Shit Break One of Four

Seeing as I've been pretty much consistent with my Friday updates, more or less, I went ahead and elected to give this week's update the shit break it needs. I'll be back with the word count next Friday, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. Until then, try not to look down. You're pissing on your Doc Martens.   

No Comments

**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. 

Andoy's Unang Putok and Beating Sid Lucero in Marvel

**I was supposed to post this in between my usual Friday updates, maybe on any random Thursday or something. This was supposed to be an Emergency Post. And I was supposed to caption this with something friendly, like I will break my rules for this guy. Didn't happen. But his book did! Yeah, you go give them hell, Andoy! 

Unang Putok will be available in National Bookstore beginning November 12. 

I have known this blogger for several years now, met him twice, and remained a fan all that time. Still am. Enough about me. Andoy's got a book published!

This blogger is awesome. This book may or may not be the be all and end all of his writing career, but it's a good start. He deserves this, and much greater things, and I am rather glad that he is finally getting published. Painom ka ah! (Drinks on you!)

I will not write a review. I haven't purchased a copy yet, but I will get to it as soon as I have gotten over this inexplicable feeling that a blogger has for another blogger. It's indescribable, but it can be measured; it is 20 percent jealousy and 80 percent congratulatory. If you want a review, do a Google search. He has tons of die hard fan boys and fan girls who already posted the honor.

I would assume that this book is something that he, as a blogger, has always wanted to do, and I am happy for him and his accomplishment. On a more personal note, I am sorry, Andoy, that I wasn't able to give you That recommendation. You know what I'm saying, but know that I tried. However, with the look of things, your book will propel itself to a larger, book-buying audience anyway.

Congratulations Andoy! Your book will go places! And it is not because it has longer legs than you, oh hell no, far from it.

Meanwhile, I beat Sid Lucero in Ultimate Marvel vs Capcom 3. Well I'm sorry, my Facebook friends, if I had to rub it in. Again. See, you don't get home from a long day in the kinky office expecting some console gaming with a celebrity. Things like this don't happen everyday. Why, things like this don't just happen at all. And on the off chance they do, then you post it wherever possible just for good measure.

I had to customize this picture. So?

I'm the one with the head band. This was around 8:30 am last Tuesday. And yes, I know, UMVSC3 has been around for around two years now. However, I have never played it before with a celebrity. I have never, up until last Tuesday morning, played UMVSC3 with a celebrity. Having said that, and I say this on a "Shhh, it's okay" tone of voice, fuck you and your insecure fault finding. 

It was my "Best Pick" Team (Chun Li, Haggar and Rocket Raccoon) against Sid's (Zero, Wesker and Vergil). He was playing against my brother Jacob earlier (seen in the picture), and I knew Sid can pull off some combos. I remember he had to customize the controls since he's used to a different button configuration. And I remember the words "Bring it" at the back of my head.

Advanced guards, timed assists and TACs (Team Aerial Combos). Nobody's winning yet, all of our team members are still alive, and we're still figuring out how to off each other's anchor. Mine was Chun Li. His was Zero. Oh, that awesome leg tattoo wrapped half the length of his right leg.  

Game face on. Somebody managed to dodge a hyper and is closing in for some sort of punishment. Who knew who was leading? Notice how Sid worked his controller? He admitted he's not used to the PS controller. He owns a custom joystick. Yes, dude's a verified gamer. Meanwhile, you could stick two controllers in my wide open mouth.

He was down to one character at this point, I think it was Vergil, and he resumed his hyped gamer side. You know how it's like when it's neck to neck on a basketball game? And your team could win if they did it first? And the game has boiled down to the last critical minute? Imagine playing that much energy on a 32-inch screen . I won, by the way. I knew I would, of course. But it was intense because I beat Sid Lucero, haha.

Oh, that person to the right most (pearly white skin and pink blouse) is my friend Onath. I thank him for this twisted opportunity. We are forever grateful for this! And that lunch with the cast and crew is way beyond words. 

Greatly Appreciated! Thundering Thanks!

