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. 


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. 


Friday, February 21, 2014

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

**And no religion, too. Dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, this is the story of how we broke up. 

"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

I was rather stunned at how easy and casual those words slipped my lips. I have been through similar break ups, but there wasn't enough of them. I was cool, which was uncommon for I am letting go of a happy love. I was direct, which was unnatural for I'm sure I could argue my way back in if I wanted to. It was a happy kind of love after all. But I said No with the finality of a summary execution. And I said it twice in case he missed it the first time. One can never be too sure, my beloved Sweet Nuts.  

It was the casual kind of No, the everyday No, the dismissive kind of No you'd use when the high school graduate behind the counter offers to upsize your fries. 

"Would you like to upgrade your fries, sir?" 

"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

And he tried that again, and his voice was broken now. It was just the two of us in that dark room. We were lying in bed, smelling of our poisons: I, smoke, he, cheap brandy. It was humid, in spite of the reassuring noise of the creaky electric fan, because we chose to  huddle with the sheets below our necks. It was his idea. My head rested on his thin arms, his right leg over both my thighs. We were clothed inside the cocoon that was smothered with the smell of dried sweat and saliva. It would have been the sweetest thing on most days. But we were breaking up on the dead hour of that Wednesday morning. 

The smell of alcohol could have been downright criminal if he had plenty, but he was drinking for only two hours, for I timed it, and his breath was only slightly offensive. My nose was a few inches below his lips, and his mouth was troublesome with the nearly drunken rhetoric. Everything he said had this faint smell of cheap brandy, but anyway. 

"You know I love you, By." And he kissed me below the left ear. It smelled. It tickled. "But this is what I'm used to. I grew up loving the (insert his Religion here), and I know I can save you. I want to save you, By." He kissed me on the left cheek, and then on the jawline, while his right hand played with the ruffled hair on my forehead. We are still cocooned in that smelly blanket. My arm pits are beginning to shed tears of their own. 

"You remember that time you joked about not wanting to join us because you don't even have time to go to your church? I know you're a good person, but you can't be without Jesus." He hugged me tighter, and his cheeks hugged mine, and I can feel my face moisten with his breaking voice. Which is odd because my face never gets damp when we are this close. It is usually my southern regions, my physical Mindanao, my Puerto Princesa that gets rather worked up and excited when we are left to our own devices, but enough of that. My Baby's voice has broken, and he proceeds with the admirable courage he borrowed from his cheap brandy. 

"By, please. I know you are a good person, and I love you for that. But I know I can save you if you let me. So what's it going to be? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quits." 

"Would you like to add a sundae to your meal, sir?" Because that's what it sounded like to me. 

Again, dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, remember that my nose was a few inches below his lips. And I got to thinking. If this is what redemption smelled like, then I'd far rather sign up for the other place. I'm kidding. 

I knew, for some reason, that he will pop that question, by and by. But I never imagined that it will involve these consequences. Ours were the happy kind of love that was protected by our family and friends. It wasn't gossip-proof, but it rallied on. And it pushed through, and it sprinted, and it jumped, and it conquered (vomit) the two-year mark. We are looking forward to our third year together when he had to ask that infernal question. Goddamit. 

It is during charged times like this that I miss my cat the most. That jerk Prince hasn't been peeing for three days before he finally died in 2013. We thought it was just gas, or some boy cat broke his gay-ass heart, or some bad leaves he ate. The vet said it was normal for cats to nibble on potted plants. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing normal with how Prince lay sprawled below the sofa the day he died. 



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