Countdown to New Year: Three Days Left!

**What about it? Done shopping for fireworks?

Horror Movie Review #36: Population 436

POPULATION 436
Directed By: Michelle Maxwell MacLaren (Kyle XY, Law and Order SVU)
Year Released: 2006
Running Time: 92 mins
Language: English
Horror Type: Crazytown. Lavet.
Sex? - Two to three minutes of the most passe sex scenes out there.
Gore? - Not even.

Rockwell Falls is this backwards, isolated town with a population constant of 436. Which is the same count as it was in the 1860s when they're at their most prosperous. They elected to maintain that constant through the years at all costs necessary, even if they had to resort to the occasional lobotomy and trepanation. It's this singularly super-weird town where everybody knows your name and bids you good day. Every day. And the kids are not as much as educated than they are indoctrinated with the phrases solidarity and steadfastness, and that the population will never stray away from that constant.

They have this reset button just in case the inevitable number 437 happens. They hold this Festival whenever somebody new ups the population constant. The festival host isn't much of a host as she is an equalizer. She hangs herself on the day of the festival to return the constant to 436. And then they celebrate the normalcy with a happy banquet that's punctuated with dancing and pie.

Steve Kady's this guy from the Census Bureau, an average kind of feller who puts two and two together and determines Rockwell Falls to be decidedly a townful of nuts.

I give it a 3/5.

My Gaydar Kicks Your Gaydar's Ass. And It Has WiFi.

**This isn't about taking care of your gaydar, but feel free to write about it in your own time. Oh, my friend doesn't look nowhere near like the picture I used.

I have this friend I call Horsefrog, and he just recently came out of the closet earlier this year. So we were having an argument in the cab, this newly out friend of mine, and we were trying to determine this other guy's sexual orientation. I was resolute, "Hindi bakla yun noh! (No, he's not gay) ." Horsefrog, on the other hand, was all too keen on the contradiction, "Hindi, bakla talaga yun! (Yes, he's gay!)"

I'm not having none of this, and so I was like:

"Paano mo naman nasabing hindi siya bakla, eh kung ikaw nga last year hindi mo alam na bakla ka? (How can you tell he's not gay, when you didn't know you were gay this time last year?)"

And that is how Horsefrog exploded in a mouthful of expletives.

Picture taken from The Work of Josh Culberson.

Suck on This! (A Love Story)

**Ahh, love is in the air!

It was a scene taken out of a Danielle Steele bestseller: two lovers locked in a passionate embrace, their tears washed away by a gentle downpour of rain. Time stops as their wet bodies warp tighter, his lips not letting go of his ladyboy lover as they are completely lost to the busy pedestrian hustle surrounding them. He is totally mindless of the occasionally mockery of outraged passers by. He will be proposing to him later this week.

Or maybe he already did, on account of I schedule my posts way ahead of time.

I'd like to congratulate my friend Bita (Ramil on his passport) for having one thing that the rest of us (straight or otherwise) can only dream of and write poems about and get totally frustrated over on the whole in this lifetime: a marriage proposal from the love of his life. So Geoff, I don't know you much, but please keep him happy, will you? And thanks for proving to us that love is blind to the false eyelashes, heavy concealer and false boobs.

Horror Movie Review #35: Feed

**I will be including reels beginning with this one. Hope you guys like it.

FEED
Directed By: Brett Leonard (The Lawnmower Man)
Year Released: 2006
Running Time: 101 minutes
Language: English
Horror Type: Perversions.
Sex? - Only for Chubby Chasers.
Gore? - Not for Chubby Chasers.


The first good scene, which is within five minutes of the opening credits, shows this moderately good looking hunk with several bags of fast food in hand. He then strips naked, cute-butt naked, and then approaches this very very large woman that's naked in bed, her weight so overpowering that she cannot help herself up. He asks her to "say it, say it," to which she obliges with the words "feed me."

Feed is about this guy who force feeds his women to death. The point behind all this feeding is to grow their women to insane weights until they can no longer help themselves even for the simplest tasks. It consummates into this absolute dependency wherein the giver (the person doing the feeding) gains total control over the feeder (the person doing the eating), and it mutates to such helpless extents wherein the feeder will not survive without the giver. It's the ultimate in submissive behavior.

Deidre, the feeder in this movie, grows to a morbidly obese weight of 602lbs, and then yells "I did it!" She precedes the late feeder Lucy, who died at 670lbs., under the supervision of the same giver. It gets better though. What seems like a very harmless however disgusting (I say it like I mean it, I'm size two) fetish takes on very perverted dimensions. He broadcasts his fat women on the internet, and he takes bets on when his feeders will die.

I give it a 4/5.

Why You Should Read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

**This is how I won me a book in Jessica Zafra's blog. She held this contest one time, and she asked her readers to recommend a book. I posted a comment, this comment, and I won me a book in consequence. Never won me a book before, sure beats a punch in the face. I so rock. By the way,I used Momelia for my pen name. To give it that mostly gay touch.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
(Douglas Adams, 1979)

The Earth gets demolished to make way for a hyperspatial bypass. A highway of sorts, if you must. An Earthman, Arthur Dent, survives with the help of a long time friend, Ford Prefect, who turns out to be an alien with a very helpful knack for hitching rides in spaceships.

1. It's divided into very brief chapters for easy reading. There's something new to imagine every five to ten pages or so to keep you from getting bored.

2. The author, Doug Adams, employs this clever wordplay that brings the inter-galactic hitchhiking to life and tries to make you grin in the process. There's the Infinite Improbability Drive (which fuels the fantastic starship Heart of Gold run), the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster (the alcoholic drink of choice), and the Galactic Institute's Prize for Extreme Cleverness (verbatim).

3. You will love Marvin the Paranoid Android. He's this charming little robot with the brain the size of a planet, and he's always depressed. I like him so much, I got me some quotes:

Do you want me to sit in the corner and rust, or just fall apart where I'm standing?

Would you like me to go and stick my head in a bucket of water?

Why stop now just when I'm hating it? Life, loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it.

4. If you should happen to travel the galaxy and back, then bring a towel. I know it doesn't make sense, but it perfectly complements the next item.

5. This book provides The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. And that answer is 42. Yes, as in what's six times seven. Unhinged, isn't it? But it gets better.

6. See, the author's crazy. Nope, not the institutionalized kind of crazy (that's de Maupassant, love him), but he's the laugh out loud kind of crazy that gets people invited to parties. His book's a riot in consequence. And it's divided into very brief chapters for easy reading.

