Junk Salad

Terribly lacking of better things to say I feel I must terminate April’s havoc with yet another mindless exercise in recycling. Recycling forgotten old entries, that is.

So be it that May sow better things. Meanwhile, crunch on these short junks from the past.

satan doesn't own a freezer
Created on: Dec 30 2005 @ 11:58 AM
not that i'm giving up, but trying to achieve a fun, shitless chat online is like rummaging around hell in an attempt to find an ice cube. yep, that's me. grand patron of skepticism.



the law of natural ejection
Created on: Jan 01 2006 @ 07:02 AM
wouldn't it be fun if someone asks "how was your new year?" and you reply "i have had fun time disposing of the bodies of people who annoyed me last year" matter-of-factly?

if they start running and shrieking towards the opposite direction you know you have eliminated a bore. if they give you discount coupons to rent american psycho and hannibal you know it's a start of a beautiful friendship.



curve your enthusiasm
Created on: Dec 30 2005 @ 09:27 AM
exciting conversations online abound. consider the thrilling one i just had.

chatter: are you gay, straight, bi?
me: are you nuts?

silence. glacial silence.

it's safe to assume i can kiss the possibility of friendship goodbye.


venus is from hell
Created on: Dec 30 2005 @ 09:33 AM
women are desperately seeking for love. then they want brad pitt.


are you retarded?
Created on: Dec 30 2005 @ 11:42 AM
little did i know that the earlier entry on annoying conversation idler such as "are you straight, gay, bi?" would incite amused reactions from people. it only shows how rampant such situation is online. in the interest of unsolicited public service i am compiling a list of possible retorts to such question. when asked, you're armed with a deadpan ammunition.

annoying chatter: are you straight, gay, bi?
you:

• i have genital warts/ebola.
• i'm a mormon.
• i'd be glad to answer that but i fear your head will burst.
• is your mom a lesbo?
• wanna see close up shots of hemorrhoids?
  
• i'm positive for hepatitis/chlamydia/siphyllis/gonnorhea.
• if i answer THAT will you buy avon products from me?
• it is against my religious and moral principles to answer retarded inquiries.
• *quote something from soddom and gommorah*
• i know voodoo.
• this is the fbi online surveillance task force and we're tracking your IP address.
• do you have insurance yet? wanna buy a plan?
• so! what's your view on cannibalism?
• incest is a fascinating subject, isn't it?
• let me describe my prostate examination to you.
  
• can you be my downline?
• have you found Jesus yet?
  

naturally you can bet your rump the conversation will screech into a grinding halt. which is swell, knowing you got rid of one shallow hormone-crazed chatter.

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The Barbra Non-Fan Club

Sacred shit! I failed! I am beyond comfort! How could I be so heedless and sink below THE hollowed standards? I am ruined! Julia Phillips' book You'll Never Eat Lunch in This Town Again keep on flashing like a nuclear leak blinker in my head! (Yeah, even this melodramatic burst is my desperate, pathetic stab at keeping up to feel adequate.) It's a friday night and instead of gallivanting outside having mindless sex and getting my liver mummified with tequila shots I chose what Karen Carpenter would do: play solitaire. While listening to ABBA. I'm kidding! I'd rather hit my gonads with a steel mallet than get my life's decisions done by Karen Carpenter! Truth is I can't listen to a Carpenters song without nursing homicidal thoughts.

You see I have a megalomaniac's ego. Despite glaring evidences I persist on a misguided belief that I am never in lack of self-confidence. This very trait advances my easily-bored-i-couldn't-give-a-flying-fig air which naturally irks cutey-pahootey snots out there. So imagine my seismic shock when confronted with the very proof that yes, I am an inadequate retard.

I was rummaging through shelves of magazines at home and for some sick cosmic joke the forgotten old issue of Tina Brown's defunct Talk Magazine found its way into my (now) outraged hands.

The story that blew a huge splinter in my self esteem : Are You Gay Enough?

In what was touted to be “fresh voice in American conversations” the article outline the preferred and ideal for modern manhood among contemporary women: Just Gay Enough. Meaning the guy should possess all the standard masculine attributes and aspirations but wouldn't wince wearing a salmon tinted cashmere shirt. This article preceded the bizarre demographic-constructing insanity called metrosexual so shut your trap and let my drivel roll on.

Given the daunting standards of the article, I can safely assume and displeased to report that I am not gay enough! What? Me? Not Gay Enough To Make Women Throw Caution Out The Window And Fornicate With Me Like It's The Last Hour Before The Ozone Completely Snaps, Backstreet Boys Release Another Album Or Apocalypse Hits Whichever Comes First?! The writer must have inhaled contraband.

Anyway, this got me into thinking. Maybe it is true.

Many gay people, especially bloggers and guys4men members detest me for self-slapping that dirty word 'bisexual' into my blog. This automatically disqualifies me in the taxonomy of human sexuality namely male, female, lesbians, Michael Jackson and The Rock. If I am to consider the bitching and moaning of true blue gays whenever the B word is sidled in a conversation I must as well be a polygamous Mormon in terms of hypocrisy. Which gives a riotous new dimension to the phrase “Bi now, gay later.”

I'm getting sidetracked.

