Since I don't go and casually tell people my date of birth, I don't suppose anyone will greet me here. So Borge happy birthday in advance man. Have too much fun that you'll choke and pass out. You'll come to in exactly five seconds to take another swig at that bottle and smile. You don't look as good as that 18yo guy you once were but hey, you turned out better than you thought. And guess what... you're still alive. Crap, what am I saying,,

Semantic Valentine

“Make love” has become an acceptable phrase among grown-ups. To younger people it’s “make out.” Well, how exactly do you make it? Do you end up with a corporeal, tangible, physical evidence of the process?

When you make potteries, you produce pots, decorative vases or ashtrays. Make a mess out of your life and you create wrinkles and grow gray hair. If making love equally means producing something and that something is an offspring, we must seriously consider colonizing Mars.

Thank heavens there are contraceptives. Inter-planetary travel hasn’t been perfected yet. However, if we must align ourselves with the church, we better be not so thankful.

Anyways, if population growth is not the idea, what is the point of having sex? Is it the ingestion of enough lipstick to clog the esophagus? Is it the inhalation of face powder, enough to cause respiratory failure? Or is it the tedious job of extracting those twin, semi-circle, sturdy set of wires from around the woman’s upper body, and the sliding off of a girdle from around the midsection, which could, if fitted around the neck, cause a serious case of asphyxia? The things a guy has to go through (Face it: You just don’t bump into perfect bodied females and those you see in FHM aren’t real). In retaliation, a guy sprays on enough perfume and deodorant to trigger gustatory allergy, so much so that when the woman kisses him on the cheek, neck, chest, tummy and down some more, she will almost have a gruesome seizure - or at least, a case of suffocation from the resulting inflammation of the tongue.

Aside from the perils (not to mention the sound produced when two sweaty bodies push against each other, which reminds you of toilet noise), what else is there about having sex? Is having sex the same as making love? If the answer is No and that making love is simply it, what are we to do with this critical over-production? (I doubt this presumed abundance, what with all the wars being waged in the name of gender, religion, and politics).

I propose to change the deceptive term “make love” to “develop love.” As in, “C’mon, bhe, let’s develop love.” The former connotes that in a relationship, love is initially absent and that it has to be created by swapping fluids or passion secretions; or, that love is created out of that bestial ritual called mating. On the other hand, “develop love” transforms sex into a process by which emotions are driven just a bit deeper, beyond the surface that mainly consists of a fashion wardrobe and accessories. Mostly fake. Of course, the substitution will take some getting used to.

But, if we were to accept “develop love” in place of “make love,” every time it happens, there must be an increase of concern, devotion, affection, passion … Essentially, the premise demands that an improvement in the relationship must ensue.

Well, we know for a fact that arguments happen. The man usually avoids an argument till it turns into neglect. Then, neglect itself becomes neglected. The woman recognizes the perceived cause of the argument. She acknowledges it inordinately, emotionally, mentally, and most of all, verbally. She hammers it on the man’s head gratuitously. It breaks the man’s head whereby she succeeds in making the mess three times messier. The damage becomes irreversible. The relationship becomes irreparable. The proposed term-shift then becomes inapplicable.

You fcuk because mating has become so casual. You have sex because it’s fun. You make love when you want to go beyond affectionate kissing. The terms are understandable enough, though I find the last one inappropriate. But with Valentine in mind, that should be beside the point. The affair through which two genitals interact does not decide whether a relationship will or will not work, no matter what term you use to describe it. Neither do the gifts that are scattered all over the malls this Valentine. What does is up to you to find out. If you aren’t so inclined, you have no business celebrating the 14th with whomever your unfortunate date may be. Very kindly throw those concert tickets in my direction, and cancel your hotel and restaurant reservations in consideration of the more deserving. As for the rest, have a lovely month. Happy Valentine.
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Originally written in January 2002 | taken from my Essay Portfolio

2009, the implacable approach of

..then it will again be my birthday. How harsh.

