Saturday, August 16, 2014

Pussy Kamagong is Dead





**I solemnly swear that I am not fucking with you, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts, when I confess to writing this in 2/17/2011. I am not making that up. I was scrolling through my vomitorium today, 06/03/2014, when I chanced upon this unsightly mess of boo-hoo bullshit. I remember moving on from Five-Years J when I wrote this, and I present it to you now, just now, for your consideration. 

I love you more than an orgasm, really I do, but haha, your consideration does not make a difference, my Dearly Beloved. It really doesn't. This happened during one of those moments we all had at one stupid point or another, when you are wobbling drunk with self pity, when you are at your ugliest vulnerable, when you... oh fuck, to hell with that. To begin with, I hardly knew 
the man I fell in love with. But in the end, I knew him well, far too well, for he was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart. 

"He was the spastic mongoloid motherfucker who broke my heart." That shit will look golden in my vomitorium. And that pretty much explains why The Award of Best Dramatic Whatever in a Blog Post Role goes to what squeamish blech you will be reading now. 










(BEGIN DRAMA. DARKEN ROOM. CUE VIOLINS. CUE SPOTLIGHT. FAINT SMELL OF FART.)


It used to be that I write nice. I used to write laughter, and I used to write inspiration, and I used to write agreements, and I used to write goodness. I used to write love, and I used to write sunshine, and I used to write the full moon in its most radiant glory. I used to write friendship, and I used to write laughter, and I used to write applause, and I used to write admiration. I used to write love, and I used to write those blessed ejaculations, and I used to write the saving grace that we all needed at the most opportune time. But that writing has weakened, and that has, by and by, succumbed to a stroke, and it has lost its inspiration with all those tears I shed.  

I am suddenly at a loss for words, my words, the kind of words that I collect and employ with such darling endearment. That, however, didn't stop me from going back to the one release that, like masturbation, addresses my very specific urges. 

I still write. But I suppose I write different now, and my words paint a flowerless picture. I now write cold fire, and my words burn with a frozen heat that is both lifeless and consuming. I now write toxicity, and every stroke of my pen is laced with enough poison to secretly kill a dear, dear friend. I now write tears, and my written ideas are barren of smiles and good hope. I now write betrayal, and I detail its consequences with terrifying enthusiasm. I now write that heavy feeling of a heart that needs to cry, but can't, because it is severely dehydrated. 

That is assuming that I can still write. Two of my last posts are re-posts. And now I give you this excuse for murder.  

I used to think that I have cried enough. But crying never tolerated this residual hurt, and so it grew tired of me and resigned from its office. I can't cry again if I tried, and believe me I did because I had plenty of amazing chances, but I was betrayed by that saving grace. I think I have moved on, but I haven't crawled enough, so I'm still a mere feet away from the hurt that I was trying to get away from.  

I was just making that up. You can say that I am fucking with you, my darling punk reader. I have indeed moved on, to a dead certainty, but something changed in me. I write, no, I stab that deathly white emptiness with an unbridled lack of passion. I cannot assume to call it spiritless, because it is now possessed of this daring influence that has yielded to such unpleasant persuasions. I choke that pen, that knife, with murderous intent, and my stabbing is both livid and dead at the same time. 

This kind of writing killed my Pussy Kamagong. 

2/17/2011


(Rapid burial in earth is recommended for this sort of self-defeating, unappreciated pile of drama. Fuck, I should be well beyond this shallow drivel at my age, really.)

Friday, March 28, 2014

That's What the Ex is For

**I'm talking about Five-Year J.





Tell me, Dearly Beloved, when was the last time you wanted to sharpen a knife so badly? You want to know what my ex, that well-meaning jerk, told me earlier? I'm talking about Five-Year J, my first love haha, who I've written about numerous times before. Anyway, we are friends now, and we were texting when, in an uncommon display of vulnerability, I opened up to him. I said that I wish I could have something (or someone, I meant someone) to last me forever. He said I have my tattoos.  

I was hoping he'd say something along the lines of "You just wait, you are the best thing ever, he will come soon, and he better hop to it on account of your awesome loving won't stay unloved for long." He said, and I quote, "You have your tattoos, hehehe." 

