Antisocial Social Media (Part One)

**This is an introduction. 

All it takes for one night of alcoholic social lubrication to turn exceedingly dull is when everybody has an internet connection and a smartphone. And everybody, by way of popular decision, communicates with a Qwerty keyboard and a series of downward swipes as opposed to talk that uses the mouth. 

We were having an okay time with the local brandy when they ran out of relevant things to say. And then all discussion ceased halfway through that delicious liter. It was one in the morning, and the person to my left, She, her eyes, I noticed, tired of movement and focused on the clock instead. It is now 1:05 am.The person to my right, He, I noticed, shifted himself to her general direction and picked up his smart phone. There was nothing discrete with how he gestured his phone to her. So she picked up her phone and started typing. It is now 1:07 am.

The person to His left logged in to Facebook after taking a swig of brandy a couple of minutes ago. That was the last we heard from him, save for the occasional Dubsmash videos and half-drunk murmurs about unfriending. 

The person to Facebook's left asked Her for the WiFi password. His pockmarked face was both comical and greasy, I noticed, when he smiled his request. She gave him my password, which is okay, since I can always change that anytime I felt like "You get your own God Damned internet subscription, Greasy." I noticed that Greasy's smile widened as his fingers began swiping downwards on his phone. We never heard from him from that point on. This was far from regretful since Greasy wasn't much of a talker anyway. His one contribution to our social gathering was to occupy space and have mass, for sure.  

There was a faint vibration to my right before He picked up His phone. We lost Him completely when He started typing on His phone. She was just as prompt with Her reply, and He was the only one smiling now. Something may or may not be mutual between these two, I noticed. Meanwhile, our half-empty bottle of brandy is mutually ignored at 1:24 am.  

I have half a mind to pick up a book instead. The other half is considering throwing the internet router in a pail of water. The shot glass was pitiful in its unemployment, and nobody else noticed.  

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.  

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.