**"Thank you" is just two words. I wrote you guys a mouthful, instead. 

Image from Halloweenforum.com

I never, ever, ever, ever, no not ever, ever, ever asked no one to "Please Follow Me!" Last time I checked, which was just about now, I never embellished my side bar with an explicit request for you guys to "What the hell are you waiting for?" Yes, there is a button that says "Join this site," but it was never accompanied with a well-written threat. I Thanked you for the follow, that I did, and I have never edited that because I am still very grateful. However, I never asked any of you sweethearts to do so. You did that out of your own volition and your own free will. I never forced, or threatened, or bribed, or held anyone at knife point, gun point, or cock point (imagine that, "tinutukan ng burat," haha). You followed me. You did that on your own. 

And I can never, ever, ever, ever, no not ever, thank you enough. 

I Said This Before

No one in their right mind should volunteer to follow me. I would never follow me. Not even if I took out my dick as a bribe. "Look at that cock, homo. How's that for size, huh? It's pointing at your laptop where it's master opened some bullshit blog. How's about giving it a look see? Or maybe a follow? There you go baby." 

Image from Sodahead

I know I said this before, but your continued patronage still leaves me simultaneously confused and grateful. Like I said, 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. My posts are spaced a week in between. I cuss a lot. I use long sentences. I write about rape and reassigned vaginas and throwing cats in hampers and breastfeeding in cabs and dead people and stupid things that nobody gives a stupid fuck about. My grammar is usually suspect. I have never received a Blog Award. I have recently disabled my comments. But I still have my followers. And they are growing. Shit, man, what can I say? Thank you guys for being weird. 

What Crazy Bus Got You Here?

I was reviewing my followers the other day, and I know I recognize some of you from my early blog-whoring days. I was shining with optimism then. And that was from seven years ago. I was hungry for a link exchange back in the old days, and I honestly believed it was going to be easy. This, ugh, optimism gave birth to this pathetic appetite for self-promotion; I actually took the unbillable time to check on other blogs on a regular basis. I left comments everywhere because I thought they all would spare me the same courtesy. I wanted to be recognized SO BAD that I went so low as to volunteer a Guest Post. It was, come to think of it, a most embarrassing idea because the currency was shameful: a hundred-word post, at least, for a link exchange. Blah, shudder. 

Image from io9

I left comments everywhere, I linked this blog to my email signature, I offered to guest post, and went so far as to gamble with the quality of my blog roll. There was a time that I saturated my blog roll with the occasional boring blog. But it was all in the spirit of honest optimism. I wanted to be recognized! I was hopeful, and cheerful, and blogged with a skip in my step, and had the enthusiasm of a five-year old girl. I was the height of pathetic social climbing back then. I became my own grave embarrassment. I was seriously out of character back then, and it still disgusts me to this day. Why, I would spit on my grave if I was dead seven years ago. 

All I wanted was a link exchange. But some of you guys followed me, instead. It was like hoping for random anal but getting a bukkake facial instead. I am truly honored. Thank you. Of course, I do not mean to offend any of you good people. I am rather kinky by default, and the gang bang comparison is really a compliment. 

This Includes You, Yes You, and That Weird Nerd Next to You

Image from Survivaltribe.

Meanwhile, I am still unfamiliar with several other names in my 71-strong (and proud) list of followers. Again, my optimism has had several death anniversaries; I no longer whore around for a link exchange. I no longer blog hop. I no longer entertain random link exchanges. I no longer comment back. And the only endorsements my updates get are from any of the following sources: 

1. Status updates in my Selfie Media of choice. I'm sorry. I meant to say Social Media.
2. That small handful of bloggers who link me in their smart blog rolls. 
3. My intermittent presence in Ms Jessica Zafra's blog. My alias, Momelia, is linked to this blog, see. 
4. The strong odor of burning sulfur And lotion usually signifies this blog has been updated.
5. Check this blog if you are suddenly getting feverish in the afternoons. And that is coupled by extreme discomfort when you're urinating And there's a distinct pain in your dick. And some discharge. I mean, the pain can't get any more severe, so you might as well, right? And on the off chance that you did pay me a visit if you're having one of those days, then let me share a tip. Branded antibiotics will murder your wallet. Go generic and save yourself a good fifteen pesos a pop. 

