I Invented Post-its

If you’re ready to throw in the towel, can you at least say that, as a living organism, you've ‘made it’?

“And until you told me that our lives weren’t good enough, I thought everything since high school was a blast…”

-Michelle Weinberger, Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion

In one of those exchanges of cerebral inputs, I found myself shocked to discover that, despite his achievements he collected through the years, my friend still thinks life has overcome him. Over Rum shots, another buddy, fessed up his frustration towards still not making it. And by that, I truly think he’s referring to some sort of a Kurt Cobainish kind of thing. You know, wherein he’s supposed to achieve rock cult superstardom and just die. God forbid.

But what exactly does making it means?

I made it through college despite being myself. That in itself is worthy of a celebration. Ramona made it through Turkey despite security. She even made it through life despite looking like a boy. With humongously big bones (redundancy needed). And that hobo man from across the street made it through the rain last night. In fact, he’s still making it, dirty disheveled clothing/messy surfie hair and all, as we speak.

This got me thinking, if the proverbial making it has turned itself into being more than just a fad; has our generation just found itself in an era in which dreams are supposed to be within reach but not? Have we become deludanoids?

Tone deafs are auditioning in almost all singing competitions. Self-explanatory.

Everyone tag themselves ‘models’. Uh no hon, maybe someday when you can finally work on your height, or angles… or face.

Anyone who’s got a fancy camera label themselves ‘photogs’. Then quit using that auto function for chrisfuckingsakes!

Even people who graduated from some token far-flung branches/’sister’ (yeah right) schools of certain colleges develop that audacity to say that they went to this school and that. I say ‘UP Diliman is UP Diliman. And UP Los Baños is UP Los Baños. And whatever UP system you’re from, that’s where YOU’RE from. Don’t push it..”

Blame it on American Idol. Seriously, do we really want to put ourselves in the company of William Hung, Bikini Girl, and Tatiana Del Toro?

My point exactly.

Then why is everyone so caught up in making it big and measure up to great expectations?

Romy and Michele went to their 10-year high school reunion claiming they invented Post Its. Romy was a cashier. Michele was unemployed. And until Romy told Michele, that their lives weren’t good enough, Michele thought life since high school was a blast.

So who gives a flying fuck with what everyone thinks? Beavis and Butthead, I saw them recently, and they seem happy and content watching tv and making fun of Jersey shore. Now, would we really want to be labeled as that bloke who really tried so hard to make it and didn’t that he killed himself or that funny guy who made it in life having fun?

Because at the end of the day, it all boils down to what having ‘made it’ means for you.

Staying Too Close To the Sun

What about Icarus? He had a lot of that hubris. Daddy warned him not to fly too close to the sun coz that was territory reserved for the Gods. But he paid big daddy no mind and ended up frying like a hush puppy.

-Mary Cherry

IT was a match made in heaven. Mere mortal snagging up one one heck of a sex goddess. How lucky can he get? Slamming body, check. Bangable, double check. Nothing could ever go wrong with the juxtaposition of the two parallel worlds right?

Well, that’s what Andrew (not his real name) thought at the time. The shagging was incredible, that’s all that mattered. “Never minded the hating,” he says. For all he cared, he had every man’s dream by his side. And he was, in all positions, happy.

Then the hating never stopped.

Why is she dating him? Has she gone blind?

She’s just far too pretty for that guy.

And well yes, for some time, they managed to survived the scrutiny the eyeing public. Then broke up. Hooked up again. Then broke up again. God knows what they are now.

It seems that, it all boils down to this; After centuries of questioning the norm and courting the public, from Ric Ocasek & the perfect specimen that is Paulina to Sam Ronson and the ambiguous in terms of choosing which team to bat for, Firecrotch LiLo, the world is still not at ease with interfacial relationships.

Word is, you better stick to your own kind. And not aspire for something greater.

But can’t a person just try to switch it up a bit?

“It depends,” Mary (not her real name) says. “…on what kind of switching you’re referring to. Personally I abhor any person trying too hard to rub it on everyone he’s better than everyone else intellectually, coz most of the time, he’s not.”

Tell me more about it.