I envy those who are able to write almost on a daily basis. After this entry, I do not know when I could visit again. I do drop in more often to check out some entries and huwaw, andaming masisipag dito.

Wishing us all with everything we deserve for 2009. If we don't deserve anything better bahala na. We're not in total control but it helps if we do little somethings about our lives. Being fatalistic has got to be one of the corniest things.

..a little less alcohol, greater control in eating, lower blood pressure, more sex, more friends, new apartment -- 2009, here I come. Cheers.

BTW, who's celebrating the New Year over at MOA? I'm thinking of going there. I'm such a sucker for fireworks.. Then let's play with drinks and fireworks after.

alright i'll buy you

Friends please. Like, real ones. We stop being innocent idealists a couple of months after we leave the school and start looking for our first job so I won’t say I’m looking for people who’d stay stuck through thick and thin, whatever that cliché means. I’m not out to look for lifetime companions although that kind of thing can exist. Friends, please. That’s about it.

I grew up about 400kms north of here, went to a university about 100kms also north of here. The real people I spent so much time with were either contented staying where they were which is an ugly thing, or have left the country thinking they could be happier which is sad. There’s a much bigger world than your hometown but you don’t have to live and work your ass off outside your country to appreciate this vastness. As such, I’ve thrown myself into this metropolis of pickpockets where I lost a cellphone a couple of months ago, where I was cheated my first big purchase with my first pay, where I was ditched by people I called friends because I stopped dating their friend. How much uglier can things get around here?

Was it Brandon in Beverly Hills 90210 who said that it’s in college where you’ll find the people who’ll stick with you through your life? Guess what, Brandon,,, they’re two provinces away (I know I can count on them but let’s get real. How many times a year can you actually hangout with or run to best buds that aren’t physically there?). Or they’re in seclusion in a dimension called Relationship. They feel that they have to be secluded to show they have evolved. That seems to be the notion of maturity these days.

I deserve more fun than this and bleep you if you think this is midlife crisis hahahaha. I’m young and I’d like to think I’m younger than I look, while people around here seem to be growing older faster than they have to. People are getting a bit too serious.

Hangout buddies please, if not friends. People who can hop out on weekends and not say No because they’ve got nothing to spend or are too tired to be out. Or damnit let’s stay in but please it’s a weekend let’s grab some bottles. Lots. People who drink. People who are smart but won’t insist on a smart conversation because that, absolutely, is not necessary on a weekend. People who won’t talk serious unless they have to; just talking with sense isn’t so bad. People who wear cheap old Gap or Old Navy, instead of Armani in exchange of having enough for gas or parking.

Sit back. Take it easy. Drink. And let’s just be kids before we forget how it is. Call me.

Wake Up

You spend 20 years in bed, unconscious, doing basically nothing, where you’ve got absolutely nothing happening for you. That’s a good one-third of your life. Then you die.

An average person spends about six to eight hours in bed sleeping. If he’s heartbroken, only two hours are spent unconscious while the rest is taken over by wallowing. No matter. Most of that is still time wasted. I’m not saying that humans should do without sleeping. You’ll mess up with your endocrine system and deprive yourself of serotonin. In English, you’ll make yourself cranky. I learned this from Scully. Tempers would flare and if nuclear bombs don’t annihilate mankind, we will die in our own rages. It’s only that I believe in staying awake while you can.

It’s 10:30pm right now on a Sunday. You’ve got work tomorrow? So do I. get your MP3 player and with your blaring earphones, walk the streets and stop by at Burger Machine for a longganisa with egg sandwich. Buy pirated DVDs and have a movie marathon. Write. Have sex. Write about it. Text your girlfriend. Blog about it. Surf the net. Meet new people. Then have sex again. Build relationships and destroy those that aren’t healthy for you. Sit in bed drinking while waiting for Chowking to serve breakfast, although they’ve replaced the ham with paper. Visit the red-light district. Text your ex and flirt with her. Learn a difficult song and sing it and just this once let it be you who disturbs the peace of the neighborhood. Do a hundred sit-ups. Go to Starbucks and complain about their Wi-Fi fcuk it it’s supposed to be for free! There’s just too much to do and if we live to be 60, that’s practically throwing 20 years in a vegetable state. Make something happen. Right now. Sleep only when you can’t sustain a vertical position any longer because there’s just too much opportunity for that when that time comes when you aren’t able to wake up.

