Bloom where you're planted or go pluck yourself!

It's another yellow flower. More than four years ago, a yellow hibiscus marked my first post to this blog

:  Go Pluck Yourself! Back then, I was still so much into gardening. I was also so engrossed with Facebook. Suddenly, I learned from my brother  that my sister Lourdes,  living in Turin, died. My youngest sister Fe had a public outcry  and repreresented the family mourning at Facebook and that was the time I vowed to myself that I had to pluck myself out of Facebook, temporarily, that is! And from time to time when I couldn't help but flinch at mundane personal postings of acquaintances who'd want to let the world know how regular their fecal movements are coming. Go pluck yourself became a journal of plucking myself out of my gardening and out of Facebook. I have also gotten tired of posting blooms which I planted on my garden.

I joined Meetup.com to hike but keep going back to Facebook to post pictures of me on the trails. The pictures on Facebook only show me bagging peaks, hugging trees, fording streams and posing at landmarks with fellow hikers. The blogs journaled this fucked up SOB nomad aborting a hike. Bloom where you're planted or go pluck yourself. It's  no longer an option to this nomad. It has become lifestyle. I would rather fuck myself as soon I find my way to  where the Skunk Cabbage is. 

Plucking myself or fucking myself! Either way! I have plucked myself out of Third World into a world of options: my own world where I could pluck myself or fuck myself, either way! From Meetup.com hiking groups, I have also plucked myself into the world of sinus rhythms and arrythmias, a world mentored by Byron Marshall at the Grossmont College, Health Occupations Center. I couldn't believe Christina Aguilera to has the nerve to flaunt those fat legs. But Ben is adorable as ever gamingly putting an arm around Regina who he knew had always been annoyed with him. Ben getting the A that Christina Aguilera  so much worked for culminated Byron Marshall's way teaching about  sinus arrest rhythms. Maybe I should name our next feral cat Byron, in loving memory of Ben, our feral boy who became a coyote cupcake, sob! Sob!

"What, you named a feral kitten after me?" 

"I couldn't help it. But guess what, I would name every bitch I know, I mean every female dog I know, as Christina Aguilera!" 

Ben actually gave me a long comforting hug the last day of the class when I told him about our feral boy who became a coyote cupcake.