What I'm trying to hiccup about is I am not gay enough because:

• 01. I can't stand Barbra Streissand. Like listening to The Carpenters/ABBA/Barry Mannilow, Ms. Prince Of Tides ignites my dormant Jack The Ripper to surface. I made a faux pas on this over dinner hosted by a flamboyant friend. Talk shifted to Streissand and a wiseass guest tried to fish out swooning opinions on Ms. B from me. Lubricated by bubbly white wine, I unblinkingly replied “I'd rather gargle Gillettes!” Deathly silence fell like a guillotine and a straight buddy snickered, and in doing so shared my fate as official persona non grata in the host's dining room for life.

• O2.The color pink makes me gag and musicals make my ingrown nails throb.

• 03. Male Armpits disgusts me but a woman's smooth underarms make me imagine rocky road-flavored Popsicles.

• 04. I have a nonexistent gaydar. During a client photo shoot some hags' tongues were twirling like a dutch windmill over the supposed homoerotic trysts of Piolo Pascual and Sam Milby and I matter-of-factly asked “Is Piolo really gay?” to which a loud queen snapped at me: “Ha?!! Ikaw na lang hindi nakasex ni Piolo?! (What? You're the only guy Piolo hadn't had sex with?).”

• 05. Women very much turns me on and I get turgid looking at pictures of Eva Green, Emanuele Beart, Sophie Marceau, Monica Belluci and Mayumi Cabrera, a proposition that sends shudders of revulsion up the spines of my gay friend.

I can go on and on in what you snots may call a Denial Spree but it's almost three in the morning. I will continue the list if the mood suits me. Meanwhile I need to hit the sack. However, negative nellies, you have ammunitions to discredit me. Four words:

Marcus Shekenberg.

Travis Wade.

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The Scourge Of April

Unhappiness seems to have polluted April abundantly, farther than it intended to wreak, I must add. T.S. Eliot, in Wasteland, incriminated April to be the cruelest month and given all the tales of despair, personal and otherwise, I am prone to agree with him. People I know in real life (and what I gathered among online friends) confess to moments of despondency. A young poet drowns misery in temporary escapism of alcohol, another one braces for untidy anguish of marriage annulment with nobility and quiet misery. Two other friends have had brushes with eviction and the same threat dangles above the head of another acquaintance. Everywhere I look I see sadness looming, loyally waiting for a prospect to sink in. Yet sadness overlooked humanity's deep reserves of tenacity. Refusing defeat we try and dismiss its presence, move on with a brave face. Inside, in silent hopefulness, we mumble the unspoken prayer that we will outwit its relentless pursuit. We quicken our strides and dissolve into anonymity in the hurried pace of the evening crowd.

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Drought

Dear E,

Drought arrived without preamble. It came out of nowhere, an intruder puncturing the stillness of things with cunning and stealth of a kingfisher that plunge upon the lake, burning with malice and hunger.

It caught me unaware. My thoughts reeled, my composure scattered in every direction like yellowed leaves being plucked by fury of unsympathetic north winds. Blankness soaked my waking hours and I tally every dissolving minute into restless anticipations of midnight when tiredness and emptiness finally submit to slow gravity of sleep.

April has almost left me speechless. Pages I need to fill out remain empty and I have seem to have lost my grip and self-assured reins on creativity. Even my freewill remain motionless like a dulled heart that seemed to have given up, forgetting even to dream.

Storms abound and voids outline the hours like constellations looking for proper orbits to occupy. This is when I miss you the most and your perpetual absence that scrapes craters in my core. I can't help but ask: Are you thinking of me in equal frequency the way I do about you?

This cheerless state of affairs I’ve sinked in this month defies description. I wish I can just walk into your kitchen, poke my nose inside cupboards, rummage for something delicious to perk my spirits with, or, simply sit beside you watching reruns and breathe freely.

We both know this is mere wistfulness on my part. The distance bisecting us is not simply geography. We have drifted into dissimilar lives and only faint voices of each other occasionally surface to remind us of those midnight whispers, bedtime geometries, vocabularies of endearments populating a language that is entirely our own.

When deep reveries of you touch my vacant stares a smile would sprout in my mind and warmth would permeate my saddened self. I would harken back to Christmas morning eight years ago. I remember it well like the full wakefulness of noontime: I stirred from sleep and beheld sunrise bathing your face in luminous glow. I marveled at the ghostly trellis of shadows your long lashes have conceived, brushed like delicate calligraphies in protrusions of your closed eyelids. It was a lovely moment. I think my heart skipped a beat and I kept that splendid memory private, unspoken of, even to you.

Nowadays I am struggling to make every single day mean something but circumstances are less compassionate. Yet I forge on, floating, kicking my feet below the water in stubborn gasps for endurance. I sometimes slide into defeat and skepticism but my irrepressible determination always swerve back into blurry glints of optimism. I sometimes wish I’d plod on easy streets and live an easy life, but that would do me more harm than good.So I persist, despite of inescapable times of momentary weakness.

However, there are afternoons when I felt like I am standing in a hall filled with junk drawers spilling over with overlapping choruses of remorse, exasperation and guilt that would pour out and scatter on the floor. Again, in a time like this, I would think of you. Your giggles. Your mixed tape masterpieces. The way you would ignite a room into sudden explosion of buoyancy just by flashing a smile.

