I'm Having a Half-Sleeve Done

**Of course, Sweet Nuts, I am referring to the kind of tattoo that wraps the length of skin below or above the elbow with punctured ink. 

She made my characters pop. Love it.

I'm having a half-sleeve done, and I will not write about it in length yet. However, allow me to share the details you could be interested in. My new artist is the awesome Rakel Natividad. She lives in Sta. Cruz, Laguna with her husband Markus, and she has been tattooing for about thirteen years now. My former artist was great, however he sort of turned into some degree of a mean prick during the last few months of our artist-client relationship. He kind of went off with a ten thousand peso deposit. 

It's a trust thing, you see. He has been my tattooist for a few years now, and if I can trust him enough to embellish my skin, then I sure as hell can trust him a full deposit. That asshole quit answering my phone calls a week after he did a four by three outline on my right arm. That is in inches. Four inches by three fucking inches. It was done in an hour. This outline was barely three thousand pesos. His shop closed September of last year and he is still not answering my phone calls on both of his numbers.

This outline of my wrap took about five hours to complete. 

For what it's worth, he was nice to me for the first few years. Gene was usually accommodating and brotherly and all that bromance-ly shit. He was nice to my friends and he was nice to my partners and he was wicked with the needles. I will probably charge it to experience, all ten thousand pesos of it, and I'll hope for the best as far as he goes. I hope he's  dead now or something like that.  

Anyway, Sta Cruz, Laguna is a good three hours away from where I live. I waited three months for the first of three sessions, and I sat in some bus for three hours just to have her masterful hands work their magic on my upper right sleeve. 

I need to share this, Sweet Nuts, for I think there is some freaky universal karma at work here. See, I wouldn't have met the awesome Rakel Natividad if I didn't leave Gene A-Hole. I hope the same idea translates with the failed two-year relationship I had with this noisy little stick of a square-faced boy. A better tattooist has taken me in as a client. In the same vein, I could be meeting a better partner sometime soon. I certainly hope so. That would be a bitchin' turn of events. 

Line work. Arm pit. Capital pain.

It will take Mam Rakel three sessions to finish my first half sleeve. Her craft is a steal at P1,500/hour, and she requires a P1,000 deposit for each session. This deposit is inclusive of that session's total number of hours. My first session was in March 9, 2014, and it was five hours of line work. The first two hours were spent on direct-to-skin drawing, and then I took a fifteen minute cigarette break. She tattooed the line-work for the next three hours. It was a lovely kind of pain if it wasn't such a terrible murder to that area above the armpits. I totally lost my bad-ass vibe the moment she got to lining that area. 

Her billable hours start once the needle sinks in. She did not charge me for the first two hours of direct-to-skin drawing. She's an angel with a gun, a tattoo gun, and her disposition is the apex of humility. I know. I don't really say exceedingly homosexual things like "apex of humility," but she really is, so I did and that's that. 

The Awesome Rakel Natividad is the one with the white gloves. This photo was taken from her Facebook Page.

Meanwhile, my next session will be on Monday, March 24th. I could be going alone, I said "could be" if You are reading this, but that's the least of my big girl problems now. 

Imagine There's No Heaven, Bitch (Part Two)

**This is the story of how we broke up, Sweet Nuts. This is Part Two. If you're interested, this little shit nugget here is Part One. 




He was the bounciest cat there was. He could have been breasts in his past life. But his body was lifeless as his dying eyes looked at me. It broke my heart, Sweet Nuts, it really did. He died twenty minutes after By came home. Now if you're still with me, Dearly Beloved, By is the dude that meant to break up with me if he cannot recruit me to his religion. Anyway. 

Prince was our biologically-impossible make-believe kid, my Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts. I had him when I was still living in with Five-Years-J, or he had us, whatever. I gained custody over him when we broke up. This was in November 2010. 

