Saturday, October 29, 2011

I Am Now A Fucking Genius

Comments like this help me get my groove back. Thank you.

Regular programming will resume shortly after I have completely shed this most uncomfortable mistress jumpsuit. It's a great bother, I tell you, and I'm just about 95% done. Meanwhile, it will be in your best interest to Never Engage in a relationship with a married guy, or girl, whichever the case maybe. If he can be unfaithful to the wife, then it follows that he can be unfaithful to you. You can not demand anything of him because you knew exactly what you got into. You got into a relationship where you will be the least of his priorities, most especially if he has a kid. This does not make you special, therefore the question Whatever Happened to Love of Self? And what else? Why it's the suddenly excessive smoking, near sleepless nights, overnight eye bags, and, oh Lord, the pimples.

Yes, the stress will fist fuck you big time. Because you were faithful to a married man. And he's somebody else's husband. Let it go.

And besides, it will be your kingdom, your horses and your men, for over the counter break out treatment. If you think you're okay-looking before getting into this kind of relationship, then wait until you get out of it. No relationship is worth you getting ugly. So give it the finger, fart in its general direction, charge it to experience, and Never try to win this loveless relationship back. Go back to the things that you love doing before he came along. That should set your shit straight.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Repost This

**I don't think the DISLIKE/ HATE /SUCK MY DICK option will happen. But I'm still waiting for a radio button that says "Does this post make sense to you?" Or at least a setting that says "Hide all posts from gullible people in your network."

I know it's a god send if it does happen, but I will keep that feature disabled anyway. I will run out of material to bash. For example...

I've seen a lot of these posts going around and muddying the already dirty waters of my FB wall. I have nothing against trash, I love to talk it, but if it's the dumb kind of trash that does nothing but to betray one's surplus of voluntary stupid, then I give it the dirty finger. You know it's not going to happen. It's always been a free service. And if some fake news gets your panties too much in a bunch that you have to comply to it's terms, then you a. Forgot that it was a free service in the first place b. Are too lazy to do Google c. Don't have enough of an offline life d. May have the mentality of somebody in a mob.

Reposts sustain themselves with the idea that if everybody else is doing it, then it must be true. Or if it was reposted enough, then it may be true. Oh please. But you find something out in the process though. Why, you have something in common with a lot of people in your network! Can you imagine that! We're all doing the same thing! I'm down with the right crowd! I'll repost this motherfucker to its death because we are the champions of this cause! We are a mob, and we operate on other people's ideas until it becomes our own! And, if its any consolation, I'm confident that Facebook is not closing my subscription now because I reposted. Take that, you cocksucker with a blog and no Facebook account in the future!

You shut your mouth.

Facebook is not going to close your account. The verified truth is there are a lot of idle minds out there who have this genius propensity to circulate the right kind of fake news. And when you think about it, this is not even remotely alarming these days. People get devilishly creative. But you go ahead and re-post it anyway because you're too scared to lose access to your online Ego Gym. Bitch, you can't be that stupid on purpose. It's more likely that You Just Are, by default, so you go ahead and repost the fake news anyway.

I will still like you even if you are gullible, though.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Amazing Numbers

**This here is an undistilled, but edited, thank you of sorts.

I've always been conscious of my stats. And what makes it ironic is that I don't blog hop as much as I used to in 2006. I no longer advertise. I no longer promote. I don't see the point because my ego's as big as my brownish rabbit-shit tits anyway.

The only endorsement that this blog has been receiving for quite some time now is through my Facebook posts, my comments on Ms Jessica Zafra's blog, and then my existing links in some of your blogs. But, just the same, I am no longer actively promoting this hole in the wall. I am satisfied with what numbers I'm getting: I am averaging 40 to 50 hits on Mondays to Wednesdays, less than 30 hits during Thursdays and Fridays, and around 70 hits on weekends. And you know what, I am happy with these averages because I read somewhere that the secret of a happy life is lowered expectations.

I don't bloghop anymore because these new blogs tire me with the enthusiasm that peaked on the first month. It has been the same trend since 2005 anyway, and I've since learned to lower my expectations.

The content's a different thing, too. The internet is running out of the Suck My Dick kind of writers that I... prefer. But then, I barely have time to go over those punks in my blog roll anyway, let alone go on a blogger treasure hunt, which is unprofitable eight times out of ten. So I keep myself here and write on a once a week basis.

I don't go out, as far as blogging goes, because I've since learned to lower my expectations.

I no longer exchange links as much as I used to because I've since learned to lower my expectations.

I've kept to what numbers I'm getting because I've since learned to lower my expectations.

So you can imagine my confusion when I saw these numbers last week. And bear in mind that I rigged my StatCounter in a way that it doesn't count my own visits (like to create and edit a post).

Thank you for your visits. You know what I write, and how I write, and you know how I like to be obscene, but you kept at it anyway and I don't know why. You are such a comfort to my ornamental foulmouthing! You don't know how appreciated I feel with every pageload. And your endorsements and linkages? Why they are a grateful murder to my unthanked being!

But, on a serious note, you guys are hella weird.

Muahness from Pasig Cirehhhh!

P.S. Keep at it though. We can be secret friends. Thanks again!

And on a related note, I would like to thank you, Salbe, for that link. It reflected in this illustrious surge in my hits the week before these stats took place. ABNKKThankYouPPLAAKO. And to you, Bryan Stars, for being an "avid fan." Your words, amiga, your words. And to The Punk for giving me, at last, the one thing that you spared me since I met you -- eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Poor People and Their ATMs

**Long lines give you good ideas.

1. Won't somebody please designate a special booth for people who have no clue as to which end of their ATM goes into the machine? The least they could do is to include Basic ATM Training before they introduce the principles of burger flipping or canned-good bagging or making change.

2. I know long lines are a drag, but seriously, won't you guys limit your ATM Entourage to at least two people? And mind you, this includes yourself. I understand that the thought of maxing out your ATMs only to have your 800 pesos taken at knife point's something to cry over; your unemployed friends make you feel safe. But help us people at the back by lowering our expectations. Clear up space. Help us keep track, would you?

3. Why are the sneakier looking social climbers always the ones with at least three ATM cards? And why do they keep the PINs for those cards written in some piece of paper? And why are they always maxing out their withdrawals? For all three cards? And why are... ohhh.

