My Resignation Letter

**Seriously, this was my golden ticket. And this was what they signed on my way out. Of course, feel free to peruse of what I wrote here if you're in need of a good excuse.



January 29, 2005

To whom it may concern,



I would like to tender my resignation effective immediately. Why?

I'm not having fun with what I'm doing anymore.

This has been the case since November of last year, but I still tried to give your company the input that it required of its sales agents. I expected a surge of strength following my prolonged vacation last December, but I became increasingly alarming with my disappointing performance. This is not me, and however I tried to do perk myself or to go around the situation, everything I did was in vain. It didn't change one bit. I'm seriously not having fun anymore.

Please don't get me wrong. When I said that I'm not having fun "with what I'm doing" anymore, that does not mean that I don't like the campaign that I'm assigned to. I have been updating business listings and signing people up for 30-day trials for more than a year already, I can do it in my sleep. I know everything about it, and I'm very comfortable with the sales pitch. These 30-day trials are what started me off as a telemarketer, and I am very fortunate to participate in this campaign.

But for some reason, I'm increasingly unenthusiastic over the whole job description. I'm not having fun with all these telemarketing no more, and transferring to another campaign wouldn't do much good since I know that it really wouldn't change my mind. At this point, I'm just so eager to be able to get away from all these telemarketing, I'll still ask you to sign this letter anyway.

I didn't want to resign last year because I never wanted to spend the holidays jobless and penniless. And besides, I made it a point to remain for at least six months in any corporate organization which took me in. And I think it's worth mentioning that your people are great. My friends here are what kept me going as an employee of __________.

But I hope I couldn't have made it any clearer. I mean, I mentioned it twice already. And here's another shot: I'm not having fun anymore.

I would like to resign from the business organization.


Sincerely,


Mel Tullao
Unhappy Sales Agent

**The unhappy sales agent was printed there in black and white. For real.

There is Therapy in This

**This was an article I wrote back in the time when "My Perverations" was simply a folder in my desktop. I was one of those people who kept a journal, and left it in a not-so-obscure location where it can hopefully be read by a curious audience. Back then, I just wrote for the love of it, and maybe the prospect of someone finding it out and actually admiring it made me love it even more. This article gives light to why I write, and to why I felt like it was no longer necessary, until I find out that it has become a very healthy vice that I must sustain from time to time.



I have realized that the less cynical I become about life in general, the less motivated I am in trying to maintain this little journal. See, I started writing like this around 2000, when I stopped going to school for one year, and when everything else around me started falling apart. My self-respect was clearly on top of that list. That was when I was so deep in self-pity that the only way I can try to get through misery was writing it all off, thinking that reading my feelings in print would help me endure those sympathetic episodes. Turned out that I was right in doing so, and to my pleasant surprise, I was writing good and effectively self-gratifyingly. Well, to my personal understanding, at least. So, I tried writing something at least once a day. I wrote when I woke up to a disturbing dream, I wrote about the time I started learning how to smoke, I wrote against and satirized self-obsession, I made a list of the most reviling crap that caught the attention of my personal loathing.

Without me knowing it, I am slowly becoming Ginger Foutley without the red curls.

I have had almost thirty dirty essays, I called them "My Perverations," and for some reason, reading through them made me feel a little better. Frankly, they weren't good enough to beat climaxing to Benjamin Mackenzie, but they were the next best thing to valium. They became my own form of medication, and the good thing about them was that I had a cool fool as a pharmacist. I didn't really need a particularly impressive topic, I just write away and let my foul mouth do the talking. I mean, whenever I felt a little off, I just knew that the next prescription was just thirty minutes away in front of an empty notepad.

My essays back then were just voluminous, and the more I wrote, the better I became. The better I became, the happier I get as my personal audience, and the happier I am, the less cynical I get. Come to think of it, cynicism was an effective fuel; nothing beats wallowing knee-deep in misery and then reading all about it. So I wrote and I wrote until I felt a little better, until I was a little less bitter, until I was knocking off the depression a chapter at a time. And I was actively taking part in the shortage that was about to take place.

In one way or another, my sick sad life in print was a delicious form of entertainment. Curiously enough, it's making me feel better. What I mean is, the lousier I get, and the more I read about it, the less pathetic I become. And the more that happens, the happier I get. But then, the happier I get, the less I feel like writing since I'm getting short on my favorite subject, and that can't be good.

I'm a writer, and writing's my therapy. But at the rate with which this shortage is going, I'm afraid the therapist is running out of business. Hopefully not.