I was disengaged (which is nerd talk for single) for almost a year, I think, following that nuclear break up. The best thing about that one year hiatus was Prince and I, we got real close for some reason. I don't know what it is about the break up, but I remember Prince cuddling to me every single night. He usually slept below the bed, but he humored my summons with prompt agility.  

The lights were out, which is the custom, and he would yawn to my face, for that is his custom, and I would curse at him for being such a poser. "What fucking breeding are you walking about, Cat? What's with the goddamn smell of digested Purina, Cat? I cannot see your bearing in the dark now can't I, Cat? Come here and put your head on my shoulders. Come here! I'm tired."

He doesn't meezer much, which is a Siamese's equivalent of meowing, when we are in bed. He just lets me hug him and pet him and squeeze him and call him names. I remember stroking that pair of hairy pendulums that was his face. And I'll pull him softly towards me so I can whisper his name "Priiiince" to his lips along with the many colorful endearments he allowed. I especially like cupping his little cheeks in between my thumbs and then running my fingers along the length of his whiskers, and he has no whiskers on his... oh wait, shit. I'm holding his hairy cat nuts, and I wouldn't know any different for the lights were out and kept his mouth shut because he's funny like that. 

This was the kind of stunt he'd pull of anytime now if he didn't die in 2013. Prince saw me through break ups like this with his strange sense of humor. And I really miss him now. I could use a laugh. 

Wait, no, let me take that back. Stay dead, Prince, and I love you. The Ex's premise was funny enough and will answer. He's breaking up with me because I'm not letting him recruit me into his religion. He thinks he can save me, "Kaya kitang iligtas, By," but he knows I'm stubborn so he had to ask again. 

"Byyy... please? If you really loved me everyday for these past two years, you will understand that I have to recruit you. And you will let me, because that's what lovers do, right? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quitsNO, I'M GOOD. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing. Really." Human combustion has nothing on this kind of spontaneity. 

He said, "Okay, if that's what you want. Mag-yosi ka na nga lang. Parang pinagtatawanan mo lang ako eh. (Go light up a cigarette. You sound like you're laughing at me.)" His lips fell silent but his trembling was shouting in its eloquence. 

TO BE CONTINUED, HAHA! I'M TELLING A STORY ABOUT A BREAK UP THAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE SPACE OF THIRTY MINUTES. I'M ENLARGING IT IN THREE POSTS. MUAHNESS FROM PASIG CIREHHH!

For You, My Dearly Beloved Sweet Nuts

Imagine There's No Heaven, Bitch (Part One)

**And no religion, too. Dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, this is the story of how we broke up. 




"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

I was rather stunned at how easy and casual those words slipped my lips. I have been through similar break ups, but there wasn't enough of them. I was cool, which was uncommon for I am letting go of a happy love. I was direct, which was unnatural for I'm sure I could argue my way back in if I wanted to. It was a happy kind of love after all. But I said No with the finality of a summary execution. And I said it twice in case he missed it the first time. One can never be too sure, my beloved Sweet Nuts.  

It was the casual kind of No, the everyday No, the dismissive kind of No you'd use when the high school graduate behind the counter offers to upsize your fries. 

"Would you like to upgrade your fries, sir?" 

"No, I'm good. I'm okay with my Roman Catholic thing." 

And he tried that again, and his voice was broken now. It was just the two of us in that dark room. We were lying in bed, smelling of our poisons: I, smoke, he, cheap brandy. It was humid, in spite of the reassuring noise of the creaky electric fan, because we chose to  huddle with the sheets below our necks. It was his idea. My head rested on his thin arms, his right leg over both my thighs. We were clothed inside the cocoon that was smothered with the smell of dried sweat and saliva. It would have been the sweetest thing on most days. But we were breaking up on the dead hour of that Wednesday morning. 

The smell of alcohol could have been downright criminal if he had plenty, but he was drinking for only two hours, for I timed it, and his breath was only slightly offensive. My nose was a few inches below his lips, and his mouth was troublesome with the nearly drunken rhetoric. Everything he said had this faint smell of cheap brandy, but anyway. 