Oh I know that story. I’ve encountered that kind of mortals before. You know, people who don’t have anything else going for them that they’ve reduced themselves into just proving their intellectual worth which most of the time just backfires anyway. Unintentionally, that redflag just shows itself up, along with their shortcomings. The more they try too hard, the more everyone’s gonna feel sorry for them.

Weren’t they hugged enough as a kids that the only thing their good at is alienating people?

But shouldn’t we commend people for reaching higher intellectual heights?

Not if they’re immature, callow, know-it-alls. I’ve met far smarter individuals whose IQ scores are something I could just dream of having, and they don’t go out of their way to show everyone how rocket science is just a piece of cake.

At the end of the day, if a person is smart like he say he is, he needn’t shout it out to the world. If you’re one, then you’re one.

In ancient Greece, overestimation of one’s own competence and capabilities was a crime. The very act of hubris would lead to one’s disembowelment or something. Like, something more tragic and gory. I’m thinking, Saw. And actually laughing at the thought.

I'm pretty sure loving someone way higher in the hotness meter scale isn’t a crime. But it sure does inspire cluster headaches from haters, rivals, and the judging eyes of world. That in itself is, I believe, enough punishment from the gods already. But who wouldn’t want to hook up with a supermodel anyway?

Back to those trying hard to be smart mortals, word of advice; we all know what happens to the flies that get too close to the light right? Most of the time, electrocuted.

Stuck on You.

When everyone else has moved on, why haven't you?

Let’s lay out all the facts. For whatever reason you messed up, grew apart, called it quits or just couldn’t do that “long distance thing”. Bottomline is, you broke up. Moving on just as easy as 1,2,3 right?

Well for Blanca (not her real name) it isn’t. It’s been 8 months and she’s still hasn’t get past over that stage wherein you have to either have to get drunk and hook up with some random person in the bar or wallow for an entire weekend. Yes, she’s been wallowing that long.

“I missed the bus” she says, referring to why she’s still stuck on to the past. “And I don’t have a ticket for the train… and yeah, I sound like a burned out emotional mess.”

It got me wondering, where in the world were her so-called friends when she needed to get drunk?

It actually takes Adele’s 21 a 48:12 of runtime to get her point across that yes, she’s mad as hell she could kill from the break up (Rolling in the deep) to she’s finally gotten over it (Someone Like You). And even less if you choose to play just the two tracks respectively. A frigging 48:12, that’s all it takes, but why does it feel like your quitting alcohol? It’s better said than done.

“It’s far worse that you can imagine,” says Jay (not his real name), another wedged soul in the purgatory. “Especially when mind gaming comes into play, it’s like, ‘can somebody pass me that mind condom?’ sorta thing. Getting mind fucked has got to be the worst feeling in the world ‘cause you’re just totally confused.”

Jay actually, as of recently, did that drastic move of moving to another geographical location thinking starting anew would leave certain things behind.

“Dude so how’s that working for you so far?” I ask.

“It’s cool man. Everything’s just kinda falling to where it should…”

“And well?”

“Well, there will be things once in a while… and it’s a process”

“And?”

“Well… FCUK! I still think why head-screw when you can just screw?! Sucks man. Sucks that I had to leave but I just couldn’t stay... [it] just isn’t healthy anymore for me”

Hahaha! Now were talking.

Jay is a living testimony that no matter the gargantuan amount of booze you devour, it still isn’t enough to blot certain things sway. He was a boozehound, probably still is, and yet for him, some things are gonna be so hard to forget that he had to leave. So much for having a penchant for the physical and not the emotional.

Then you ask, all these pain, the drama, aren’t all these just well… self-inflicted? Bad situations need serious coping. Throw in the masochistic tendency, then you get perfect human samples to to future 'remember the time when ' jokes.

It may not be funny now, but it will be for them, when they finally cross that line.

Another noteworthy fact is that Blanca and Jay are on the opposite poles of the spectrum. One had to wallow while the other, boozed for months, and yet none of the two ways actually worked. In that case, what would then be the best route to get to that other side?

Jay took the boat. Maybe Blanca should too… And perhaps while she's on it, she should listen to 21 as well.