13th of the Month for the Gay Guy

**I'm writing this as a sequel to something I wrote before and this explains my what I feel about the situation in full detail. Anyway, I'm getting sick and tired of what the two of us have in here, and talking about it twice already calls for a conclusion. And a pack of Marlboro Lights. And maybe even uninhibited sex with a complete stranger, but that's a different story. Anyway, I need to finish this once and for all, and I'm sealing the lid on the coffin with this one. And for the record, with what I'm feeling at the time I wrote this, it might as well be a Friday.


We agreed to not allow any extra-curricular motherfucking bullshit mush to take place in between us. Call me unlawful, but I'm already missing him the last time we talked eight hours ago.

See, here's the thing: I'm gay, he's straight. Parameters have been set to avoid getting uncomfortable with each other, and those preventive measures are working like a goddamned charm. It's sometimes unbelievable that we didn't have to talk face to face to understand that we have this lovely conversation taking place for a full ten months now. As a matter of fact, the communication's so terribly freeflowing that we find ourselves talking for four to five hours straight in the early hours of the morning with not as much as a clue that it's already taking that long. And yet, it's this developing ease of conversation that tends to raise ugly hell for the gay guy involved.

Maybe you're not understanding what I'm trying to say here, but it's just that the more we talk, the more interested I become, and the longer we talk, the more unbearable it appears. Recall that we talked about setting boundaries where they see fit, believe me they couldn't be any more appropriate in between a straight guy and a gay guy, but I have to admit that there suddenly are things which are less difficult than fulfilling my end of this agreement.

Compared to this, a root canal without the anaesthesia is singularly bearable. Twice all over.

I know it's fun and easy and full of all that creamy goodness, but his being straight is a disappointing loose end. And for that matter, make that two loose ends. Newsflash, he has a girlfriend, and in this equation, that is a BIG minus. See, I've always had the worst luck as a housebreaker. Thankfully, I've long since abandoned that post.

Yes, I'm glad that he's happy talking for hours on end. But when will I be happy, REAL happy, for a change?

I agreed to not let myself get a little with him on the understanding that it simply is the right and the only thing to do. It's such a beautiful correspondence that anything even remotely resembling a threat deserves to be eliminated as soon as possible. But how can that be be when sometimes, I just can't help myself?

Ten Things

1. I'm as afraid of rejection as the next unfortunate soul reading this.

2. I'm a terminal hypochondriac, and I have Google as my personal physician.

3. I'm a big sucker for necking. Lips on my nape have the worst effect on me: I become an invertebrate for a brief period of time, my eyes close out on me, and my lips just start mouthing the word "more." It doesn't scare me one bit, but the pleasure is just so dangerously addictive.

4. Most of you folks might still have two parents. I only have one. And I don't think it matters anyway since my mother deserves twice the love.

5. I think that for all the right reasons, "drunk-happy" is good just for one day. So it's no excuse for anyone to be drowning their problems away.

6. Those self-proclaimed "BISEXUALS" are as annoyingly confusing as the Rubix cube. They're trying to walk and act straight for all the wrong reasons, I think. If they're doing that to "attract" a potential mate who conducts themselves in a similar fashion, what happens then when the two of them idjets become "domestic partners?" I believe that a relationship should have its own "male-equivalent" as well as its own "female-equivalent," so if ever they work out, which, then, is which? Who's going to sacrifice all those years of painstaking "charade-a-la-homme?"
BTW, "charade-a-la-homme" is a term I invented, and it means to "act straight." And the only time I'm touching a rubix cube is when I have enough painkillers at hand.

7. I have no faith in the Philippine political system, and the same courtesy is bestowed in local showbusiness. If we didn't have those two phucking systems about, then we'd look less like a carnival of fools. Now if any of you good people have any more suggestions on systems that we could live better without, hit me.

8. Christina Aguilera might be cheerleading MTV's bandwagon of "skanky-ho's," but there is an abundance of insight behind her songs. I ain't a fan, and though I've never backmasked her lyrics (let alone touch her albums). Though she might be the devil of wanton physical expression, I'm still giving her a tap on the back. Or on that bony ass.

9. Us gay folks have the best table manners about. We know better than to talk with our mouths full. Like we can manage.

10. I never saw myself working in a call center, but now that I am, I can say that "nocturnal professionals" have the best working environment ever.

I Had a Crush on an Idiot Friend

**Haven't we all? With a friend, I mean, and they don't necessarily have to be, well, stupid.


Admitting to something does not always make things feel right. See, I have this little confession to make. I was this close, so damn fucking perilously close to falling for a childhood friend which, for all the right reasons, I better restrain myself from. He's nice, and tender and all that good jazz, but I knew better that falling for him and keeping it to myself is just like creating my own little timebomb which will explode to disastrous proportions if restraint is not exercised.