4. We might be sharing the same queue, but our monthly salaries are a different story. So don't look back at us with that disappointed "How come?" look in your eyes as the machine screams "Insufficient Funds" with your most recent transaction. That laughable gesture's lost its point as we, in the back, don't really care. Life moves on, like this line ought to be doing.

And besides, that sense of indignation feels soo fake.

5. Please stop displaying your brand new ATM card at us. That makes you look so cheap.

6. If the machine's an actual booth with a door, and you're next in line, be courteous enough to let the person ahead of you exit first before letting yourself in. That's common courtesy, and there's no buying that. Much like common sense, when there's only one line, and you go on ahead cramping my style with your "Is this the pila (line/queue) for the ATM ba?"

7. Yes, that machine's smarter than you, and believe it or not, you're already down to your maintaining balance. So stop asking "Are you sure???" with that second balance inquiry in a row. Yes, it's sure.

Sunday, September 04, 2011

A Message for You Facebook Philosophers

**If you can find it in your hearts to kindly choke on this, please?

If quoting makes you cum, then go for it. Do it again, and again, and again, until you're pronounced dead by ejaculation. Quote to your satisfaction, but remember to credit your sources.
--I said this first, as far as I know. I Googled this goddamned light bulb moment.

It's so easy to echo what second hand words of wisdom you just heard or read somewhere. And it's just as easy to capitalize on somebody else's experiences, lump it in a weak phrase, and then pass it off as your own. Almost everybody else is doing it, everybody with an unhinged ego trip that is, and I am, quite honestly, ladies and gentlemen, getting really bored.

I can always let it go, of course, because its the same hand me down inspiration from the same dull people. And it's the same unyielding persistence of people who don't have a point, really, that gets to me. I can always hide their posts from my news feed, but I'll run out of material to bash. I can't call it a love-hate relationship. It's parasitism with a suck-my-dick attitude, that's what it is.

What I'm saying is that I can always let it go, or they could always die first, but I'm enjoying this secret pleasure one can only have in bashing. The letting go option, I suppose, may not happen.

Why is why I am proposing a suggestion, instead. Choose your wisdom and get it tattooed. Ink, needle, blood, antiseptic. Stick to it. At least we know your message goes across -- you really mean what you say. You can say it everyday, and you can reinforce your new found understanding with amazing visual aids. And you weren't just having a fit of plagiarism.

Shit Happens. Let it go. I wish I could take credit for this wonderful philosophy, but at least I mean it. And I live by it now with the loyalty of a bad ass lap dog.

Now that I think of it, the authors of my Anonymous Comments can use the same message. Let it go, love.

P.S. I will be having my meaning of life tattooed this September. There will be blood, needles, and pictures. I am suddenly possessed of this familiar need to fill skin.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

I Am Becoming Clingy

**And it's getting ugly.

I have noticed, recently, that I am always on the alert for his attentions, which he pours in generous showers, and I am increasingly pining and trying to get myself noticed. It is no longer sweet. It is rather disgusting, and pathetic, and is a far cry from the image that I am trying to project. I am supposed to be simultaneously fearless and bold, detached and caring, but clingy? Motherfucker, this will be the death of the person that I have always wanted to be.

True, we've had a month behind us, but that doesn't warrant this love fool that I am mutating into. Nothing does, because I am supposed to be tough as nails and ready to flip the finger with my eye. A person with the demeanor that I am trying to accomplish doesn't text his lover that he can't sleep. And he spices that up with a sad-faced emoticon, for good measure! Mother-fucker! What bad taste! What reproachful vileness! What unprecedented pathetic-ness! Since when have I become a dreamy, sheltered fifteen year old with an intact hymen?

I have recently subscribed to the Shit Happens Let It Go School of Reasoning. I got it tattooed as a matter of fact.

And now this?

You see, I love tattoos, and I like to rock, and I drink like a sailor during weekends. And I like to get fucked, and I like the taste of cock, and I foul mouth in wonderful excess. I trash talk with the boys, and I laugh real loud with the homos. I was all that before I met the Punk. But I am never bashful, let alone clingy, and I am suddenly texting that I can't sleep with a sad-faced emoticon to match.

Ay gran hijo de la puta! Madre de dios!

He didn't text back. Hah, serves you right, faggot. But he found some other way to communicate. This sweet, sweet Punk is killing me good.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Blog Soup #12 -- A Succession of W's

**It's a soup of topics that don't really follow suit. Or it's me with all that material but nothing to write.

**Meanwhile, the following paragraphs were taken from that big notebook I almost always have with me. I try to write a lot, when I'm not drunk or lazy, and these notes represent my mostly sober moments.

1. What is Self Defeating?

I remember this local whatshisface recording artist, Jed Madela, and he was endorsing his new album in some whatsitsface noontime show. He's promoting this album, and it's this collection of remakes and revivals of hitherto bastardized songs from the 80s and the 90s. I think it's the first of its kind most especially here in the Philippines. Anyway, Jed Madela goes ahead and tells the viewers to not buy anything that's "not original." I know he's addressing the piracy issue, but "not original" is a very loose phrase. It can very well refer to his remakes. Which is what his new album is all about. Which will be in deep shit if the viewers tooks his word about "not buying anything that's not original."

Bad call, Mr Champion Something.

2. Worst Shits

**I remember writing this was when I was still in the five year relationship.

I was taking what can be one of the worst shits in my life, because I had to do it in the office, twice in two hours, when it dawned on me that, as far as I go, I'm just making the third party up. The infidelity is all in my head and, for what it's worth, he just doesn't measure up to the love of my life. What troubles me more, though, is that I can't seem to say this with the conviction that it deserves. Maybe I'll give it a few days, and then I'll say it again. But what troubles me, even more, is why I'm getting these epiphanies while sitting on a toilet bowl.

3. Wet Dreams

I had the strangest dream last night. It had all the elements of a good wet dream -- a curious half story, a comely young stud equipped with a raging erection, and, like in real life, the idea of getting caught as your head gyrates in that familiar, circular dance. I don't remember what it smelled like, for it was a dream, but that familiar sensation of choking remains distinct. And pleasurable. What makes it far more queer was the series of events which consummated in that fantastic fellatio.

He was this undercover cop, and he was doing surveillance work on a witch. Literally, a pins and dolls kind of witch, the sort that's equipped with a cauldron and chants, and employs her victim's personal effects for her black magic.

I couldn't make heads or tails of the whole incident. Heads, yes, but reason?