What I meant to say is that I don't advertise myself as much as I used to. And having said that, it still suprises me beyond expectation how I am still getting hits and follows from you people. Thank you. And let me be a homo and "thank you for your wonderful" patronage. 

This goes out to you, yes you, and that weird nerd next to you. Thank you. 

This out of sync, however appropriate image is from Leisurecommunities.

I appreciate you all! Muahness from Pasig Cirehhhh!

Lousy Writing

**This was recently submitted for consideration, and I received judgment a week later. I was told it was, in a way, rather primitive. I read it again. Oh hell yes. It sure is a weak motherfucker. This is a lesson in reading yourself back; there is some benefit to be had. Meanwhile, I could write about that thieving bitch, Napoles, but there isn't a word that even comes close to the kind of white hot loathing I have for her.  

Image from gotchacomix.

On Protestations

Here's the thing: 

1. Most of those rallyists are hungry and unemployed. Why, I even dare to suppose that they go to those meetings just for the instant noodles. 
2. There are 900,000 call center agents in the Philippines as of 2010. That's a hundred thousand short of a million. And that was three years ago. 
3. The BPO industry in the Philippines was forecasted to have earned between US$11 to $13 billion. This was in 2010. Notice the dollar sign. 
4. Any random call center agent takes home an average monthly salary of P18,000. 

Here's the Question: Can you, you jobless rallyists you, give us another 18K a month job? At least 18K a month? No? I'm sorry, what? You'll give yourselves that job first? 

Here's the Solution: If you can find the time to hold a protest, then you sure as hell can find the time to look for a job. You have no authority to meddle with our bread and butter. You have nothing but the borrowed courage and second hand opinions of a troublesome mob. That's what you are. A mob. Do you even know what we're doing in the first place? No? I thought so. Leave them alone. Leave us alone. You get yourself a haircut, hand in that bio data (which is blue collar talk for a resume), and pay your taxes like the rest of us useful call center agents do. 

Dirty third world jobless freeloaders.  

Momel's Take: The Unwritten Rules of Blogging

**Or some reminders I often say to myself when I have all that time and no friends to talk to.

**Obviously, this is a repost. Cannibalized, if you may, and I'm saying that because I'm not having none of that cybercrime bullshit biting my rabbit-shit tits. I'll write something else soon. Muahness from Pasig Cirehhh! Werd.

1. Be polite. Remember the bit about not shitting in anyone else's backyard. Don't link a site that loads malicious software.

2. Bloggers love the attention, and they'll love you more for the comments. That means you actually took the time to speed read and digest what they're bitching about. Sure, it won't hurt to spare the details, but a generic comment is just self promotion plus the effort to verify the word string.

3. Yes, bloggers are people too. See rule #2.

4. "Just dropping by." As much as possible, if you're neither in his or her blogroll or an offline friend, avoid typing those three words in the tag board. Bloggers love the promotion, but that doesn't compare to the love of gratification for being read.

5. Blogrolls aren't there for show. There's a good reason why you're keeping this list of certain bloggers. Drop by if you have the time. But remember rule #4.

6. You don't have to exchange links if you don't want to. You will be clicking on those links every so often, so you better make sure that you're returning to a worthwhile read.

7. You don't have to comment back if you don't want to. But remember rules #1, #2, and #5. And the Golden Rule. And the Bible. And the Philippine Constitution. And all those GMRC subjects in grade school. Okay, scratch the Bible, but remember everything else.

8. Always introduce yourself.

9. There's never a boring blogger if you take the time to return. But then, remember that even online, first impressions still apply.

10. Blog about anything. It's not somebody else's space. It's not MY space. It's your space. That My Space bit was me trying to be funny. Take a picture. Grab a copy. But remember kids, it's still YOUR space.

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.

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.

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.

Cynics From the Woodwork

I breezed through the writings of this blogger, and he writes fantastic. He will be me, if I were straight and were I using my dick for it's rightful, God-given office, and for all the right reasons, I should be challenged by his posts and his topics. Why, I could assume, in secret, of course, that we are riding on the same wave length, and I should be happy because, at last, there's another eloquent cynic with the shiniest grammar. I should be inspired to write again, or at least post with the same next-to-nothing frequency that has always been my habit, but no.

