ordinary girls and not-pretty-at-all girls.

Personally, I consider myself a hanger-on. I would’ve been completely ordinary if not for my eyes. I have rather nice eyes and I say this with complete and absolute humility. My eyes have given me enough merit to be graced with the word ‘pretty’ a few times in my life. I have heard it from women, fellow comrades in the never-ending battle to be gorgeous. And, on a few memorable occasions, I have heard it from men with good intentions.

The problem with being almost pretty is that it’s a lot like being a part of the Hollywood D-List. At first, it seems prestigious. But, eventually, it turns out to be an empty honor and a whole lot of work. On some days, when I feel the irrational urge to prove myself, I take on the painstaking burden of eyebrow threading and hair dyeing; waxing, plucking, the tedious application of eyeliner and lipstick. An entire litany of beauty rituals and, in the end, I still don’t even closely measure up to being really, actually and completely pretty.

And so it is with wonderful relief that I surrender. I am waving my white flag. I do not want to pretty anymore.

I care too much about it and that is the gross and honest truth. I care too much about looking good in pictures and being perceived by guys as the-kind-of-girl-you-bring-home-to-meet-your-relatives-because-you-just-know-they’ll-be-impressed. As I type these disgusting revelations down, a voice in my head is asking: why do you care so damn much?!

And the answer is: because I grew up believing that pretty was currency.

Pretty got you affection. It got you favor and popularity. It gave you the capacity to seize the attention of the crowd. Pretty meant that certain things could be so much easier – like puberty, making small negotiations and finding a date to the prom. It meant you’d almost always get the guy.

Pretty seemed like a difficult but worthwhile pursuit. I figured that if I could be pretty, even just by a quarter of an inch, on the basis of a single physical asset, then I would milk that opportunity for all it was worth. All my life, I exhausted superhuman effort into trying to be prettier… until I realized that there was actually so much more that I could be.

I could be smart. I could be kind. I could be funny. I could be the girl people’d run to when they need to feel safe. I could be wise. I could be witty. I could be brave and strong and brilliant at shining my own light. I could be a million adjectives other than pretty and I could be happy, absolutely happy, being all of them – even if I stood a significantly lesser chance at being able to captivate someone with my ‘effortless good looks’.

I want to be known for more than how I look. I want to be sought after for the way that I love, for my capacity to inspire, for big faith and my ability to speak some sort of truth with both amazing confidence and soft tenderness. I want to be pursued because I am an undeniable person of passion, a woman of distinction worth getting to know because I care more about making my corner of the world so much better than I do about making my face fit an ideal I know I’ll never be good enough for.

I swear I don’t watch Glee anymore but last night, I caught an episode where the football coach, Beiste, was asked out by a handsome teacher. And she roared with anger as she said: “But I’m not a pretty girl. I don’t have the kind of face that a pretty girl has.”

To which the handsome teacher replied:

“Well, that’s good because I don’t date girls. I date women. Beautiful women, like you.”

I do not want to be pretty anymore. I want to be beautiful.

I want to trade shallow aesthetics in for a bottomless ocean that never runs dry. I want people to see my heart, all its gruesome glory, and my spirit, with its never-ending persistence to try. I want people to smile when they look at me, with or without the lipstick on, because they associate me with something more than can be seen.

I want to possess something that lasts, even if all the pretty is beaten out of me. I want to be beautiful and I think that I could be. I think – somewhere deep down, I truly believe – that I am.

(via stargiggles)