You Wish You Can Read Something Like This in Your Grave

**It was very idle browsing that landed me to this amazing obituary. I was floored by how Mary Mullaney, Pink to her beloved, left such indelible tender thoughts in her loved ones. It's things like this that make the internet, and life, a worthwhile distraction. And I can only hope that someday in the very far off future, somebody will make me an obituary that's half as luminous as this. 

**Happy Holidays to you and the weird nerd next to you. Live next year well, alright? Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh!

Image and Obituary were borrowed from The Huffington Post.

If you're about to throw away an old pair of pantyhose, stop. Consider: Mary Agnes Mullaney (you probably knew her as "Pink") who entered eternal life on Sunday, September 1, 2013. Her spirit is carried on by her six children, 17 grandchildren, three surviving siblings in New "Joisey", and an extended family of relations and friends from every walk of life. We were blessed to learn many valuable lessons from Pink during her 85 years, among them: Never throw away old pantyhose. Use the old ones to tie gutters, child-proof cabinets, tie toilet flappers, or hang Christmas ornaments.

Also: If a possum takes up residence in your shed, grab a barbecue brush to coax him out. If he doesn't leave, brush him for twenty minutes and let him stay.

Let a dog (or two or three) share your bed. Say the rosary while you walk them.

Go to church with a chicken sandwich in your purse. Cry at the consecration, every time. Give the chicken sandwich to your homeless friend after mass.

Go to a nursing home and kiss everyone. When you learn someone's name, share their patron saint's story, and their feast day, so they can celebrate. Invite new friends to Thanksgiving dinner. If they are from another country and you have trouble understanding them, learn to "listen with an accent."

Never say mean things about anybody; they are "poor souls to pray for."

Put picky-eating children in the box at the bottom of the laundry chute, tell them they are hungry lions in a cage, and feed them veggies through the slats.

Correspond with the imprisoned and have lunch with the cognitively challenged.

Do the Jumble every morning.

Keep the car keys under the front seat so they don't get lost.

Make the car dance by lightly tapping the brakes to the beat of songs on the radio.

Offer rides to people carrying a big load or caught in the rain or summer heat. Believe the hitchhiker you pick up who says he is a landscaper and his name is "Peat Moss."

Help anyone struggling to get their kids into a car or shopping cart or across a parking lot.

Give to every charity that asks. Choose to believe the best about what they do with your money, no matter what your children say they discovered online.

Allow the homeless to keep warm in your car while you are at Mass.

Take magazines you've already read to your doctors' office for others to enjoy. Do not tear off the mailing label, "Because if someone wants to contact me, that would be nice."

In her lifetime, Pink made contact time after time. Those who've taken her lessons to heart will continue to ensure that a cold drink will be left for the overheated garbage collector and mail carrier, every baby will be kissed, every nursing home resident will be visited, the hungry will have a sandwich, the guest will have a warm bed and soft nightlight, and the encroaching possum will know the soothing sensation of a barbecue brush upon its back.

Above all, Pink wrote -- to everyone, about everything. You may read this and recall a letter from her that touched your heart, tickled your funny bone, or maybe made you say "huh?"

She is survived by her children and grandchildren whose photos she would share with prospective friends in the checkout line: Tim (wife Janice, children Timmy, Joey, T.J., Miki and Danny); Kevin (wife Kathy, children Kacey, Ryan, Jordan and Kevin); Jerry (wife Gita, children Nisha and Cathan); MaryAnne; Peter (wife Maria Jose, children Rodrigo and Paulo); and Meg (husband David Vartanian, children Peter, Lily, Jerry and Blase); siblings Anne, Helen, and Robert; and many in-laws, nieces, nephews, friends and family too numerous to list but not forgotten.

Pink is reunited with her husband and favorite dance and political debate partner, Dr. Gerald L. Mullaney, and is predeceased by six siblings.

Prince was the Jerk Cat Who Died On Me.

We met in 2008. He died yesterday, December 12, 2013, at around 9:20 pm. 

  

We pissed on that laundry basket of heartbreaks those five years sent our way, didn't we? That's what jerks like us do. And we did it together. And we had awful fun, just the two of us, irritating each other to death. I will miss you, Prince, and I will miss you more than the little immature boys I played around with.  I can't remember when you weren't there, haha. You were always there, cat, always. You never made me feel alone. 

I love you Prince... Priiiinnceee!... That's how I call for you every day as soon as I get home from work. That wasn't necessary, however, because you're already running down the stairs to meow me your cat variations of "Good Morning." Always. This stopped five days ago when your complications kicked in. You never failed to meow me back. And you were eating less and less. Something was wrong, and it went wrong, and things went from bad to worse, and it got so deadly bad. 

I'm sorry I wasn't as prompt as I needed to be, Baby... Baabyyyyy! ... That's how I call for you whenever I felt like shit. That wasn't necessary, however, because you were always on your way to meow me your cat variations of "You look like you can use a hug. Here." 