I promised myself a break, not like I need it, and I'm real handy at promises. But I suppose I can, at least, get myself warmed up. This post will be a stretching exercise. Somebody pass me the lube.

Of course, I am still doing long hand, writing, that is, and I have several notebooks scattered in several rooms in case of emergency inspiration. I still need to write, and I use "need" because it is the only word to use. It's like your need to masturbate, or your need to post those pedestrian Facebook statuses, or your need to keep hiding in your closet. Need. I need to write, and I can't abandon that, I can't deny myself of that one outlet; I have no employment for another appendectomy.

Meanwhile, cheers to you. Spread the offensive. Educate. Indoctrinate. Keep doing whatever it is you're good at. Humor your passion with the words that you think are appropriate. Give everybody else the finger. Don't give a fuck. It works better your way.

The Meet Up With the English Bloggers

**I am still on hiatus. I am taking a break from the break, though, because I feel the need to report. I am suddenly possessed of this itch to document, and a Facebook Status alone doesn't motherfucking cut it. It is lacking, and it is pedestrian, and it will not address my being anal... retentive. Which is why I'm taking a break from the break, but I propose to get back to breaking some more as soon as I get this out. I will seriously take my time, then.

I met with three of the most fiercely loyal English bloggers on my roll last Sunday, and it was a real trip. Of course, by "fiercely loyal," I'm referring to their preferred medium of writing, and it was for no other reason. Anyway, we've been planning this meet up for a few weeks now, and I was itching for another get together since that last one with the always funny Pokwang. I need to make amends; I was under this deathly comatose during the Pokwang meet, and I need to be in character this time around. The democracy that is the four of us elected to get shitfaced at my place. We will be drinking, there will be singing, and there will be blood. I had the homecourt advantage. Verily, we chose well.

We met at the smoking area of Figaro, Robinson's Galleria. I was there with my 75 peso cup of hot chocolate (insane), an ashtray, a lit cigarette, and a shitload of punk about my person. Aris (of Psychic Edema) and Red (of Red is the New Black) were the first to arrive, and they had poultry with them. Aris was all sweet smiles, and Red was his usual highfalutin self. They reflected their blogs well; Aris was laid back, and Red was wordy to a charming degree. Of course I had my impressions of these people prior to meeting them; I imagined their conduct with the way they wrote their varying intensities. I guessed right.


Pat (of Pat Sessions) was several minutes late because he had to meet his partner. Charming. We left shortly after the handshakes and the niceties, and we were on this cab to 32-0 Lopez Jaena St, Son-of-a-Bitchville, Pasig Citehhh! We were on this socializing mission to get ourselves smelling like alcohol, at least I was, and we socialized some more on the trip home. We were there in ten minutes.

We have the booze, the videoke's plugged in, and I am mostly at ease with these three punks. This afternoon is going to kick ass.


We talked about writing, what made us write, annoying bloggers, music, our personal divas, blogger romances, more blogger romances, the suspect orientation of some bloggers, and, of course, books. I beamed with pride as they inspected and fondled and manhandled my ... book shelf. Never mind that it gave clues towards my methods. I wanted to impress this select few with everything in my nerd arsenal. And besides, that made for zero dull moments. I know it sounds queer, but the idea of having books for ice breakers does happen, and I'm thankful for that providence.

I gave them very specific instructions to leave the English in the smoking area, please, because I will be having none of that offline. Red, that darling punk, had trouble with that house rule, though. I heard the word "Isoteric" (the hell?) several times during the course of our conversation, but I wasn't one to complain or flip the finger at that point. I had the drinker's smile about me, and I really, really liked this kind of talk. This discussion was most unprecedented; my usual friends talked in the funniest homo whereas these amazing people took depth to such fascinating heights.


Lio Loco mentioned wave length when he talked about a blogger's meet up, and I imagined I got it the first time. Now I meet these guys, and I am in complete agreement. These meet ups fucking rock.