I never did try developing this crush, and I tried so dear hard to exterminate what little affection grows in the long run. I was always good at this little skill, and for all these time, I kept this to myself since I wanted no part of this being aired out to everyone's attention. Lord knows how I wished so hard that wears itself out in it's secrecy. Maybe I prayed good that time.

Fast forward to a week or two later, and I'm seeing this poor cute idiot as indifferently as I can afford. It might not be that much, but the sincerity behind the lack of interest is very genuine. I'm making myself proud with this, I might as well tap me hard on the back. He might be cute and all that, but what I'm looking at with my head turned in his general direction is that he's an inexcusable dumbass. Fortunately, this absolute lack of wit is an overwhelming turn off, it's up there right in between black underarms and gray gums, this dude has got himself a healthy serving of this particular deficit, and nothing can be more helpful. For what it's worth, him as a degenerate is very effective, and it has helped me with my basic objective of not falling for him.

It'll be the second coldest day in hell when I shall be attracted to sorry halfwits.

MEL Versus the "Discreetly Bisexual, Man-Eating PAMINTA"

**This was an article which I posted once in my Friendster Bulletin Board, and I must admit that it was well-received by my friends who are, well, definitely out in the open. I never denied my being gay, and I couldn't have been any prouder.

There are people out there who are rather sensitive with this certain issue of coming out. We, in our own little minority, all worship the same bible, but not all of us are keen on admitting to their actual sexual orientation. I call them gutless invertebrates, but they prefer to call themselves "Discreet Bisexuals."

I write a lot from time to time, and I am familiar with words and how to use them. I even have an extensive vocabulary to match, but that's not the point. I mean, "Discreet Bisexuals?"
Anyway, this piece reflects my opinion on those so-called "Discreet Bisexuals," the same itchy sons of bitches who might as well get buried in their closets as opposed to the preferred coffin.


I don't have much "discreetly bisexual" friends here in my network, so there really is no point in trying to get this message across you all. But then again, there really is no point in trying to refer to those people as "discreetly bisexual" when the poor little faggot is basically furiously in hiding and refuses to admit. Let me post a disclaimer at this point. I'm not the gay police, and I'm not arresting closet queens if they prefer to keep quiet and be gay in private. I'm just sick and tired of all these confusing labels, and I expect to vomit at another attempt to obfuscate their homosexualities.

One of the most easily confusing crap about those sexually disoriented fairies is that they keep on insisting that they are "discreet bisexuals." Say what? Are you even aware that calling yourself "discreetly bisexual" gives the same justice to a chicken that's "double dead?" I mean, wasn't it dead the first time? If you're a bisexual, then why in gay hell do you have to be discreet about it? And if you're so "discreet," then what's with your pinkie doing a little dance of it's own? Bisexuality entails attraction to females as well, so why do you have to be on the prowl for a goodlooking male as opposed to an equally goodlooking female, preferring the former to the latter nine times out of ten? If you "are" capable of sexual attraction to both sexes, then why do you need to keep it to yourself and to your equally "discreet" partner? Are you even sure that your "bisexual" boyfriend isn't so keen on getting in your pants at the slightest provocation on account of he adores your "manhood" more than you do his?


I must admit that in a culture where sexual relations are basically black and white, two men holding hands in public are nothing more than two gay men holding hands in public. So? It's not my fault that we grew up in such narrow-mindedness, and I'm not apologizing for that. But it is true, and we have to live with a general way of thinking that denies reason. But that doesn't give you pinkies an excuse to misrepresent yourselves.

Personally, there's something that's so wrong with your convenient little phrase. See, I hope this reaches you in your comfortable little closets, but calling yourselves "discreetly bisexual" is a terribly lost cause. There isn't even a hint of heterosexuality in someone who prefers to engage in a relationship with someone of the same sex.

It's basically gay, and you know it, sister.

When Foulmouthing, Chain Smoking Idiots Wait for the Tsunami

"Puro kami mga abnormal. So DON'T take this seriously. We didn't."

Reports of this tragic tsunami devastating parts of Sri Lanka, Thailand and India came into our attention as we were having our usual late night cigarette ring. I call it a cigarette ring as we were this group of almost heavy smokers, and then we would discuss topics that would not terminate itself until one of us calls it a night and then grabs the last cigarette for the day. Well, we had one of those discussions that began with a tsunami, and then it hilariously unfolds itself into a series of interrogations that ended with Darwin's Theory of Evolution. We never had an idea how that happened, but it surely made for a very funny nightcap that had us thinking at the same time.

And understand that this was not, in any matter, shape or form, a comedy routine meant to make you laugh or something. This is a simplified narration of the different issues that we talked about in light of the Tsunami, and how it went from Point A to Point X, defying all laws of coherence at the same time, was entirely not our fault.