Beloved E, I wish I have the patience to absorb your relentless positivism, especially during trying times when horizons never cease to alternate between blue and grey. But of late, my attempts and determination are constantly assaulted, eroded, and nothing seems to help. Even silence draws me more into pensiveness than clarity.

When evening arrives I feel like one of those crumpled widows, who after a love is gone, sit in porches, behold the infinite sky, drink in the ecstasy of distant years and whisper:

“I used to be fine, I used to be beautiful.”


Remembering you
in ways words cannot substitute,
Loudcloud

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You, Assassin

Irrespective of how successful, how uncomplicated your life is, a certain restlessness arrive in tiptoes and when an opportunity presents, shoots up shudders of dread and doubt into the very nucleus of your deepest, most secret insecurity.

The list would reel in your mind in multiple shadows of panic, regret and loss:

What if you let true love pass you by? What if you didn't recognize it smiling warmly in the laundromat, cordial in the hallway, indecisive among the pile of lettuce in the grocery, staring far and lost in thoughts in the airport lounge, approachable in the frenzied food court, because you are blinded by the pursuit and fail noticing it when it's staring right back at you?

What if all these years you misconstrued the true one with convenient substitutes just because the substitutes were around at the precise moment of your most yearning hunger?

What if you've had it in your hands but were too foolish to honor its presence because even if you do your kisses were empty and you embrace while wishing your arms were longer? When you endure tepid conversations over a cosy dinner while your eyes dart from the cutlery to the doorway in anticipation of a dashing trade up to walk in?

You see this is a dilemma I suspect happens to all but have refused admitting to. You fall into clutches of tenderness with same simplicity as unraveled leaves drifting in the gentle hum of summer breeze. It is an annoying habit, a compulsion, like a noble, earnest pup too enthusiastic to beget affections.

You would be inching in crowded trains, and, emerging from a reverie, spot someone. Waves of warmth for that person would kick in like violent surge of waves on the torso of thoughtless shoreline rock. You would begin to roll the reels of probabilities in your mind and they become vivid images of dancing, selfishly choreographed in your head: what would it be like to have meaningful conversations with this person? If you run out of conversations would silly ones do and still not lose a beat?

Is this recognizable? You sit in a bus, overwhelmed by timidity, and censor that strong inclination to spark a conversation. You sense a strong connection with the one next to you and you shift restlessly because even the most innocent brush of skin wires your consciousness with shivers of electricity. You sense that the object of your enraptured attention is furtively waiting for blinking signals like a vagrant fisherman would for a lighthouse on moonless midnights. But you allow logic to override your instinct with fabricated excuses of personal space and the right to be left alone. You begin to nullify the rising billow of feelings by flashing scorecards of impossible requisites and ideals.

So you sit there, basking in the fierce gush of warmth and nip its germinating bud before you make a fool out of yourself. You get off the corner of your stop, cast one glance backward, and mourn.

You walk on, hollow, consoled with the familiarity of convenient substitutes.

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Silence Among Other Things Crowding The Days

Dear E,

Exhaling in relief these days is nothing short of picking with chopsticks the beads of pearls swimming in a bowl of grease.

In times like this your lovely face floats from my memory and I think of you as you sleep warmly pillowed in the arms of another love while I toss and turn like paper boat quavering in brutal tides of a rocky stream.

I cannot even begin to flesh out the cocktail of frustration, despair, disappointment, betrayal and letdown crowding my professional and personal life these past few months. There is, however, the soundless ache, a dimly-lit corner I inhabit in moments of meaninglessness.

Silence.

Silence is a fate worse than wearing strings of misery, a necklace of grief. It is more vicious than a stab in the gut, wounding and leaving without a footstep. Silence is blindness in another guise that walks around in a foreign name. It is easy to weather furious cyclones of angry yells but silence is altogether a deceptive terrain to navigate. It is always pregnant with unsolicited mirages. It is an unforgiving mirror in which we discover our concealed fears. It is terrifying, menacing, a province we have no clout over.

How do you truly cope with silence? How would you gather your thoughts in a place shivering with soundless tremors of self doubts, rage, and hopelessness? Is it why we flee towards superficial, noisy nightspots? To drown the howls of our self-defeating selves?

What else can I say to you now except “It’s beyond difficult these days?” The more I ponder on life the more I become ever more nostalgic of the plainness of my childhood. Oftentimes I catch myself resenting the curse of adulthood, the trappings of indebtedness swimming alongside it's very nature. I begrudge being responsible for the sake of those who rely on you for unfaltering decisions and directions. I get weary of being a man whose reason to desert the comforts of bed in the morning is a strong sense of obligation. And for what? If there is a prize being handed out for perseverance and courage, then I'd hate to be pushy but I want to have my hands on it now.

On clear summer afternoons (like what we had today) I didn’t see forever like a song lyric would go. I saw glimmers of my own inadequacy laced with a nasty sneer of uncertainty dressing up for a field day. I am not giving up, however. You, of all people, are aware of my persistent nature and it is difficult to convince me out when my resolve is wedged firmly into a certain dream. Forgive me if I sound less and less optmistic. I did not write you to uncork a river of complaints. I did not write with intent of flooding your neatly-organized life with details of my personal woes. I am writing because maybe, just maybe, if I commit these thoughts into words they wouldn’t sound so bad after all. Only then I can exhale. Only then I can shrug my shoulder, and anticipate another sunrise with prayer and vigilance for an intangible smile to punctuate this seemingly messy day.