4. Writing Thought

Because when you're this dime-a-dozen nobody who imagines he can write, and he does so with not as much as any formal training to his credential, and all you have is passion and pluck and punctuation, then you revel and bask and glow at every validation you get. Most especially when its from the one female you think, as a gay guy, you've been impersonating all these years. What I'm saying, really, and this goes out to you insecure haters, is this -- fuck you and your ideas.

Monday, August 22, 2011

The Message in Tattoos

**I will let these pictures do the talking, but if I have to spare a word, then it will have to be this -- Finally. And these two -- fucking drama.

Ooops, sorry. We were drinking that same night. This is my friend, Richard Hadede.

Sunday, August 07, 2011

Suppose You Found Yourself In This Mess

**I'm blogging less frequently these days because a certain friend is in quite an alarming situation. And I'm a good friend.

I have this friend, and he's been seeing this punk for two weeks now. The punk's sweet, I'll give him that, and I remember my friend telling me how this punk makes him feel a whole lot like a natural woman. They are not officially a couple, my friend says, and he presents, in his defense, the following evidence:

1. They just met. This means they're barely a few weeks old.
2. He's not that into this punk. This punk pursued him first. He might pursue him back, but I don't see that happening anytime soon.
3. He still moving on. His other friends told him he hasn't completely let go, and this confuses him.
4. He can get used to this punk's charming efforts, but he isn't attracted to him yet.

The bottomline is that they are not a couple, not yet, but their first week was the height of blood curdling sweetness. It makes me cringe just to think about it, but it's a nice kind of cringe.

My friend was getting curious after the first week. So what he did was he checked this punk's Facebook profile, and he found out that this punk is in a relationship with a certain Hannah. This punk has a girlfriend, still has, and what my friend did was he sent this punk an artillery of text messages telling this punk to lay off. My friend has a certain flair for words, so I gather those messages delivered the simultaneously nonchalant and smiling "we can be super, but this isn't going to happen" idea.

He got these messages a few minutes after. I suppose I can show you a sampling because he showed me those messages, and I have access to his cellphone now.

1. Puwede namang hindi tayo magbago kahit may nalaman ka sa akin diba? Nasa sa iyo naman yun kung maggi-give up ka na eh. (4-Aug-2011 14:23:35)

2. Puwede namang walang magbago sa atin eh. Kaya ko naman ibigay yung time para sa yo. Nag give up ka naman agad. Kung talagang ginive up mo na, sayang talaga. (4-Aug-2011 14:33:35)

My friend was getting ready to get to the office the next morning, he's got the kinkiest work shift, when this punk told him he's coming over. And he did. And he brought with him this insane bag of confessions that totally messed up my friend.

1. They're not married.
2. They've been together for three years now.
3. They have a kid, a one year old kid.
4. His girlfriend knows about my friend.
5. She found out through those text messages my friend has been sending this punk during the course of their first week.
6. She doesn't mind.
7. She doesn't mind.
8. She knows about them, and she doesn't mind. She's okay with the two of them just as long as her punk isn't womanizing.
9. What the hell, right?

My friend told me that he was, for the first time in his life, unless he's just being a hardcore drama fag, that he's never been that speechless before. I remember him telling me how he wasn't able to digest everything that this punk told him. I remember him telling me how he was in a daze, how he was a blurred mess in the office. He had a lot of sleep before this punk's confession, but he looked like he could use some more sleep later that day.

This punk's live in partner, Hannah, the mother of his one year old kid, knows about the two of them. And she doesn't mind as long as he's not womanizing. Yes, this is authorized cheating. What the goddamn fuck, right? What the hell is with this spin shit? Motherfucker, how screwed up can you get? And will somebody please ass fuck this shit?

Understand that I'm cursing on my friend's behalf.

They were drinking yesterday evening, my friend and the punk, and the punk received the interrogation of his life from my friend's greatest ally, The Great Homo Overbeing, The Ultimate House Mother, and I recall the punk asking The Great Homo Overbeing this:

Bakit, ayaw mo ba sa akin para sa kanya?

What the goddamn fuck, right? What the hell is with this spin shit? Motherfucker, how screwed up can you get? And will somebody please ass fuck this shit?

Understand that I'm cursing on my friend's behalf.

There is too much to tell, and I shall report with truth to the letter, but I will need to wait for my friend to get back to his senses and figure everything out. He did tell me one thing, something about just waiting for his birthday to be celebrated, and then he'll give me something delicious to tell.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

So This Is How It Feels Like.

For the first time in my life, I am now the one being pursued. I don't know what this punk sees in me, but he makes me feel like a goddamn girl. Stolen kisses, displays of affection in front of his friends, displays of affection in front of my friends, hands held until they swell, surprise visits, his arms, thin and wrapped around me in front of his friends and mine. I can get used to this. No, I'm not in love. I don't think that will happen. I'm just milking this situation for all the icky goodness that it's worth. Maybe we'll get there. Maybe we won't. My money's on the latter, but I don't believe I care. I'm living the moment, seizing the day, and now I know how it feels like to be the one being pursued. That's something to tell, if anything.

Here's to this wonderful goddamn feeling!

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Were You Bullied as a Gay Kid?

I skipped school for two weeks when I was in Grade Four. And that wasn't because I was bullied. Oh hell no. Far from it. And I'm not being defensive when I mentioned the bullying shit. It is because I was enrolled in this exclusive all-boys school then, and queer kids like myself are, and this is not a statistic, a curiosity in that knee length pool of testosterone. This was in the Eighties. Gay kids then were loud only amongst themselves. We were never harmed or sneered at because we took to ourselves and our homosexual tendencies weren't as loud or as aggressive or as flamboyant or as eager as the kind you see now. They had no real reason to threaten us because we had manners and bearing and all that exquisite crap.

Sure, we were surrounded by these boys who were built for the bullying business, but I was never punched in the face. I was never kicked in the shins. I always had all of my lunch money to myself. And I never dreaded physical education because, aside from those awful PE shorts that concealed my skinny girly legs, it was physical only for the education and nothing else. Of course, all that catching and throwing and running around and talk of Dr James Naismith was just as useful to me as my male hormones. But I got home in the afternoon unharmed, and I'm satisfied and bruise-free while I'm enjoying shit cartoons with my orange zesto in one hand.