What time is it? II

My weekends are mine. Nobody has got any business taking ownership of my Saturdays and Sundays. Fridays, even.

I will laugh my teeth out till they fall off, say some crazy and stupid things that I won’t admit to saying afterwards, and shut down my brain circuits. I will talk to everyone even when I’m pissed. I will smile at everyone and don’t take that to mean flirting. I refuse to ruin my non-work days even when that means I gotta sell myself.

If something’s not right, I will neither think nor talk about it on a Saturday. I will hold it off till Sunday. When Sunday comes, it has been forgotten. I will not face it on a weekday either, hell no. It would steal my focus from work. That’s just goddamn unacceptable. It’s enough that I deal with a daily hangover. Weekdays are a bummer so my weekends deserve to be a huge wildfire. I’d like to keep it that way thank you; now move to the side and let me pass.

It’s an hour and a half past Saturday. I shouldn’t even be writing. That’s what time it is and I’m gone. Don’t run after me unless you’re prepared to get ran over. Naaah. Just playing. Inuman na!
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Originally written on 09nov08, 0130hrs | midnight sentiments

What time is it?

"Time is the fire in which we burn..." Dr. Soran, Star Trek: Generations, by Rick Berman
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There are only 24 hours in a day. It’s practically the same throughout the 365 days in the year. Unless you’ve been abducted by aliens or have been altered by extraterrestrial influences, you know you can’t stretch it.

I spend six to eight hours sleeping. It’s when my hyperactive mind rests. It rests not by way of shutting down. It kicks away the rules and let something akin to insanity take its reign. It figures how to spend P130 million because it smells it can happen. It doesn’t matter that the probability of winning in the 6/49 lottery is almost 1 in 14 million, which is roughly the same probability as obtaining 24 heads in succession when flipping a coin. In my life, I've done lottery thrice. The odds of winning is... insane.

I spend about an hour and 15mins trying to wake up, dragging my feet to the bathroom, bathing, getting dressed, and basically making myself battle-ready for another week day. I don’t put on a battle gear but I make sure that my head can take a day’s battering.

I spend 10 hours at work looking for a problem, coming up with a solution, presenting it to the bigger executives and having the solution rejected. It doesn’t always happen but when it does it is phenomenal. I burn my circuits out while doing a million other things (please don’t let me use Multitasking the word is overused and overrated I feel like imploding every time I hear it) like answering a question nobody else attempted to answer as fatasses decompose in office chairs better than mine saying this or that particular solution isn’t good enough. I come too close to spontaneous human combustion every time. Or spontaneous human explosion. I fear for the tenants of PBCom the building just might not be able to take it.

I spend about two hours waiting. I can’t stand waiting but it’s a necessary evil. I wait for a cab amidst the noise and haste, suspended within a cloud of smoke and dust and heat. I wait for the green light as the cab crawls through. I wait in line to get some lunch. I wait for the end of the day itching to be home with my chips and vodka.

I spend about an hour eating. More if I eat breakfast, which I don’t usually do. Sometimes eating isn’t so much as eating. I’d call it ingesting. I go through it because it’s needed. I will skip lunch if it didn’t make me cranky as the afternoon progresses. But I really have to stop eating. It’s still a flat tummy down here but I seriously feel I’m gaining weight.

I spend about two hours trying to clear my head when the day ends and be prepared for another refreshing insanity in dreamland. I read a book, listen to music, hit the shower for a second round, text, write or whatever else under the moon. When I assault the sheets with my weight, I make sure I head straight to dreamland. Being awake for an extended time in bed is such a demon.