7. It's got a movie adaptation. Which meant it had a profitable readership. Which meant it was good enough to buy. Still is, but in between the movie ticket and a paperback copy, I'd go with the book. On account of the movie sucked a nut.

I Wish They Had Spontaneous AIDS

**It's a sad, sad day. Wish goes out to people responsible, that and a big bad Fuku.

What happened last November 23 was most unspeakable. Fifty seven people, mostly media people, were massacred in what can be the worst case of election-related violence in this here hole-in-the-wall third world. Fifty seven! Seriously, would anyone have enough energy yet left to imagine such an atrocity? I am very generous with my adjectives and adverbs and what have you, but I can't just put words together to paint my disgust.

I know its an unparalleled atrocity, at least here in this hole that receives my taxes, and my condolences reach out to everybody who lost a limb in this aftermath. That's a figure of speech, the limbs, because I believe that losing a loved one is losing a limb. But what gets me the most is how the media people fared, them courageous few who died in the name of honest journalism. What a valiant loss. We can use more people like them; why weren't there any gossip columnists in that convoy? We could do with maybe three of their kind, three total. At most.

I have this feeling that in spite of its massively talented pool of writers, Philippine Journalism has never had such an unprecedented loss for words. That wasn't meant to be offensive. I mean, who wouldn't be silenced in the face of such inhuman hell raising?

How to Be Rude: Burgers

**Let's go on ahead and exercise that inner jerk now shall we?

Order a VERY big meal, like a quarter pounder meal with twister fries, upsized, some chicken nuggets and a strawberry float. Have it for dine in, and then look for a very large person preferably eating alone. An obese woman is ideal; men just don't care about their fat asses or screaming waistlines as much as women do. Also, what she's eating counts: if she's indulging herself on a meal that's just as killer as what you're having, then forget it. Look for a large person who's eating a small meal, maybe a sprite and some fries no ketchup. Sit next to her, preferably opposite her so you can watch her... squirm. I suspect this to be the natural reaction when you're killing yourself on a diet plan while there are people who don't have no need for such narcissistic bullshit however healthy.

It's not my fault that I have a metabolism that creates sonic booms - so fast it breaks the sound barrier. It's a gift. It's not a super power meant to save the cheerleader, and then the world in consequence. Its not stopping time or walking through walls, and you can't imagine how such a blessing can be put to good use, so you might as well try to have fun with it. Which is what I'm doing. Now, it's important that this obese lady you're sharing a seat with knows what you are eating. Discretely look out for some semblance of acknowledgment, like an occasional glance from her at what's on your table. Feng shui counts, so make sure that your meal's well spread out to attract attention. Red sells, so you might want to have your nuggets, fries, and the strawberry float closest to her. Wait for her to steal a glance or two, and then go for the kill.

Eating, on its own, doesn't heighten the effect we're after. You will need to throw in as much theatrics as you can manage as you are indulging yourself in your heart attack lunch. Pick up your quarterpounder in one hand, hold it parallel to your face, and then slowly unwrap this meaty killer burger. Enjoy a few bites, love it!, before paying attention to your fries or nuggets, whichever you prefer. But the trick here is the ketchup. Take your half eaten quarterpounder down as you reach for a packet of ketchup. You know where to put the burger down (as visible as possible). And then, with the production value of a slow motion scene, proceed to bite that packet open, waay open such that it takes you about a few seconds to help yourself. However you garnish your burger is totally up to you, but we're after that great big pause.

Now, no matter what happens, try not to look at the subject of your torture. That totally defeats the discretion we're after. And that's just outwardly rude to begin with.

Pictures from here and here.

Horror Movie Review #34: Cloverfield

CLOVERFIELD
Directed By: Matt Reeves
Release Date: 30 January 2008 (Philippines)
Running Time: 85 minutes
Language: English
Horror Type: Really big alien monsters.
Sex? - There was this one time, but it all drama. Pass.
Gore? - Lacerations at best. Pass.

Must watch if you're not easily nauseous. Not because of the gratuitous gore or reckless dismemberment on account of this film's basically gay on those departments. Grab a bottle of strong ammonia because Cloverfield is the Blair Witch Project times ten. It's all that movement that gets to you. You probably have watched the Blair Witch Project, and you probably remember the vertigo caused by all that running and panicked screaming and overacting and what-have-you.

It doesn't have witches though, that would have been overkill, but it does have wonderfully rendered ginormous alien freakbeasts. We're out of the woods this time around; Manhattan's larger, and tempts varying degrees of vertigo. Okay, so the people are hot, and there might be some semblance of a story behind all that macho posturing, but its still shot using some gimmick that has seen better days. It maybe moderately engaging for the first thirty minutes, but you probably have an idea what happens after those monsters started to appear out of nowhere. The intensity simmers, and you might be feeling drowsy at that point.

You're rooting for the alien freakbeasts in the end. Just eat these people already.

Picture from Universal Causality

Not a Review: Paranormal Activity

**It's more of an almost-there hunchback of a quasi-review.

So I went ahead and watched this movie under the impression that it's profitable. If it's profitable, then it must be good. But all the hype tells me its far better than good; it's so good it outsold the SAW series. Now that's big. Last time I checked, there was an impressive $20 million difference between total profit generated, and that's super big for some film that was shot with a $11000 budget.

It's profitable and it's big. So I went ahead and experienced Paranormal Activity to verify, for myself, if its really that good. Well, ninety minutes into this movie verified the PROFITABLE and the BIG parts; I'm still waiting for the GOOD part, but then final credits started rolling.

And that's basically the long and short of this moderately engaging haunting. So if you're watching this movie on a date, then at least make sure you're paying. At least there's some ACTION to look forward to at the end of the day, if you know what I mean.

Wink.

Picture from Chud.com

What is Erotic Asphxiation?

**So I learned me a fun, exciting phrase today. Kids, we now define: Erotic Asphyxiation.

Erotic asphyxiation refers to intentionally cutting off oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal. It is also called asphyxiophilia, autoerotic asphyxia, or breath control play. Colloquially, a person engaging in the activity is sometimes called a gasper.

You can call in sick, and there's your excuse! Well, it's either erotic asphyxiation or amnesia. On the off chance that your bosses wanted you to be more specific, then just tell them that there's something stuck in your throat. And you're really not in the position to be talking about it now because you feel like fainting in a few more minutes. Say it with attitude as much as possible because this kind of shit really wouldn't look good on paper, and you don't need them asking for a medical certificate of sorts.

