This blog. A little situation.

You know, it’s becoming increasingly obvious to me that perhaps someday soon, my family or people close to me will find this blog. I don’t even think this is a remote possibility since my coworkers already did. That’s fine by me. I mean even with all the risk associated with blogging using your real name, I’ve never really understood the entire point of blogging under a pseudonym.

But really, ask me if I still don’t understand it after I’ve been fired from work and I’m at your doorstep on my knees begging you, my readers, to give me money and food items while talking about shit like “providing you years and years of entertainment” and “how you asshole should give me something back.” or after my mom severs all connections with me because she can’t believe her son, who managed to place himself in the upper 5th percentile of the entire country’s elementary graduating class back in 1993, now writes about racism and giving handjobs to Japanese tourists from the back of his car along Roxas Boulevard on his personal website.

No, really, I don’t care. Because seriously, blogging is this corporate slave’s only way of living out his David Stern/Stephen Colbert Fantasy. So yeah, I’d really rather own up and say “Hey this is Mike Villar. Some of you know and sometimes even heavily censure me in your minds for writing retarded posts about breeding racist dogs and how I often get a stiff at funerals on my blog but you know what? Fuck you, because aside from tits and thoughts of getting wasted in a Makati bar with my imaginary best friend, Erik Estrada, this is what occupies my mind ten hours a day.”

Preemptively, I’ve actually told my mom about this site:

Me: “Mama, you know, I have a website and it’s starting to be kind of a big deal on the internet”
Mom: “Wow!  How do I get there?”
Me: “Well first, you need to get on the internet and type an address on a browser.”
Mom: [Confused] “Is that an email address? Well your aunt Emma has an email address, I’m sure she could connect to your internet site. Want me to send it to her?”
Me: [Getting a little frustrated] “No mom, it’s not an email address, it’s called a URL. And no, I don’t think Aunt Emma would appreciate the content of my website, it’s kind of crass and I talk about sex a lot.”
Mom: [Disappointed] “Why would you have a crass website? It’s so not you.”
Me: “Well I intentionally write crassly, it’s just my brand of humor.”
Mom: “What’s so funny about being crass? Is it like Willie Revillame Crass?”

So yeah, my mom doesn’t get this at all. And mom, if you’re reading this, I’m really sorry. But let’s be realistic here, all of this is your fault. Besides, I have a job that pays good money and at least I’m not gay (for the most part)!  And really, isn’t that all you can ask for from a premature son you almost gave up for adoption?

As for my officemates, I’m really more concerned about them than I am about my parents. The worst my parents and the rest of my extended family could do is to, I don’t know, stop loving me (LOL); my officemates can destroy my life by sending my blog’s address to upper management who’ll fire the shit out of me. And we all know this can’t happen since I don’t have any money set aside because of a really small alcohol and drug problem.

So if any of my officemates are reading this, please just try not to tell me. Let’s all pretend that you don’t have an idea that this site even exists and continue to think of me as the guy who’s obviously pretending to talk on his cellphone to look more important in a lame attempt to gain your acceptance and approval, smokes cigarettes every other minute and one time didn’t show up for work for two months only to come back speaking fluent Spanish yelling “What, you haven’t seen a chubby guy without a shirt before? Get back to work you fucking assholes!” Thanks.

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