Have you ever deleted one of your posts?

I deleted one of my earlier posts in 2004 because it offended my sister. And I'm writing it now because I think the issue should have simmered to nothing more than an annoying memory that was once potent enough to have caused a smashing sibling rivalry. Of course, we're both mature enough to allow things to escalate to such silly childish truck, but it was STILL an eruption, however low it registered on the richter.

There is safety in proper timing.

The post, "I Read In My Sister's Wedding," was nothing more than a humorless take on, drumroll please, my sister's wedding. It's Her Wedding in a totally deadpan interpretation. Bad idea, wrong blog. What started off as an unspirited attack on the reception host (and the silverware, and the groom crying, and such similar truck) exploded in a very impolite tirade with a slightly offensive air to it that borders on the excessively rude. And then I reckon most of my pieces smell of the same characteristic profaning diction anyway, so I reason it's nothing more than a bad idea in the wrong blog.

I apologize for that.

You don't do impassive on celebrations like people's weddings. You don't write them off like you're engineering some really lame attempt at funny. And you don't, for fear of raising hell, you dont do it on your sister's wedding if you can't even fake good tidings. I so embarass myself that I'm referring to him in the third person. Him being me.

Choose your words, people. And choose your topics good, if you can't word them well. I've now learned not to, as Jessica Zafra would have it, not to "cannibalize my life for material. " It's just a blog, so stop blogging for the continuity. Don't blog to endanger pre existing relationships that will remain to be far more important than your current page rank.

Your life is bigger than this free online service that peaked as a fad for most of us.

Check Out My Sidebar!

I love it I love it I love it! Not only does it look cleaner, it also redefines Organized in the most fluent possible way ever.

Say goodbye to the Shitting Bull dropdown, though. It was my first real project in HTML coding. Thanks to wherever I stole the picture from. Send me your url so I can properly acknowledge you. In the most fluent possible way ever.

I'm so in the mood for real writing, now that my house looks a little cleaner than before. I just brought a new broom, and I'm just so excited to sweep.

Oh, I also edited my Blog Roll, so if ever I took you off my list, please let me know so I can make it all the more proper. Thanks again!

Enjoy!

Horny Prattle

Here's a confession: I feel less guilty doing it drunk, as in beer-drunk, as opposed to doing it because I'm horny. Details are less vivid when intoxicated, and that's how I like it, because there's less time for guilt when you're trying to violently puke out the alcohol.

Most of my accomplices know this, and they never tire of hearing it. Maybe because we're all in the same boat in this one understanding, and the one thing a secret denominator needs is somebody to tell it as it is. That doesn't make the secret any less insidious than it is, but the act of airing out our common dirt becomes this occasional ritual that grounds us and binds us together. Demons need ears, too.

And I'm not saying my friends are any less eloquent than myself, but I'm the usual culprit, and a steamy anecdote follows. Not now of course, but that's how it is when we kiss and tell. That makes for an effectively revolting narration altogether, the sex bit, but, amazingly, they don't seem to mind. I sincerely wonder why I'm this blessed.

I'm not married, but I "co-habit" with this very wonderful guy, and this post just made me all the more guilty. Which is exactly what I intended this to be: a wake up call. I've been as horny as I am unfaithful, and that's got to stop. But I'm slightly alcoholic, so the drinking's a different story. And the problem is I'm progressively kinkier with every bottle downed.

This really didn't solve anything. What was I saying again?

Picture from breaktaker.com

In Between Bookmarks and Dog-Ears (A Repost)

**It's because it's Father's Day, and this qualifies for what can be an in-the-mood post. And it's a repost mostly because of that great big mother of writer's blocks, and I wanted to post something, anything, at the same time. Call it a heartbeat. I'm trying to steer clear of this blog's flatline.

And here's where the original post is. Same banana, minus the italicized introduction.

I have a confession to make.

The aroma of paper binded together would have to be one of my greatest highs. Next to mindless, unwarranted sex, two to three hours of uninhibited reading would have been my intellectual equivalent of an ejaculation. The sight of all those hardbounds and paperbacks stacked in a beautiful tower of books is therapeutic, and being able to actually devour the wisdom in each volume is a peaceful ceremony in itself.

There was a time in my six-week vacation when I was voraciously consuming five books at a time. It was actually four lengthy novels ("Four Past Midnight," "The Order of the Phoenix," "Great Horror Stories," "Servants of Twilight"), and a non-fiction title ("The World's Most Infamous Killers").

Sometimes, I really don't understand how I was able to manage poring through all those volumes at the same time. Maybe I was enchanted by all that knowledge. But all I remembered was that the Dean Koontz novel was chapters upon freaking chapters of chase scenes all over California, Harry Potter was showing all signs of adolescence minus the outbreak of zits, and the Langoliers were these little black balls consumed to eating reality in their wake. Blood apparently does wonders to the skin when used externally, and in very generous quantities, like in a blood bath, and that however fictitious, the idea of dying from fear itself makes for an interesting topic of conversation.

Goes well without saying that I just admitted to being a bibliophile, huh?

I really don't need to give an explanation as to how this addiction came to be. But I'm pretty sure it was my father to thank for this consuming appetite for the written word. When I was a kid, I'd remember him taking us to the BOOKSALE in Shaw Boulevard. You probably have heard of the establishment before. It's this second hand store for just about every assortment of used books. He started taking us there in the late eighties, myself and my two siblings, and he'd allow us to wander aimlessly among those volumes, while he waited in front of the cashier, checking out architectural magazines. After a few minutes of foraging, we'd go back to him, with a book or two in hand, and then we'd give it to him for inspection. He'd pay for those books later on, and he always did even if it was something that he didn't approve of.

I used to hunt for old Ikabod comicbooks and Cracked magazines, and I grew a steady collection overtime. My father absolutely despised my Cracked magazines. See, they bore a striking resemblance to MAD Magazines, the one with Alfred Neuman's ugly bucktoothed face on the cover, and he hated looking at that face. But like I said, he'd eventually take out his wallet and then had our picks wrapped in this white plastic bag.

When I grew into adolescence, the trips to the BOOKSALE was always something that I looked forward to. Funny, I was already a teenager, and yet I still repaired to childhood practices for comfort. I really don't know why I keep on coming back, but for some reason, it started becoming my very own weekend picnic.

Sometimes, it was my mother who took us, but it really didn't matter to me since I was always expecting to leave the store with something in a white plastic bag.

And I read everywhere!

I read my Cracked magazines on top of the stairs at one in the morning because it's the only place in our apartment where the light was on at that time of the night. I read something while walking home from elementary school. I read in the theaters while they're waiting to fill the seats before the movie starts. I read while waiting for a ride. And then I'd read in the cab, car, fx, jeep while going to UST and from UST. I read something while waiting for my turn in a job interview. And of course, I'd read myself to sleep.

My father died in 2004, and I brought a book along for the wake. For some reason, I find that as paying a tribute to the one guy who made all this delightful madness possible. Of course, I wasn't reading to him, or for him. I was doing it for myself. See, not only did I seek solace from this inanimate object of my choice, but I wanted to ignore everybody else and bury my nose in between the pages.