House, douchebags.

If you’ve been following me on Twitter, you’d know that I am currently riding turbulent waves made of pure, molten relationship sucktitude. The funny thing is that none of the shit I’m going through has done anything to curb my obsession for getting married.

In fact, right now, I am compulsively worrying about the intricacies of getting my own house. And you really can’t blame me for doing this, after all, this douchebag got married and ended up living in a posh Eastwood condominium and this other douchebag got married and ended up living in a ritzy house in Alabang.

Now, in my current state of financial impotence, how am I supposed to get married, go to a real estate broker with a stack of old comic books, a Super Nintendo, and a jar of 5 peso coins and expect to walk away with a house that’s even livable?

I can’t.

Instead, I’ll tell you what’s bound to happen: Someday, when I finally trick a girl who has just the right amount of insecurity into marrying me, I am going to thrash around more in and inevitably allow myself to sink further down the quicksand of debt by mortgaging my life away for a house I could never afford.

For me, it’s all about posturing and I know that I’m going to spend the first twenty years of my married life living in an expensive house with no electricity, making presents made of art paper and plastic bottles every Christmas, and eating Korean-made instant noodles every meal because I got myself 8 million pesos into debt to make myself look rich.

I can’t wait!

Pitcher. Elegance. Panic.

Ever since an uncle of mine moved in with us early last year, I no longer have a room I could call my own. In lieu of a room, what I have is a little corner in the family den where a little book shelf that has all my books arranged neatly on it and a little coffee table and a nice comfortable chair is.

Let me be honest here, I seldom use this corner and whenever I do, you can be sure that I am only up to one thing: being pretentious.

When the mood strikes me, I set up my Macbook in my little corner, turn on the reading lamp and write pages upon pages of obscene inanity, some of which can be found in this very site. I also have a vase-like pitcher I fill with what I’d like to call “Mikey Blend” Iced tea. (shut up.)

I picture myself in this setting and I realize that the only thing missing from my little aristocratic pretentious corner is a velvet robe and I dunno, maybe an antique globe or something. But I’m working on those as I write this.

However, no matter how much I try to exude an aura of a mild-mannered man who loves cultured elegance, I often become unsteady and falter. Last night, one of my childhood friends whom I haven’t seen for a long time visited me and because I badly wanted to show him how cultured and elegant I was, I decided to sit him down in my little corner so he can admire the breadth of the books I’ve read and later on, bow down to my obvious, commanding intellectual superiority.

I reached for my vase-like pitcher and poured him a glass of “Mikey’s blend” iced tea. At this point, I was waiting for him to say “Mikey, you are so wise, luxurious and elegant. You belong to a rich European country. I belong in jail.”

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Gym, gym bag, leather gym bag!

Because my family is made up of degenerate drunks and gluttons, my weight has blown up to, unprecedentedly, somewhere around the neighborhood of 205 pounds over the Holidays.

And because I feel like all the binge eating and drinking has taken a serious toll on my health, I am seriously contemplating whether or not I should start going to the gym seriously.

This contemplation is compounded further by the fact that I want to enroll myself to a gym for the wrong reason: the awesometastic gym bag they are giving away.

I mean, I’ve gone to the gym last year sporadically and for years, I’ve resisted working out seriously for no reason at all other than monetary. The membership in the gym I’m looking at costs somewhere around 2,300 pesos a month which is like 28,000 pesos a year. If we factor in my laziness to that number, we’re looking at 28,000 pesos a visit because if I know myself well enough, I’m going to end up paying the annual gym membership and working out only once or twice in the span of one year.

But like most of the unnecessary purchases I’ve made over the years, cost takes a back seat to the cool factor the purchase is going to add to my everyday conversations.

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