I know the phrase itself leaves nothing to the imagination, or maybe a whole mouthful, depending on how kinky you claim to be. But then, inquiring minds want to know: If you were to choke on something during foreplay, then is that going to be a fine example of Erotic Asphyxiation? Aside from the calling in sick bit, I have yet to consider the practical applications of such an inquiry, but I'm sure it'll make for a good ice breaker.

See, you can choke on a lot of things during foreplay.

Picture from Marguerite on Deviant Art

The Things You Realize Once the Caffeine Wears Thin

**I know this won't reach you because you don't know I blog. So I blogged my apology.

I admit, I was this giddy fool with a charged motormouth that was running more on caffeine than on forethought and common sense. I talked a lot, spared nothing, and your love life became a laughing stock in consequence. I might have crossed some boundaries; mighty apologetic if I did.

Lord knows how I could've used those extra two hours of zzzs. And then save myself the embarassment, but no. That fucking Siamese cat I call Prince couldn't have picked a better time to pester me with his noisy whining. So I smashed his face in with my Chucks, but the damage has been done. I was groggy with sleeplessness, but I can't indulge myself. Work is in two more hours, and I have the pacing of an earthworm.

I'm still maintaining it was the coffee that did it. After all, its far too easy to blame it on the addiction. m still sorry hough

Feeling Strongly

**Tell yourself this. I know it worked for me. Let me hold your hand so we can say it together.

How do you expect to inspire industry when you betray your own incompetence with vigorous scapegoating and the usual set of tired excuses? I mean, seriously.

Picture courtesy of cynic-tees.

Blog Soup #8: Of Red Smoke, Love, and Why You Should Love Your Siblings

Nine years is a long time for somebody to be maintaining a deathly bad habit. I started smoking in the year 2000 (mostly as a big Fuck You to them dime a dozen doomsayers. The end of the world didn't happen, so I might as well try smoking), and if I keep this up, then I might as well be exhaling red smoke in another year or so. I'm not a heavy smoker, but I keep a schedule. My recommended daily allowance of ten sticks (tops, Marlboro Lights) gets consumed in very specific intervals and moods. There's a stick first thing in the morning; I'm holding a cigarette before I do my toothbrush. And then there's another stick on my way to work. Three hours go by and its another stick on my first coffee break, two during lunch, and then one more before going home. Sometimes I take three sticks during lunch because an hour allows us a lot of time to scandalize, and nothing gets you smoking faster when its over the latest office gossip. I scatter two more sticks before I call it a day, and then it's the same song and dance all over the next morning.

With that being said, I can halfheartedly say that I don't feel my lungs collapsing in bloody papier mache lumps the size of closed fists, but the idea of exhaling red smoke has been nagging itself into recent memory any opportunity it gets.

My friends are either smokers, or they don't mind the secondhand smoke. I prefer the latter mostly because they never bum for a cigarette.

I love him in spite of his shallow skin deep tendencies. And, as expected, I'm willing to share some of his stresses if only he weren't such a drama queen about everything. I don't usually mind because, fuck it, I'm in love.

I've learned to realize that your siblings, not your childhood friends, are your best reminders of your own personal history. They're like Post Its that share your last name. This is mostly because, try as you might, there's just no letting go of the family you were born with.

Advice Plagiarism

**The hard way. The only way to learn.

"You know you're in love is when you're willing to give up on something just as important if only to have him in its place." You may or may not agree with that. You may have your own set of better sounding theories, but I'm saying that with the conviction of somebody who learned from experience. It was three years ago when I decided to leave the nest to cohabitate with the love of my life. I, we abandoned the warm trappings of our respective comfort zones, and we endured independence on our lonesome. I for one left home to build a new one for the two of us. Three years later and the family we created for ourselves grew to include two cats and a row of potted plants.

That was decidedly super. Still is.

I committed myself to this sacrifice three years back, and I can only be happy I did. What I said earlier, about giving up on something as important if only to have him in its place, held true all this time. I learned that plus a whole hellraising lot of lessons which included the importance of kitty litter and to hug as much as possible. Three years with him made me this headstrong bitch with a "been there, done that" take on things however all too kindly subdued. That gives me the license to take a big fat dump on, or at least contest what highfalluting musical bullshit HYPOTHESES you're quoting yourself for. Love is felt, experienced even, so plagiarizing advice that complies to your extensive knowledge base of second hand love stories doesn't count for shit.

What I'm saying, really, is that I'd rather take advice from some sorry loser with a long running streak of bad EBs (eyeballs, first offline dates), than from somebody who never knew what it FELT like to have Mr Right not show up on their first date because Mr Right suddenly had an appointment exactly five minutes before their call time. Too long, I know. I'd rather have it from some aging drag queen whose drug addict lover broke her heart and stole her DVD player, than from somebody who just heard about it. I'd rather hear it from some closet queen who never recovered from the one who got away because he can't bear his discrete ways anymore, than from another closet queen who'd rather stay closeted as opposed to coming out because they're too uncomfortable with the real picture and its consequences.

You can arrange your secondhand advice in such a proofread way that its ready to print, but I would rather hear it from somebody who's been there. The anguish of getting your heart broken twice all over (cheesy, I know) contributes an added dimension of pain to the whole narrative. The sense of accomplishment in finding AND keeping the love of your life (cheesier still, I'm on a roll) manifests itself in an amazing sparkle that punctuates the storyteller's eyes. I'm very critical of such consistencies because these non-verbal cues reveal a deserved wisdom that I'm nothing but willing to subscribe to. If this means that I'm not that receptive to what nonsense you have in your behalf, then so be it. I don't need that much advice anyway, just those that count.

If you never knew how it felt like to begin with, then do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up. Sensitive issues call for listeners, not know-it-all motormouths who capitalize on nothing but peppered secondhand hearsay. Plagiarism is a crime that, once discovered, destroys credibility. Its the same song and dance with these advice plagiarists, if only on a smaller scale.

Image stolen from this webpage. Thanks!

Tips from My Blogging Mentor

1. Stop making excuses. You update like you are menstruating, which is, like, never. And when you do, you come up with something that's as rotten as pantyliner mess. Stop trying to "get your groove back." That only worked with Angela Basset in the movies. It's still there. You just need to work on your... stroke. Stroke? For masturbating your creativity, fool.

