My Diet
I know dieting is so not me, but ever since I had some sort of heart attack scare several days ago, I got to thinking more about it and now, I could name a million and one reasons why I really should go on a diet.
Off the top of my head, I should go on a diet because I think, somewhere down the cruel road of depression, panic attacks and agoraphobia I took, I developed hypochondria and I am perpetually thinking about how I could just drop dead any second. Another reason, and I think this is the reason most obese 26 year-olds have for even thinking of going on a diet, is that aside from my girlfriend, I feel like no member of the opposite sex ever finds me attractive anymore.
Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t want to lose weight so I could effectively cheat on my girlfriend but rather because I want to be seen by members of the opposite sex with the same amount of lust I feel when I look at women from Fashion TV. Also, it would be great if I could convince my girlfriend to make sweet love to me again. I mean, really, I only have vague, splintery memories of how sex feels like and from what I remember, it is rather pleasant and it’s something I wouldn’t mind having again. Please.
I’ve given this a lot of thought lately and I kinda figured out how I came to be the beach whale that I am. First of all, my family, especially on the father side, have a tendency to either be hypertensive, or really fucking fat. For the benefit of my readers who failed to graduate high school, this is what us learned people call “genetics.”
How to avoid a bad case of Death
A common misconception about The Man Blog is that people think that a TMB editor’s writing repertoire is limited to writing articles replete with penis jokes and general curmudgeonry. Well, truth is, that cannot be any farther from the truth because at TMB, we’re all about social significance and churning out high-quality content that aims to inform and check this out, to keep our readers safe.
After all, yours truly had a recent brush with death and our readers who are not incapacitated or dead statistically have more money to put into our illegal “Donate to starving orphans in Africa” and “We promise your money will get there and we won’t spend it on alcohol” funds.
Two paragraphs of fluff later and with no further ado, I shall impart to you, dear reader, some useful tips to avoid dying.
If you follow these simple tips, you’d be exactly like this guy. Healthy, alive and most probably a douchebag.
Guess what, I think I suffered a mild stroke las–HOLY SHIT THAT GUY WAS SHOT IN THE THROAT!
Yesterday was one of those days I had to render 14 hours to accommodate a client call I had to make. Naturally, because of the extended work hours I had to render, I was famished by the time the clock hit ten o’clock. Of course, I did what any normal, 26 year-old, overweight, highly-stressed yuppie would do–and that is order Pizza from PizzaHut, making sure there’s at least 5 tablespoons of salt in every slice and consume no less than eight slices before turning to drink what could’ve been at least 700ml’s of Pepsi.
Now, because I am perpetually in a state somnolence, I never thought any of the fact that I was literally falling asleep behind the wheel of my car on my way home from work last night. I mean seriously, this shit happens to me almost everyday. It was only after all the dizziness and blurred vision manifested that my panic level went up a notch.
After a long crawl through Commonwealth avenue, I came to the realization that I have lost most of the critical faculties that allow me to drive and think straight. For some strange reason, however, I could hear voices in my head saying shit like “If you land this plane, we will trade fuel for hostages“ ala Gary Oldman in Airforce one. (Also, I’d like it to go on record that Harrison Ford who co-starred with Gary Oldman in Airforce one is a sexy son of a bitch whose balls I wouldn’t mind touching my lips. I’d also like it to go on record that this comes from a man that has an untarnished record of heterosexuality. Except for a couple of times I “experimented” out of curiosity during that phase in my life when I didn’t believe that “S’ing” another man’s “D” makes one gay. It does. At least I know now.)
My Future House. Also, Bankruptcy
I would like to make an announcement. It’s done. I have found and purchased a new condominium unit and ladies and gentlemen, after three years, Mike “Fucking” Villar is coming back to Pasig City.
So, Sari-sari stores you better hide your Emperadors and parents, you better make sure that you lock up your daughters at night because in a couple of months’ time, Mike Villar will march down your streets beating my war drums like a proud orc army (and probably eating Tuna Kariman. I don’t know) and he. will. fucking. BRING IT.
In a couple of months’ time, I shall bid the familiar comfort and quasi-suburbness of Fairview. No more three hour drives to and from work, no more Bisayas stinking up the entire street with their weird-ass fish stew, no more douchebags cutting my sleep short by revving up their penis-compensating, souped up Honda XRMs, and no more fistfights with members of the Dashboard Confessional Emo Club Maligaya chapter who clog up the aisles over at SM Fairview.
Yes, in a couple of months’ time, everything will be better.
I know, don’t tell me - Pasig is not exactly as hip as this asshole’s Eastwood condo or this asshole’s Alabang estate, but guess what? I can actually walk from my future Pasig home to where I work in less than ten minutes.
But yeah, since I’m, as usual, high on Siomai as I write this, I’m getting pretty ahead of myself. Let me tell you the how and more importantly the why of how I came about taking a blind plunge towards certain bankruptcy by deciding to buy something I cannot possibly afford.
Last year, I wrote about wanting to get my own place somewhere around the Ortigas Business District. I cannot express enough how incredibly frustrating this endeavor proved to be. In fact, it was so frustrating that I think that aside from Cancer, being cheated on by your girlfriend with 50 cent or getting punched in the balls by Chuck Liddell, I can not think of anything worse.
Sexual Partners: The Magic Number
A friend recently asked me over beers if there’s a specific threshold that a woman needs to pass, in terms of the number of sexual partners she’s had, for me to say “woah there, there’s no chance in hell that you and I are going to work out!”
(Of course we all know this question, when addressed to me, is pointless because I’m pretty much going to sleep with anyone regardless of their age, gender, financial standing, let alone the number of sexual partners they’ve had.)
But yeah, guys generally are sensitive about their girl’s former sexual partners–guys who aren’t are either, good-looking, rich or just glad they’re getting some action.
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really care much as long as the girl I’m dating didn’t do it with someone famous, someone I absolutely loathe or someone whom I consider to be a close friend (Again, low self-esteem here). Most of the time, I manage, because let’s face it, my moral compass as far as sexual conduct would go doesn’t really point true north. I just think “Hey man, no matter how you think about all the crazy shit she’s done in the past, you’ve probably done much worse. Remember Baguio in 1998? Does the El Cielito Inn, four underage girls who can’t speak Filipino nor English and six thousand Pesos sound familiar?”
So yeah, as far as numbers would go, I’d much rather remain ignorant to the number of men the girl I’m dating has slept with.
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Mike "Fucking" Villar
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"The personal blog of Marketing Strategist, Rising Internet Star, Man Blog editor, child pornographer, alcoholic, and cokehead-- Douchebag Jones--Err, Mike Villar!