Humorless and weary, Loudcloud

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Blunders

Best intentions, no matter how you undertake to have favorable endings, are prone to the cruelty of unwanted disasters. It would be easy to slide towards self-righteous protests of innocence, especially if the blame resides outside your control, but that would still be suspect. I wouldn’t make any excuses. I wouldn’t assert the fact that I have misplaced my confidence based on repeated assurances of people I thought wouldn’t let me down. The sad affair certainly now adds a resonant learning dimension to that age-old expression that if you want to get things done right you have to do it yourself. Too late; it happened: the unthinkable. What was planned to be an evening of fun got assailed by stress, embarrassments, frustrations, disappointments and that catastrophic end of having to take the blame regardless of situations I didn’t anticipate. I take responsibility and own up to the misfortune that ensued.

This is quite vague for those who are not privy to the event but let me say this in all sincerity: I am truly, regrettably sorry for the miscommunication. I am sorry for having to mire the credibility of the one person who deserves to be happy that night yet ended up in a very discomforting spot. I am sorry that I have to ruin the mood for all concerned. I am sorry that I have failed on this. More than assigning blames or demanding an accounting for all the trouble I am kicking myself. Harder.

There is nothing I can possibly say to make up for the sour episode. I am not going to utter a defense. I am asking for earnest apology.