2. Be more relevant. Ha haa, I just made that up, and I wouldn't know how in the hell to follow that shit up.

3. Relevant my ass.

4. You're so distracted by your kinky night job that you might just be, and I'm saying this like its an off-chance, you might just be losing your grip on your moxie. Stay true to what you are by default. You're a flaming fag with a fine fluency for foulmouthing, and people love you for that. Well, maybe three of them love your for that, but that didn't stop you from not caring.

5. Number four translates well to your kind of trashy writing, so stop being so proper. Nouns can be proper, the British can be proper, you're neither. So stop trying, that is so not you.

6. You notice that bald spot in your sidebar? That's where your blogroll used to be. Uh huh. And you had the balls to place your hit counter up on the upper rightmost, just above your profile for everybody else's viewing pleasure. You should know, FYI, this blog doesn't read itself. And it sure as hell doesn't leave comments on its own posts. That would be very retarded, and I mean clinically retarded.

7. You need to acknowledge people again. Try that blogging calisthenic they call blog hopping. I mean, try it again. It might do you a whole heaven of good. It DID the first time around, so there's no reason why it shouldn't.

Fucking Mid Life Crisis

**The trouble with being kinky is when you've arrived at the twilight of your twenties.

I'm a sneeze away from my thirties, and I fucking hate that. I celebrated my last year in my twenties last month, and I made sure to invite a lot of people in their early twenties just to make me forget. There were three people in their thirties in the guest list. Just three because I don't want to start hanging out with people my technical age yet. Maybe I wanted to get the feel of that age group; they will be my proper crowd in another year, and I might as well start practicing now.

I celebrated my 29th birthday last month, and its going to be another eleven months before I'm no longer spunky. I really shouldn't be counting because I've eleven months left to do the kind of things that people in their twenties can get away with. I've another eleven months to maintain the reckless alcoholic that is me during the weekends. I can still be promiscuous and feel appropriate on account of you can't be a horny fag when you're in your thirties because you will be scary. I've another eleven months to revel in form-fitting jeans and my ladies-medium shirts because that same set of clothes are most inappropriate for people in their thirties. It's so hard to have standards; you're midlife crisis gets the worst of it.

People my age are getting married and are beginning to reproduce. It's either that or they're sending their eldest to kindergarten while they're on their second attempts at their youngest. If this, to me, sounds like a news report, then it probably is, because I've been so distracted all these years by the finer gayer things in life to take notice. I was cruising for gay sex whereas they were seriously contemplating an engagement ring. I was getting a tattoo whereas they were getting married. I was faking domestic bliss with my lover whereas they're moving in and starting an actual family. All propped out with the ring and kids sharing their last names. I'm a year away from my thirties, and I look 23 when stressed out, and I'm just beginning to pay attention to what trivial accomplishments I've been mindlessly piling up.

Thankfully, I'm not balding. That will be the death of me.

I Heart This New Widget

**And you will, too. Here's the link if you're interested. And no, this isn't a sponsored post on account of there's not a word count involved. And I've mostly given up on those, too.

It's this:
And its' because of these:

This Funny, Foulmouthing Kid

**Because you guys could sure use a laugh.

A mother was working in the kitchen, listening to her five-year-old son playing with his new electric train in the living room. She heard the train stop & her son saying, "All of you bastards who want off, get the hell off now, 'cause this is the last stop! And all of you bastards who are getting on, get your ass in the train, Cause we're going down the tracks."

The horrified mother went in & told her son, "We don't use that kind of language in this house. Now I want you to go to your room & stay there for TWO HOURS. When you come out, you may play with your train, but I want you to use nice language." Two hours later, the son came out of the bedroom & resumed playing with his train. Soon the train stopped & the mother heard her son say, "All passengers who are disembarking the train, please remember to take all of your belongings with you. We thank you for travelling with us today & hope your trip was a pleasant one."

She hears the little boy continue, "For those of you just boarding, we ask you to store all of your hand luggage under your seat. remember, there is no smoking on the train. We hope you will have a pleasant and relaxing journey with us today." As the mother began to smile, the child added, "For those of you who are pissed off about the TWO HOUR delay, please direct your complaints to the fat bitch in the kitchen."

Who Issues Corrections a Week Later?

**Things like this get to you when you're big on common courtesy. And tomorrow's my birthday. Seriously.

I won 2,000 pesos, but I didn't get it. No, I wasn't imagining things; I swear to God I saw my name next to this soft amount this one time about two weeks ago. That empty accomplishment was short-lived, however, as the powers that be issued a correction, an ERRATUM a week later telling me they made a boo-boo. They issued a correction one week after they issued their congratulations. I didn't win after all. What a mess.

What pisses me off, what gets to me, what makes my shit boil and erupt in bloody splatters is that it took them a week to postpone a correction. No, they weren't doing landscaping. They weren't painting a two-story house. They weren't recovering from an appendectomy. They weren't quarantined for rabies symptoms. They just needed to issue a correction in the same way one would forward spam.

Those seven days in between gave me enough time to plan ahead. See, it's my birthday in a week, at least as of the writing of this post, and I can use the money for an additional two cases of beer plus four sets of the local poor man's brandy. I really don't mind cashing in on other resources to still make this happen on account of I love seeing my friends look like shit.

Maybe tardiness does have its own karma? What comes around goes around? I am a person of habit, bad habit for that matter. And maybe, just maybe, what happened to me is the universe's way of telling me to quit asking for another five minutes of sleep. Or maybe, perhaps possibly, I'm just a sore loser with a tired imagination. Universe my ass.

Related Posts:
When is an Appendix Like a Penis?

This, Too, Shall Pass: Tempering the Resignation Mood

**What's an 11-letter word for Writing? Therapeutic

I know, it's all fun and games and performance bonuses and bottomless pantry coffee until somebody loses an eye. Or the will to login on time because you're complying yourself to exhaustion. And then it becomes so paralyzingly dull. You suddenly don't mind if you're late now, or yesterday, or the day before because the eagerness to suck up has grayed itself out. You don't mind any memos farting in your general direction, not anymore, so you get a pen and imagine an excuse that's just as fabulous as your punctuality. You then remember that you were absent the day before that, but you're approaching that stage where you don't give a shit. Okay, shits, if you really had too much.

Memos? Just bring it on, you tell yourself.

Whiny coworkers and them hissy others saturate an already stressful environment and give it the toxicity of snake venom. Which is the last thing you need, really, seeing as you're already doing technical support for mostly hysterical boobs who give you a. attitude or b. stupid or c. both. But you don't mind that; it's on the fine print of your job contract (expect a lot of dumb ass sons of bitches). What you didn't expect are rotten dicks who signed the same damn contract you did and they're just as complaining as the babies who pay you to do technical support for them.