My last name is pronounced as Tool-yaw. And you can well imagine how terribly impressionable young boys get; I was a shellfish all throughout elementary in consequence. I'm telling you, there's just no end to the name calling. It's "Hoy Tulya!" in the morning, where it's at its loudest summit. Hotdogs and star rice, as it turns out, were the breakfast of growing assholes with what can be champion potential. Meanwhile, the name calling simmers down towards the first Angelus, and then it gains momentum during science class whenever Mrs Whatsherface happens to mention that devilish shellfish.

But I wasn't bothered enough to take those insults to heart. Those kids were corny bores. They were a gross sarcasm to the bullying business. They can never be offensive even if they were cross-eyed, worked in groups, and had terrible body odor. Were talking about kids who can only try so hard, but they will never be funny even if they had the advantage of a sfeech depect. These bullies were of very little stock, had zero quality, and were bankrupt of any creativity in the fine art of insults. Why, nobody even though of making faces while they're throwing their lines! There is no mimicry to their punchlines, their jokes were second hand, and they worked with the gullibility of a mob. A stupid, stupid mob. I was surrounded by these lousy, no-talent jerks. And I thanked God for this simple fortune.

A gay person can only be insulted, or buckled, if and only if the punchline is so magnificent that it is beyond a ready comeback. These kids used the same material to its deathbed.

So, was I bullied as a gay kid? No. This is because I knew then, like I knew and validated now, that I am a bigger asshole than most straight guys my age. The only difference is that, this time, I have learned to give the dirty finger with my eyes crossed. Those kids my age were never uninteresting. They just don't get what it takes to tick me off.

I skipped school for two weeks because I have taken this intense liking, this aggressive interest towards cutting classes. Life was sweet. I lived on nothing but doughnuts and coin-operated arcades back then. I should have been learning the intricate processes of photosynthesis and prepositions, but I was mastering the thirty lives trick in Super Contra instead. Of course, I was thoroughly reprimanded when they found me out; I still remember that scene in the principal's office.

She had those motherly, old eyes about her, the sweet and smiling kind, and it is with those eyes that she asked me why I cut classes for two weeks. I said I was bullied too much. And I said it with a straight face. And I even said it softly, for theatric effect, with the voice of the oppressed, haha. I even named names. That episode gave me one of the most practical lessons that I use to this day: I learned that the most effective way to tell a lie is to do it quick and with conviction. Now I admit, I'm a jerk; I could barely look at those kids as they were hauled into the principal's office for an explanation. But I was relieved because I got to cut classes at other people's expense. I was a cautionary tale, but it was for the wrong, unsincere reasons.

Somehow, when I look back at that delinquent fit, something tells me that I chose the right kind of waywardness. Because I am now a gay punk.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Write a Love Story for LitWit 6.4!

**I have elected to disable comments for my LitWit promotions. I suppose its better if you can check the site out yourself and then comment. This episode is about writing a Fantasy Love Story, and I have full confidence in the capacities of some you as far as this genre goes. After all, we are just all too human in this city.

Non sequitur? Think again, love. Meanwhile, my next post will be this Wednesday. I'm still deciding between the Faggot Medication post or the Turning Atheist post. Or the Leviticus post. Or the Reading Group post. It will be this Wednesday though, Third World Time, which isn't almost always on time. And you wonder why they call us that. I will try to be punctual, though.

Click Here to go to LitWit 6.4!
Click Here for Instructions!

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Life Lessons at 30. Who Knew?

**I will be 31 next month, and I feel like documenting what maturity has developed in my bullshit person. This list pretty much covers just about everything that I have learned so far. This may not apply to you, but that's alright. It's your life, and you have your own lessons. But I believe in learning something as you go along. Otherwise, what the hell's the damn point?

**What makes this ironic is that I was half-drunk when I was writing most of this. And that was longhand. I looked back at this in the afternoon following the hangover, and I was expecting to read some slurred ramble, but I sounded sober as I was reading this back.

1. Shit Happens. Get over it.

2. The friends you've had for these five, ten years approaching your thirtieth will be the same set of darling assholes you're stuck with for the next five, ten, fifteen years of your life. Appreciate them, and acknowledge their influence. You chose to stick with them in the first place, right?

3. The scope of support that the family you are born with will never cease to amaze you. Find time to do something together.

4. The earlier you move out of your mother's house, the better. Independence builds character. And, by the same token, I would like to say this one related thing, and I say this with the sincerity of a medical diagnosis -- Life lessons (from people who still live with their parents) are a mighty empty mess. I'm not buying it. Put a lid on your second hand hearsay. They have the strength of a superstition.

Yeah, if you can support yourself at the age of five, then go for it. Fucken smart ass.

5. Looking for the love of your life is a thoroughly unproductive pursuit. He finds you, instead. I know the cheesy is just over the top. I know. I'm getting a piece of rope and a monoblock chair to stand on and kick later.

6. Find time to do the things that make you feel alive. Read a good book. Smell the coffee and then drink it warm. Laugh out loud. Hang out. Play pool. Get tattooed. Sing in the shower. Do it loud. Dance alone. Masturbate. Get drunk. Get laid. Do it again.

7. Nothing else takes up more of your time than regret. What do you propose to do about it?

8. Okay, age is just a number. But, believe it or not, it shows on your face. Moisturize.

9. If, in consequence, you don't have to pay bail for it, or it doesn't get you confined, then, by all means, get it done.

10. Don't get so worked up over stupid opinions. I mean, why?

11. Never think you're prettier. Or better. Somebody's bound to steal your thunder, by and by.

12. Allow me to quote Mark Twain -- "Jealousy is a property of small minds." Be real good at something, work at it and practice, until you get to the point of over-qualification.

13. Be good at something, even if its in the fine, delicate arts of foulmouthing or masturbation. It doesn't matter what. But make sure you excel at it.

14. You are bigger than your blog.

15. You should have more of an identity than your Facebook page or status.

That's Lewis Black. Genius, isn't he? Meanwhile, here are some of my Facebook-specific posts:
1. Blog Soup #11: Your Facebook Status Sucks, Breaking the Three Month Rule, and Hooray for Smelly Third World Shit!
2. The Seven Annoying Facebook Posters
Truly, Facebook Brings Out the Attention Whore in Each of Us.

16. You should have an offline life. It's becoming uncommon these days.

17. One should be comfortable with his or her sexual orientation by the age of thirty. Or at least be honest about it. You had thirty years to figure that out.

18. Some people are just unwashed assholes by default, and that can't be helped. You just have to be an asshole in return. Be a bigger dick, though. That's the only way it works.