I'm hurting here, fool. I could use some cheering up. Oh fuck it, feel free to sound distracted while you're dispensing with the fake encouragement, yes I'm still talking to you J, but I need to hear it from you. We were together for five years. And I don't know what it is, but I have this feeling, this gnawing gut feeling that I can count on you for a valid reassurance, perhaps a validating reassurance that everything will be alright. 

Keep your panties on, love. I am not interested in you as a lover anymore. You were some of the best years of my life, but I have moved on. I have. I am rather pleased to the tits when you told me you got married to her. I imagine the doves shitting on your wedding cake, for it was a Real Ceremony with the bells and whistles and secret disputes over how ugly the other family is, and how both sides wish the baby gets most of its features from them because that is just the right and proper thing for the little bundle of shit. 


I wish you two the best and worst of the married life in equal, sustaining measures. You're a good guy, J, and I mean that. You deserve the kind of permanence and care and the social acceptability that only she and her child-bearing hips can promise. You're the kind of guy that deserves a real family, alright, a conventional family to come home to. You have gone a long way. Think about it. You're no longer going home to your gay lover and his cat. The cat died last December, not that it's relevant, and I wish you well in your married life. 

Yeah, please do not let that bitch mouth you into submission. You are the head of your acceptable family, J, and you keep it that way. When push comes to shove, and her nagging has risen to four frightening octaves, punch her on the boobs and cram that breast pump down her throat. That will shut her up, for sure. Show her who's boss. 

Anyway. 

I meant to say that I am happy for you, but I need you to tell me that everything's going to be alright. Need is a big word, and it is just the right size.I wanted you to tell me that there is some one out there for me, which is exactly what everybody has been telling me that it's rather ridiculous, but it means something coming from you. You know me. And by that, I mean you really know me. 

I am exceedingly orgasmic that we are friends again, but I kind of hate you and your bad jokes. However, I did not expect what you texted next. 


Andito naman ako eh. Magkaibigan naman tayo, diba? Alam ko naman mabait ka. Hindi kita kinalimutan. Ikaw lang ang kumalimot, tama ba?


"I'm here. We are friends, right? I know you're a good person. I will always remember you even if it seemed like you forgot about me." 


My two exes. The ex-lover and the ex-cat. And by ex-cat I mean he died in December 2013. I miss the cat more.


This is exactly the validating reassurance that only your ex can promise. This, here, is what the ex is for. I do not wish to enlarge on this no more, for my panties are moist again, and I need a quick change. I'm okay now. 

Friday, March 21, 2014

I'm Having a Half-Sleeve Done

**Of course, Sweet Nuts, I am referring to the kind of tattoo that wraps the length of skin below or above the elbow with punctured ink. 









She made my characters pop. Love it.
I'm having a half-sleeve done, and I will not write about it in length yet. However, allow me to share the details you could be interested in. My new artist is the awesome Rakel Natividad. She lives in Sta. Cruz, Laguna with her husband Markus, and she has been tattooing for about thirteen years now. My former artist was great, however he sort of turned into some degree of a mean prick during the last few months of our artist-client relationship. He kind of went off with a ten thousand peso deposit. 

It's a trust thing, you see. He has been my tattooist for a few years now, and if I can trust him enough to embellish my skin, then I sure as hell can trust him a full deposit. That asshole quit answering my phone calls a week after he did a four by three outline on my right arm. That is in inches. Four inches by three fucking inches. It was done in an hour. This outline was barely three thousand pesos. His shop closed September of last year and he is still not answering my phone calls on both of his numbers.



This outline of my wrap took about five hours to complete. 
For what it's worth, he was nice to me for the first few years. Gene was usually accommodating and brotherly and all that bromance-ly shit. He was nice to my friends and he was nice to my partners and he was wicked with the needles. I will probably charge it to experience, all ten thousand pesos of it, and I'll hope for the best as far as he goes. I hope he's  dead now or something like that.  

Anyway, Sta Cruz, Laguna is a good three hours away from where I live. I waited three months for the first of three sessions, and I sat in some bus for three hours just to have her masterful hands work their magic on my upper right sleeve. 

I need to share this, Sweet Nuts, for I think there is some freaky universal karma at work here. See, I wouldn't have met the awesome Rakel Natividad if I didn't leave Gene A-Hole. I hope the same idea translates with the failed two-year relationship I had with this noisy little stick of a square-faced boy. A better tattooist has taken me in as a client. In the same vein, I could be meeting a better partner sometime soon. I certainly hope so. That would be a bitchin' turn of events. 



