Stupid Flowers

Something I realized lately was I’m probably sending a lot of flower shop proprietors’ kids through college with the business I’m bringing them.

It’s not that I don’t give flowers to girls I’ve had relationships with in the past but lately, and this is probably because I’ve been screwing up a lot and giving my girlfriend flowers is necessitated more than ever, I find myself regularly visiting flower shops.

I’ve never gotten how flowers work and the polarity between how easily a man can get a girl flowers and how much women enjoy and fuss over them is something that never fails to amuse me. I spent countless hours wondering why and last night, somewhere between watching porn and running my Internet drug cartel I think I stumbled upon the answer.

On a guy’s perspective, sure, flowers seem like a really retarded gift– the women who receive them cannot wear them, they cannot consume them, nor could they grind them into a fine powder which they can sniff the hell out of and get fucked up on (This I’m not sure of. I mean, can you? If you’re interested in trying this out, shoot me an email and maybe we can make a documentary about it or something). In addition to that, they’re considerably pricey and they rot in a few days’ time. So yes, flowers, as seen by guys, are gay, costly gifts that do not have any sort practical use to anyone who receives them.
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Mike Villar: Now Healthy as a battleship!

Okay, so I think I might’ve suffered a mild stroke early last week and because I think, that after the terrible bouts of depression and intense episodes of panic attacks I went through almost two years ago, I developed some form of hypochondria or cyberchondria, I’ve been seeing my doctor a lot lately.

When I learned that my doctor was opening up a clinic in a nearby teaching hospital, I almost felt compelled to rent an apartment in the area just so I can assuage all my fears and I can easily be transported to the emergency room in case anything does happen to me (I don’t know–Poisoned because I tried to mix Lysol with my Gran Matador? Choked because I tried to cram a deck of cards down my throat on a drunken dare? Whatever.)

Now, besides the fact that my doctor is the best cardiologist in the country, I particularly like seeing my doctor because his medical directorship in the teaching hospital I go to means that he has a corps of hot female residents sitting in with him while he does clinic.

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Oh Come on! (The Bird post)

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in spas, massage parlors and, of course, their sordidly exhibitionist wet areas. I know “sordidly exhibitionist” probably doesn’t make sense to you right now; but it will. Also, fuck you.

Anyway, I realized that there is a rule missing rule from the Rules of Spa Wet Areas etiquette that should be set in motion immediately:

Nobody should ever be allowed to be butt-naked longer that what it takes to take off their towel and put on underwear.

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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.”

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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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