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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.