Clitoral Thinking

Like most Filipina of her generation, Olive (not her real name), 20ish, knows good sex, and would rather not talk about it. It’s a Pinay thing. But unlike most supposed to be sexually “active” Pinays, as of recently, here’s the sitch; she just wasn’t getting any.

07:05:12 am

jaime..

02:39:16 pm

jaime, I did s0mething realy crazy.

02:43:50 pm

hahaha. threes0me..

Oh no she didn’t but oh yes she just did. She was finally getting some again. I woke up, browsed through my phone and holy schmoly, Olive just had her first threesome.

03:02:58 pm

I felt a hint of guilt… but d idea of threes0me, n0t a single bit..

Geez Olive, I could really feel your devastation. I would’ve thrown her a party

Why of course, a story is only as interesting as its details. Why and how it happened, let’s just say she and the other party felt a connection she haven’t felt in a long long time. Okay, horny. And the third wheel just happened to be there, what supposed to be the lone audience to their execution of carnal hunger, decided to join in on the fun. That brings a whole new meaning to audience participation.

Having been told vividly and horridly the straight out of porn shenanigan, especially from a female perspective, it got me thinking. Could it be that the clit is the new cock?

Venus (not her real name) was a girl I met from one of those “research” on nightly dispatches at college watering holes. When got so hammered by rhum, she told me that guys she’s recently been with, literally ran off, running for their life just because they couldn’t keep up with her. At first I thought she was joking. Turned out she wasn’t.

After a few more meet ups, and getting even more hammered than the last, she wound up confessing she haven’t had orgasm for ages. In my mind, images of Linda Lovelace from Deep Throat, the movie about a girl discovering her clit is on her throat, played in slow mo. But let’s be serious. It couldn’t be, now could it?

“Jaime, remember that guy who came up to me earlier?” Venus says. “He’s the guy who ran off. Pussy.” From then on, I knew that the smartest thing a guy should do in the midst of Venus, when everyone calls it a night, is to just go home. Alone.

If our boy-parts heads below gets rushes of blood from time to time, so does its female counterpart. When it comes to classifying Venus, she’s not a sex machine, she’s a flytrap. (Just a fleeting thought; Wouldn’t it be rad though that after doing Venus, and you did good, got her toes curling, you get a shirt saying “I survived Venus Flytrap. And lived to tell the story…”) But certain things need certain machines for drilling. Thou shall not bite more than you can chew. If your tools aint tuned up, then you might just want to fahgettaboutit.

She comes with a warning. Enter at your own risk. Proceed with caution.

It’s amazing how some modern Filipinas are these days. I encountered a skank once, next thing I know, she’s critiquing my art. Secretly I cried foul, because that’s what us guys are, dicks with humongous egos. More than that, I figured it was inappropriate for someone known as their college whore critiquing my works when the only thing she’s known for is being the entire college’s lay. Go back to your usual corner whore of Babylon.

And so I asked Mikky (not her real name), a recent explorer of the non-virgin territory, if there is some sort of truth to my theory. “saba oi! Buang,” she texts “beat the heat :3”. Translation: “Yes Jaime we are just horndogs as you guys.” Don’t you just hate it when girls have to code-speak. It makes us guys to put on that extra effort to decipher simple things like a yes or no. Like every Filipina, does she really have to give some indirect affirmation? But at least I got my yes.

Yes generations do change. With the exception of a classmate back in sophomore year, I haven’t seen a girl in a long skirt and long-sleeves in ages. Thank heavens for that! And while some are for the better like Olive who would act out smut scenes from time to time, then comes in a curveball like a stuck up whore who has to just have to have a say in everything. Venus the flytrap is debatable.

I remember telling Olive what she did was perfectly normal and it’s just one of those things she’ll think fondly of when she’s all wrinkly and stuff and hopefully still getting some action… that back in the days, when being drunk leads to doing the nasty, she was getting some, like crazy.

03:10:53 pm

ma0 gyud! hehehe. it was just one weird drunk nyt. Hehe

You're A Pussy

After decades and decades of instilling in our pop-culture subconscious that rock–hard abs and even harder guts gets all the glory, have we failed what Rocky and Rambo?