There are 24 hours in a day. There isn’t much else that I do, and I’ve got no time for complications.

No Excuses, but with a Disclaimer. Get that.

This does not refer to anyone I or you might know. It's just mental overflow, which you can assume as the product of exorcising my mind. You don't have to relate to the demons.
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There’s no excuse for being an idiot. It isn’t in the kind of milk you had as a baby. I stopped drinking milk even before I realized that I did. It isn’t because of your parents, your teachers, or the schools you went to. It isn’t because of the bad friends you had. It isn’t because you grew up in some remote province where the only TV channels were RPN9 and PTV4. It’s always been your brain. Only you had anything to do with it; unless you’re really sick in the head, in which case I’m not talking to you. Being an idiot is a choice. Being smart is a quest – if you don’t dig it, you’ll always be stuck in the shallows.

There’s no excuse for not eating veggies. These call center ants and the recently promoted yuppies who earn more money than any of their parents saw in their combined lifetimes are too proud of not knowing what saluyot is. I’ll buy the clothes off of you and expose the smut that you are. I am sustained by fast food chains twice daily unless I feel like having breakfast which would make it thrice, but I’ll gladly trade my big burger plus large coke and fries for your mom’s malungay soup. Feed me with talbos ng kamote for a year. You won’t hear me complain. What you have on the table does not speak of how high you are on the professional ladder. I’ll ardently trade fake adobo for ampalaya and know that it isn’t because I take forever in front of an ATM wishing I can withdraw close to what I actually need in the next 15 days. Go on and check your balance both before and after you take money hoping that 5,000 minus 500 is still 5,000.

There’s no excuse for getting someone pregnant, not wanting the baby, but still having it. You have no fcuking right to seriously complain about raising a kid. If you knocked someone up, or if you got knocked up, know that that organism didn’t beg to be conceived. You have to change diapers, stay up at night when he cries, look for someone to watch over him if you can’t and if you don’t find anyone, you better goddamn do it. You could’ve flushed it but chose not to. And when he grows up, know that he doesn’t owe you anything. He survived because it was your responsibility to see him live. If you bring a living creature into the world, he is your responsibility. Not the other way around. If he lives even after you stop seeing to him, he’s done it. You have no right to get paid for it.

There’s no excuse for using your emotions more than your head. Emotions are everything to some people. When they whine and ask for better treatment, they are sh!t. If investing your feelings turns up okay, that’s unjustified luck. If it doesn’t, call it Normal. Expected. Reality. Do not ever pull others around your emotional outbursts. Be aware that they don’t deserve it. It was you who made the move. Have the decency to suffer the consequences of your own sacrifices. No one asked you to make them. No one makes those decisions but ourselves. You chose to jump, don’t talk back even if only to say Sorry – and even more so if by saying it you hope for understanding. There's freakin' no absolution. It’s the pig’s way of imposing on someone. Breathe your stink and shut up.

There’s no excuse for being alive when you ought to be dead. The doctor said my heart might give up if I didn’t change my lifestyle. My organs will fail. I smoke, I drink, I go to fast food chains like I breathe air. And I go to work which has become too unhealthy lately. This job kills me but I make sure that I’m able enough to trudge my way to the office daily not because I like it, but because I can’t find a better one. The hungry bears will take my post and scream in joy about it. I want a better one. I'll become even bigger than what I am. Or die first. If I die tomorrow I will die having done what I promised my innocent self not to do 11 years ago. If I die tomorrow I will die not having done what my mature alter ego wanted me to do. If I die tomorrow I might as well die tonight with my vodka and Cheese Ring. It might very well be just luck that brought me to where I am now despite of my messed up credentials and fierce recklessness but with all boldness I say I serve more purpose than that idiot, uneducated pretender all of us know. No one can assume the privilege to think that I will die. I may be unhealthy and heading towards no particular direction but make way. I’ve got every right in heaven or hell to be here.

I didn't make excuses.
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Originally written on 07oct08, 0257hrs | drunken sentiments