Line work. Arm pit. Capital pain.
It will take Mam Rakel three sessions to finish my first half sleeve. Her craft is a steal at P1,500/hour, and she requires a P1,000 deposit for each session. This deposit is inclusive of that session's total number of hours. My first session was in March 9, 2014, and it was five hours of line work. The first two hours were spent on direct-to-skin drawing, and then I took a fifteen minute cigarette break. She tattooed the line-work for the next three hours. It was a lovely kind of pain if it wasn't such a terrible murder to that area above the armpits. I totally lost my bad-ass vibe the moment she got to lining that area. 

Her billable hours start once the needle sinks in. She did not charge me for the first two hours of direct-to-skin drawing. She's an angel with a gun, a tattoo gun, and her disposition is the apex of humility. I know. I don't really say exceedingly homosexual things like "apex of humility," but she really is, so I did and that's that. 



The Awesome Rakel Natividad is the one with the white gloves. This photo was taken from her Facebook Page.


Meanwhile, my next session will be on Monday, March 24th. I could be going alone, I said "could be" if You are reading this, but that's the least of my big girl problems now. 

Friday, March 14, 2014

Imagine There's No Heaven, Bitch (Part Two)

**This is the story of how we broke up, Sweet Nuts. This is Part Two. If you're interested, this little shit nugget here is Part One. 




He was the bounciest cat there was. He could have been breasts in his past life. But his body was lifeless as his dying eyes looked at me. It broke my heart, Sweet Nuts, it really did. He died twenty minutes after By came home. Now if you're still with me, Dearly Beloved, By is the dude that meant to break up with me if he cannot recruit me to his religion. Anyway. 



Prince was our biologically-impossible make-believe kid, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. I had him when I was still living in with Five-Years-J, or he had us, whatever. I gained custody over him when we broke up. This was in November 2010. 

I was disengaged (which is nerd talk for single) for almost a year, I think, following that nuclear break up. The best thing about that one year hiatus was Prince and I, we got real close for some reason. I don't know what it is about the break up, but I remember Prince cuddling to me every single night. He usually slept below the bed, but he humored my summons with prompt agility.  

The lights were out, which is the custom, and he would yawn to my face, for that is his custom, and I would curse at him for being such a poser. "What fucking breeding are you walking about, Cat? What's with the goddamn smell of digested Purina, Cat? I cannot see your bearing in the dark now can't I, Cat? Come here and put your head on my shoulders. Come here! I'm tired."

He doesn't meezer much, which is a Siamese's equivalent of meowing, when we are in bed. He just lets me hug him and pet him and squeeze him and call him names. I remember stroking that pair of hairy pendulums that was his face. And I'll pull him softly towards me so I can whisper his name "Priiiince" to his lips along with the many colorful endearments he allowed. I especially like cupping his little cheeks in between my thumbs and then running my fingers along the length of his whiskers, and he has no whiskers on his... oh wait, shit. I'm holding his hairy cat nuts, and I wouldn't know any different for the lights were out and kept his mouth shut because he's funny like that. 



This was the kind of stunt he'd pull of anytime now if he didn't die in 2013. Prince saw me through break ups like this with his strange sense of humor. And I really miss him now. I could use a laugh. 

Wait, no, let me take that back. Stay dead, Prince, and I love you. The Ex's premise was funny enough and will answer. He's breaking up with me because I'm not letting him recruit me into his religion. He thinks he can save me, "Kaya kitang iligtas, By," but he knows I'm stubborn so he had to ask again. 

"Byyy... please? If you really loved me everyday for these past two years, you will understand that I have to recruit you. And you will let me, because that's what lovers do, right? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quitsNO, I'M GOOD. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing. Really." Human combustion has nothing on this kind of spontaneity. 



He said, "Okay, if that's what you want. Mag-yosi ka na nga lang. Parang pinagtatawanan mo lang ako eh. (Go light up a cigarette. You sound like you're laughing at me.)" His lips fell silent but his trembling was shouting in its eloquence. 

TO BE CONTINUED, HAHA! I'M TELLING A STORY ABOUT A BREAK UP THAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE SPACE OF THIRTY MINUTES. I'M ENLARGING IT IN THREE POSTS. MUAHNESS FROM PASIG CIREHHH!

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