Earlier, during my semi-annual visit to my psychiatrist to sort of give her an update on my perennial, downhill battle with depression and a weird anxiety disorder; I realized something: The little phobia associated with airplanes and flying I developed when I visited Bicol several months ago just became a full-blown clusterfuck of obsessive fear and dread.

See, my company is sending me over to attend The Affiliate Summit in New York  and, for some reason, I’m certain that I will die a fiery, horrible death during the flight.

Now, this fear might have something to do with my anxiety and panic disorder but I’m also willing to bet that this is what happens when you’ve let yourself go as much as I did and list your favorite past time as chowing down around twenty hot dogs and chasing them down with a liter of Gran Matador with your drunk friends every other night.

But, if there’s any good that came out of my recent session with my psychiatrist is that I have fresh prescriptions for a potent benzodiazepine which means that I will be heavily drugged up during my flight. However, based on the trend my life has taken these past few years and because of a tiff I’ve had with God after a bet we made over a Jai Alai game five years ago, I’m pretty sure he’s just setting me up and loading me with success now so that, in the future, he could watch me come crashing down hard kicking, screaming and cursing along the way.

In fact, the motivation I’ve had lately (which came out of nowhere if I may add) to live healthily (For those of you who just tuned in, I’ve been on a consistent diet and going to the gym lately) the last couple of months feels so highly suspect that I wouldn’t be surprised if my doctor tells me “Wow you lost 40 lbs since you last weighed in and it looks like you’re in the best physical shape. It also looks like you’re free of the chronic panic and anxiety disorders you’ve been previously diagnosed with. But wait, it looks like you’ve been infected with a rare tropical virus that will kill you within two weeks. No, there is no cure. And yes, you should probably drop by the price club on your way home and get a hold of a case of Emperador because, buddy, you have a lot of catching to do. Please stop crying.”

Again, since God is a sadistic voyeur who gets off watching me fail, I could imagine a similar scenario happening on my flight: Like six hours into it while the plane is over the Pacific ocean or something, volcanic dust from God knows where will clog up one of the engines and cause the plane to violently shake and eventually be sent into an abrupt, steep descent. Passengers flip the fuck out and panic–some even begin saying their prayers and this one guy even makes out with this hot girl beside him because, I don’t know, I guess he’s a perv and I guess making out (and masturbating) are the final things he wanted to do before he leaves this world. I wake up, say “Oh come on!” and cram like ten of my pills into my mouth and swallow them because I’m a douche and I’d rather die by my own hand. Then, all of a sudden, the plane levels and starts to climb; the Captain comes out of the cockpit and announces that we’ll make it and everything’s going to be fine. Everyone cheers, hugs and exchange highfives!

I, on the other hand, am doubled up on the floor with a tummy full of antidepressants and benzodiazepines, my mouth frothing and nobody on board is a doctor or shit. I die OD’ing on my pills because I’m a douchebag and because God doesn’t really like me.

Now I’m all worried that if I indeed die within the next couple of months, the only record I have of my life besides the mildewed photo album of my childhood my mom keeps, is this blog–Pages upon pages of chronicled failure replete with ineffective penis, racist and feces jokes which I tried to pass off as humor.

So do me a favor will you? Please make sure that I enjoy considerable posthumous fame. Turn this blog into a coffee table book your grandmother and her cohorts will enjoy while they rot and await the cold embrace of death. I just want to make sure that other people besides myself and the Bisaya Sampaguita Vendor I pay to read my blog entries to me while I sit in the backseat of my car masturbating will recognize my comic erudition.

Thank you.

Mike “Fucking” Villar
March 4, 1982 – September ?, 2008

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