**I solemnly swear this is not a sponsored post. Presented for your ultimate spanking sensation - metaphors.
**And I was supposed to do the Breastfeeding in Cabs Story right about here, but I gather I like this post more. Enjoy! What is the origin of "shit-eating grin"? "a big shit-eating grin"? (My personal favorite, hands down) What is the oldest phrase in English still in current use? (It's as old as 3200 years. Yes, bitch, Old Testament.) What is the origin of "go to hell in a handbasket"? "going to hell in a handbasket"? (Powerful phrase!) What is the origin of "To Paint the Town Red"? (That Sheena Easton song comes to mind.) What is the origin of "Bad Hair Day"? (First heard in 1991. In the fowking UK. No offense, mates, I'm on a fowking roll, is all. Cheers!) Because I'm not just sexy and long-legged, I'm also edu-tainment-ional. Ahaha, to hell with that made-up shit. So here's this site you can peruse if metaphors turn you on in a kinky kind of perversely orgasmic way. In case you needed a refresher, a metaphor is to writing as color is to painting (I got that line modified by Jessica Zafra's cat, Saffy), and if we are to maintain this blogging fancy and theirs (throw in the cat), then we need all the help we can get. Metaphors are to writing as colors are to painting. To put it in another way, a lifeless style does to writing what Filipino police do in hostage taking situations. Get it? 
If you want subscribers, then you have no business being dull. Unless of course you find it in your very marrow to rebut any modification that attacks your boring person. Please, be interesting and do figures of speech. Keep your shit tight. You can't be dull and duller at the same time. That would be overkill, and nobody likes that; I'd far rather be flogged with the family cat until I can no longer stand than read you in your tedious entirety. You are publishing your "random thoughts" online; don't tell me you're not asking for an audience. I can see you enabled comments, so stop pulling my long-legged legs. Motherfucker, it's always "random," and it's always "thoughts," but it's still the same uninteresting mess anyway. One word comes to mind, though: thesaurus.com. Maybe you can go ahead and bookmark this site(and bookmark me too, while you're at it), learn from it (like shit you will, but please try), and maybe impress the rest of us frustrated writers with your suddenly wonderful command of figurative language.
**It's some weird kinky shit, I tell you. Doesn't get no better/freaky/gross than this. 
My August posts have been too saturated with, well, with W. Understand that I like talking about him because I tend to go overdrive when I'm discussing the foolish fancy that was him. What I'm saying is that he gives me material, and that's a good thing, and simultaneously, it's a bitch because he never gave me anything happy to talk about. There, I said it. So, on the off chance that you, W, are reading this, I might as well tell you now, in case the general disposition of my prior W posts evaded your detection: you never gave me anything happy to talk about. Hijo de puta, that's a bitch really, that's not me, and I should stop being such a wet vagina because we all know full well that sad stories are better said with a shot glass. See, I've had enough drama for a lifetime. I've too much motherfucking pointless baggage that just made me look all the more like I'm 30, which I just recently am, August 2010 if you should know, but that's not the point. I will be moving on now, thank you very much, because I can, and I just did, and I'm far too glad that I did because I'm no longer dwelling, and I want to start looking like I'm still in my twenties or something. And so on that note, I got me that eye roll-on from Garnier, to make my eyes all the more brighter, younger so to speak, and it was such a breath of heaven to my tired eyes. Unlike most other things which I've been needlessly passionate and hissy about. I say, fuck that shit and "roll lang ng roll lang ng roll!" Son of a bitch. And this is not a sponsored post anyway, stopped doing those years back, so there. You see, I'm rambling now. So let me talk about Breastfeeding in Cabs instead. And I'll be talking about that in my next post; hijo de puta, look at the word count on this introduction! Again, Breastfeeding in Cabs. Next post. For the time being, find time to masturbate. That'll fix you, sure. Horny bastard.
**It's not exactly a battle, far from it, but there is a bittersweet triumph. And he's not really a demon. He's almost divine in his all-white uniform. And it's not really a speech defect, mind you. I just said that minute half-truth quarter-truth simply for effect.
This was preceded by The Speech, a most hurtful experience that I posted and concealed somewhere in this here blog. The pen that coined that post was far too boss than the sword, and it had my dying heart and its weakening throbbing beats impaled all the way into the hilt. Fucking-A! I was man enough to hear it twice from him today. Thrice even, if you add in the first time he said it back in 2006. Or was it 2007? I planned this all along, really. I needed to let go, and I called to hear him say the words that I needed to hear from him. It was hard enough the first time, and it was too brave of me to actually plan the hurting this time around. And the part where I asked him pretty please to say it again, for the third and final time, that's just plain masochism. And that was exactly the kind of healing hurt that I need to move on. For release. My heart is suddenly tethered to some familiar magnificent weight. This I will bear and live with until I'm finally strong enough to lift those six years away. I know this is ideal, and will be the most productive I've been this year. These past six years, when you think about it. And I will endure because that is the only penance I can do until I've shaved all those memories away. Wish me luck, goddamned it. 