Three months ago, things weren't going well for my friend Will (not his real name). Mastering the art of slactivism to its purest form and embodying doucheness in its truest sense, he was leading what seemed to be the road towards possible perdition when he accidentally broke it off with his girlfriend… a day before valentines.

You’re thinking, a total jerk-off right? I mean, who does that?

But let’s cut the guy some slack and give him the benefit of the doubt that there is deeper reason on why he had to call it quits on what his girlfriend would consider as the most important day in February, aside from the premiere of what would then be a badly-acted, poorly-received Machete. Like, she wasn’t flexible enough or she wasn’t as enthusiastic in giving head as he was on going down on her or she’s just plain lousy. Whatever his reason was, I’m sure there was one… or two.

So it came off as a surprise, well, actually no, when his text message reads “Yawa k.hilak ko blue valentine. I’m afraid of this fuckd up shit bai.” I was like, dude, seriously? Who would ever cry to Blue Valentine? Was it because of the mere sight of Michelle William’s cute white ass or was it because of the beauty that was Michelle William’s cute white ass? I could not think of any other reason.

“I feel s0ry f0r myself f0r being so dumbass fuckng in l0ve… Sakit bei. Di ko ksab0t…I l0ve d girl so much nd there’s n0thing that I can do but to just suck it up,” he continues.

Wait, isn’t this supposed to be Will, my friend, the jerk-off who dumped his girlfriend, a day before Valentines?

I’m thinking, what a pussy.

Episodes like Will’s have been infecting my friends lately like it’s some kind of epidemic. Take John (not his real name), for instance, 23 years young, intelligence off the scale, and currently enrolled at a graduate school. In other words, nerd… In recent years, he was making a name for himself, appearing in local dailies and getting recognition, calling himself a semi-celebrity, shit like that. Last year he topped a licensure exam.

Is there anything this wonder boy couldn’t do, you ask? Us, friends of his know better. But let’s just leave it at that.

“Say dude, theoretically, if bigwig comes up to you and asksyou to consider working as a segment producer for a certain show you’re a big fan of, would you consider?” I ask.

“I don’t know what a segment producer does, but I know I’m gonna be good at it,” he replies.

You’re thinking, dick right? Apparently humility is something he’s really good at.

The harrowingly fine line between confidence and cockiness can be really tricky and, obviously, despite his immensely high IQ, the guy’s not fully aware. But then again, why should he when he can effortlessly just, as Beyonce puts it, back it up? Simply put, Kanye can be *coughs dick what he is because he is Kanye.

But brilliance has its price. When you’re at a point in your life wherein you’re young, so full of promise, got virtuosity written all over you, how can you top yourself when you already set the standard yourself?

It was during one of those times he chats me up on facebook, asks me what I was up to and I tell him “Nah, same old same old” and he then tells me how my life sucks… when it was pretty obvious he was envious of the flippancy I had towards life simply because I was drunkenly having fun. He was not.

“I think my life has overcome me… Sure I was making things but that wasn’t what I just wanted to be...” he whines.

Wait, isn’t this supposed to be my friend, John, the huge ego who, whether we like it or not, had every right to be one, the Renaissance man whose bravura I respected so much, and the guy who makes his batch mates secretly feel what we’re doing must not be enough?

Again, pussy.

For Jaime (his meddle name), a badass bonito dork who spends his day contemplating for world domination, got himself what he calls the chance of a lifetime; the big break he rightfully deserves; and, most importantly, every haters worst nightmare.

”Jaime! Asan ka na ngayon? I need a segment producer na adik sa survivor for this season,” Daniel (not his real name), the big boss, offers.

OMG, right?

He neither confirmed nor denied this, but knowing how big of a fan he is of the show, I’m pretty sure his lacrimal glands provided more than the needed eye lubrication the minute he got the message.

But for some reason he didn’t want to elaborate, the last time I checked on the ultimate fanboy, he said he’s no longer going. At least for now.

But wait, isn’t this supposed to be the Jaime, the pinnacle of hot dorkiness, the perfect combination of wit, humor and looks, and the self-obsessed Survivor god, not pursuing his dreams of world domination and unrequited behind-the-scenes stardom?