And it is my fondest optimism that in a better time you’d all accept it.

~~~

Also, to everyone leaving a comment here, I'm sorry things are very tough at work and I don't have that much luxury of time to respond or blog. I'll be back in full blogger mode soon.

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Breathing. Barely Blogging

Scoured the exotic books and magazines section of Chatochak and survived its dense, labyrinthine stalls. And that's the short of it. (I'll probably write about all the hilarious messed adventures.) So, yes, misterhubs, I am still alive but barely blogging. I was busy with work. In another corner of the earth. In my haste because of trip details fuckups I never really had the chance to blog or inform people except X that I was exiting Manila. It was so hot. And I just didn't mean the spicy food and the weather. Hormone-crazed dorks, wipe out that nasty grin off your face.

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Risen

This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.

- PSALMS 118:23


Jesus Christ is risen!
Happy Easter Everyone!

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Summer Sparks, Springtime Simmers

Unpredicted things happen, but no wisdom imaginable could have possibly equipped me to weather your easy charms. How did it happen? Not long ago you’d merit a casual shrug or a skilled detachment from me: You are way out of my league and I distrust fairytales and Hollywood endings. Now, this... How simple, surprising even, that it only took us a casual drink to cast all creeds of self-preservation and send them reeling into a wild tailspin. I am trying to sober up from that laughter-laced moment when we discarded our respective cares and flung open the doors to our well-guarded vulnerabilities. I am not laying the blame entirely up to myself: You have muddled up the precise mechanisms of logic, and, in a disarming way, seized my attention into that of ripe interest. I was enraptured. You lobbed my misjudgments. You made me absorb the kind of depth and substance I have miscalculated to be not dwelling beneath your coy giggles, your bright eyes, your lovely face. The more I seek suitable explanations to justify my confusion the more I wanted to lock out the cautious howls of reason. There are a hundred raison d'êtres waiting to take place as to how we shouldn’t encourage this thriving closeness. But the more I inch them out towards the edges of my mind, all the more they dodge my grasp and quiver into lucid scenes of familial tales and ecstatic anticipations of flights that streamed out your intoxicated laughter. I had intended to rhapsodize these things through writing, but suddenly, language fails me. It is as if for the first time I do not wield supremacy over words. It is as if they refuse to be committed into awkward phrasings. It is as if they resent being fossilized in clumsy shells of fumbling declaratives that speak no honor for that genial connection. So I struggle. I struggle because I would like to make it tangible. That I hadn’t just imagined it, that I hadn’t slide into the clutches of illusory wistfulness. I so desired for it to be palpable, something I can sense like the brutal hiss and simmering of summer on the pavement. I would like to revel in it for a few breaths before I bundle and set it aside like old letters and creased photographs to be forgotten in old shoeboxes or buried under bedposts, attics or drawers. There, it would noiselessly wait for yet-to-come spring cleanings to be rediscovered, to be retrieved once more, with all the ascribed sweet melancholia attached to their memory. Like the awakening of rivers in springtime, it would flood back like forgotten lives, like a wistful smile that accompany remembrances. How can I ever tell you that on that I am still struggling as I write this? I continue to struggle because it’s inconceivable to bottle up your smiles, to preserve them like sweetened pickles for future consumption. I struggle because all these unguarded moments are uncertain, transitory, like the rhythm of our breathing as we toast newfound discoveries about ourselves. I struggle because I may not be able to faithfully reproduce our words as they disappeared into the din of the bar’s screamed conversations, raucous laughter and those sad sappy songs escaping the poundings of the live band onstage. It was a humid Wednesday and the smug calmness of summer night was upon us. But inside me, looking at you, it’s the most temperate of springtime. Inside, I’m weightless, soaring past the now fading blinks of the city’s lamp lights. Inside, I’m lost. Lost, but dancing.

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The Good, The Badge & The Ugly (The Typo, That Is)

For those who want to display the TBAC badges in their sidebar, feel free to download the size-adjusted logos after the jump. Thanks muchly for supporting the blog awards challenge! (P.S. the ad should spell blogosphere not blogospher. Ugh. You get the gist, though :-) I'll update the jpeg ad later.)

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Pen & Play

The Blog Awards Challenge is a blog competition combining literary skills, interactivity and peer polling. The Blog Awards Challenge is bi-weekly theme-based writing event for everyone in the blogosphere. A challenge is posted in the site every two weeks. Bloggers who wish to compete will write about the theme and post the entry in their respective blogs. A panel of regular and revolving set of guest judges will select the ten best entries out of the submissions. The ten finalists will be posted in the Blog Awards Challenge website and is open for polling by readers.

The first challenge THEME will be posted on April 13, 2008 (Sunday). However, before that exciting day comes, we want you, dear bloggers, to help us create a buzz by writing about this newest delight to grace the blogosphere.

Write a post that helps promote this site. No limit of words. Write anything you want, well, positively. The only requirement is to link back to this page, theblogawardchallenge.com, using the keywords "The Blog Awards Challenge". You may also download and use the promo jpegs on this site.

Once you have your post ready and published, please tell us by leaving a comment.

Since we so much value your help, on April 12, 2008 (a day before the posting of the first challenge), we will be giving out prizes to the lucky few who have participated in the promotion. A winner will be selected in a random drawing and will receive an iPod Shuffle. Books will be given to two runners-up. Titles of the books will be posted soon. The first runner-up will get the chance to select the book he/she wants. Automatically, the book remaining goes to the 2nd runner-up.

Winners will be posted immediately and be contacted through email for sending details.

Click for details.

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Push That Digital Pencil

The Blog Award Challenge.

Win books and an ipod.

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Lapses