And if you would wish to disagree with any of the points that we raised that night, feel free and be our guest. I mean, it takes a bigger moron to rebutt one anyway, so it's basically your call.

Here goes:

"Life vest lang ang katapat ng tanginang tsunami na yan. Hintayin mo lang. (Gago, eh di aanurin ka rin non, malakas kaya ang puwersa noon) Edi lagyan mo ng anchor, inutil ka pala eh.

"Kung halimbawang aabutin tayo dito ng tsunami sa Pasig, ang gagawin ko eh magkukulong ako sa banyo. (Kagaya ng ginawa nung anak ni de Venecia?) Oo. (Edi ba nga namatay yon?) Kaya nga ako pupuntang banyo para pag napuno na siya ng tubig, flush ko na lang. ANO BA ITONG KAUSAP KO, NAG-IISIP BA ITO?"

"Diba lalaki si santa claus, na mataba tapos palaging nakapula. (oo, mayroon pa ngang mrs claus, so lalaki talaga). edi dapat pala "Santo" claus. Magtanong ka ng espanyol, sasabihin nila, dapat "el santo" claus.

"Kahit naman dati, hindi ako naniwala sa lintik na santa na iyan eh. (Bakit naman?) Sinong inulol niya, eh yung bahay namin sa santa cruz wala namang chimney, paano niya ibibigay yung gift ko. Sira ba ulo niya, ano yun, ihahagis niya sa bintana, eh paano kung bowling ball ang hiniling ko, edi nagbayad pa siya ng panggawa. (Sana hiniling mo palakol, tapos saluhin mo pag hinagis sa iyo. Mukha mo ipangsalo mo.)"

"Tsaka bakit alam niya kung anong hihilingin ko ngayong pasko, eh hindi ko naman talaga pinadala sa post office yung letter ko. Anlaking kagaguhan diba? Wala ngang selyo eh, kasi hindi ko alam kung magkanong selyo ang bibilhin ko. Kagaya ngayon, kagagaling ko lang sa operasyon, so ang kailangan ko ay mefenamic acid tsaka antibiotic, eh paano yun, eh yung mga elves niya, puro kahoy lang ang ginagamit na panggawa ng gifts. (Ayaw mo ng bedpan?)"

"Tsaka diba sa north pole siya nakatira, eh saan naman nila kinukuha yung mga panggawa nila ng regalo. Baka illegal loggers yung mga putanginang elves na iyan. Shet!"

"Si Eba't Adan... naintindihan nila yung utos ni god na huwag kainin yung forbidden fruit. Tapos, si eba, naintindihan yung ahas na kainin daw yung apple. Putangina niya, eh paanong nangyaring tsaka lang nila nalaman na nakahubad pala sila kundi pa nila kakainin yung apple. So ibig sabihin pala noon, god and the snake speaks the same tongue."

"Puwede kayang cavemen muna sila eba't adan, tapos paluan lang sila ng paluan sa ulo ng mga kahoy para magkaintindihan?"

"O sige, sabihin na nating sa tower of babel nga nagsimula yang katarantaduhang mga iba ibang languages na iyan, pero sinong nagturong magsalita ng hapon? Ng indian? Ng english? Ng tagalog? Tsaka paano naman nila malalaman na ingglisero na yung kausap nila, eh diba nga, kagulo sila noong mga time na iyon?"

"Hindi kaya naubos yung mga dinosaur noong lumulutang na yung noah's ark. sabagay, paano nga naman sila kakasya doon? (Eh hindi naman binanggit yung mga dinosaurs sa bible eh). Eh kaya nga hindi na binanggit, siguro kasi nga nalunod na sa great flood. Hindi ka ba nag-iisip?"

"Ano kayang mangyayari pag ang earth nahati sa dalawa, paano kaya ang ikot noon? (Oi gago, doon ka sa kabilang hati."

"Bakit ang mga aliens, iisa itsura halos. yung kulay green sila, diba, tapos malalaki yung mata na kulay itim, malaki rin ang ulo na hugis oval? (Siguro galing sila sa isang malaking galaxy na kung saan eh magkakamukha silang lahat, parang tayo.) Edi tayo pala aliens."

"Kung ang tao, nanggaling sa unggoy, bakit may unggoy pa rin? Tsaka bakit kung ang mga baby, mukhang tao, diba dapat unggoy muna sila, tapos hintayin na lang mag-evolve hanggang magmukhang tao?"

"Oi, mga putangina niyong mga kupal kayo, itulog niyo yan. Kanina pa tayo naggagaguhan dito. Wala na tayong yosi."