1. How to be Rude
How to Be Rude: Burgers

19. Life is about living. Live long. That being said, it will be in your finest interest if you could just stay away from that faggot Jim Girl. He will frustrate you to an early grave.

If you have to hate something, then hate with a passion.
1. Fuck You Jim Girl, Here's Your One Thousand Words
2. What, No Career Yet? -- A Follow Up on Jimgirl's Epic Fail

20. An advice for couples who have moved in together -- In no way should you allow him to feel left out. Never, ever, let this happen. Defend this cause with everything in your artillery. I know this is the kind of default wisdom that goes well without saying, and I could be a fool for stating the obvious. But for the most part, we overlook the obvious, and fail in its consideration, when one of you starts sleeping in the sofa. And you do this for weeks on end, because you claim it's suddenly much more comfortable to sleep in the living room.

21. You know what they say, "It's not the size that counts, it's the performance." People who say this have needles for dicks, don't get hard enough, cum early, have massive penis envy, and they wouldn't know foreplay from a hole in the ground. Size does matter. We remember the girth more. Get over it. Get enlarged and, in consequence, a penis to match your ego.

22. I can probably outdrink some of you now.

Taken from the Post: Cheers to Drinking Advice!

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

A Letter to a Cat

**What do you do when your cat starts grooming you? And yes, Saffy is a cat.

Dear Saffy,

So I have this Siamese boss, goes by the name Prince, and he assumes he’s royalty because I call him that. Anyway, we’ve been together, or I have been his property for close to three years now, and I’m writing to you because his recent grooming habits have come to include me.

This here is the boss.

Here’s our routine. I get home at around ten in the morning, and the mere click of that lock sends him running from his room upstairs. He meezers his way downstairs to where I will be taking off my shoes, and then he starts rubbing his whole length off my legs. The Siamese are long cats. And their awful miaowing, which is to say guttural, is an acquired taste.

So I take off my shoes, deposit my coffee mug in the sink, and then go upstairs to change. He will be a foot away from me all that time, and he will be miaowing me to my death if I don’t pick him up and hold him like the baby that he is. Literally, like the baby that he is — I cradle that bothersome sweetheart for a full minute and I look at ourselves in the mirror. And then he licks my arm with that rough tongue; he uses his wet sandpaper when he’s cuddled enough. I have changed to my houseclothes by then, and then I will go down to sit on the sofa. He will still be a foot away from me.

Have I mentioned that I talk to Prince and then he miaows back? Always? Sometimes I assume that he’s cursing back, but I have come to expect that. Yes, he talks back, and I will far rather drown than talk shit in your presence.

This is The Boss when he's not in the mood.

So I sit down on the sofa and do nothing for some time; I will be reading a book or growing my Pokemon, whichever’s handy. And then this Prince will heave his weight on my stomach and curl into a ball. Have I mentioned that he’s a long cat, close to two feet, and he’s slender? Anyway, he makes sure that I’m uncomfortable enough with his hairy, curled up length before he starts to groom himself. You know how it goes — he starts with his right shoulder, gives it a few long licks, keeps his eyes shut all that time, bites himself some, and then rinses his left shoulder in the same manner. He then proceeds to fashion the small of his back with the same discipline, but he does so briefly because he’s curled up. What takes time, though, is his face. He licks his arm, whichever’s handy, until its moist enough and then he pushes his face on it two to three times. And then he moistens his arm again. And then again. And then again some more. Why, the world will have ended before he’s just about satisified with his handiwork. You’d think that he’ll be coughing up a hairball that can sink the Titanic anytime soon, but no. He proceeds to wash the right side of his face!

This feline ceremony seems to go on for hours when observed from a distance. Imagine the bother when he grooms himself while he’s lying down on you. But it gets more troublesome, though. Just when I think that he’s done and proper, he starts licking at my shirt. At first I thought he missed a spot, and then he might have over-licked or something, but he works at that same spot on my shirt, just above the stomach until it’s moist! I am not kidding you, Saffy, and I sure as hell am not imagining things. I can feel the friction between my shirt and his wet sandpaper, and it’s bothersome, but he doesn’t quit until I’ve had enough licking for the morning and shushes him. Shush! He pauses some, briefly looks at me with those deep blue cat eyes, and then continues with this extended regimen that has come to include my alarmed person. I then shove him away, and then he miaows something on his way up the window sill.

He’s done this quite a lot of times before, and I suspect he’ll be doing this again this morning when I get home.

I am writing this to you, Saffy, because I want to know — what’s up with Prince?


Saturday, June 25, 2011

Here's a Tip on What To Like in Facebook

**This is an emergency post. I am still adhering to my healthy frequency of posting once-a-week, but this was a light bulb situation.

I've had enough of people in my network asking me to LIKE some idea for personal reasons. If it was good enough to begin with, then it wouldn't need the endorsement much, it should live on its own, it should be, to a certain degree, sufficient enough to promote its own cause. I have nothing against an endorsement, but people should learn to endorse things they personally believe in. That builds character, I suppose. I have my own principles when it comes to these circumstances, my guiding rules of conduct, and I shall summarize this code with this following line --

That's what I'm saying, really, and I say that on a fucken spiritual note.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

How to be Her

**This post was inspired by a real person, a goddess-variety charmer with whom I've had the fortunate acquaintance to brag about. I was washing the dishes this one day, when I happened to look at the kitchen tiles, those white, and clean kitchen tiles, and I suddenly had this inspiration to write. I'm not sure if she's aware of this, but her not knowing is alright, I suppose. I'm not dedicating this to her. What am I, straight?

First off, you will have to be very, very beautiful. You need to have skin which rivals that of snow glistening with the coming of the morning. Your hair needs to live, breathe, and be thoroughly self-sufficient; it has to have a life of its own. It could be paying taxes for all I care, but I don't know. Your face, ah that face, will be the very design of Aphrodite, or Venus, or Minerva, or whichever deity was the most inspired upon her creative emergency. Your glow should be this divine influence that could have been leased from The Almighty's vainest whims. Simultaneously, you should be statuesque, possessed of this comely figure, and you should cheat on your diet from time to time. You don't smoke. You eat fruits. You should be all that, and then some, so that calling you "beautiful" will be a criminal understatement.

Your paradise-level beauty will be so beyond illustrious that it will compel common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to purchase rope. Or a gun. Or large volumes of rat poison and think about administration if the alcoholic pity parties should fail in their purpose.