Updating a blog just for the sake of updating a blog really means, no, I'm not decomposing unloved and unmourned. The past seven weeks have tremendously overwhelmed me despite my most steadfast optimism and stubborn trust in the basic goodness of other people. I do not know where this week will lead us. It's grim, uncertain and the only thing that keeps me persisting is blind faith.On a more personal note there are a couple of expectations I need to make good of, which, in the flurry of flying shits at work, got neglected. Job priorities took precedence and my personal life's credibility slid.Professional life has consistently canceled my personal pursuits out. I'm beat, weary, but not giving up quite yet. Another day, another shot at optimism.

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Scattered

Eagle-eyed voyeurs of this blog have probably noticed by now that I have been tweaking the template mainly because my head is scrambled. I am currently floating someplace between anticipation, hopefulness, wistfulness, and that seductive blueness which is two miserable steps from self-absorbed depression.

So much about clarity. Allow me to be vague for now. I will write something sensible when I finally get a grip of coherence.

~ ~ ~

Dear N,

Remember third year, pre-internship midterm exams? Remember how I have lost all the will to persist on a misguided belief that medicine is the path for me? How, in that unexpected breath of gentleness, you brushed aside my unfounded fears and led me into the greatest revelation of my life: I did paramedical studies to please my Pop and shifted to Liberal Arts to please myself. Remember how, in those grey moments of indecisiveness, you made me realize that I am capable of recognizing that faint, warm feeling?

I cannot exactly put a finger on how or where we drifted; all of those overwhelming moments got diluted by our respective priorities. All I knew is we had it once, we had it great, and now looking back all that's left of us are a handful of anecdotes, a boxful of letters, three near collisions with the possibility of spending adulthood together and how can i forget, endless streams of laughter. Nowadays we are reduced to a smile creeping up our faces when thoughts of the aforementioned intrude into memory.

It stung like hell. I know it did. That I am not worth more than a flashy car. Since then I have made a promise: I will not spite our great moments by aspiring for a flashier car just to prove you wrong; that what you did was a mistake.

My dreams are shallow these days. I drowned myself with work and forgot all about owning something with no backseat, something impractical, something less homey. I perished—and still avoid—all thoughts of owning something suitable for PTA meetings or junior league weekend soccer practice.

Because I'd remember. Because it will only amplify the degree of my loss.

Yours, LC, wishing you favorable weathers on your trips to the pediatrician.

[song removed. will be restored when i finally figure out this widget mess]

~ ~ ~

I have deleted the awkward fiction and posted mediocre attempts at poetry.

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If I Were Kris

March twenty three two thousand and six at about four minutes past ten I wrote this lampoon in another blog which I cannot resist recycling here. Kris Aquino fans, put your machetes aside. Please.

Omigosh! What is wrong with [name of site] ba?!! I cannot for the life of me understand this site ha! So full of dyologs and baho-looking people they cannot type correct sentences pa!!! Kadiri kaya this site and if it were up to me dapat we eliminate na people with low IQ no! Dapat meron second genetic cleansing initiative tapos we make una into the gas chambers those who type journal entries like as if nagtatype ng cellphone txt to make tago the fact that they cannot spell to save their souls no! Bah! As if we don't know better! How pathetic some ignorant folks can be! Hayyyy! How sad!

I am not bitching, FYI lang ha. It just annoys me that people don't respect na nga good manners and right conduct so bastos pa their words! Like they made aral in some kanto in Payatas or some remote Mangyan rural town no! Yuck to the hilt talaga! My God, if ganito, we shall forever remain a third world! Not good for my image kaya to be dwelling in a country worse than Botswana no! We can only blame our corrupt educational system and the fact that there are so dami pobre people in this country they can't afford to buy na nga proper education and nutrition and feed Promil to their kids into being summa cum laude they make anak pa like rabbits! Helloooooooooo, people! Pa li-gate kaya or vasectomy or use Frenzy no! Or eat more papaya para to lower down the libido level!!! Dagdag pa our bulok teachers who dress like they are spokespersons of the salvation army!!! Buti na lang I can afford to prance around in Gucci and Prada! Kaya die na lang sila sa inggit! Ahihihihihi!!!!!

And what's ba with all these [name of site] people na pa-angst ha! They try and make everything so deep and, like, so philosphical as if we won't grasp their artistic thought patterns. Helloooooo! I made aral in the Assumption kaya! We have so many liberal arts and we are so in touch with the common people by making eat fishball like them, you know for social understanding and world peace! Hay naku, so hirap talaga in the third world! If you don't eat kanto food people will make accuse you of being elitist! Hulloooooo! I can be down-to-earth like an ordinary Maria rin kaya! I can pull it off by wearing (ugh!) Bench!!!!! Di ba so masa kaya yun! Further proof, I endorsed the crappy-beyond-belief Leonardo Bags kaya!!!! Of course Im not mentioning it in my TV show that I gagged and retched for hours after shooting the blasted commercial but they paid me bazillion pesos, so, carry na yun! I am so well compensated I can now afford the Python Prince Bag from Louis Vuitton and Three custom-made Birkin bags from Hermes! Hihihihi! Iba talaga pag wise and bankable endorser! Kahit San-San mo tingnan, winner pa ren!!!!

Ay wait muna, I am digressing kaya! Ahihihihi!

So yun di ba, I was saying how kadiri kaya some people here in [name of site]!!!! The kajologan is on an all-time high! So dami the bobo people who have no purpose but fish for sex! Like they are libog incarnate! Helloooo! Kadiri kaya! Why not make saboy asido na lang kaya into your organs para make tanggal the kati than inflict your kahornihan in public no! I used to suffer dry spells but thankfully andito na si James so I won't have to be desperate and post here in [name of site] my cellphone number for a quickie!!! Hekhekhekhek! Ayyyyy I am so blushing crimson na! Tama na nga the balahura talk and face the pressing issues of [name of site]!!!!

I am making tawag to all idiotic [name of site]ers to be conscientious online citizens kaya! How are we going to achieve a decent community? Simple lang noh, if you just crack your thick skull and let some fresh intelligence waft through you're mildewed brains! So make listen and pay attention! I am not making ulit these tips if you act tanga like my P.A. My God, she's so tanga she thinks Juicy Couture ay gawa ng Tang! Grabeh! I'm thinking na nga of firing her but she's the only one who is willing to be enslaved for a dismal salary so I'm making tiis na lang with her! Pero talaga there are days when I wanna just throw my Blahniks at her!