I know there's a thousand-word bitch fit for what I'm feeling right now, but just writing it away and being all too sexy about it doesn't pay the bills. My kinky night job doing technical support does that all too well. Yes, it gets my panties in a bunch from time to time, but it gets me new panties at the same time, so I'm not going to be that much of a baby about it. I will elect to stay put, keep them Very Satisfied, clean up my ACT, try to keep my seat from being slip, and wait for that next pay raise. Hell, I just got my second raise this early on THIS YEAR, so at least there's something to keep me adhering glued.

Writing that away doesn't make me any less choosy as to my preferred line of work. I'm still looking for job openings for tellers in a sperm bank.

Related Posts
My Resignation Letter (from an earlier Telemarketing gig)
Confessions of a Telemarketer
My Basic Work Philosophies (Part One)

A Lazy Blogger's Excuse Post

**You'll know when a blogger's gone AWOL if he reposts and then follows that up with an excuse.

A month of absence, and my comeback's a repost. I'm doing it on purpose though. The absence tells me that I'm mostly uninspired, and the repost tells you that I'm really running out of things to write about. I saw A Year in the Life of Joanne Rowling, J.K. Rowling, and it mentioned something very helpful about writing. Writing is, for most writers, some sort of therapy that enables writers to make sense of the world around them. I used to write for the therapeutic value, but getting the hits and the page rank and the paid advertisements blurred that guiding principle and turned me commercial. It was in the height of my sponsored reviews that I started getting deadlines, and then I realized that I'm no longer writing for fun.

Writing and therapy then became two distinct ideas that are suddenly independent of each other. And then I realized that I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I don't have a laptop, let alone a DSL connection, but a spirited writer with a gushing brimful of inspiration will find a way to post. But I have a plan: I will find a way to get a laptop first, and then I will find a way to get DSL, and then I will write about making excuses like its no one else's business. It might take me about six months worth of installments to own a laptop; owning and getting are two different ideas. And then I will need to suffer about two weeks of poor customer service to be able to subscribe to some third world DSL service they have here in the Philippenis.

I will have a lot of ideas by then, complaints more likely, and I will be so in the zone. At least I have a plan. What I'm trying to say, really, is that I'm this lazy fag with a real knack for excuses that don't cut it. You're looking at my blog, I'm not sure reading's the right term, and feel free to unsubscribe from my readership. No, please don't.

And I really don't know where I'm getting these hits. Really. Thank you goes a long way, whoever you are!

A Repost from Christmas of 2004

This was a letter I wrote to this guy I'm speaking with online for nine months now, and just two months ago, I found out that I was actually flirting with a straight guy. Well, it came as a big motherfuck of a shock to me, and and the first thing I had in mind was that I was barking at the wrong tree. I might as well terminate the correspondence for what it's worth.

I'm mighty impressionable by nature, and sometimes, that is a weakness.

By the way, I referred to him in the third person in this letter for the purposes of narration.

Wonald and myself are in good speaking terms again. He's straight, I'm gay, and maybe I'm just clearly stupid or whatnot, but I used to think we were flirting. It appeared to me, at least. What's even funnier was that I even overreacted to a situation brought about by my own reckless abandon.

Fortunately, I was able to pacify my frustration with a generous lamentation on my inexcusable lack of caution, and I apologized to myself, profusely, for almost allowing lightning to strike twice. Silly me, but I hope we're okay now, and I think we are. I even find it comfortable hearing him talk about his girlfriend, and thank God for that.

He's straight, damn straight, and the news is as comforting as a level-8 healing spell, to put it in RPG-talk.

I'm gay, he's straight, I'm a moth, and he's this enchanting flame on a dancing candle wick. But I'm a moth with a burned wing, so I'm smarter, and I know better than to get the other one singed. Straight people leave me flightless, and for the love of me, I'd rather be available crippled than to be permanently handicapped at all.

You do understand where I'm coming from, right?

Temptations are only interesting when they're delightfully attainable, but for the most part, the thrill of the hunt begins to fade as soon as the object of your attention withdraws all possible avenues of interest.

But hey, he is, for all the right reasons, a most fine gentleman, and he could never have stressed it enough himself. I still find it quite curious though, how two upbeat men of varying sexual orientations get to maintain a delightful correspondence online. And even more so now, when all polite restrictions, all in the name of common courtesy of course, have been established.

The question remaining is how wonderful will the spontaneity be in this kind of agreement? It might sound helplessly futile, but how do I let go of an understanding which aims to question my basic understanding of these matters. I have always led myself to believe that anyone you meet online is a potential love-interest, otherwise, they're simply a waste of my precious time. It's basically THAT black and white. But in this case, I have no other reason to cling on to, maybe that pleasant realization that there does exist an interesting alternative. Apparently, I've struck gold since no other gentle wisdom characteristic of this intelligent asshole would even bear to tolerate my gay and overflowing bitching.

But seriously, the question "where do we go from here," is also considerable, but that would imply terminating something as delightful for what it's worth. And I would like nothing better than to see how two bitching assholes of varying sexual orientations would tolerate communicating with each other on a semi-regular basis.

Basically, you're online, and you've pleasantly butchered all dwindling hope of an "extra-curricular friendship." You just love my honesty, don't you? Simply put, it's flirting online minus all the strict reasons with which flirting is defined. And though it was made so bleeding clear, I still go for it with a sheepish grin, wondering how in the world this will progress.

This post, however obscure, had a comment.

Lemme Put You On Hold

**You can only imagine what talk happens during that one minute hold. And this is just some of them. We are actually running your tests for you during that two minute hold, but we are mostly... distracted.

1. American Idol performance night
2. human swine virus
3. comparing lubes
4. comparing gaydar notes over which new guy emits the strongest gay frequency
5. where are we having lunch?
6. this godawful noob that's messing my cool
7. this godawful noob that's messing my cool for thirty minutes now
8. this godawful noob that's messing my cool for an hour now
9. what's a noob?
10. that fool Ricky Hatton going down on Round 2
11. the weather. Yes, the weather.
12. are we going out for a few beers?
13. are we going out for a lot of beer?
14. how many days left before the weekend
15. how many days left before the next payday
16. how was your pay?
17. some technical jargon
18. grammar slips
19. phonetics slips
20. pronunciation slips
21. B and V slips
22. P and F slifs
23. what time are we having lunch?
24. can we have lunch now?
25. what about now?

