Candles, incense, a homosexual and an epiphany (of sorts)

Last night found me with lit candles and incense in my newly-decorated room while reading and drinking some leftover rum I found in the kitchen. Friends, this is what Mike “Fucking” Villar does sometimes to unwind. And really, can you think of better things than cheap liquor, a book, pleasant scents emanating from burning things and the sound of an infant’s acute distress and suffering to alleviate a week’s worth of work-related stress? Exactly.

And yes, I realize that this could be the start of a long, downward spiral into an empty, hedonistic existence. Or maybe I’m just really weird or maybe sexually confused or something. I don’t know.

I also know that, to you, this sounds really fucking weird and trust me, it is. I mean, a 26-year old man locking himself up in his room with candles and incense while reading books and sipping rum is not exactly considered “normal” or even “remotely heterosexual” in most cultures, but I feel relaxed when I do this so fuck off and judge me all you want but ask yourself this question when you do—Did I ever judge you? Even after I accidentally ran into you SM Megamall’s lingerie section sniffing sports bras? Thank you.

Anyway, last night, I ended up reading David Sedaris’ Holidays on ice. Now, David, admittedly, is one of my favorite authors and one of the few openly gay people I genuinely respect. However, upon perusing about twenty pages of Holidays on ice, all the fuss surrounding it wasn’t readily clear to me.

Of course, probably one reason for me not getting it is that my mind was muddled with envy.

As with most “Web” guys, I am envious of and hate everyone who are relatively more successful than I am especially if their success allows them to be famous, write a book, be free of any form of debt or bang attractive women (or in David’s case, men?) left and right.

The book was recommended to me by someone whose literary taste I consider impeccable so I continued reading it anyway.

It was actually a short read (the book only has 144 pages) and I was able to finish the entire thing in under four hours. Surprisingly, towards the middle, I found myself not able to at all times and the other did sorties to alternately pick up the plastic tumbler into which I poured the rum and bring it to my mouth or down my pants to touch my bird and mildly pleasure myself.

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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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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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The Picking Up Women Series: STARBUCKS

Is your life a hellish vacuum? Are the milestones of your charmless, inhospitable existence limited only to mentally distressed nocturnal screams of heartache? Is your longing for female companionship so desperate that even cockroaches are creeped out by your excessive emotional obsession to finding a partner and proceed to call you “pervfuck” while you sleep?

Well fret not, because I am here to give you more useless tips to help you claw your way out of your terrible hellscape of depression!

“But Mikey!” You might say in your annoying, high-pitched voice, “You and your colleagues have already written a lot about picking up women! And I go to Nepa Q-Mart about once a month to buy vegetables and yet I can’t seem to pick up women!”

Well my friend, SHUTUP YOUR FACE! SHUTUP YOUR FACE AND LISTEN! because I am going to show you how to pick up women in a really popular dating hotspot! And by ‘hotspot’ I don’t mean that weird tropical STD  I contracted in the summer of 97 but rather…

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BoLOL Recap

First of all, let me go on record that writing about vacations is really not my favorite thing to do. This is largely because 1.) I don’t want to bore you guys to shit by writing daily play by plays like “On my first day in Bohol…On my second day in Bohol…On my third day in Bohol…” because really, only boring-ass newbie bloggers do that and 2.) I’m lazy. So yeah.

Besides, my vacation is one big soup bowl of being drunk, being hung-over, gluttony and sunburn so there’s really not much I can write about. I will, however, try to write a mildly amusing, easily digestible summary for you:

Airports and Lines.

It’s been a long time since I last flew a domestic flight and, much to my surprise, long lines which I previously believed to be exclusive to Somalian food distribution lines and UN Malaria-vaccination missions also exist in Philippine airports.

Honestly, I don’t mind the wait. After all, I had my girlfriend with me and that fact makes the wait bearable. Also, the bottle of rum I imbibed the night before our flight made sure that all cognizant thought, sense of time and my manners were wiped clean from my brain.

This also meant that I was only capable of standing and moving through the line with the help of  metal barricades and basically spent most of the wait looking down women’s blouses and heinies. Not too nice.

Hot Young European Chick (HYEC)

Dear Cheryl,

I don’t know if you remember me. But we stood together waiting for our luggage over at the Tagbilaran Airport.  You also might not remember giving me your name and that’s because you didn’t. I looked at your luggage card and wrote your name down on a piece of paper. I hope you do not find this creepy because I did all this because of passion. A passion that comes from deep inside (my loins).

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how beautiful I think you are and how you should consider flying to Manila to live with me or at least let me photograph you wearing my underwear.

The only qualm I have with all of this is that you look like and probably are 13 years old. If this is the case, let it go on record that I am only joking about taking pictures of you in my underwear. As we all know, that is illegal and if you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you’d know that Mike “Fucking” Villar absolutely respects the law.

So Cheryl, good luck with Algebra. I know it could be ball numbingly hard at times but if you study those formulas hard enough, you’ll pass. I know did.

Love,
Mikey

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