Going back to [name of site], please lang no! Ayaw ni Papa Jesus your bastos pictures and postings! And what ba with all these vulgar nicknames?!!! Lalabasan_na_ako, Tayong_tayo, Hard_and_ready!!! My gosh! So indecent ha!!!!! So Baboy talaga some people! many are soliciting pa for sex trips and orgies!!! Then there are those who post explicit sex stories! Very perverted sha, My God! Is there no end to the Gommorah acts here in [name of site]?!!!! Papa Jesus will be so angry you'll be turned into pillars of salt, I swear!!!!!

Tama na this kabaliwan! Stop na the insanity!

I am so sick of this na! I'm deleting na my account! For Good!

My gosh! I am so shuddering at the thought of being here! Sheeeeetttt, what will my fashionista friends think if they find out?! My spine is shivering like hell thinking about it!

If I am made buking I will deny it no! I'll just say it's some vicious toad named LoudCloud who has been spoofing me kaya!

They will believe me, I am sure like hell of it!!!! Otherwise, If I am not credible I won't be able to convince women to use Pantene shampoo no! Kaya to those inggetera na walang magawa, You're just jealous. I only have one word for you:

Ahihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihihi!

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I’d Explain But Your Idle Skull Would Explode

Cute Beyond Belief People here’s a friendly disclaimer: If you are expecting politeness get the Fuck off my blog!

Ok, that wasn’t exactly Mary Poppins style but you get my drift.The trigger? “Nosebleed”

Let me register my absolute disdain towards people who think it is my duty to simplify myself so they would get what I'm usually rambling about. I have whined about this in the past and at risk of redundancy let me rant over the fact that I have no allocated patience for dweebs whose mental circuits begin to explode upon seeing a word exceeding one syllable.

For one, mediocrity bores me to bits. Secondly, I find it annoying that very lazy twats cite the Least Common Denominator Mentality to conceal their glaring lack of effort at self-improvement. Here’s a hint: open a freaking thesaurus and no, it's not a prehistoric animal.

Don't make me apologize for your complacency.

Also, don't give me that look. It is not my fucking obligation to be sensitive towards your touchy-feely idleness. You should have read enough to discover additional words or consulted trusty Webster to learn words and do the universe a great service by not inflicting the rest of the free world of your blatant ignorance. Your lack of resolve to be word-savvy isn't due to the fact that others are using “big words.” It's because you have decided to become allergic to anything that has more than three syllables. Fucking grow up. And oh, don't give me the shitty “concern” that “most people might not understand.”

Weird. Who are most people? And why would I seek to be understood when I have repeatedly wailed even to those who refuse to listen that I am an altar boy in the house of chaos? Not only am I fascinated with irony and contradictions but I find a certain bizarre romance in something I cannot understand. That makes me think. That warps me out of complacency to challenge myself and the limitation of my understanding.

There. I'm raving like a full-blown maniac. The topic I want to ramble about melted from the flares spurting out of my nostrils. I am however aware that I sound like a snooty jerk. So do me a favor. Don't stand there, wringing your hands shiftlessly, puppy-eyed and such.

Go find a fucking dictionary and find out the definition of vicious.

The word probably was invented to define me.

I have no trouble with that, either.

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Cyberbugs

Old entry from an old blog which will once again serve as convenient filler.

Listen closely, gentle [name of website] boys and girls--and pay attention else Uncle LoudCloud smack your soft pink heinies with a snappy ruler!

Don’t get alarmed, Uncle LoudCloud is kidding! He’s not that violent.

There is another very vital issue Uncle LoudCloud wanna discuss. It concerns networking etiquette for dummies, dweebs and dorks. Netiquette to attenuate it accordingly. Uncle Loudcloud, for some time now have experienced (and no doubt, so have you) a few episodes concerning fellow [name of website] citizens. It goes like this: you log in and you're met with five trillion complete strangers awaiting authorization to be your buddy. Naturally the self-centered Narcissist in you is flattered to no end that random strangers actually bothered to add you up. So you check their profile. And get the letdown of your life: majority of these buddies-in-waiting are either bonafide losers or plainly gung-ho megalomania just waiting for a trigger to start open-firing in the neighborhood starbucks. (Now wait a minute, that sounds like a good idea, but don’t try it at home, kids! Seriously!) Before we proceed further let’s identify our suspects:

• 1. the linkslut [linkus maximus] This species calls to mind a frantic bingo player who has way too many cards to dot. He goes on a link spree like a panic-buying fit after it’s announced by your perkily inaccurate weatherman that apocalypse is going to happen in the next three hours. Numbers is what matters for this species. He doesn’t care that he practically has no idea who he linked with as long as he can keep his list growing; that in terms of buddy asset he’s borderline Warren Buffet. What makes this species annoying is that he will do everything including begging, emotional blackmail, or have your pet salamander hostage if you don’t link him up. Since he does the linking of your profile without as much as ‘hello, i added you up/hi can i add you up’ he puts you in a very awkward position: if you add him up because you’re embarrassed to deny him your buddy list will become incubator of mutants; denying his request will instantly make you a snooty asshole; pretending you don’t know he added you up will make you one insensitive clod. Whichever way, you lose. Unless of course the website creates subcategories in the buddy/friends list: “Approved with a grudge,” “added out of guilt,” “i’m actually more embarrassed to deny the buddy aspirant,” “he knows voodoo/he is related to the Corliones AND the Sopranos.”

• 2. the impressionista [flaterrisimus malnourisus] Usually this kind is the slightly higher in the annoyance scale than the linkslut. After he has you in his buddy list he would bother you to no end. He’ll bug you until you start screaming and do random homicidal acts. This is most aggravating. Firstly, you have no idea who this dweeb is, so you’re not a credible authority to give a sincere testimonial of his sanctity or brilliance. Secondly, impression/testimonials stem from familiarity ergo the word testimonial; you have known the subject or have established a tie or acquaintance and anything less than that is shameless flattery or gratuitous fabrication. Well, for some clever citizens, just to have the impressionista shut up, do laconic human reviews like “this dude is cute,” or “cool guy”. Strangely enough nobody wrote “i have no fucking idea who this freak is but my ears are bleeding from constant impression harassment so i cave in and wrote this mindless personality review.” Or maybe “having added this dweeb is my biggest mistake and i live to regret and be haunted of it till the rest of my life.”

