For some reason or another, I have been thinking about marriage these past few days. If you’ve been reading my stuff long enough, you might go ahead and jump into conclusions about this just being a “phase” of some sort. After all, I wrote this almost a year ago.

(And really, is it my fault that the girl I proposed to lied about her job and wasn’t really a flight attendant but a dancer who trades her “services” for canned vegetable outside a clothing store in the middle east? I think not.)

But seriously, marriage is slowly beginning to present itself as a nascent position lately. This, I feel, is largely due to the fact that right now, I have the best girlfriend a guy could ever have. Before my girlfriend and I got together, my original plan was to marry whoever it is I’m dating by the time I turn 31 (preferably someone underage. And with dead parents, or parents who are drug addicts. Or both.)

Lately though, I find myself in a serious bind–or as my recent favorite author Seth Godin would call it: a Dip(or, who knows? Maybe even a cul-de-sac?). This “Dip” that I speak of is the fact that I feel that as if, right now, I have peaked. I am as marry-able as I’m ever going to get.

In fact, forget “peaking” as I think I’ve passed my peak years ago. Right now, my life is on a downward slide that will ultimately end in a mail-to-order bride, annulment, severe alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and fire.

I seriously do not see myself changing for the better in any aspect from here on. Physically? I haven’t engaged myself in anything “physical” for months now (except for those rare instances when I masturbate or try to have sex). The last time I played basketball with my co-workers, I think my left lung collapsed and had an arterial blockage or something.

I think I even gained like 10 pounds this month and I cannot tell you how terrible this makes me feel. A couple of weeks ago, I purchased a pair of size 34 skinny jeans despite the fact that a size 36 would barely fit me. I feel as if I do a significant amount of damage to my intestines every time I try I zip these new jeans up.

BUT, because I have an ego and I want to dress up in whatever clothes Jake Cuenca wears on TV, I will continue to buy jeans 2 sizes smaller than my size even if they do nothing but evoke hysterical laughter from people who see me wearing them and kill me a little by slowly crushing my innards.

Professionally? Let’s be real here, my “I have an awesome job and I get paid truckloads of money” jokes notwithstanding, It’s only a matter of time before someone gets me all figured out. Not that I’m doing well now mind you, most of the people at work try and come up with inventive, non-offensive ways to say things like “You did finish college didn’t you?” or “Who do you think you’re fooling with your colorful graphs of your paltry productivity?”

Add that to the fact that I have been finding myself to be broke more often now. I downloaded this Mac Software on my laptop that supposedly helps you manage your finances and project how much you can save monthly based on your salary and your expenses. I ran some numbers and it tells me that I should be completely be bankrupt and indebted in about three months time. Awesome. Just awesome.

Emotionally? I have always been a douchebag capable of feeling only two types of emotions: an obsessive need for alcohol and lust. But slowly I’m developing a predilection towards a new emotion: Hatred. Severely embittered, I won’t be surprised if I find myself Judo chopping some elderly lady holding up the line in front of an ATM machine when clearly, there are people like me who have much more urgent needs for the money they’re going to withdraw (alcohol) than cat food or stupid pasalubong food from Greenwich.

So to my girlfriend, I humbly come to you with my hat in my hand. Please don’t leave me. Please stick long enough to marry me. I might be no George Clooney, Sean Connery, or Richard Gere, people who, if they weren’t married, grow to be more marry-able and fuck-able over time but I have something none of them have–I have heart (I don’t know what I mean by this. Don’t ask.) and I kiss really well. If by kissing “really well” means “Being kissed by me feels like being thrown a wet sponge right smack in the face by a Bisaya window washer” that is.

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