Criticism

**Click on the image to enlarge.

What About Gifts?

Do you finish reading a book because somebody gave it to you as a gift? What if it was around five hundred pages thick? What if it's all words and ideas and deep stuff with no pictures on it? What if it had size 8 fonts, single space, with very lengthy paragraphs set at two to three a page? What if the chapters were spaced so far apart you think you'd get tired just by the mere thought of it? What if it was something that never interested you to begin with?

What if it was given to you by, say, a family member? Or perhaps another beloved who only had your best interests during that wildly congested Annual Book Sale at the mall? Maybe a dear aunt that gave you the same pair of hot pink pants because she knew you were a fag, and you were into this kind of shit? What if the gift wrap was something straight out of Martha Stewart's workshop, all decked out like a window display because it's trying to send a message across?

It's a good thing my sister knows my reading material like the back of her hand. I wouldn't know, for the life of me, how to answer any of those questions.

How's the Embarrassment Like?

The funniest thing happened last Sunday. Ricky Hatton, after months of serving the juiciest trash talking over his fight with The People's Champ Manny Pacquiao, dropped dead, cold as a knocked out turkey only after two rounds of the most, shall we say, unprepared boxing to grace Pay Per View. He's knocked out on round two. And that's basically the long and short of this very short lived "put your money where your mouth is match," however much awaited.

I wonder how the embarrassment is like. I mean, what happened here is like training for Rhythmic Gymnastics for four years only to trip on the first few seconds of your routine. And what makes it less embarrassing is that gymnasts don't trash talk. Or they don't do it as loud as Hatton's entourage.

Hopefully, A Cure for Peaking

**You know how it goes: You were once the coolest Queen of your Hill bar none. And then you peaked for some reason that's totally unknown to your person. I'm having none of that, so I'm writing this now before I totally lose my shine.

I don't want to forget what made me Queen of my Shit Hill in the first place.

1. I play pool because I love it. Not only because I'm good at it, or at least I used to, but because it brings me close, closer to that group of inbreeds I love hanging out with.
- Last time I played was three months ago as of the writing of this post.

2. I have this funny network of fags that has always been dear to me all throughout.
-Last time I saw them was three weeks ago.

3. I have this retard sounding laugh, guttural and unfailingly characteristic.
-Last time I did was a week ago, and I really need a good laugh just about now.

4. I love having sex. And sometimes when I'm mighty drunk, I don't mind if its random.
-Last time I got laid real good, underscore real, was November 2008.

5. I enjoy watching horror movies. The messier the better.
-Last time I did was a week ago, and it bored me to the core.

6. I write as an outlet. And I have this blog for personal, therapeutic reasons.
-I'm littering it now with the usual dull drivel just to appear updated. The last post that meant something to me was this post.

7. I like the people I work with.
-And I'm developing some untoward reservations for no valid reason or what have you.

8. I foulmouth with a PhD.
-And I'm becoming habitually untalkative offline. That doesn't help the cursing none.

9. I used to do random acts of daring stupid just for kicks.
-And I'm beginning to bore myself most often these days.

I'll stop here before I realize I don't like what I am now. Something has changed along the way, and I have a lot of catching up to do. Like that Angela Basset film, I need to get my groove back.

Resets Please

I'm now looking for THE ONE HTML code for putting a panic button on my blog's sidebar. With a push, that golden button wil go ahead and hide all of my unbecoming posts with their horny details. Of course, hide IS the operative term, because a fault finding fool like myself needs to go over the things I wrote for a number of foolish, fault finding reasons.

I can be too wordy to a fault; the terms I choose to string together often paint a messy sketch. And there are ideas that do nothing to redeem the collapse that is my person. It's bad enough that I'm gay by default, but to be a wordy attention-whore with an unprecedented sense of self-promotion is something different. That leads to very unlikely ideas. But the problem is I kind of posted some of those ideas. Some of them had comments, too. And I have to do something about that because my mom is reading my blog now.

Ergo the panic button.

A Carefreeflowing Bitchfit Minus the Caps Lock on Some of the People in Your Office

**This is not a list per se. I'm just ranting at random, and an enumeration make my points easier to follow. This was written two months ago, and I just elected to post this now. One: I'm running out of things to post. Two: I think the things I wrote here affects people that are mostly no longer in the campaign. No blind item-med fags though. So you're not here, my hairy gay bear fren. We miss you.

1. Gullible officemates who

"fall for just about every too-good-to-be-true or too-stupid-to-be-true (etc) rumor out there and then feel the need to babble excitedly about it to everyone!"

I'm quoting him. He gave me the idea for this post, btw.

2. Nonperforming co-workers who are tirelessly looking for excuses to escape the workload. This is during those times when they took the time to report for work and bless us with their presences. But don't get me wrong, they are actually helpful when it comes to some very specific statistics. Like they're great when it comes to contributing to the absenteeism rate.

3. Incompetent figures of authority who, at best, excel in fault finding and power tripping like its nobody else's business. And they've practiced it so well that they've become super ignorant of the fact that they're not helping. They're the same people who, at the same time, had the iron set of balls to tell you they're right and you're wrong, you're always wrong, and there's no way in hell you're winning an argument against them because they're already filing a report for insubordination halfway through your well-meaning and well-rehearsed defense.

They make you want to sit down and wonder what validation does a promotion acknowledge these days?

I heard she's no longer in the program though, and that is such an opportunity missed. I'd like to give her a piece of my mind. It's going to be an all-caps conversation without no keyboards or none.

4. I know this sounds like I'm agreeing just for the hell of it, but believe me when I tell you that you sound happier now that you have resigned from the office. You really do sound pleased, and I'm genuinely happy about the whole situation. Life goes on without you though, if that's your main concern.

5. To your friends that are still here, see number 4, nothing or no one really cares enough to keep you from resigning. Deal with it. So if you wanna flip the finger towards due process, fuck the last thirty days right?, just stop going to work already. Aren't you tired of making excuses?

6. Let me quote Mark Twain:

"When we do not know a person--and also when we do--we have to judge his size by the size and nature of his achievements, as compared with the achievements of others in his special line of business--there is no other way."

So this means NO, the length of your stay in this here company is completely dead to me. I mean, I'm too old for penis envy. Line of business! Ha, what a beautiful coincidental phrase.