That afternoon provided plenty of revelations that I could never have guessed online even if I was bribed. I've been reading their blogs with the same regular discipline that I observe towards my bowel movement. I sometimes leave comments, too, if only to be a jerk about it, but I read them. And I've been reading them for a few months now, years even, long enough to identify them with their construction, or phrasing, or choice of words. Pat has that genuinely Holden Caulfield feel to his paragraphs. I know it's him, or J.D Salinger doing automatic writing. Aris has this distinct emo feel about his entries, and it is written with such fluidity that is his saving grace. And Red? Red is verbose with a vengeance! He has too much highfalutin about his construction that he can import the excess and make enough profit to buy a third world country or something. He's a darling. But that afternoon brought these people closer to life. These three people, these thinkers, these headstrong writers were all the more illuminated after a few hours of drinking. Pat did Mariah's We Belong Together, Aris sang Britney's Baby One More Time, and Red channeled Jacob Lusk.

Suddenly, it was Diva Night, and I loved every performance.


My one regret was that we should have met earlier, like three years earlier, for all the right and proper reasons. They were a darling pack.

That five hour event was over in a few minutes. Aris and Red had to leave because it was late, and Cavite isn't five minutes away. I asked Pat to stay, please, because I can't figure that last pitcher of beer out. I was well on my way to making a chunky-style scene if I took on this pitcher full on my lonesome. That gentleman complied, thank you very much, and we tamed that pitcher with a lot of drunken talk.

I just have to say one more thing. That Pat drank like a fish with a God-given iron liver. We went through a case of Red Horse Litro, and he still looked as sober as the day he was born. Man, can he hold his drink! Truth is, I am now crushing on him if only for that reason alone. Next to really good pool players and bad ass, tattooed punks, I'm quite the sucker for champion-material drinking heavyweights. There.



Cue Segue: New Goal!
**We interrupt this program with the very first installation of Momel's Unbelievably Self-Indulgent Pity Party Extravaganza! Regular programming will resume shortly. Or whenever, whatever the case may be. For the time being, treat yourselves to an amazing double feature, a second post in one blog entry! Hell yeah for back to back bullshit and the backwards-thinking bayot with the dumb-ass, brain-dead, pedestrian gimmicks!

**Now you might be wondering to yourselves, but are just too polite to ask: What the fuck makes a back to back post different if it's just the same dumb shit anyway? Well, I should admit that I understand where you're coming from, and I really can't argue with that. I totally get you. But this back to back post has liquid calcium formula, it has most of the nutrients from the food pyramid, and it gives you evening hair all day! What's not to love, bitch?


I was real glad I have met with those three people last Sunday. That meet up was, forgive the weak-ass word, most enlightening. Now I know what I'm looking for, who I'm looking for, rather, and it is a guy, a VERY single guy, with a Class-S drinking mettle. Underscore very. I may not seem like it, but I am big on courtesy. A blogger would be nice, too. I've caught wind of several blogger love affairs, and they were success stories on the wholesome. A piece of that fruitcake should be engaging, at the very least. The three month rule has been checked, thank you very much, and I could use some loving now because I've been very productive with the following kind of rot:

1. It's nothing more than a growing, distant fondness, that's what it is, and there's no reason for me to begin production on this musical in my head. I can't do to others what J did to me. That will be the motherfucking death of me; I am already partly dead to begin with. 4/18/2011

Drama.

2. I think I'm coming to terms with this very foreign concept of singlehood. Now that I think about it, and now that I care, and if I remembered real hard, I suppose I can try to go back and re-learn how I lived before I met him.

How was I again five years back?

I have nothing against you, not anymore, but you left me with a curious review. And now that I am single again, I have developed this "not anymore" kind of thinking when it comes to, blah, relationships. What about relationships? Not anymore. I should think that it is borderline pessimistic, and I was never one to begin with because pessimists die first, and, despite the smoking habit, I am reserved to living long, because I am loving this single life I have, so let me rephrase that. I am not pessimistic. I am enlightened. That's what I am.

And besides, kung di rin lang ikaw, ay di bale na lang. That bossa bitch has got it right all along.

3/29/2011

Dramaaaa.

3. Ahaha! Aside from that lopsided hair, I can't even remember your face now. 3/25/2011

More Drama.