"You know I love you, By." And he kissed me below the left ear. It smelled. It tickled. "But this is what I'm used to. I grew up loving the (insert his Religion here), and I know I can save you. I want to save you, By." He kissed me on the left cheek, and then on the jawline, while his right hand played with the ruffled hair on my forehead. We are still cocooned in that smelly blanket. My arm pits are beginning to shed tears of their own. 

"You remember that time you joked about not wanting to join us because you don't even have time to go to your church? I know you're a good person, but you can't be without Jesus." He hugged me tighter, and his cheeks hugged mine, and I can feel my face moisten with his breaking voice. Which is odd because my face never gets damp when we are this close. It is usually my southern regions, my physical Mindanao, my Puerto Princesa that gets rather worked up and excited when we are left to our own devices, but enough of that. My Baby's voice has broken, and he proceeds with the admirable courage he borrowed from his cheap brandy. 

"By, please. I know you are a good person, and I love you for that. But I know I can save you if you let me. So what's it going to be? It's either you join my religion, or we'll call it quits." 

"Would you like to add a sundae to your meal, sir?" Because that's what it sounded like to me. 

Again, dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, remember that my nose was a few inches below his lips. And I got to thinking. If this is what redemption smelled like, then I'd far rather sign up for the other place. I'm kidding. 

I knew, for some reason, that he will pop that question, by and by. But I never imagined that it will involve these consequences. Ours were the happy kind of love that was protected by our family and friends. It wasn't gossip-proof, but it rallied on. And it pushed through, and it sprinted, and it jumped, and it conquered (vomit) the two-year mark. We are looking forward to our third year together when he had to ask that infernal question. Goddamit. 

It is during charged times like this that I miss my cat the most. That jerk Prince hasn't been peeing for three days before he finally died in 2013. We thought it was just gas, or some boy cat broke his gay-ass heart, or some bad leaves he ate. The vet said it was normal for cats to nibble on potted plants. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing normal with how Prince lay sprawled below the sofa the day he died. 

END OF PART ONE, SWEET NUTS. OH THIS WILL BE LONG. THAT WAYWARD STRAND OF HAIR PEEKING OUT OF YOUR LEFT NOSTRIL HAS GOT NOTHING TO THE LENGTH OF THIS POST. WHAT CAN I SAY? I AM GROWING FAR RATHER MOUTHY WITH MY WRITING. THIS IS BECAUSE I AM... STUDYING TO BE A WRITER, HAHA, AND I AM NOW PAYING ATTENTION TO STORY TELLING AND WORD COUNTS AND MORE SHOWING LESS TELLING AND ALL THAT WONDERFUL SHIT. THAT MAY OR MAY NOT INCLUDE SPELING AND GRAMERZ. ANYWAY, I KNOW YOU HAVE SOME MASTURBATING TO ATTEND TO, SO I'LL CUT THIS SHORT AND I'LL SEE YOU NEXT WEEK. MUAHNESS FROM PASIG CIREHHH! 

Holy Roman Taxi Cab

Pay attention please, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, for I will now give you a mental picture of... the kind of... odd shit you don't see every day. You will probably scratch your head at what your mind's eye will be seeing, much like I did on my way home that morning. It caught me unaware, knocked the mental wind off my head, for I do not have the imagination for this level of shit. I kid you not. Having said that, I tip my hat to that Jesus loon, for I am now a reluctant fan. 

And this is the farthest thing from gross, too, so feel free to read aloud to your kids. Anyway.

Imagine green streaks along its Mazda frame.

I was lucky to have logged out of the phones two and a half hours earlier. We normally clock out at six in the morning, so you'd imagine how excited I was to get home at four. I'm lazy, Sweet Nuts, but that's not the point. And I was luckier, too, for I didn't have to wait for a cab. It was already waiting for me, parked on the curb outside the office, like a wonderful vision, my ride home. It was painted in the usual taxi-yellow with green streaks painted to highlight its Mazda form. The lamp that said TAXI was a beacon of soft halogen. Oh awesome heaven! 