7. You know what you signed up for, and what your functions are, and that makes two of us. So if you can read, please do so between the lines.

8. Complaining has never been and will never be a bankable asset. So shut your trap and develop a set of good work ethics this early on.

My Horny Prince

I'm thinking of buying a female siamese cat because my horny Prince is whining me to death with his guttural "meezering."

He's almost a year old, in human years, and I have good reason to believe that he hasn't had any yet. I tried to set the mood between him and this female stray one time, but my Prince, oh my poor insufferable Prince, he wouldn't know THE moves from the stuff in his litter box. He got scratched in the face the moment he started sniffing his female's love Friskie, and he was only hornier ever since. I'm telling you, having a pet's a good thing because they de-stress you for some weird reason, but they will WAIL you out of bed for one other reason or another.

"SHAT your jilted pie hole, you motherfucking baby, we'll get you laid soon enough."

I can throw him in a hamper though...

The Seven Secrets of Attractive Body Language

**Ain't body language the cutest?

Finally got to finishing the Body Language book I talked about on this post. I now know when to tell if your boss is most likely to agree with, say, a pay raise, when a person's at his horniest, and when to tell if a person's most likely to backstab you senseless. I also learned that cool and collected people use less body language, and I learned that on the last two chapters. Which basically takes a big fat dump at everything else I've learned 300 pages earlier since I'd rather be cool and collected anyway than to learn when to time your flirting.

The Seven Secrets of Attractive Body Language

1. Face: Have an animated face and make smiling a part of your regular repertoire. Make sure you
flash your teeth.

2. Gestures: Be expressive, but don't overdo it. Keep your fingers closed when you gesture, your hands below chin level, and avoid arm or feet crossing.

3. Head Movement: Use Triple Nods when talking and Head Tilt when listening. Keep your chin up.

4. Eye Contact: Give the amount of eye contact that makes everyone feel comfortable. Unless looking at others is a cultural no-no. lookers gain more credibility than nonlookers.

5. Posture: Lean forward when listening, stand straight when speaking.

6. Territory: Stand as close as you feel comfortable. If the other person moves back, don't step
forward again.

7. Mirror: Subtly mirror the body language of others.

Related Posts:
Reading

Horror Movie Review # 33: Skin Walkers

**Seriously, do you really wanna get drowsy?

SKINWALKERS
Directed By: James Isaac
Release Date: 5 September 2007
Running Time: 110 minutes
Language: English
Horror Type: Werewolves. Yawn.
Sex? - I don't think so.
Gore? - Blah.

The only thing lamer than werewolves is gunslinging bulletproof werewolves. And this movie is about gunslinging bulletproof werewolves, so imagine how off the roof this movie has registered. It's got good werewolves versus bad werewolves, some family drama, and a lot of dead lycanthropes pumped with silver bullets.

Dumb shit, really.

Presenting the Non Graduates

**We'll be having another surge of graduates in a few more weeks. That means we'll be saying hello to a fantastic swell in the ranks of the unemployed. But I'm not writing this for them.

This goes out to those lazy motherfuckers who have yet to make their parents proud this year, but can't right now because they fooled around too much. I'm talking to you who won't be seeing the gratification behind a diploma because you're not graduating this year. You. Are. Not. Graduating. This. Year. Like you didn't last year. Yes, I'm talking to you who can't relieve your parents yet of their financial support for your stagnating education. And it looks like they will need to sacrifice another year of unrewarded overtime hours thanks to your aimless attempts at college. Yes, I'm talking to you who mastered the intricate science of Bumming with a double degree in Loafing. I'm talking to you who took additional units in Premarital Sex and Alcoholism because your units in Accountancy or Mathematics or what have you are just too gay to be taken seriously.

And it would have been promising were you guaranteed some decent enough job after college. But chances are, you will be more likely to maintain the same work ethic you've been so shamelessly displaying during your college years. You can just imagine it now, cutting work just to get yourself shit faced with the same crowd who pulled you down in your college years. It looks like you'll be a bum for a year or two after your graduation that's three years overdue, and we'll be hearing some very stoopeed excuse like "you need the hiatus." Promising, yes, but its not going to be okay. You're still not graduating this year because you are a lazy, impressionable oaf.

I feel for you though; I finished a four year course in five years maybe for the same exact reasons you have in your defense.

It's Official

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Oscars are now officially outsourced.

The Alarming Sudden-ness that is Bebe.

**I wouldn't write this now if it weren't for you, Sis. No really, I'm referring to an off line sibling, and I'm not being chummy with the object of this post.

We should call it Silly-pines because everything here's getting increasingly ridiculous. They have thieving fools in the governance, and they get away with buttfucking us tax payers off of our hard earned cash. We have imbecile recording artists reviving random songs taken from some karaoke songbook and compiling them in some 450-peso brainshit album. We have Kris Aquino and Boy Abunda. And we have Bebe Gandanghari.

He used to be the dashing Rustom Padilla once upon a time, but the fagged out Bebe elected to kill that action star to give way to some aging drag queen that's as heavy on the act as he is on the blush on. That fag's mainly the point of this post, and I just wanted to pitch in the "Silly-pines" crap because I thought it sounded cute. But when you think about it, there is something agreeable with us being the "pearl of the orient." I mean, how fittingly appropriate for us to be compared to something that's created out of irritation. Which is all the more irritable now because of the unnecessary and unrelenting publicity on yet another faggot.

So he looks smashing enough for both genders, but that's immaterial. Irrelevant, even, because what makes this borderline indigestible display of new found gayness is that he seems to be enjoying it too much. Which is okay and all, but he used to be The dashing Rustom Padilla. I'm still looking for some sort of ceremonial gesture that'll mark his transition for what its worth: a burning of the closet mayhaps, or a long bath maybe to rid himself of the smell of mothballs and cramped space, or he can choose to burn Rustom Padilla "in effigy." Just give us something, anything to celebrate this moment, because that very fake moment in the Big Brother house don't count for shit; we were well aware you're a nominee for eviction. And you're just appealing to sympathy.

My problem with that is I'm not seeing none of it. I mean, what newly out gay guy is THAT flamboyant all of a sudden? My issue with Bebe is that I still can't get over his imaginary transition from Rustom to Bebe. If there was any to begin with. All I remember was that he came out in the Big Brother's closet, and he's suddenly this irritable drag act in the span of a year.

What's the rush? I mean, is he catching up for lost time? Because if he is, then Eric Quizon's got a lot of work to do.