Your smile, ah that smile, will be it's very own enchantment. This animation of your allure will be a supernatural persuasion. It will move your beholders to a peaceful trance. You will have that effect when you do. And it will move those common-looking folk with uncommon insecurities to abandon the drinking altogether and just hang themselves.

Your admirers will have their own population. And their numbers will be formidable enough to inaugurate their own municipality.

You will be so beautiful, but you don't seem to know it Or you're aware of your spellbinding influence, but you don't seem to care. That is the hard part, the insufferable consequence, but if you want to be her, then you should lose all pretenses that come with such beauty. I suppose that's a common thing with most of God's handpicked. They were divinities since birth that humoring their advantage becomes a tiring repetition. So they leave that privilege, that of flaunting, to the common-looking folk, and then it becomes a comic delusion.

The insecure common-folk, at least those that will survive their suicides, will glare at you, in secret, of course, and whisper among themselves -- "Maganda nga, pero wala namang utak." "Yes, she's beautiful, but I'm sure she's stupid." They will derive some consolatory triumph in this tired, tired attack, and they will snicker in satisfaction. You will, however, douse this weak offense with that smile -- you are possessed of a college diploma in the field of medicine. You are smart, but you will elect to dispense of your wit when you're throwing punches with the funny boys. You have an evolving sense of humor, and I call it that because you're smart enough to upgrade your comic arsenal.

You can choose to flip your preferably anonymous detractors with your dainty, porcelain fingers, but there isn't a fiber in your educated being that permits such reprehensible behavior.

This, my dear reader, is how to be her, I judge. And these requisite fortunes, from the divinity to the demeanor, are mandatory. Because she is an angel, and angels are perfection. You can, however, miss out on a detail or two, but you will be a cheap, lackluster, copper-plated angel. A two-cent imitation, really. Now, seeing as undergoing an appendectomy thrice is far more possible than to collect all those blessings in another person, not your person, or my person for that matter, we might as well give up. Get to know her, or someone like her, and then be thankful for the acquaintance.

A beautiful friend is an advantage sometimes, and I will explain that later. But don't count on becoming pretty by association. That doesn't work. You will just look ugly. Be inspired, instead.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Better Late Than Delayed: I Reviewed KAOS the Musical for Jessica Zafra

**That One Word! What heavenly music to the gay guy's ear! What promise! What rapture! What validation! Delayed! Oh fuck it.

I reviewed KAOS the Musical for The Mistress of the Universe. And my review was published in her blog dated May 18, 2011. I know, I know, but I judged you read this post's title first. I apologize for the inconvenience!

And this here is haggard evidence.

Fly's not open, and this, minus the jacket, is exactly the same set that I wore when I met with the soft spoken Powkhie.

And this here's the link. Click to read!

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Eh Pano Ka Nga Naman Magmo-Move On Kung Ikaw Ang Binabalikan?

**Oo na, alam ko once a week lang ako magpo-post. Pero kinuwento ko na to habang mainit init pa. Tsaka pala tatagalugin ko muna to ha? Kunyari tropa tayo. Tsaka ang hirap ikuwento nito ng English. Bukod sa ayaw ko mag-isip eh ramdam ko na mas buhay to pag tinagalog ko. Kaya heto. Medio mahaba pala to, mga punks. Ginanahan ako eh.

Heto yung kuwento sa likod ng FB Status na to.

Naalimpungatan ako nung biglang bumukas yung ilaw ng kuwarto. Tangina naman oh. Inisip ko agad na si Hadede to. Insekta kasi yung baklang boksingerang fren ko na yun eh. Love ko yun. Pero ang pangit lang talaga sa baklang yun, maliban sa mukha niya, eh best of pamemeste yun eh. Tapos nung tiningnan ko kung sino yung nagbukas ng ilaw, kung sino talaga yung mumurahin ko eh nakita ko na Siya pala yun. Nakapulang t-shirt na body fit, blue na shorts. Nakangiti.

Nung nakita kong siya yun eh wala akong ibang nasabi kundi "'So." Garalgal pa boses ko nun, yung boses ng kagigising lang. Pero kalmado pa, steady lang kumbaga. Yun ang tawag ko kasi sa kanya. "'So." Bunso kasi siya. Pero nabigla ba ako nung nakita ko siya? Very light, oo, pero hindi ganun ka-gulat para tuluyan nang mawala ang antok ko. Chill pa ako nun.

Ngumiti siya. Tiningnan lang niya kung anong oras na tapos eh pinatay din niya agad yung ilaw. Mga 11:30 na yun ng gabi. Sabi niya kasi "11:30."

Si Joel. Naalala niyo yung kinukuwento ko dati na naging ka-live in ko ng mahigit four years? Tapos naghiwalay kami nitong December lang kasi nga nakatikim ng luto sa patis? Na hindi tinola? Si J? Yun. Siya yun. Joel. Nadale mo, batang bata.

Pagkatapos ng time check at lights out eh humiga na siya sa tabi ko. Iniwan niyang bukas yung pinto. Amoy chico si uten.

Hindi ko na tinanong kung paano siya nakapasok kasi yung mga ganung oras eh gising pa yung housemate ko, ang gorgeous na si Onath. Siya na ang kasama ko sa bahay simula nung December last year. Kaibigan ko to since 2000, at dahil never kaming nag-away eh siya ang housemate ko ngayon. Kilala niya si Joel, saksi siya sa pagliligawan namin (yehess), sa pagli-live in namin, kung paano namin binuo tong apartment na to, at andun siya nung eksenang nag-usap kami nun sa pagitan ng rehas na bakal. Na-detain si Joel dati, matagal na yun, nung 2005, kasi nga may pinakyu na mga tanod. Punks na punks lang. Kaya ayun, nag-usap kami sa pagitan ng rehas na bakal. Ahaha, tanginang yan, burat na burat ako pag naalala ko yang eksenang yan.

Kung hindi lang talaga mahina ang kapit ng akin at nakabuo kami ni Joel eh unang unang ninang tong si bakla.

Anyway, hindi ko na tinanong kung pano naka-akyat tong si Joel. Alam kong pinapasok siya ni bakla.