This has been one of the bravest things I've done in my lifetime, calling W and asking him to say the words I needed for release. Come to think of it, I can just sit back and let things roll, seeing as I am already aware of the harmless stagnation behind all this correspondence, but no. I wanted him to say it. I planned and scripted and called to hear him say it. "This will not prosper beyond friendship," that's what he said, and that was, for all the right reasons, exactly what I wanted, NO, needed to hear. He was one of the better memories of my twenties, however unfounded and grounded on playful imaginings, but I needed to move on. I have to move on; I just turned thirty, and I gather I needed to dust off the childish lack of judgment that I maintained for the better part of my twenties. Which I did. At the same time, for a cruel self-inflicted follow through, I asked him to stop indulging me and my whims and my daydreams. He complied with a casual "okay," in that surprising tone that was just proper for remembrance. He said it in the way one makes when acknowledging the weather. And that dismissiveness was exactly what I needed. Cloudy with a chance of Grade-A hurt. So W, if you're reading this, and you probably aren't because of all my masochistic requests, but let me address you anyway on the off-chance you Are reading this, because there are times when you're just too accommodating for your own sake. For the love of the letter R, you need to stop that already. You probably aren't (reading this, that is), but I just wanted to say one last thing to consummate all those six years that got me nowhere fast, and I mean this, too -- Thank you. Thank you for being you. I know that this didn't hurt you as much as it did me, hell, not even. And what the fuck am I saying? You? Hurt? (I reckon you're still reading this, W, if you even are, and I need to address this to somebody. That would have been all too fucking mental otherwise) I've always imagined myself, and then in the long run understood to a dead certainty, that I've always been the sole emotional benefactor to all those foolish six years. That I am, always has been, and that was the way I wanted things to happen well into this final episode. And you know what? It hurts like a motherfucking third world manual circumcision. But I know there is growth in this. I honestly do. August 10, 2010
**It took six years for this light bulb moment to take place. I wonder how this will proceed. 
After three years, we found ourselves talking on the phone for more than a few hours than is necessary. We were on it from 9pm to 4am, just like the sweet old times (and I say sweet like a charged surfer dude, not because it is beloved), and he was his usual accommodating self. I realized I missed the same chatty jerk that I really liked for some reason, and I say jerk with polite deference and honesty. He's probably cute, but he's more than that, really. I find it troubling and wonderful at the same time that we can actually talk without getting real tired about it. We haven't been hearing much from each other since 2007, though. That was when I moved out of my mother's house to live in with the first man whom I shed tears for. And we only had this opportunity just recently, W and myself, to salvage what communication we had left. That was last evening when we talked for about seven hours straight, although I had to take a couple of ten-minute cigarette breaks. I did most of the talking, sure, but that was how it was always been in the first place. I tell myself that I'm not cheating on my live in partner, J. I'm simply catching up with W, whom I met way earlier than J, and with whom I had more in common with. I wonder why I just said that? And I wonder why I've been writing about W hell of a whole lot lately. And I wonder why I can't stop trying to recall W's face and funny talk - he tends to slur his Rs like he's half-gargling them. Ohh, shit. This brings me back! This brings me way back, and sweet motherfucker, going back got me nowhere fast. And things are way different now, and I'm far too mature now, oh hell yeah, even for one of the better distractions of my twenties. Maybe I'll just cut things off with W before things go out of control; I know full well that I'm in for a long motherfucking haul. And I'm referring to myself when I say "things." And besides, he'll be leaving for the US next year, and I know he'll make it, because he's way too magnificent for this bullshit third world hole and its goddamned plumbing. I'm thinking it will be ideal to cut my losses this early on. But I'm also thinking of sending him a text message; I don't know what I'm going to tell him, but I'm doing this to reach out. NOTE TO SELF: Fuck, definitely letting go. And I tell myself I'm doing this because he doesn't deserve none of this no more. I'm talking about W. August 9, 2010
**I was supposed to post this two days prior to my 30th, but I was held up by all the preparation, and I can't really serve a blog post to my guests.
The Abattoir of Overused Metaphors defines "excited" as a girl on Christmas Eve underneath the tree with a colorfully wrapped box, large and unopened, in her small hands, her eyes marked by that indelible anticipation, maybe even worry, because, for the life of her, she can't figure out if the puppy she has always wanted will live through to Christmas morning confined in this little airless box most especially when it's no longer making a sound. If you're familiar with that tired figure of speech, then you understand what I'm saying. And understand that That little shit has got nothing with the terminal stage-four expectation that has afflicted me just recently. Damn straight. See, there's this great guy, W, that I've been on to speaking with keeping an online correspondence with these past six years now. We started in 2004, and we're still at it in 2010, although there has been a few hiatuses in between because, surprisingly enough, we had offline episodes to attend to. I tell you, it was pretty much a lifetime's worth of drama, and false hopes, and unfounded expectations. And the usual banter, and countless emoticons, and laughter. And saving chat transcripts, and fleeting disappointments, and four hour conversations on the phone. And more offline stories, and alarmed girlfriends, and more drama. It was six years worth of all that, and then some, plenty enough for a whole population and have enough to import to Iran or something. And we've never met. Never, not once these past six years, although neither one of us seems to mind because it's all too perfect, this correspondence, just the way it is. And simultaneously stagnant and pointless when you think about it. It is a mutual thing, I reckon, the not-having-to-meet part of things, and I think, perhaps, I'm glad that we arrived at that unspoken agreement. So we go ahead with the drama, and the countless emoticons, and the offline stories because we have established, three years into this lovely confusing mess, that we're better off with this static state of things. Because it works, for some reason, and we'd rather not know why it works. Because knowing might spoil things, and I can't have that now, although...And so we left it at that until I ventured an invitation to my birthday a week back. And that is why that little shit and the dead dog she'll be getting for Christmas has got nothing on me and my coming 30th. So there. 
**And it didn't happen. We never met. He was held up by this girl, Ester, and that bitch seriously rained on my parade. Rained. Literally. That cunt was a fucking tropical depression, and he was, with truth to the letter, completely suspended by all that rain, which was pouring in curtains. But my 30th was the best and happiest and the most complete so far, with every major routine of my Being well represented by the people that counted the most. Minus one, of course. Six years is still six years.
August 10, 2010