Another pussy?

The proofs are unsettling; the crying; the complaining; the confessing. Are we a bunch of pussies? Whatever happened to ballsville? Most importantly, where have all the balls gone?

After decades and decades of instilling in our pop-culture subconscious that rock –hard abs and even harder guts gets all the glory, have we, especially the male populace, failed what Rocky and Rambo fought for in those movies?

But then again, you ask who? Exactly.

In a time where Green Lantern’s sidekick gets to kick more ass, Ryan Gosling is some kind of a rockstar, and girls love ‘em Edwards and not Draculas, is there even a room for brainless machismo?

As for Will, he’s hopeless. Unless he moderates on those chick-flick fares, and start on that Entourage season 7 marathon I encouraged him to do, he’ll forever be a wuss, crying about some stupid movie and his love life when he ought to have been having a fun time watching the perfection that is Sasha Grey.

I loved Blue valentine too. But mainly because of the cool end credits.

John should learn how to let loose and Harvey Levin’s philosophy on toilet manners. Sometimes, there’s a room for mistakes here and there. The top is a lonely place to be, especially when you’re alone and alienated everyone else.

I told him once about Sasha’s life, how she waited tables, saved 7 grand, moved to L.A. and became the star that she is now. She gambled and it paid off well. He believes taking chances are for people who don’t have options. He now complains about his life (or lack of it).

Jaime’s a different breed. On what reasons why he chooses to put his delusions on hold, we may never know. But there’s definitely a reason. Probably a skewed one, but a reason nonetheless.

One thing’s for sure though, he will still try to emulate Hayden Kho (yes, him). At least the good parts.

Of this moment, parts these three guys are maybe without are balls*. It’ll be back in no time. But as of this moment, what good are balls when don’t have a brain? You can’t just go shoot and shoot without aiming.

Besides, to end this discourse, it actually takes balls – huge humongous balls, to admit you ain’t got none.

Disclaimer: Only temporary; Pertains to the hypothetical kind. The men mentioned above are young virile animals that would fulfill your appetite just as any men would do you or even better. Only difference is, they’re smarter than most meat you’ll ever get in this lifetime. So grab a book and get smarter. You might snatch yourself one and get a taste cerebral intercourse heaven, baby.

All Them Haters

To reach for a higher consciousness has always been something I thought I’d get only at or during when that one bottle of Rhum starts kick in and take over the gray matter. C’mon, whether you like to admit it or not, it is only when you’re drunk that you get to avail that luxury to philosophize. Minds meet and collide, all hell breaks lose, and some Dalai Lama takes over your body to connect all that shit to some certain forces we could not fully fathom for we are nothing but just mere human beings in this world.

But then at that drunken moment you think you’re right you couldn’t care less about the world and the heck what’s going on in you’re surroundings because that’s just how it is. You’ve just reached a mental state only a few have achieved so consider yourself lucky. My friend at that very moment you became The Philosopher.

Imagine you and your buddies boozing it, performing meeting of the minds with each shot, and getting numb and high in some intellectual dispatch when suddenly you feel something off. Your synapses are sending messages that something’s just not right. Could it be the Rhum? Or is it just the temperature? Are your pants wet? No. Then what could it possibly be? Ohmmm. Ohmmm. You start to channel John Lennon’s soul from his LSD stoner years. Yes… yes… You get signals… gets a little choppy. Oops, wait, don’t move. It’s getting clearer. And them bam, you realize that that something off, that something’s that’s just not right, that bleep in your radar is no other than that trashbag that had tagged along in that Rhum-sponsored incoherence-inducing cerebral summit. Ladies and gentleman, meet the Hater.

Now isn’t that an introduction.

Chances are you’ve had close encounters kind in one way or another. You probably have dealt with them some time in the past and how you handled the situation leaves so much to be desired. I, even personally believe that the best way to do it is to avoid them like a plague. But then, life’s just like not that. No matter how hard you stay away from and pray for God to get rid of that plague, life has just certain ways to pull a joke on you. Et voila, next thing you know some hater is on your midst.