Dun siya pumuwesto sa kanang side ng kama namin, yung bandang nakadikit sa pader. Unang gabi namin dito sa apartment eh dun talaga ang puwesto niya. Teritoryo ba. Kanya yun. Five years ago yun. Katawang kahoy pa lang to noon, kumot lang ang sapin, tsaka may apat na unan. Dun kasi yung puwesto niya talaga, dati pa, nung wala pang mattress at nakaka-shalang sheets tong kama na to. Sa dulong kanan, yung nakadikit sa pader. Magkatabi kaming nakahiga ulit sa kamang yun, rapport rapport lang, ika nga ng mga frenship kong nasa call center.

"Ano na balita ha, 'So?" Medio nabawasan na antok ko nun. Imagine ha, alas-kuwatro ng madaling araw ang shift ko, maga-alas dose na ng gabi eh gising ako. Di ko na siya love ha, gusto ko lang makibalita. Kina-klaro ko lang. Andian na rin lang eh. Wala na namang masamang tinapay kasi nga okay na kami nung February pa.

"Wala naman, heto lasing. May boyfriend ka na ulet?" Tanong niya. Mabilisang pacing to, abrupt kumbaga.

Sagot naman ako. "Wala." Eh wala talaga eh. Zerong zero, frens.

"Sus, di nga?" Oo, "sus" talaga sinabi niya. Anlakas maka-old school diba?

Sagot ulit ako. "Oo nga, kulet neto. Puro alak lang ako dito, akala mo ba. Eh ikaw, ano balita sa yo? Buntis na ba asawa mo?" Tinatanong ko siya habang hinihimas ko yung kaliwang braso niya. Yehess, anlake ha, hindi totoo yung sinasabi nilang pumayat siya't na-haggard. Aba puta, parang mas malaki nga braso nya ngayon eh. Gayunpaman eh hindi ako naglaway, sorry.

"Hindi. Hindi buntis yun." Amoy chico talaga. Kung hindi Matador ang ininom nito eh Empy Light to. Dun lang naglalaro yun. Hindi Red Horse. Tolerable ang amoy eh. Wala mashadong singaw. "Di muna ko umuwi sa amin. Gusto ko lang dumaan dito."

Daan pala eh.

Sabi ko naman, "Weh, baka naman dumaan ka lang dito kasi inabot ka na ng ulan." Umuulan kasi, medio malakas, rinig ko sa mga bubong ng kapitbalur. Medio may hangin pa, lumilipad yung mga kurtina eh.

Sabi niya, "Kanina pa kaya umuulan yan, umiinom pa lang kami eh umuulan na yan. Edi sana di na ko pumunta rito. Dun pa kaya kami sa Santo Tomas nagi-inom." Medio malayo nga yun dito sa min. Isang tricycle na pamasaheng bente.

Wow effort. Deadma lang.

Edi tanong ulit ako "Sino kainuman mo?"

"Mga pinsan nung asawa ko."

Si Donna yung asawa niya, at may nakarating sa akin dito sa bulwagan ng ABS CBN na pangkaraniwan lang tong bilat na to. May mother of pearls lang. Na luto sa patis. Kinonfeerm yan ng ilang frens ko na nakakita dun sa bilat. At shempre, may follow up sila; maganda ako dun sa asawa ni Joel. That's what frens are for, diba? Kaya sabi ko sa kanya, "Oi, sabi nila maganda ako sa asawa mo. Magandakomagandakomagandako sa asawa mo!" Oo, kailangang i-segue yun.

Hindi siya kumibo. Alam na. One-zero, in favor of the long legged.

Heto matindi. Maniwala ka namang hawak niya kamay ko nun habang nagq-Q&A kami. Ako naman si pa-sweet eh hinayaan ko lang. Medio magaspang ang kamay niya ngayon, tsaka parang bumigat. Tapos maya mayang onti eh naka-tanday na yung hita nya sa akin, parang dati lang. Awwww (yehess, bagets), gantong ganto yung gawa namin dati eh. Leche to, kung kailan naman nasanay na kong walang ganitong eksenang yakap sa dilim eh tsaka re-rebanse ng tanday. Gago to ah. Kaya kahit feel na feel ko eh tumalikod ako sa kanya. Medio inaantok na rin ako eh. Anlamig eh.

Mababa lang boses niya, pero tuloy siya sa kuwento. Tungkol sa trabaho niya (parang may narinig akong granite, tapos layer, kesho suwertehan lang sa racket pero marami raw silang trabaho ngayon), tapos oo lang ako ng oo. Maya maya eh hinawakan ako sa balikat tapos hinihila ako paharap sa kanya. Sabi eh, "Mel, humarap ka naman sa akin." Mahinahon lang. "Naiinis ako sa yo eh!" Sabay kurot sa braso ko. Tas kurot ulit. Tas isa pa, sa bewang naman. Medio na-guilty nga ako kaya nakaharap na ko sa kanya.

Ayun magkaharap na kami ulit. Tuloy ang kuwento niya. Matador nga tong ininom nito. Confeeerm.

Tapos heto ka. Sabi eh, "Alam mo nagtatampo ako sa yo ha!" Isip-isip ko eh "Aba, ako iniwanan mo after ng ilang taon kasi nambabae ka, tapos ikaw pa nagtatampo? Gaaagoooohhh shaaa nohhh?" Syempre isip ko lang yun. Tinanong ko naman sha, "Aba bakit? Ano ginawa ko sa yo?" Nakaharap na ko sa kanya nun. Pero di muna sha sumagot.

Ano muna ginawa niya? Itanong mo, punks. Itanong moo! Heto ka, kinuha niya yung kamay ko, tapos pinatong sa unan niya. Tapos dun niya pinatong yung ulo niya sa kamay ko. Ginawang unan. Tapos pinatong ulit nia ung kanang hita niya sa legs ko. Tanday siya ulit. Sabay sabi eh, "Eh pano, di mo ko mine-message man lang sa Facebook."

Tite. Facebook.

"Ha? Di kita friend dun."

"Oo kaya. Naalala ko pa nga dati, may status ka, tungkol sa lalaki na kausap mo sa telepono ng dalawang tao. Tapos ako, nung naghiwalay nga tayo. English kasi eh, pero yun yun. Ano ba pangalan nun?"


"Tapos yung picture mo pa nga dun eh yung may UST, tapos baluktot yung katawan mo. Nakaitim ka pa nga nun eh. Para kang kuyukot."

"Ha? Eh antagal na nun ah, nung February pa yun." Naalala pa niya.

"Basta yun. Di lang ako mashado naglo login. Alam kasi ng asawa ko password ko eh. Mababasa niya yun. Ikaw ba, madalas kang online diba?"