4. It is a true or false situation in a multiple choice format. Does he or doesn't he? But what everybody fails to see is that option C says None of the Above. Option D, on the other hand, says You Are So Fucked, but we prefer to ignore that anyway.

Would you like some salt with that drama?

5. Contrary to what people say, I have, indeed, moved on. It's just that I have standards now, and if the next guy, if there will be a next guy, at that, if the next guy can not measure to what I have, had for J, then I will call it quits that early. I have moved on.

The break up gave me a measuring stick. 3/16/2011

These were dated March and April because I can't post my February bitch fits. Sure, they were kinky in their loneliness, but they will give you ideas. Despite the output, I was still dead in January.

I have several of these runny, watery, chunky-style bursts of turd in my little pocket notebook. And at the same time, I have a Notepad file named NOTES in my desktop icons which wipes the same shit-for-brains that I have been developing. I get these mental spasms at frequent intervals, within these past few months. I get eewy if I don't write it away.

Shit, look at the word count on this here post! I've my Hiatus Cap back on. I'll see you. I should be coming back as soon as I found me my own, very single champion alcoholic. For the time being, I have The Cranberries' Can't Be With You on repeat. Oh, and it Is Holy Week. I should probably get nailed or something.

I Don't Have Time to Masturbate Anymore

Which is why I'm declaring a cease fire, am adjourning this court, and going on the h-word. Hiatus, punks. I suppose that goes well without saying anyway; my last post was about 14 days ago. And it's a list, too, that I didn't write. My only participation in that post was the transcription, and that's saying a whole hell.

It's not that I ran out of ideas. I have the Big Dick Jokes to update, several gay posts in my reserved list, and did you know that we interviewed the local Azkals for Jessica Zafra? I'm still writing, long hand, but it's that PUBLISH button that I'm not coming to terms with. I don't know, perhaps it's a phase, like premature menopause, that I'm dealing with.

Maybe I'll start posting again when I've got less than 20/20 vision, am 20 pounds lighter, and have this low sperm count.

Homework

**You know what they say about pictures and thousands of words, and you know how cliches arouse me, so I will allow these screen shots to tell you the story. And I was thinking of an enumeration of sorts, but I suppose you guys can refer to the timestamps instead. Forgive the images and their proportions that need a little more industry. For the nth time in my life, I was lazy.


I read the email a day later, and I missed the chance to have lunch with The Mistress of the Universe and Danton Remote. Imagine that.



There you go. I really don't do WAHHH, and I only make exceptions when I'm severely livid or if some guy finally finds my G-spot, which was just recently, so here.



Now, I have foamed in the mouth before over this wonderful book, Ribblestrop, so here's a link if you're interested.

It's Harry Potter on Crack, and The Perfect Mark Twain Quote Us Bloggers Can Use

Seriously, what gay nerd can say no to a free book?



This is it.



Now you know where to address those bomb threats, poisoned letters, or venus fly traps.



I can name one or two other things that are as exciting as this book, but I will not name it now because my mother is reading my blog from time to time. And she also sent me this email too, a comment on my blog in general, and I suppose I can post that when I'm running out of things to cannibalize.



Easy does it? Aw hell now. Pressured and Long Legged. That's what does it.



Yes, I can do three weeks.




Wish me luck, you darling punks.

Write a Sonnet for LitWit 4.6!

It can be argued that poetry, or any of them measured forms of expressions for that matter, is far more refined compared with the bullshit-susceptible essays that I favor. I don't do refined, and by the same token, I don't do poetry. I. Just. Don't. I suppose its the same default indifference that explains my aversion to clitorises. I can't do poems even if you bribed me, but I suppose I can hazard at attempt at gunpoint. And here's how it would look like


Zephyr, in the sky at night
You leave my mouth agape
With your carefree flight
And I wonder
Is this runny, salty warmth
That I taste on my lips
And on my tongue
Your droppings?

Even then, I feel so helpless, I had to refer to Madonna.


Personally, lyric measurement is a set of boobs and a pussy; it repels me and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. That bad taste in my mouth shit was figurative, of course. Sonnets, haikus, iambic hexameters, rhyming octaves... ah shit, just pass me that shotglass, light my cigarette and I'll be well on my happy way. No please, I'll pass on the rohypnol, thank you.