Once, or thrice I’ve hung out with a certain trashbag who couldn’t really offer anything on the table other than snide comments on things I’m sure she didn’t have at least half the grasp of. She has just got to have opinions on things. Not only that, she had made things worse by talking shit behind my back as if I wouldn’t have noticed. I’m like, “bitch must be craaazzy.” Seriously, who does that? Being the most welcoming person I am in that sacred Rhum watering hole, the guest my friends and I accommodated so well just couldn’t deliver the manners we expected her to have.

They come in all forms and sizes. They could be that now-douchey classmate of yours back in the days who’s now got a really promising (oh puh-lease) future, or that lecturer who considers him/herself so busy and yet has the time to call you out on your tardiness or whatever it is he/she can call you out on for the sake of it, or even that friend of yours you considered a friend. The plague is everywhere. Worst case scenario, it could be that person in your mirror.

Naturally, of course being eternally drunk in the past (I have changed my ways since. Sobriety’s once in a while is cool – my mantra.) I ask how could I not fathom this like how a drunk should understand the connection of the earth’s movement to the stars and whatnot or even just rise above just like what a Dalai Lama ought to do. But then again, intelligent we may think we are when intoxicated I know my IQ’s not 130. I wish it were but then it’s not. I am not a genius. And be like Dalai Lama? LOL. Just LOL.

I maybe wrong on this one but trashbag probably was just crushing on me and was trying to get my attention. Obvious. And that lecturer probably was, too. The rest are nothing but insecure schmucks who, like Kanye, according to Kelly, weren’t hugged enough as kids.

And so I end this with words from a hated person and who recently get bad reps for being just, well, privileged. By that, we mean, a trust fund kid, have loads of cash because of daddy, and now carving a rapping career indirectly because of daddy. Gawker once reported that written on Chet’s social networking page were the words “Keep on hating while I’m celebrating.” Amen to that. Now who wants to hate when we can just celebrate? Stop hate people. And just celebrate yours or other people’ success. Believe me, it does wonders.

That Other L Word

"By any chance you know how to counter some 'lovespell' some ho put on

me bro?" texted a friend a few days ago.

"Dude, you serious?" I replied back.

"Dead serious man."

And so after a few more exchanges and extra details, the most
intellectual thing I could reply to him was "Uh lemme get back to you
on that."

I must admit, what really what struck me most and caught me by
surprise with his confession is discovering that he actually had
feelings. Dang I didn't see that coming. All this time I thought he
was some kind of detached to all things mushy. See, a little profile
on the victim here; smart, confident, almost cocky and yet shy in
equal measure, and one who values logic and intelligent explanations
over anything that remotely resembles to any emotion. He's human and
all that but he isn't exactly that I'm-in-love kind of guy.

Now if only I were a shaman I would concoct things up from those
leaves and shit but then again I'm not. This writer is just gonna
write about it, make fun of his friend and just see what makes out of
this (which in my case is usually awesome)…

Exhibit A; Houston, We've Got A Problem

But first, let me put on that playlist to listen to while I'm writing this.

Ok.

Done.

Now, where were we? Right. And so I asked my friend again, "how did
this even happen?"

"Don't know man, it just sort of, just happened. I lost it."

I would assume he was referring to his head, but for some reason, I'm
thinking it's his dignity.

Over drinks he would claim he was never dumped per se (although I
would oppose to that). From how he puts it, he does the dumping all
the time. He flirts, girl enjoys. Off he goes to another. Period. It's
a win-win situation as he would call it. He gets his fix, the girl
gets hers too.

But what on earth could have happened that his perfect free love
status quo got shook by someone he calls Ho? And more importantly who
the fuck is this Ho? Is she pretty? Is she hot? Can she even keep up
with the intellects of the victim? And, the real question is, is she
really what my friend fondly claims her to be, a H-O?

Hmmm.

Exhibit B; There's Just Something about Mary

"What happened, really? And why is it such a problem?" I asked.

"Say dude, you've known this girl for some time now, and you know and
she knows there's this undeniable sexual tension between you two and
yet for some reason you've never hooked up, not even once, even when
you've got the chance and God knows how many chances you've passed up.
It just didn't happen because it's just always the wrong time. She's
always involved with someone and your hands are just busy on so many
things. And now she's gone. Gone gone… And every morning you get wood
and all you could think about is doing the nasty with her that would
make any pre-internet porn to shame. Isn't that torture? For all I
know she could have slipped some 'potion' on my drink or something
thus this. I have enslaved myself into having lustful thoughts and
what ungodly things I could do to her body."

