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.

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.

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.

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.