• 3. the commentfreak [freakazoidarie commentare] Almost similar to the impressionista in nature but is more cunning and crafty. He would write bad journal entries and declare it a monumental opus. Then he would hound everyone by rabidly soliciting for comments. He would infect the chatroom and send gazillion private messages asking for glowing feedback on his opus. If you happen to write a disapproving comment this species will froth in the mouth and slap you with nicknames that will make the cast of The Osbournes blush. Aside from being touchy-feely this type is highly opinionated and generous with senseless, outrageously hilarious points of view. It is not enough to refute this type with ‘this sucks’. You have to be very creative. Try it Shakespeare style: “You have not much brain as you have earwax!” or “You’re the part of a candle which is better put out.” When that fails say something romantic like “had your mom foreseen you’d turn out to be a vicious retard she should have drank Liquid Sosa to abort you.” The reverse of this type is not the solicitor but the giver of disgracefully side-splitting comments in your entries. He doesn’t have one smidgen, shitty comprehension on what you just wrote but is compelled to leave a comment so you’ll be impressed by his utter cluelessness. This one is forgiven for his candor and entertainment value.
  

• 4. the floodwhore [torrentis extremis] Having this kind around is the torture equivalent of volunteering to have your balls pulled out with rusty, red-hot pliers. He would flood your bulletin board, chatroom or inbox to announce something remotely interesting. This species calls to mind an overeager kindergarten kid raising both hands in a desperate attempt for a bathroom pass. (Usually before he reaches the bathroom it’s too late, thereby forever tarnishing his reputation. Even if he becomes the supreme chancellor of the universe or a United Nations Secretary General, the minute he shows up to the class reunion his classmates faces would gleefully light up and yell: Hey it’s Mr. Pooped Pants!)

• 5. the show-offphrenic [flauntium braggerensia] Usually this type has deep seated inferiority complex being disguised by close up shot of his abs, his speedo stuffed with baby cucumber, or on extreme cases an uncovered crotch. Worse, the picture is lifted from a porn site. [Girls, we do admire the close up shot of cleavages so deep we are reminded of the Panama Canal!] There is nothing wrong with flaunting one’s asset, in fact that gives a lot of people something to co-star with their most mindblowing wet dreams. It would only matter if his/her IQ and personality factor is exceeded by her bust size or his dick length by 35 points.
  

So you see, gentle [name of website] boys and girls, we have identified just a fraction of the annoying species that we coexist with here in this beautiful community of ours. We cannot simply dismiss them—we endure them with a mix of annoyance and amusement. But such is life. Having written this mocking piece I now expect violent reactions and foul oaths from the identified genus. While they howl indignance and hatred and plot for my immediate demise I am rolling my eyeballs and singing Nine Inch Nails songs in my head.

And oh, gentle [name of website] boys and girls, this time bring Uncle LoudCloud a couple shots of Vodka.

Don’t forget the garnish while you’re at it.

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Nuances

Valentines is over and now that dusts of mass hysteria and communal delusions have settled I'll enumerate a few uncharacteristic insinuations of the L word. Forget the violins, time freezing, and all those mush fabricated by Hollywood. I do not subscribe to the tired, saleable blueprint of romance. If I wanted to hurl I would have stocked on Mills & Boons. Yes, I am a cynic but that doesn’t mean I am immune to the L word’s virulence.

Candle lit dinner, driving towards the sunset and blanket of stars and all the dreamy shebang aside, love arrives in different guises. Here are a few I know of.

• 01. A rain soaked Dad bringing his little monster lunch in school.

• 02. Those bleary-eyed people doing silent vigil in hospital waiting rooms.

• 03. The look racing across the face of your pet dog when he sees you approaching home.

• 04. The often unappreciated person who takes troubles cooking for all single friends who have nowhere to go on Christmas, New Year and Valentines Day.

• 05. The silence when blame is appropriate.

• 06. Telling people they stink minus the judgment.

• 07. Camping beside the muted phone in aching hopefulness for it to ring.

• 08. Enormously missing the schoolyard playmate who often makes you cry.

• 09. A wordless, unexpected touch in the face.

• 10. Discarding your stubbornness not because you are made to, it’s because you want to.

• 11. A name populating your waking hours.

• 12. Effervescent letters written longhand.

• 13. Not standing in anyone’s way of happiness.

• 14. Losing your sense of self (the most unpleasant and deepest manifestation, so help us God.)

• 15. Eating lousy scrambled eggs for breakfast just because she whipped it up. For three years. And you hate scrambled eggs. You want them poached.

• 16. Watching reruns snuggly cramped together in the sofa, wisely avoiding a petty fight, just the flicker of the TV and the numbed patters of Saturday evening rain competing with soft steady breathings.

• 17. Rolling over at three o’clock in the morning and finding someone there breathing next to you and you inch closer and drifting back to sleep, content, smiling.

• 18. Discovering more than three ways to iron a linen skirt and equating detergent to pheromones.

• 19. That light tingle, electricity rocketing across your brain when her light kiss touches your upper lip and your heart soar because no one has ever pulled the lightning rod lever up in you before.

• 20. A bunch of fresh flowers next to a tombstone and it’s not All Souls day.

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Imp Patient

Impatience is something I am always trying to contain. I have low tolerance for idiots and I do not suffer stupidity lightly. What’s unnerving about the circumstances is that there are occasions when I end up doing stupid, idiotic things and become the butt of irony.

It would be simplistic to attribute my impatient disposition to the manic pace of my job. “You slack and you sink!” A mentor used to caution me. But I know this is not so. Things conspire to make me even more intolerant these days. Significant projects are hanging in suspended state, my affections wandering in limbo, and to top it off my college ex is in town with her husband and would want to have dinner with me.

Mulling over the invitation splits me two ways. A huge part of me just wants to be gracious and courteous about it and my inner imp just want to manipulate the situation to drive my conceited point.

I’ll figure it out. I’m waiting for her call.

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