Related Post:
Rustom is My New Darna

How Was Your New Year, Babe?

**I was never a punctual person. So here. Happy New Year!

One of the many reasons why I hate fireworks is this: Blogging with three fingers to a hand will take some getting used to. So I won't.

Oh Madness

**Would you pay to have your fortune read?

LEO - The Lion Great talker. Attractive and passionate. Laid back. Usually happy but when unhappy tend to be grouchy and childish. A Leo's problem becomes everyone's problem. Most Leos are very predictable and tend to be monotonous. Knows how to have fun. Is really good at almost anything. Great kisser. Very predictable. Outgoing. Down to earth. Addictive. Attractive. Loud. Loves being in long relationships. Talkative. Not one to mess with. Rare to find. Good when found.

It's kind of hit and miss, but boy, does it hit! I have never had my fortune told by somebody paid to see the future, but I'm guessing them seers might as well be just as wordy. You know, the more they tell you, the more likely they'll get warmer. And in the very unlikely event that I will be paying to have my fortune told , I will probably be hearing all of it, but I will most likely be listening to none of it. They will never be a hundred percent right on, but I'll probably keep that to myself because I volunteered to pay them to see my future.

Oh, the embarrassment! I'll probably pay them extra just so they'll keep our little fortune telling session a secret

How to be Rude

**I love being a bibliophile.

I've learned that one of the better things to imply disinterest towards anyone is to take out a book and start reading while they're looking. In the event that you don't feel like listening to their brainshit yapping no more, then wait for them to finish what nonsense they're talking about. You can maybe force a nod to fake agreement, hell, force two nods for good measure, and then go back to your bookmarks. Timing counts; it makes you less rude than you have practiced to be.

A bigger book guarantees your point goes across, and I make sure I have one when I'm feeling like its going to be a decidedly long day. A paperback works too; it's like your swiss army knife, your panic button, because its size makes it available to you anywhere you go. There is safety in convenience because there's no telling when you're likely to encounter more than your daily share of really boring people. Magazines offer very little resistance because they don't last long. The bore will probably get it the third time you're reading from page one. That kind of defeats the point because I'm after the discretion here, and they aren't supposed to notice the conscious effort.

Of course, make sure you're reading something interesting. You're going to be more occupied that way, and that takes care of the body language you need to accentuate your disinterest.

Horror Movie Review # 32: The Exorcism of Emily Rose

**Possession movies rule!

THE EXORCISM OF EMILY ROSE
Directed By:Scott Derrickson
Release Date: September 9, 2005
Running Time: 119 minutes
Language: English
Horror Type: Demon Possession
Sex? - No need.
Gore? - Supernatural athletics?

This film is sooo BOSS: who could've thought you can present a recorded exorcism ritual as evidence in a court of law? And I'm telling you, Reagan (Linda Blair) has got nothing on Emily (Jennifer Carpenter); she only had one demon, Pazuzu, possessing her, whereas Emily Rose had seven demons gang banging her body into possession. We have Lucifer in the roster, too, which makes it all the more super. If you're a fan of horror films based on true stories, then you should have The Exorcism of Emily Rose in your DVD collection.

Momel's Rating: 4/5

Horror Movie Review # 31: The Boogeyman

**Under your bed, bitch.

THE BOOGEYMAN
Directed By:Stephen T. Kay
Release Date: February 4, 2005
Running Time: 89 minutes
Language: English
Horror Type: The Monster Underneath Your Bed
Sex? - Not here.
Gore? - Cute.

Tim (Barry Watson) confronts a childhood fear in this slow moving piece of filth. It sounds simple, and it should be simple, seeing as there is no better way to narrate something as universal as that monster beneath your bed. But the problem is that it's scattered all throughout with unnecessarily flashbacks that pan to how the phobia evolved. I get it already. But I'm more interested in how Barry Watson challenges the Boogeyman as an adult. Or to be more specific, will he go for an AK47 or an elephant gun?

The ghost kid Franny had that Sixth Sense feel to her; finding that out was the only real trip to this film. See, the Boogeyman, being the title character, could have used a little threat-effect since the CGI failed to redeem it as a bad motherfucker.

Momel's Rating: 2/5

Cutting the Act

Jesus, I don't deserve this kind of distraction; the guy's not even my type. I have to cut the act now; it's been a week already, and I think I've apologized enough. All this unnecessary attention for a new year's resolution? I don't see anything wrong about "showing a lot of motive this year around," but there are, well, better smelling men out there.

What I'm saying is that the ends don't really justify the means. Not usually. I'm not up for a scandal. Or for a sexual experience that will remain available for regretful recall.

Going OCD

I'm developing this devouring greed for Chuck Taylors; I have four pairs now, and I plan to acquire more. And I'm finding myself paying more attention to the way the shoelaces fall on both feet: they NEED to be of equal lengths. It's gone so bad that I'm actually taking the time of day to untie both shoes because I want to make sure that the laces are equally distributed in terms of lengths. Underscore equally.

And I'm feeling a deeper sense of security with properly tied shoelaces. Jesus, OCD is scary.

Mirror Space

All the elevators in the office are equipped with wall-to-wall mirrors good enough for four people standing side to side. And there's this fag who can't seem to get enough reflective space with which to admire his dry hair, big pores, and oily skin. It's always the same ritual with him every unfortunate chance I get to share the elevator with this vain toad. What makes this ugly fool stick to memory is that not only does he compete for the mirror space, but he doesn't stop pimping himself up until everybody else has quit doing their business three minutes ago.

Quit hogging the mirror space. Your shallow sense of accomplishment can't get any more shameful than that. There's not much to look at to begin with.

That Gay Dude

I saw this dude one time, and he's wearing the fiercest skinny jeans and this white coat coupled with the craziest tote bag to complete the metrosexual charade. He walks with this sashay that's totally characteristic of the confused urban male. I'm telling you, this guy's got taste.

And he's wearing a goatee, too. That's like the ultimate in closet queen fashion.

Blogging Short

It does feel cold and spoiled when one is writing with a very limited word count, but there are certain adjustments one must make when his creative economy suffers a heart attack. Brilliance comes in hiccups these days, so I've elected to writing in very brief bursts. It's either this, or I will be reducing songs to their plagiarized Tagalog versions, which is the sort of brainshit stealing I curse in my sleep. Or I can quit blogging altogether, but how can I let go of a distraction that masturbates my creativity?

I'm still scheduling my hiccups though, being the lazy bastard I'm trying to conceal.