Sabi ko eh sapat lang. To be fair eh kahit yakap na niya ko nun, tas nakatanday pa yung binti niya sa akin, tapos hinihigaan pa niya yung kamay ko, kahit ganun kami kalapit eh hindi mainit ha! Anlamig eh. At anlaki ng braso nya ngayon ha. Tapos nagkuwento siya.

"Alam mo ba, Mel, nung isang linggo ata yun, lasing ako nun eh. Dumaan ako sa Sagad, tapos may nakita akong isang grupo ng mga nagi-inuman. Karamihan dun mga lalaki eh. Tapos lumapit ako dun, sumilip ako, ganito pa nga pagkakasilip ko eh." Nag demo sya, at least yung mukha lang niya pinagalaw niya. Maangas talaga to minsan. Gets ko na ibig niyang sabihin. Tuloy siya sa kuwento. "Ganun. Hinahanap kasi kita dun, baka andun ka."

Tinanong ko, "Eh pano halimbawa kung andun ako, ano gagawin mo?"

"Edi lalapitan kita, tas sasabihin ko na punta tayo rito." Dito nga sa bahay. Di niya masabing "umuwi."

"Eh pano kung di ako sumama sa yo?" Shempre, required yun eh. Nakaka-petite kaya yun.

"Edi uuwi ako sa min."

Napansin ko eh kumambyo siya. Mabilis. At heto mas mabilis, sumimple sya ng amoy sa kamay niya. Ahaha, ano to? Naninigurado? Kaya sabi ko eh "Oi, di tayo magse-sex. Gago ka."

Yumakap lang siya sa akin ulit, tapos sabi eh "Mel, mamaya gisingin mo ko pag papasok ka na ha? Sabay na tayo umalis. Inaantok na ko eh." Sabi ko sige. Tas kagaya ng dati eh nag-goodnight na ko. "Night, 'So." Ganyan. May kasamang "Labyu" yun dati. Eh shempre dati yun. Iba na ngayon. Hindi na kami eh. Ba't ko siya sasabihan ng labyu? Ano sha, chix???

Sagot naman sha, "Night, Mel." Tas pabulong, "Labyu." Shempre narinig ko yun, pero di ko sinagot. Ayoko eh, walang dating sa kin. Lasing tong kausap ko eh. Kaya nilakasan niyang onti. "Labyuu." Deadma pa rin, pero nangingiti ako. Heto ka, tinodo na ni tarantado. "LAAABYOOO!" Anlakas! Pasigaw na halos! Narinig kaya ni bakla sa ibaba? Bukas yung pinto ng kuwarto eh.

"Night, 'So. Labyu." Yan. Matapos lang. Tas yumakap na siya, tumanday na, gaya ng dati. Ayy, di mo lang alam talaga kung gaaaaaano ko na-miss tong ganito. Yung ganito! Ganitong ganito yun eh. Siyang siya yun eh. Dun ako na-ngiti talaga. Hindi ako naiyak, bakit?, pero pinabayaan ko na lang to. Anong oras na ba? Ay, di baleng puyat, masaya naman. Maya mayang onti eh ramdam ko na yung paghinga niya sa bandang balikat ko. Steady na. Tulog na to.

Sabay na nga kami umalis nung madaling araw, mga bandang 3:30. Di ko na ikukuwento lahat. Ayaw ko basahin kung ano man ang isusulat ko pagdating dun. Kung anu ano yun.

Ayokong mag-isip eh! Wag ganun. Stress yun.

P.S. Once a week na ko ulit after nito. Okay gow.

Sunday, June 05, 2011

Lurk On, Love

Before anything else, allow me to say this, and I say this on a fucken spiritual note -- I really meant what I said on that loser post.

This post.

I've been on several hiatuses over the longevity of this blog, and I meant to take that last spasmic fit seriously. I had designed to commit to it's finality. It will be the Hiatus to rule Hiatuses. It will be The One Hiatus. It will be the Queen of Absences, and it will have it's own parade, coronation, and well-dressed, fashion forward, barely legal power tops. I have elected to this new found principle: my posts, then, will be my online menstruation, once a month, and I will honor that promise with every fiber in my increasingly stagnant being.

It sounded like a plan when, in the course of my blogging abandonment, I logged in to these stats in my page load counter.

Fuck. Somebody's reading me. Someone new, I suppose. But fuck.

Nothing alarms me more than a sensational surge in my page loads. Most especially when I'm not that keen in advertisement. Sure, I announce my posts in my Facebook News Feed. I sometimes shout out a pertinent post in Jessica Zafra's comments. But that's about it. Why, look at my roll. Those darlink punks, no, kindred beings are there because I know they get me. I don't add to ornament, no, I don't decorate. My followers? I don't follow on a whim, and I don't follow just because. I judge that whatever followers I have are there out of their volition and their own free will. It's a democracy, that's what it is, and I'm thankful that I have those guys out there.

Having said that, I will go Brazilian and wax my roll.

Sure, I read myself from time to time, but I rigged my Stat Counter in a way that it doesn't count my own page loads. So you'd understand why such surges in my page loads get to me. What the hell? Are there more of me out there? Because if that's the case, then I have no other choice but to save face and keep writing. I have to amuse myself, I have to keep up with the indoctrination and the miseducation.

I need to keep me reading
if there's more of me out there.

I will write on a once-a-week basis, which is basically an improvement on my once-a-month basis. I will do this to keep me above water; I had several bouts with quitting, which prompted these hiatuses, and I used to not know why I keep coming back. But I understood what maligned my enthusiasm towards blogging.

Unlesss you're a professional writer who's disposed to output, or you have a payroll of writers under your belt, or you're earning from your blogging, or you quit your day job (or your kinky night job, at that) because you want to earn from blogging, I suggest that you observe healthy intervals between your posts. You will burn out, if you don't, and I say that with the certainty of a heart attack.

Comments and regulars are nice, but give yourself a life, too. I know it's entertaining, a steady validation, even, but don't get too attached to this correspondence. Unless, of course, you never had one to begin with, please live the life you had before you signed up for a Blogger Account. Go out. Drink alcohol. Get laid. Get laid again. And again. Give yourself time to masturbate.

I've been blogging since 2004, and I'm still, barely, hardly, scarcely, tolerably at it. I just realized that this is my 359th post, and I don't see a particle of accomplishment in it. But we will drink to my 400th post, and I will be buying. Or hosting, rather. Let me know if you have nothing against participation; write me a comment.


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