I was hopping in slow motion in its general direction when I saw this white cross, this very large white cross erected a few inches away from the TAXI lamp. I paused. I said it was heaven sent, yes, but I was actually kidding. This yellow taxi cab, with green streaks along its Mazda frame, actually had a white cross installed on its roof. I am not kidding you, Sweet Nuts. My redemption from that day's shift had a large white cross a few inches away from the TAXI lamp. And I am not making this up. I swear on God's Vessel, which might as well be the same thing I was looking at, that I am not making this shit up. 

I cancelled the slow motion hop and switched to baby steps. I was curious. 

How could I have missed that, well, that little detail when it's about three feet high and two and a half feet wide? It was made of what could be wood that was four inches wide, and it was a few inches away from the TAXI lamp. But there it was, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, and it was as large as God's love. Its lower half, where Jesus' knee would have been, I suppose, was bathing in that halogen glow. This soft light revealed the words THE WORLD written in vertical, descending letters. It didn't take long for me to figure out the message that was painted on this very large cross installed on the roof of this cab. It said "FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD" along it's vertical torso. And it's horizontal length said "JESUS SAVES!" These letters were hand painted in a vivid blue, as blue as disbelief perhaps, to provide a startling contrast with its white background.

Meanwhile, the cab itself was an unmarked yellow with green paint along it's Mazda frame. It meant to take me home. But the obscenely large cross installed on it's roof meant to preach. 

I am usually lazy by default, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, and I hardly have the disposition to wait for another cab. My baby steps were cautious, though, as I proceeded to Manila's Next Popemobile. But then the driver stepped out, and I froze in my tracks. I was suddenly rooted in place, like a bush, and my head was burning with ideas like sprinting or brisk walking or walking on water. What is this that I am looking at now? 

He stepped out of his plate-numbered Popemobile, raised both his arms up at 45 degree angles to his shoulders, raised them above his head, and he is beckoning to me with his arms spread wide. He wasn't smiling. I am serious. 

He looked like an archangel in a bragging contest and they were measuring wingspan. His wings were This wide, and he is the object of what could be penis envy in angels. Anyway, he. Wait, no, "He" was wearing a white polo shirt, you know, with green sleeves. He looks like some mortal in his forties, I think, medium built with the complexion of varnished wood. The soft glow from the TAXI lamp defined his features. He had curly black hair. His face was stern and leathery, his eyes were beady, and he was sporting a moustache that was quite the rage with kidnappers in those action films in the 80s. He was now standing before the open door next to the driver's seat, and he was beckoning to me, his arms were stretched apart and raised at a 45 degree angle to each shoulder. The fingers on each of his palms looked like they were glued together like flippers. And it was the beckoning movement of each flipper that was very troubling to me. 

It doesn't stop there. Two of the upper buttons on his polo shirt were undone. And on his chest was this enormous crucifix. Yes, my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts, I seized the word "crucifix" because that is exactly the size of it. Imagine a copper cross the size of your thumb. Now, magnify that pendant by a hundred fold, and that will fix you with a proper estimate. Nope, the beckoning isn't stopping yet. 

It dawned on me that God's Plate Numbered Vessel was running on the essential oils of myrrh, frankincense, and some shabu. And it's herald has been sniffing plenty of exhaust fumes. 

He's giving my ass crack a stigmata of sorts on account of I could shit on the spot with this kind of crazy going on. However, I am far too cool for this loony Bible show, and you know that my dearly beloved Sweet Nuts. I maintained my safe distance and watched as he, no, "He" got back in his vessel, closed the door, and started his engine. I was actually relieved to see that yellow cab with it's green streaks move and accelerate. I noticed that the large white cross on its roof did not budge. It was then a little after four in the morning.

I noticed one of the security guards was looking at the same explosion of crazy. I was relieved. For a while there I though I was having one of those holy visitation things.