I was hugging your remains for twenty more minutes before I tucked you in that shoe box. I'm sorry if I got you wet, but I made sure you were comfortable. I wrapped you in one of my favorite shirts. 

There were times when I had to dry my ugly crying face before writing shit away. And, until now, I never cried while writing. Are you happy now? We were supposed to be crazy together. Now I'm just crazy alone.  

I'll try to write you something real nice as soon as I stop crying like a little girl. Because I am crying like a little girl who lost her fiercely loyal cat. I love you, Prince, and thank you for loving me back. 

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**And now, ladies and gentlemen, presented for your reading displeasure -- self-indulgent flagellation. I know, I know, but it's that time of year when my menstrual discharge is dissolving me from the inside. 

I will always be my greatest and my most foul mouthing critic. I back read my posts, and there are times when I would tell me, "Putangama tong baklang to, puro kalechehang nonsense, mura lang ng mura tong hindot na to may maisulat lang." I would say that in my head, where it is safest because it is retractable. I say it aloud when I am on my own; delivery gives it conviction, and conviction gives it sex appeal. That is very uncommon these days, being alone, because I am always with a beloved somebody. But that doesn't change my severe masochism.

Daming alam, gago.

I make other critics unnecessary because I am doing a splendid job at it. I know myself better, and that knowledge equips me with the best curse words to use. So fuck you if you think I suck at what I'm doing. I am well aware of it, thank you very much, even before I get started. Save your strength, critic, and use the time to control your gag reflex instead. 

I can tell you that this is why I disabled my comments. And I can tell you up front, and with a straight face, that I am not gay. I shut down my comments not because I shudder at the next anonymous troll's wrongly spelled bash-fest with the heart breaking grammar. I know how it's like to be a basher. I used to insult with such vigor that I did take the time to check and see if my victims would bash me back. And I would return the honor with another eager stab at the eye. 

Anyway, your opinion on my writing does not qualify. If it did, you have to be a very notorious writer with several books behind her, a Palanca award, some international renown, a dedicated army of readers, and connections that will make any social climber mad with envy. Your qualifications will keep you so busy that you will not find the time to comment on anything posted in this blog. You are not her. Therefore, your opinion on my writing does not qualify. 

And you are not me. Remember what I said in the first few paragraphs? Your criticism is unnecessary. Find the time to masturbate instead. 


Somebody said that it is rather infantilizing to be praised a lot. Amen, you. I get some of that from time to time, and I don't mind the acknowledgment. However, I already have a Facebook account that I repair to if I wanted my ego stroked. "Awesome, well-written post!" "I love the way you write!" "You are a genius!" Thanks, love, but my Facebook friends are already raving over what I ate for breakfast. I don't need this many compliments; I'd rather get fucked in the ass. 

I kind of miss the interactions between myself and the two or three people that leave comments. However, they are now my friends in Facebook. They are already going berserk over what I ate for lunch. Our relationships have reached this level wherein I understand and I empathize with their Daily Horoscope for Virgo. We get to become assholes in real time, and they don't do selfies. This works better. I can live with that. 


I think it's this level of maturity, haha, that comes with age. Thirty three is very defining. It's the oldest I've been, and I am rather fond of it. The things I know now armor me from the kind of choices, ugh, I commit to in my twenties. All thirteen years of it. The friends I have now bullet proof me from the useless jerks that I will meet in the future. The cuss words I know and use now are far more refined and eloquent. The critic I've become paralyzes me from pushing that Publish button. What else can I ask for out loud?  

I can write a very defining list that explains my disabled comments. It will be a numbered list, it will be brief, and it will spare you from the verbal diarrhea. But I'd rather not. That list will not be retractable. I will need to open up my comments sometime in the future, and I don't want to hear any of it. 

Emergency Post: So Angry

**I am bleeding mad. And I can use the writing practice. 

I am seething livid in my own hatred. My chest feels so severe, heavy and heated; there's a criminal piece of brimstone that's pumping my blood. And it's circulating that scalding anger all over, and I can feel it's white hot intensity burning, escalating as it reaches my extremities. This is not spontaneous combustion. I am willfully precipitating my own implosion. Die faggot. There is nothing spontaneous with being a volunteer.

I hate you so much. I hate you with the kind of loathing that is especially reserved for repeat offenders of scandalous felonies. I hate you and the words you use. I hate your excuses. You don't know what you are saying. I hate you so much. Again, I hate you. 

I can't feel my toes. What the hell is happening to me? 

Ah, my feet are beginning to melt. Fuck it. And fuck you too, most especially you because you think this is corny. I am standing on my knees now, my legs are a stinking puddle, and I'm writing this with one hand because I need to keep ... oww fuckk.

I feel... bitter now... Even more so because I... I... God damn it I... I choked this piece with adjectivesssshhhhittt...