My free-flowing dipshit principles are claustrophobic; the restrictions of those ridiculous measurements will suffocate my ideas. I suppose I could write a poem, by and by, but my thoughts, and my enthusiasm, will then be deader than disco.

And besides, the only measurement that I do is with a 12-inch plastic ruler.

It goes without saying that I will not be joining this challenge. Meanwhile, there's this fistful of talents in that golden blogroll who are better equipped to grab this episode by the horns. I totally suck at poems; I can't even do bird shit right.

That being said, here's LitWit 4.6.



What's a sonnet, you ask?

A Sonnet is
1. A verse form consisting of 14 lines with a fixed rhyme scheme.
2. A formally structured poem with 14 lines.
3. A lyric poem of fixed form: fourteen lines rhymed and organised according to several intricate schemes.
4. I'm sure glad I do essays and lists.
5. Amen to # 4.

Sooo... any ideas yet? Again, ladies and gentlemen, darling punks one and all, here are your instructions:

Here are the instructions on registering:
1. Go to www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com
2. Click on the title of the latest LitWit Challenge. It's 4.6: Write Us a Sonnet this time around.
3. Click on the LOGGED IN link. It is directly below the Leave a Reply line.
4. You will then be prompted to login with a Wordpress username and password. Nope, don't cry yet. There is a link that says Register. This is directly below the check box for Remember Me.
5. Follow the bouncing ball. It's tiring to enumerate the following instructions on account of they are mostly self-explanatory. And besides, hindi ka chicks. Malaki ka na.

Are You Ready for LitWit 4.5?

Those LitWit Challenges are writing contests in Jessica Zafra's blog. Ms Zafra will ask her readers to write the story behind a certain picture, something that doesn't use adjectives, tell the story behind this song, notes to your ex, a story consisting of dialogue, the story of your life, etcetera. Winners get books, or cocktails, or a meet and greet over cocktails with free books. Entries are comments with a strict word count and are still subject to amendments, however she sees fit.



You should read the kind of entries those darling nerds throw in. The competition is just intense, to say the least, and what makes it better is that Ms Zafra takes the time to critique each entry. It's not just a contest, though. It's also free writing lessons.You, my punk reader, should submit something if writing gets you hard.

I suppose I just plagiarized myself; the preceding paragraphs were taken from my Winning the LitWit Challenges Page, but I authored everything in this dump anyway. I reckon there's nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I once asked Ms Jessica Zafra if I can endorse her LitWit Challenges in this here blahg of bull, and she said yes. You can read about that meet up here, but for now, I have some unsolicited promotion to do. And this explains why I've been posting my failed LitWit submissions recently.



Meanwhile, I have prepared this other post that was designed to masturbate your egos. Yes, I'm referring to you, my darling punk, in my blogroll. You ain't there for show. I have prepared this post that enumerates the writing strengths of that exceptional population in my blog roll. Well, most of them anyway, but since my blog roll has been flourishing with such wonderful additions, I have proposed to postpone its publication because the research is a fucken drag.

Watch out for it though. Anyway, on to the challenge.




Any ideas yet? Yes, she accepts entries in Tagalog, but you will need to register for a username. Which you can accomplish in two minutes tops. Again, my darling punks, the deadline's on 11:59 PM Monday, January 24, 2011. I can't even begin to describe that feeling of inspection and comparison when you have that entry submitted alongside other brilliant write ups. That funny Glentot knows the feeling. He has submitted twice.

Again, my darling punk, if writing gives you a raging hard on, or makes you wet, it's a gender specific metaphor, then try to submit to the LitWit challenges. Good luck!

Here are the instructions on registering:
1. Go to www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com
2. Click on the title of the latest LitWit Challenge. It's 4.5: Bed of Nails this time around.
3. Click on the LOGGED IN link. It is directly below the Leave a Reply line.
4. You will then be prompted to login with a Wordpress username and password. Nope, don't cry yet. There is a link that says Register. This is directly below the check box for Remember Me.
5. Follow the bouncing ball. It's tiring to enumerate the following instructions on account of they are mostly self-explanatory. And besides, hindi ka chicks. Malaki ka na.