Whoa. That's some kind of an honest exposition

"So what's the problem really? Is it because she's 'gone gone' or is
it because the wood you get every morning?"

"No. It's because I can't stop thinking of her."

Oh. My my.

The biggest downside of not having your squeeze beside you in the
morning is having to deal with the fact that there is no receptacle to
help you relieve that overwhelming emotion at a time when you needed
it the most. You wake up and there's no one there. Could it any be
more tragic?

Such tragedies have befallen on notable people before and no one
survives unscathed; Sisa losing her boys, Britney losing her head,
Firecrotch LiLo (intentionally) losing her panties. Before you know
it, you'll be going bonkers, attacking a car with an umbrella and
setting the world afire. Losing something isn't just healthy.

"From what I've heard Tanduay does offer instant remedy."

"You sure with that dude?"

"Hell yeah. I'm master shaman as hell."

Now that that day is fast approaching I beg you Lord rid us of this
plague that has infected the humanity as fast as you can say 'cum'.
Isn't this supposed to be a cue for a national issue we could talk
over lunch breaks like the state of Kris Aquino's vagina or PNOY's latest
foray on pressing concerns like finding him a first lady? Wait. Never
mind.

Good thing I'm only just playing Quit Playing Games (i know, shoot me now) for no other
reasons than 90's nostalgia and nothing else. Honest lie truth.
Really.

Wait. Where's the replay stop button again?

This Ain't About my Abs

For a year that actually found praise for the new definition of “guido” and actually consider a reality show of dirty Italians as one of the greatest sociocultural experiment of our modern times, does it say a lot of what we’ve come into as humans? ets put t this way, I might even put “the abs” between my name now. I don’t have abdominals but I digress.

I might as well shove it into people’s faces now - something else, not the abs.

It’s one of those moments wherein you just snap and see what you ought to have seen for the longest time. Yes, I think I have been just holding on to certain things a tad too long now, hoping things would change, people would change and that they would be perceptive as what I am to them. Guess I was wrong yet again. Each time I checked, I only got disappointed.

Swimming to the same ocean over and over and eager to see a curb in the wrongful nature on certain fishes, murky waters, and fishes from murky waters, I was so hopeful I crossed my fingers for the nth time only to realize, as that old adage goes, “you can take a guppies from the mud but…” I should’ve just raised the middle finger instead.

Maybe I was just too hopeful… too optimistic… that people would just get over themselves and actually try to be supportive of their friend that had nothing but good intentions, supporting them in all their interests and, well, maybe giving them the occasional knocks on the head… And that people should say or imply whether you didn’t have a chance to begin with and not make us think otherwise. Not everyone can be Sookie when they’re more of a Jason… And maybe the buffoons did try to run the show and I get it. We can’t all be Smarty’s and Brainda’s because that would make us all equals and that’s just wrong… but for buffoons to actually think they’re better than everyone else when they’re not, that’s just godawful (I’m not talking about Survivor Nicaragua) because at the end of the day, we all know who is the loser. And I don't want them to forget that. Just keeping the rightful order of things, suckers.

I have been too patient for so long that I forgot sucking it up and holding it in would be just too boring to any producer. What would the Jersey crew do, right? Blow up. Rage. Fist pump. Or in my case, call it out to the world.
Think guido and try not to be Zuckerberg, i remind myself, no matter how some people claim that the first 10 minutes of the Aaron Sorkin adaptation paralleled to how big of a dick I was. (Cause célèbre blog anyone? But that’s another story.)

But then again maybe I was never guido. Maybe I just liked the thought of being one. Maybe I just liked the entertaining the idea of pulling off things a sane and normal person would have to do a facepalm to in the morning, during a hangover. Or maybe humanity is at an all time low. Whatever it is, if there’s one thing that I’m really sure of, it’s that Zuckerberg and I, big dicks that we are, we don’t have abs.